The violet light of morning leaked through geometric panes, casting slanted runes across the dormitory's graywashed walls. It illuminated a still world, dust caught midair like old memories refusing to settle.
Shisan stirred beneath stiff, campus-issued sheets. The weight of Claudius's body still felt like wearing armor too finely wrought—thin, brittle muscle tied tightly over nerves that never fully rested. This frame, so carefully tuned for precision rather than power, was built not to fight, but to dissect.
A knock rapped against the door—measured, habitual.
"Oi, Claudius! If you don't get up, we're eating your toast!" Welter's voice thundered through the wood, followed by a hearty slap that made the whole frame tremble.
"I told him to set a ward alarm," came Hiroyuki's drier tone. "Unless... this is another one of his 'existence is vapor' mornings."
Shisan sat up slowly, pulling himself free of the linen cocoon. For the first time in years, he felt full—physically. But mentally? He felt the fraying tension of threads pulling in opposite directions.
Was this the last day he'd inhabit this body?
What would happen if his main body were to die?
The thought twisted like rusted wire through his gut.
He opened the door to find Welter already grinning, Hiroyuki standing behind with arms folded.
"You look… better," Hiroyuki observed, eyes scanning Shisan's posture. "Still haunted, but at least you're upright."
"I feel..." Shisan tilted his head slightly, letting a smile slip. "Less like my soul was being ironed out by a cursed contract."
"Beautiful," Welter clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Because guess what? We've got the weekend off."
"No lectures, no mana drills, no existential terrors," Hiroyuki said. "Combat final's Monday. Today, we breathe."
"Join us?" Welter asked. "We figured we'd eat somewhere less... spirit-breaking."
Shisan blinked. "You mean... off-campus?"
Hiroyuki gave a rare grin. "You'd be amazed what real sunlight tastes like."
A rare feeling sparked in Shisan's chest. An opening.
"Lead the way."
Passing beyond the veil of the Somnus Wing was like stepping out of a dream and discovering you were still dreaming.
From the outside, the building was a modest relic: a half-forgotten chapel hunched between twisted trees. But once the veil dropped, the lie peeled away like old paint.
Spines of black iron curled heavenward, latticed with crimson glyphs that pulsed like breathing veins. Floating platforms hovered in lazy orbit around the main tower, connected by arcing bridges etched in chalk-silver. Above, reality bent like glass left in flame.
Shisan tried not to gape—but Hiroyuki caught the flicker in his eyes.
"Still gets you?" he asked, smirking.
Shisan let out a slow breath. "It looks like something built by gods who forgot their limits."
"I'd call that accurate," Welter muttered. "We live in a building that sings when no one's watching."
They arrived at a quiet café wedged between a defunct chronomancer's shop and an alleyway haunted by malfunctioning scrying drones. Its sign read The Whispering Spoon—painted letters peeling, windows glowing with warmth.
Inside, the scent of charred root vegetables and red salt hit Shisan like a spell. His tray held a thick cut of honey-drizzled bread, a bowl of broth that shimmered with unfamiliar spices, and something that might have been cheese—if cheese hissed when touched.
He savored the first bite like a condemned man tasting memory.
"Didn't expect this reaction," Hiroyuki mused.
"I forgot what eating without desperation felt like," Shisan said softly.
It wasn't until a new weight leaned on the table that he noticed the change in air pressure.
"Well, well, Mornveil the Lesser, slumming with the common folk?" Hambrock sneered. His two cronies—identically smug, identically forgettable—flanked him like poorly cast illusions.
Hiroyuki sighed audibly. "You again."
"You'd think someone with your family crest would eat somewhere... cleaner." Hambrock nudged the tray with his finger, pushing it away from Shisan.
Shisan didn't flinch. Didn't speak.
He continued eating.
Hambrock's smile tightened.
"Deaf, are you? Or is that pretty little head of yours still full of spiraling sigils and failure?"
Still nothing.
Then came the touch.
Hambrock's finger reached for Shisan's forehead, a tap meant to provoke.
What happened next was not deliberate.
It was instinct.
Heat exploded—silent, invisible. A flicker of golden light, a winged silhouette burned into the air. A phoenix, ghostly and furious, unfurled from Shisan's aura like a curse awakening.
The table vibrated.
The bullies staggered back, mouths parted, eyes wide.
"That—what—was that a spirit projection?!"
"I saw a wing—!"
"Not worth it! Not worth it!"
They fled, and Hambrock followed shortly after.
Shisan blinked, expression unchanging. Slowly, he looked at his friends.
"...You saw that, right?"
Welter's mouth hung open.
"I think your ancestors just slapped him."
Hiroyuki sipped his tea. "Next time, let me summon my teacup auras."
Later, as they ate in silence, a screen buzzed in the corner of the café. It showed a grainy image: a hooded figure in ragged clothes, staring into a camera.
Shisan leaned in. "A moving mirror? With images?"
"It's a television," Hiroyuki said slowly. "Not magic. Just tech."
"No sigils?" Shisan's eyes narrowed. "Then how does it summon images?"
"Electricity," Welter explained. "It's like mana. But angrier."
The footage played again. The face on the screen looked gaunt. Wild.
Shisan's body.
Carrying a sack of stolen food, eyes sharp with calculation and malice.
"Still running break-ins across the lower boroughs," the news anchor droned. "Unidentified suspect continues pattern of targeted thefts."
Welter squinted. "That guy looks like he bathed in chimney ash."
"Poor guy," Hiroyuki muttered. "Probably hasn't slept in days."
Shisan didn't speak.
He stared.
And stared.
Later, they returned through the warped gates of the Somnus Wing. The air shifted again—reality pulled taut across old bones.
Welter turned to him suddenly. "Spar?"
Shisan blinked. "Now?"
"Combat finals are in 2 days, let's see if you've actually been training"
He agreed.
The sparring hall was an echo chamber of silence and expectation. Arcane padding covered the walls, and enchanted lights burned cold above. The floor shimmered faintly—absorption runes laid deep into the stone.
"No casting," Welter said, tossing his jacket aside. "Just form."
Shisan nodded.
They circled.
Welter struck first—a heavy punch meant to test.
Shisan bent with the motion, letting it glide past his shoulder. His feet moved like shadows—soft, assured, always ready to spring.
Welter grunted, then launched into a three-step combo. Shisan parried the blows with his forearm, redirected a hook with his palm, then ducked under a sweeping elbow and delivered a quick jab to Welter's liver.
Welter staggered.
"Okay," he hissed. "So you've actually been training."
Another flurry—faster this time.
Shisan moved like water.
He dodged the final blow by stepping into the arc, using Welter's momentum against him. A twist. A push. And Welter slammed into the mat with a grunt of air.
Shisan stood over him, calm, controlled.
He offered a hand.
Welter took it.
"Since when do you fight like a cursed monk?" he asked.
Shisan smiled faintly. "Since today."
From the sidelines, Hiroyuki muttered, "You've been hiding your form...?"
That night, Shisan sat at the desk.
The pocket watch ticked quietly beside him. The mirror reflected his face—but not his name.
He didn't know if tomorrow would bring the final.
Or another body.
Or the end of this strange, spiraling game.