Gorōta held his sword firmly in hand—not that it mattered. He could crush the half-blood standing before him even without a weapon. He might've let the commoner off with just a few bruises… if not for that damned smirk.
"I'll make sure you'll never hold a sword again," Gorōta muttered under his breath, fury twisting his expression.
"Match, begin!" the overseer announced.
Without a moment's hesitation, Gorōta lunged toward Kagerō, his blade arcing in a wide horizontal swing aimed at Kagerō's head.
But Kagerō simply stepped back.
A clean dodge.
Luck. Gorōta scowled. How could a weakling dodge his attack?
Correcting his stance, he unleashed a flurry of sharp thrusts. Kagerō slipped between them with graceful ease, barely moving.
How? Why aren't my attacks landing?!
Gorōta's frustration deepened. He wasn't weak. In fact, he was one of the stronger youths. So why—why couldn't he hit him?
From the spectator seats, Katsuya watched the match with keen eyes, his sister Kurenai seated beside him. He leaned forward, his voice brimming with quiet confidence.
"Kagerō's going to win this match."
Kurenai tilted her head. "Brother? They've only been fighting for two minutes."
Katsuya pointed to his lips, then glanced at her. She blinked.
"A smile?"
"Exactly." He nodded. "Look at Kagerō's face—he's smiling. Gorōta, though… he looks rattled."
Kurenai shrugged, unimpressed. "I still don't get it. Neither of them come close to me—let alone you."
Katsuya chuckled softly, patting her head. "Is that so?"
To her, the match still looked even. But Katsuya had noticed something she hadn't. Gorōta had been pouring spiritual energy into every swing. Kagerō hadn't used any.
Not once.
Yet he was effortlessly dodging it all.
Katsuya had a theory. One that shouldn't be possible. If it was true...
That boy's a 'monster'.
But he wasn't the only one who noticed. The Clan Lord, along with the two elders, had also picked up on it. A faint smile appeared on the First Elder's face. The Second showed no emotion. And Kagerō's grandfather?
He remained unreadable.
Meanwhile, Gorōta's frustration boiled over. He still couldn't land a single hit. So—he changed tactics.
He leapt back. Although he declared that he didn't need to use Spirit Arts to beat Kagerō, he decided to use it. He wouldn't allow himself to lose to some commoner.
"[Spirit Arts: Earth Dome]!"
With a stomp, a dome of hardened earth erupted from the ground, encasing Kagerō.
But Gorōta wasn't done.
"[Spirit Arts: Furnace]!"
A spark flickered into existence inside the dome. A second later—it exploded. Flames roared, scorching the interior.
From the audience, even the Saintess widened her eyes.
To think... he achieved what I couldn't.
As much as she despised his attitude, Gorōta was a Hikagami. And what he just used—
A Unique Spirit Art. Incomplete, yes, but his own creation nonetheless.
Inside, heat built rapidly. The dome cracked, then—
Boom!
Smoke burst out as the structure collapsed. A burned silhouette stood within the haze.
Gorōta's eyes widened—but then, a smirk appeared. Kagerō stood, barely, his clothes in tatters. Burns and bruises marred his body. He was trembling.
The match was over—or so everyone thought.
Then a smile appeared on the face of Kagerō's grandfather.
Show them. Show them who you really are, Hikagami Kagerō.
Kagerō raised his wooden sword, drawing a swift circle through the air. A golden ring shimmered into existence before him.
He thrust his sword into it, then twisted as if unlocking a door.
"[Spirit Arts: Pandora]."
The air trembled.
A wave of spiritual energy exploded outward. Everyone felt it—the crushing weight of it.
Gasps echoed around the arena.
From within the circle, a hand emerged.
Pitch black. Smooth, with claw-like fingers and glistening nails like obsidian.
It opened its palm.
Kagerō spoke again.
"[Spirit Arts: Pandora's Flame]."
A small orb of fire spiraled into being, hovering in the hand. It condensed further, glowing ominously.
Before it could fire, the Clan Lord raised a hand.
The attack froze midair.
Gorōta stood paralyzed with fear.
That thing… wasn't human.
Even Katsuya and Kurenai were stunned.
"Brother, what… what was that?"
Katsuya clenched his fists. "I don't know. But… I'm not sure I could beat that thing."
Yuri, the Saintess, had a different thought.
No… That's not Spirit Arts. It can't be…
Around them, whispers broke out among the high-ranking Kagami.
"How can an illegitimate child have such power?"
"Wasn't he supposed to be weak?"
"Monster… He's not human…"
"That wasn't Spirit Arts. That was almost like Dark—"
"SILENCE!!" roared the First Elder. His voice thundered like a lion's roar. "Do not mention that filthy technique in my presence!"
Silence fell. No one dared speak further.
The First Elder seemed ready to say more, but the Second Elder remained uninterested, eyes half-lidded with boredom.
Still, even he had seen something... intriguing.
The Clan Lord stepped forward, voice clear.
"Kagerō advances to the next stage."
Gorōta trembled. "But—!"
His words froze in his throat. The Clan Lord's gaze landed on him. It was more terrifying than that hand.
"Do not make me repeat myself. Had I not stopped that attack—you would be dead."
He turned to Kagerō, who barely stood, body battered and scorched. Despite his win, he bore the deepest wounds.
Before anyone could move, a man in a dark kimono rushed to the Clan Lord's side.
He whispered something urgently.
The Clan Lord's expression shifted—just for a moment.
Then he addressed the crowd.
"The next matches are postponed. Elders, follow me to the meeting room."
Gasps echoed across the arena.
Postponed? The matches had never been interrupted. It was tradition: after the sparring matches, the children received their crimson robes, signifying their current rank in the Hikagami Clan.
For that tradition to be broken—
Something urgent had happened.
Yuri's eyes narrowed with worry.
And so, with tension thick in the air, the sparring matches came to an abrupt halt. No ranks were given. No robes were handed out.
***
Later that day…
Deep in a forest, under the moonlight, a man sat atop a tree branch. A four-petal gold flower glowed on the back of his hand.
He held a bottle of alcohol in one hand, its clear fluid catching the moonlight. He took a long sip, eyes on the stars.
"This'll probably be the last time I can drink in peace…" He sighed. "Ah~! That hits the spot."
He smiled faintly, staring at the moon.
"A storm's coming… and a bloody one at that."
He raised the bottle again—but a shout interrupted him.
"Commander! What are you doing up there?!"
He looked down. A man stood below, short-haired with shining blue eyes. On his hand glowed a three-petal gold flower.
The captain waved lazily. "Go away."
"Commander! The Order's looking for you! They said if you don't come, they'll cut your pay!"
The captain groaned.
"Those old coots… Can't do anything themselves."
He jumped down, landing softly beside the man.
"Jiro, hand me my sword."
The man frowned. "It's Reijiro, sir," he muttered, handing over the blade.
The captain took it, shaking his head. "You know, Jiro… People call me a drunkard. Lazy. I never argue."
"That's because you are all those things."
"No, Jiro, that's where you're wrong…"
And so, the two walked toward a looming building in the distance—one grumbling, the other sighing.
Above them, the moon glowed brighter than ever… as if casting all its light before a piece of it turned red.