The BK-Class training hall sat deeper in the academy than most students ever wandered—where polished corridors gave way to reinforced stone and practice fields scarred by countless spells and weapons.
The classroom itself felt more like a barracks than a lecture room.
Weapons racks lined the back wall—practice blades, weighted staffs, rune-marked shields. Windows were narrow, reinforced with mana glass strong enough to stop stray attacks.
Desks were scratched, burned, dented.
Proof that lessons here were never just theoretical.
Students filled the room in loose clusters—fighters, scouts, assassins, illusionists.
Some sharpened training weapons while talking.
Others napped openly, boots on desks.
A few practiced small mana tricks in their palms, bored.
Near the window, Nairo, known across the class as the Shadow King, leaned back in his chair.
His long black hair drifted slightly even without wind, shadows pooling faintly around his boots like living things.
His half-lidded eyes gave off permanent disinterest—until a fight started.
Two rows ahead sat Nihon, arms folded, teal markings glowing faintly under his skin as he quietly compressed air between his fingers, forming tiny cutting currents that vanished before touching anything.
And slouched near the back—
Kijin.
Chair tilted, feet on the desk, hair messy as always, expression bored like he'd accidentally shown up somewhere he didn't belong.
The classroom door slid open.
Conversations died instantly.
Their teacher stepped inside.
Instructor Soryu.
Tall, strict, silver hair tied into a tight ponytail. Her uniform coat fell perfectly straight, not a wrinkle out of place.
A scar ran cleanly across her jawline—old, precise, earned.
She carried a mana-board under one arm.
She set it down.
Tapped it once.
Runes flared, displaying bold letters above the class:
MOCK COMBAT EXAM — CLASS EVALUATION
Groans erupted immediately.
Soryu didn't raise her voice.
She didn't need to.
Silence returned in seconds.
"Starting tomorrow," she said, voice cool and sharp, "you will undergo mock combat examinations."
Groans returned, quieter this time.
"The purpose," she continued, "is to determine which of you qualify for transfer to A-Amulet Class next term."
That woke everyone up.
A-Amulet Class—the elite combat tier beneath SS-Rank.
A student shot up from his seat. "We gotta fight who?"
Soryu's eyes narrowed slightly.
"A-Amulet students."
The room exploded.
"WHAT?"
"Are you serious?"
"They'll crush us!"
"That's not fair!"
Niaro clicked his tongue. "Pointless."
Soryu folded her arms.
"You want advancement?" she said calmly. "You fight those stronger than you."
Noise continued anyway.
Kijin lazily raised his hand without sitting upright.
Soryu glanced at him. "Yes?"
He yawned.
"Why not CM-Class?" he asked. "Wouldn't that be easier practice?"
Snickers spread across the room.
Soryu's answer was immediate.
"Because CM-Class students are combat liabilities in large-scale engagements."
The room quieted.
"They lack combat consistency, battlefield awareness, and survival training. Fighting them teaches you nothing."
Kijin scoffed quietly, dropping his hand.
Tell that to Tsuramo, he thought.
Soryu turned back to the board.
"Exams begin tomorrow. Zero six hundred hours. Magical sword combat. Arena field."
She paused.
"The entire academy will attend."
Now the room groaned for a different reason.
Public embarrassment.
"Dismissed."
The bell rang.
Chairs scraped. Conversations exploded again as students poured out into the corridor.
Hallway.
Kijin walked beside Nihon, hands in pockets, hair ruffling in the draft from passing students.
Nihon glanced sideways.
"You think we're making it?"
Kijin shrugged.
"We'll try."
Nihon snorted. "That's your motivational speech?"
Kijin grinned lazily.
"It's magical sword fighting. Hit them before they hit you."
Nihon deadpanned. "Incredible strategy."
Students around them buzzed with anxiety.
Everyone knew tomorrow's exam mattered.
Win—and you climbed.
Lose—and you stayed where you were.
Kijin stretched his arms behind his head as they walked.
Somewhere in another wing of the academy, CM-Class students were probably relaxing, unaware.
And somewhere else—
Tsuramo existed.
Which somehow made everything feel more uncertain.
Nihon glanced at him again.
"You're not thinking of running, right?"
Kijin smirked.
"Not this time."
The wind shifted around them.
Tomorrow would be loud.
And the whole academy would be watching.
----
Night settled quietly over the dormitory wing.
Inside the shared room, the lights were dimmed, curtains half-drawn, the academy's distant glow leaking through the window.
Hikaru and Renji were already asleep, sprawled across their bunks after exhausting drills—one snoring softly, the other clutching his pillow like a shield.
At the center of the room—
Kijin practiced.
A training sword spun in his hand, wind swirling around the dull blade. Papers lifted from the desk, curtains fluttering as he stepped forward—
Slash.
Wind burst forward.
An illusionary afterimage followed the strike, a second phantom blade cutting through empty air.
Kijin clicked his tongue.
"Too slow."
He swung again, faster.
This time, three afterimages appeared—but the wind scattered unevenly, dispersing before the strike completed.
From the bed behind him, a calm voice spoke.
"You're wasting motion."
Kijin glanced back.
Tsuramo sat on his bed, sleeves rolled slightly, watching with lazy focus.
"When you swing," Tsuramo continued, "your wind pushes forward first."
Kijin frowned. "That's the point."
Tsuramo shook his head slightly.
"Your power isn't wind."
He tapped the air lightly with two fingers.
"It's illusion."
Kijin paused.
Tsuramo stood, walking over, bare feet silent on the floor.
He positioned Kijin's wrist slightly lower.
"When wind comes first," he said, guiding the blade, "they feel it."
He demonstrated slowly.
A smooth swing.
No wind burst.
Only at the end of the strike did the air explode outward.
Invisible until it was too late.
"Blind them first," Tsuramo said. "Wind behind illusion. Not the other way around."
Kijin blinked.
He tried again.
Step. Swing.
The illusion split first—three phantom blades flashing.
Then—
WHUMP.
Wind crashed forward, filling the space where the opponent would stand.
The timing felt heavier.
Sharper.
Kijin's eyes widened slightly.
"...That hits harder."
Tsuramo shrugged. "Because they don't brace."
Kijin exhaled, rolling his shoulder.
He practiced again, smoother now. Each strike sharper, wind hiding behind illusion instead of announcing it.
After a few moments—
Tsuramo spoke again.
"Fight me."
Kijin froze mid-swing.
He slowly lowered the sword.
Then turned.
"...No."
Tsuramo blinked. "No?"
Kijin pointed at himself. "You're a monster."
He pointed at Tsuramo. "I'm BK. You're CM."
Tsuramo stared at him flatly.
Kijin continued, dead serious.
"If I fight you, I'm going to die. Tomorrow's exam will just say 'absent, deceased.'"
Silence.
Then—
A faint, almost invisible smile tugged at Tsuramo's mouth. "I'll hold back."
Kijin shook his head violently. "Last time you 'held back,' a hallway wall disappeared."
"...It was already cracked."
"Bull."
Tsuramo folded his arms. "You'll learn faster."
Kijin sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down his face.
"One day," he muttered, "I'm gonna regret becoming your roommate."
He lifted his sword again.
"...Fine. But if I die, I'm haunting you."
Tsuramo stepped back, calm as ever.
"Then try not to die."
Wind gathered.
Illusions flickered.
And in the quiet dorm room—
Their training began.