(Thirteen years later)
Two figures stood above the world, separated from it by height and silence.
One was visible—his face exposed, steady, shaped by years of responsibility. His posture was formal, his presence permitted.
The other existed only as a silhouette, framed by crystalline light. His features were swallowed by shadow, not concealed, simply unlit.
"It was the same night," the shadow said.
"Thirteen years ago."
"Yes," the man replied. "I remember."
A pause followed. Not hesitation. Consideration.
"How are the children?"
"I'm watching them," the man said. "That is my assignment."
"And?"
"They never registered potential. No measurable deviation."
Silence returned.
"Then why are we speaking about them?"
"Because they survived," the man answered. "Without guidance. Without correction."
The shadow shifted slightly.
"They entered the Crystal Collectors League Tournament," the man continued.
"They submitted their names."
The space between them held the statement without reaction.
"Approve them," the shadow said at last.
"Not because they belong to my region," the man added.
"But because of what they might become."
Below them, sound began to rise.
Not voices—pressure.
A dense wave of anticipation rolled across stone, metal, and skin.
The East Zone Arena opened beneath a white sky.
Its vast floor was ringed by irregular orange crystal ropes that hovered rather than rested. They moved slowly, drifting, reshaping themselves without rhythm or pattern. They did not mark distance. They denied it.
Spectators filled the upper tiers.
Judges sat above them all, motionless.
A figure stepped forward into the center.
He wore no armor. Only a simple insignia at his shoulder—the mark of a former recruit.
"Welcome," he said, his voice amplified across the arena, "to the Crystal Collectors League Tournament of the East Zone."
The crowd answered him.
Cheers followed. Excitement. Nervous laughter.
Then his tone changed.
"The rules are simple."
The sound faded.
"Rule one," he said. "Do not touch the boundary."
The orange ropes shifted, closing in slightly.
"They are not fixed. They do not obey time, perception, or intent. If you touch them, the poison enters through contact."
He paused.
"You will not feel pain. You will not feel touch."
Another pause.
"You will have time to sever the affected part of your body," he added calmly.
"Most of you will not succeed."
No one laughed.
"Rule two," he continued. "Each contestant may bring one personal tool or weapon, and their Echo. Nothing more."
Murmurs rippled through the stands.
"Rule three," he said. "Once you enter the arena, you are no longer a child."
Silence.
"Killing is permitted. No objections will be heard. No questions will be raised."
He stepped back.
"As a former participant," he said, "I am permitted one statement."
"When I entered my trial, there were no spectators. No crowd. No boundaries that warned you where death waited."
Some contestants looked away.
"I fought in my opponent's chosen ground. His cage. His conditions."
He paused.
"I was afraid."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the arena.
"My opponent told me he would not kill me," he continued. "Then the match began."
He lifted his hand.
"My weapon was gone before I realized I had drawn it. My hand followed my weapon. Both landed in the ground."
Stillness.
"I survived," he said quietly. "Not because I was strong. Not because I was brave."
He looked at the contestants.
"But because I learned to use everything around me—terrain, timing, fear, people."
He lowered his arm.
"That lesson cost me this."
A long silence followed.
"That is all."
He stepped aside.
A bell rang.
"The first match," the announcer said, his voice returning to formality, "will now begin."
Names appeared above the arena in crystalline script.
High Blue Academy student: Rei Ruryu (square).
A figure stepped forward.
"Versus."
Another name ignited.
High Yellow Academy student: Shin Kayo (square).
The ropes shifted again.
The arena closed.
The tournament had begun.