The dorm room was quiet in the late afternoon light, forest shadows dancing across the walls.
Kanashimi slept deeply—finally, truly—curled on his side, breathing slow and even, the exhaustion of the night before smoothed from his features.
The door slid open without a sound.
Yoriichi entered alone, robes whispering over the floor. He stood at the edge of the mat for a long moment, watching his student with an expression no one else ever saw—something almost gentle, almost pained.
Then he knelt, one hand settling lightly on Kanashimi's shoulder.
"Wake up."
Kanashimi stirred instantly—years of training overriding sleep. His gray eyes opened, blinking up at his master in confusion.
"Master…?" His voice was soft, still thick with rest. "Is it time for training?"
Yoriichi's face was stone again.
"No. It is time for a mission."
Kanashimi pushed himself up slowly, wincing at the pull in his ribs, but attentive. "The scouting mission? Tomorrow—"
"Tonight," Yoriichi interrupted, voice low and absolute. "The ambassador the surface sent—the one carrying their message of peace—has been released at the border. He believes he is free."
Kanashimi's brow furrowed. "Then… we let him go?"
Yoriichi met his eyes, unblinking.
"No. You will follow him. Unarmed. No Aura Fang. No katana. You will find water—a river, a puddle, rain if it falls. And you will finish him with Thread Severance. Clean. Silent. Close enough to a city that the surface finds the body quickly."
The words landed one by one, heavy as stones.
Kanashimi's face went very still.
His lips parted, but no sound came at first.
Then, quietly: "He came unarmed. With an offer of truce."
Yoriichi's gaze didn't waver. "He came because they believe we are weak enough to accept terms from those who threatened annihilation days ago. This is our reply."
Kanashimi looked down at his hands—empty, trembling faintly.
"…Yes, Master."
But his voice cracked on the last word.
Yoriichi watched the crack spread across that careful mask—the flicker of horror, the swallow of dread, the way those gray eyes dulled like storm clouds swallowing stars.
He reached out, hand resting briefly on Kanashimi's head—firm, grounding.
"You will not go alone. The four will act as distant support. They will not interfere unless you fail."
Kanashimi nodded once, slow.
Yoriichi stood.
"Prepare. Leave at dusk."
He turned to go, paused at the door.
"This is not punishment," he said, back still turned. "This is survival."
The door slid shut behind him.
Kanashimi sat alone on the mat, staring at nothing.
The boy who had smiled over honey-cakes that morning was gone.
The weapon had returned.
Dusk settled over Lumora like a heavy cloak.
Kanashimi stood in the preparation lodge—a small, dim room of polished wood and weapon racks—dressing in plain black surface clothes: hoodie, jeans, boots. No armor. No blades. Unarmed, as ordered.
His movements were mechanical, silent.
The four—Akira, Ren, Hana, Sora—hovered in the doorway, already geared for distant support: cloaks, comm wards, binoculars.
They tried.
Akira first, voice rough. "Hey… you don't have to do this alone. We're backup, right? We can—"
Kanashimi didn't look up, pulling the hoodie strings tight.
Ren tried next, quieter. "This doesn't feel right. The guy came with a white flag."
No response. Just the soft zip of a bag.
Hana stepped closer, voice trembling. "Kanashimi… talk to us. Please."
He paused for half a heartbeat—then continued folding a small cloth, tucking it into his pocket.
Sora, ever direct: "You're scaring us."
Silence.
The four exchanged helpless glances, words dying in their throats.
Then Yoriichi entered, robes dark against the lantern light.
The four straightened instantly.
Yoriichi ignored them, eyes only on his student.
"Kanashimi."
Kanashimi bowed, deep and immediate. "Master."
Yoriichi's voice was low, steady, merciless.
"The assassination will be in front of the city—near the riverbank where surface eyes can see. You will not hide. When the moment comes, you will step forward. You will tell him your name. You will tell him Lumora's message: 'We protected you in shadow. Cross into our light uninvited, and you will not leave it.' Then you finish him with Thread Severance. Clean. Public enough that they understand."
Kanashimi's face was pale, but his voice didn't waver.
"Yes, Master."
Yoriichi studied him a long moment—the boy he'd raised, the weapon he'd forged.
"Leave nothing to chance."
He turned to the four.
"You will watch from distance. You will not interfere. You will bear witness."
Akira opened his mouth—then closed it under Yoriichi's gaze.
Yoriichi left as silently as he came.
Kanashimi picked up his small pack, slung it over his shoulder.
He walked past the four without a word.
They followed at a distance—silent now, too.
The path to the surface exit felt longer than ever.
And colder.
The city lights glittered below like scattered jewels as the ambassador's car sped along the riverside boulevard—headlights cutting through the light evening snow.
Kanashimi stood on the edge of a twenty-story rooftop right in the heart of downtown, black hoodie whipping in the wind, gray eyes fixed on the vehicle below.
The four classmates watched from nearby buildings—hidden, silent, hearts pounding.
He didn't hesitate.
He jumped.
A perfect, silent fall—body straight, arms tucked, cloak snapping once before he controlled it.
Twenty floors blurred past.
He landed in a crouch directly in front of the speeding car—knees bending to absorb the impact, snow exploding outward in a perfect circle.
Brakes screamed. Tires locked. The car fishtailed, stopping inches from his unmoving form.
The ambassador stumbled out of the driver's side door, pale and shaking, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Can't you see I'm—!"
Kanashimi rose slowly, snowflakes melting on his lashes.
He knelt, fingers brushing the thin layer of fresh snow on the pavement.
Tochi flared—soft green, almost gentle.
The snow lifted, crystallized, stretched into a single, shimmering thread of ice—thin as silk, sharp as fate.
The man's words died in his throat.
Kanashimi swung his hand in one graceful arc.
The thread sang through the air.
A clean, perfect cut.
The ambassador's head parted from his shoulders without a sound—eyes still wide, mouth still open in that unfinished sentence.
It rolled once in the snow, coming to rest facing the sky.
Blood painted the white in a perfect fan.
Kanashimi stood over the body, breath steady, face blank.
He spoke—clear, calm, loud enough for the hidden recorders he knew were watching, for the four classmates frozen in horror, for the city beginning to scream.
"My name is Kanashimi, of Lumora.
We protected you in shadow.
Cross into our light uninvited…
and you will not leave it."
He turned and walked away—slow, deliberate—melting into the panicked crowd as sirens began to wail.
The four watched from their perches, faces pale, unable to move.
The message was delivered.
Beautifully.
Brutally.
Perfectly.
And somewhere deep in the forest, alarms rang again—this time for war.
The snow kept falling, soft and silent, already trying to hide the blood.
Kanashimi stood in the center of the boulevard, black hoodie dusted white, the ambassador's body at his feet like a broken doll. Sirens wailed closer, crowds screaming behind police barriers, phones recording from every angle.
A stone came flying from the panicked mob—small, desperate, thrown by some terrified civilian.
Kanashimi didn't even turn.
His hand snapped up behind his back, fingers closing around the rock mid-flight with casual precision. He crushed it to powder without looking, letting the dust drift from his palm like gray snow.
His voice carried—clear, calm, amplified just enough by a thread of tochi so every camera caught it.
"I am speaking. Do not interfere."
He stepped forward, boots crunching in red snow, and addressed the sky—the drones, the satellites, the world watching.
"I am Kanashimi, of the village hidden in the forest—Lumora.
Your governments begged negotiation. They sent this man with pretty promises. He came without permission. He trespassed. He disturbed the duty we have kept for centuries: to protect you from things you cannot comprehend.
We do not wish to end you.
But you crave our property. Our power. Things you cannot control. Things that would unmake your world if mishandled.
This is our answer."
He gestured once to the body—elegant, almost gentle.
A ripple in the air—three figures dropping from the sky like thunder.
Chōjin.
Japan's top-tier registered heroes—divided in allegiance, united tonight by emergency protocol.
The first landed in a crouch, crimson cape flaring—Blaze, pyrokinetic, government favorite.
The second touched down lighter, crackling with electricity—Volt, independent, media darling.
The third hovered a moment before descending—Graviton, gravity manipulator, corporate-sponsored.
All three in full costume, eyes locked on the boy in the hoodie standing calmly over a decapitated corpse.
Blaze spoke first, flames dancing along his fists. "Kid… step away from the body. Now."
Volt's voice crackled with static. "Who the hell are you?"
Graviton's deeper tone: "You just murdered a UN ambassador on live broadcast. Stand down or we take you down."
Kanashimi turned slowly—gray eyes cold, beautiful, empty.
He tilted his head, almost curious.
"I do not like interference in my work… or my words."
Blaze stepped forward, heat rippling the air. "Last chance."
Kanashimi smiled—small, sad, terrifying.
"Then learn why we stayed hidden."
Snow began to lift around him, crystallizing into thousands of shimmering threads—glinting like glass wires in the streetlights.
The three Chōjin tensed.
And the city held its breath.
The boulevard was chaos—sirens screaming, crowds filming from behind police lines, snow swirling under floodlights.
Kanashimi stood in the center, threads of ice still glinting around him like a deadly halo.
Blaze's flames roared higher. Volt's electricity crackled. Graviton's gravity field warped the falling snow into spirals.
Kanashimi raised one hand—palm out, voice calm but edged with something exhausted and dangerous.
"Don't force me. I was not sent to fight you. I was sent to deliver a message. Walk away."
Volt laughed, lightning dancing along his arms. "Big words from a kid who just decapitated a diplomat."
Blaze snarled, "You're coming with us—one way or another."
Graviton's voice rumbled, "Stand down. Last warning."
Kanashimi's shoulders sagged—just a fraction.
"I warned you."
Volt moved first—lightning speed, a blue-white blur, foot snapping out in a kick charged with thousands of volts aimed straight at Kanashimi's chest.
The kick connected.
Electricity exploded in a blinding flash, snow vaporizing in a perfect sphere.
Volt grinned—until he realized Kanashimi hadn't moved an inch.
The boy had caught Volt's ankle mid-kick with two fingers. Barely effort.
The lightning coursed harmlessly into the ground through Kanashimi's body—threads of green tochi flickering under his skin, redirecting every volt into the pavement, cracking concrete in spiderwebs.
Volt's eyes widened.
Kanashimi's voice was soft, almost sad.
"I said… don't force me."
He twisted his wrist once.
Volt flew—spun like a doll and slammed into a streetlamp twenty meters away, metal bending around him with a deafening clang.
Blaze roared, flames erupting into a firestorm that rolled toward Kanashimi like a tidal wave.
Graviton slammed both hands down—gravity crushing the air, trying to pin Kanashimi to the ground.
Kanashimi sighed.
Snow around him lifted again—hundreds of crystalline threads weaving into a spiraling shield.
Flames met ice—steam exploded in a white cloud.
Gravity pressed—threads flexed, held, then snapped back like released bowstrings.
Graviton staggered as his own force rebounded.
Kanashimi stepped through the steam, untouched.
"Please stop," he said, voice carrying over the chaos. "I don't want to kill you."
Blaze charged through the steam, fists blazing.
Graviton roared, ripping up chunks of asphalt with gravity wells.
Volt staggered up, lightning coiling for another strike.
They didn't listen.
They never do.
Kanashimi's eyes closed for one heartbeat.
When they opened, the threads multiplied—thousands now, glinting like starlight.
"Very well."
The city was about to learn why the villages stayed hidden.
The city boulevard had become a frozen arena—snow swirling, sirens howling, cameras rolling from every angle.
Kanashimi rose slowly into the air after repelling Volt, threads of ice and tochi lifting him higher and higher until he hovered far above the streetlights—high enough to see the glittering sprawl of the entire city beneath him, a sea of lights trembling in fear.
Volt clutched his fried, smoking hand, lightning flickering weakly around blackened fingers. Blaze and Graviton stared up, flames and gravity coiling for another strike.
Kanashimi's voice carried down—clear, calm, amplified by tochi so every phone, every drone, every terrified citizen heard it.
"I am Kanashimi, of the village hidden in the forest—Lumora.
We did not ask for your attention.
We do not want your negotiation.
Force us again…
and you will face more than one like me."
He let the words hang, then dropped—straight down, a black comet through the snow.
Graviton reacted first, slamming both palms to the ground.
Gravity crushed downward in a brutal sphere, pinning Kanashimi mid-fall—snow compressing, pavement cracking, the boy slammed to the street like a meteor, stuck fast.
Graviton snarled, blood trickling from his nose with the effort. "Got you."
Kanashimi didn't struggle.
He simply touched the snow beside him with two fingers.
A single thread of ice lifted—thin, invisible, humming.
It whipped outward in a perfect horizontal cut.
Graviton's eyes widened too late.
The thread sliced clean across his shoulder—deep enough to sever muscle, shallow enough to spare life. Blood sprayed hot against the cold air.
Graviton staggered, gravity field collapsing.
Kanashimi rose smoothly from the crater, snow cascading off him like fallen stars.
Blaze and Volt lunged together—flames and lightning in desperate unison.
Kanashimi moved once.
A blur.
His hand flashed out—green tochi sparking into a piercing spear of Thread Severance.
It punched through Blaze's flame shield, through Volt's lightning armor—straight into both their shoulders in one impossible thrust.
Not hearts.
Not lethal.
A warning.
Both Chōjin dropped to their knees, gasping, blood soaking their costumes.
Kanashimi withdrew the thread, letting it dissolve into harmless snow.
He crouched between them, voice soft now—almost kind.
"I don't want to kill you.
Consider this a gift."
He stood, turned his back on them—on the cameras, on the city—and walked into the swirling snow.
The four classmates emerged from the shadows, staring in stunned silence.
Hana whispered, voice trembling with awe, "What a flex…"
Akira managed a shaky laugh. "Yeah… remind me never to piss him off again."
Ren and Sora just watched him disappear into the white, faces pale.
The city lights flickered behind him—beautiful, terrified, forever changed.
And Kanashimi walked alone, snow hiding the blood on his hands, carrying a message no one would forget.
Kanashimi turned his back on the fallen Chōjin, on the screaming city, on the blood painting the snow, and simply… vanished.
One moment he was there—black hoodie dusted white, gray eyes empty.
The next, threads of ice and shadow wrapped around him like a lover's embrace, and he was gone—melted into the storm, leaving only swirling snow and stunned silence behind.
The four classmates sprinted after him, hearts pounding, pushing through panicked crowds and police lines until they reached the forest edge.
The hidden entrance loomed—mist-shrouded trees parting just enough for those who knew the way.
But perimeter guardians stepped out of the shadows—five this time, cloaked in white camouflage, crystal spears leveled.
"Halt. Permission note."
Kanashimi stopped, snowflakes melting on his lashes. He reached into his pocket—slow, deliberate—and came up empty.
The note was gone. Lost somewhere in the fight, or never given.
His face stayed blank, but inside something twisted.
The lead guardian—the same young one from the blizzard night, mask cracked, eyes narrowing in recognition—stepped forward.
"You again. No note. Orders are clear: no entry without clearance."
Akira started, "Wait—he's on mission! Council-ordered—"
The guardian's spear tip rose. "No note. No entry. Turn back or be treated as deserter."
Ren and Hana tensed. Sora's hand twitched toward his blade.
Kanashimi didn't move.
The young guardian stared at him—remembering the night he'd almost killed the boy, the night Kanashimi had translocated to the sky and lived.
Something shifted in the guardian's eyes.
He lowered his spear a fraction.
"You fought me once. In the storm. You could have killed me. You didn't."
He glanced at the blood on Kanashimi's hands, the exhaustion in his posture, the city lights flickering in panic behind him.
"You're telling the truth."
The guardian stepped aside, gesturing to the others.
"Let them pass. I'll take responsibility."
The spears lowered.
Kanashimi bowed—deep, silent gratitude.
The four exhaled in relief.
They slipped through the ward together, into the familiar glow of Lumora.
But the forest felt different now.
Heavier.
Because the boy who returned wasn't the same one who left.
And the world above was already screaming his name.
The hidden entrance ward shimmered as the group stepped through—Kanashimi in the lead, blood-flecked snow still clinging to his boots, the four classmates trailing close behind like silent shadows.
The head guardian waited beneath the ancient heart-tree arch—tall, scarred, cloak of woven vines and crystal threads, eyes sharp as winter stars. Two others flanked him, spears lowered but ready.
The young guardian from earlier bowed deeply. "Head Guardian. This is Kanashimi—mission complete. The surface ambassador is dead. Publicly. The message delivered exactly as ordered."
The head guardian's gaze locked on Kanashimi, taking in the blood, the exhaustion, the emptiness in those gray eyes.
"Speak, boy. All of it."
Kanashimi bowed—deep, formal, voice steady despite the tremor in his hands.
"I followed the ambassador to the city riverbank. I… stopped his car. Used snow as medium for Thread Severance. Ended him cleanly. Told him my name. Told him Lumora's message."
He paused, throat working.
"Then three Chōjin arrived—Blaze, Volt, Graviton. They attacked. I warned them. They didn't listen."
A faint, bitter curve touched his lips.
"I disarmed them. Non-lethally. Left them alive as… a gift. Then I declared Lumora's refusal to negotiate. For the world to hear."
The head guardian's expression didn't change, but his eyes softened a fraction.
"And the permission note?"
Kanashimi met his gaze, unflinching. "Lost in the fight. Or never given. I accept punishment for that."
The young guardian stepped forward. "He speaks truth, Head. I fought him once before—in the storm. He could have killed me then. Didn't. Tonight he spared three of the surface's strongest. He's one of us."
Silence stretched under the glowing canopy.
The head guardian finally nodded once.
"No punishment. The council will hear your report directly. You did what was asked—and more."
He placed a heavy hand on Kanashimi's shoulder, grip firm but not unkind.
"You carried a hard burden tonight. Rest. The village stands because of it."
Kanashimi bowed again, deeper this time.
The guardians parted, letting them pass.
Akira muttered as they walked deeper into Lumora, "You… scared the hell out of us up there."
Ren added quietly, "And probably the entire surface world."
Hana whispered, "You were terrifying. And amazing."
Sora just nodded—respect clear.
Kanashimi didn't reply.
But his steps were a little less heavy as the familiar crystal glow welcomed him home.
The weapon had done its duty.
Now the boy just wanted to sleep.
The head guardian's hand was still resting on Kanashimi's shoulder, the weight of the moment hanging heavy, when hurried footsteps crunched through the moss.
A younger perimeter guardian—flushed, cloak askew—skidded to a stop in front of them, bowing so low his nose nearly touched the ground.
"Head Guardian! Sir! I—I found this!"
He held up a small, sealed scroll—the official permission note, crimson ward still glowing faintly.
"I… I took it from him at the outer checkpoint earlier today. Standard procedure. Meant to return it after verification, but then the shift change and the alarms and—" He swallowed hard, voice cracking. "I forgot. It's been in my pouch this whole time."
The head guardian's brow arched slowly.
The young guardian from the blizzard night stared, mouth open.
Akira let out a choked laugh that sounded half-hysterical.
Ren muttered, "You've got to be kidding."
Hana covered her face with both hands. Sora just exhaled like the world made a little less sense.
Kanashimi blinked once—slowly—then looked down at the note, then up at the flustered guardian, then at the head guardian's unreadable face.
The head guardian took the scroll, turned it over once, and handed it back to the young guardian.
"Next time," he said, voice dry as winter leaves, "do not forget the one piece of paper that keeps us from executing our own."
The young guardian bowed again, practically vibrating with shame. "Yes, sir. Never again, sir."
The head guardian's gaze returned to Kanashimi, something almost like amusement flickering in his eyes.
"Seems the forest itself wanted you home tonight."
Kanashimi's lips twitched—the tiniest, weary curve.
Akira couldn't hold it in anymore and burst out laughing, leaning on Ren for support. "All that—and it was just paperwork?!"
Ren snorted. Hana giggled behind her hand. Even Sora's mouth curved.
Kanashimi exhaled, shoulders sagging a fraction.
For the first time since the city, the weight felt a little lighter.
The head guardian waved them on.
"Go. Rest. The council can wait for morning."
As they walked deeper into the glowing paths, Akira slung an arm around Kanashimi's shoulders—careful of the ribs.
"You know," he said, grinning, "for a guy who just scared the entire surface world shitless… you're terrible at keeping track of paperwork."
Kanashimi didn't pull away.
He just muttered, "Shut up."
But there was no venom in it.
And the four laughed all the way home.
Morning, December 31, 2045.
The world woke up screaming.
Social media had exploded overnight. #Kanashimi trended number one globally—clips of the boulevard fight looped billions of times. Slow-motion edits of him catching Volt's lightning kick with two fingers. Zoomed frames of the snow threads glinting like diamonds before slicing gravity itself. His calm, beautiful voice delivering Lumora's refusal echoing in a thousand languages.
News channels ran 24-hour coverage:
CNN: "Unknown teen overpowers three top Chōjin in seconds—declares hidden villages will not negotiate."
BBC: "Global leaders urge calm as 'Kanashimi' video sparks fears of supernatural war."
Al Jazeera: "Who is the boy in black? Hidden protectors or new threat?"
TikTok and Twitter were flooded with memes—half terrified, half worshipping.
"Kanashimi is daddy" edits with slow-zoom on his face.
"Me when the WiFi lags" over the Chōjin getting bodied.
Religious groups called him demon or angel.
Governments issued emergency statements—stand-down orders, pleas for dialogue, stock markets crashing harder.
The UN emergency feed replayed his words on loop:
"We do not want your negotiation… force us again, and you will face more than one like me."
World leaders in private jets again—heading back to Switzerland, faces grim.
Chōjin agencies worldwide went on high alert—some demanding retaliation, others refusing to fight "that monster."
And in quiet corners of the internet, fan accounts were already born.
"Kanashimi Protection Squad."
"Marry me, scary snow boy."
While far below, in Lumora's glowing dorm…
Kanashimi finally stirred, blinking awake to soft forest light.
His phone—smuggled academy device—buzzed nonstop on the mat beside him.
Notifications: 999+ mentions.
Top trending: #Kanashimi
He stared at the screen, gray eyes widening slowly.
Then he turned it face-down and pulled the blanket over his head.
The world was obsessed.
He just wanted to disappear.