The way station had been quiet through the night, but sleep hadn't come easily for any of us.
I'd spent most of the dark hours replaying Captain Izuma's lightning technique in my mind, trying to understand how someone could achieve that level of precision and power. Beside me, Mina had tossed and turned, probably having nightmares about giant wolves with glowing eyes.
When morning came, it brought with it a mixture of excitement and nervousness that seemed to affect everyone in our group.
"Today's the day," Daichi said as we loaded back into the transport. "By tonight, we'll be Academy students."
"If we survive whatever they put us through first," Ryouta added with nervous humor.
"After seeing Captain Izuma yesterday, I'm not sure any of us are ready for this," Kenji admitted. "That level of mastery... it's like we're children playing with toys."
"We are children playing with toys," Satoru said bluntly. It was one of the longest sentences I'd heard him speak since we'd started traveling. "The question is whether we can become something more."
The final leg of our journey took us through increasingly impressive terrain. The road was perfectly maintained, wide enough for multiple transports, and lined with markers bearing Academy symbols. Everything about it spoke of resources and organization on a scale our village couldn't imagine.
Then we crested a hill, and Shinkai Academy spread out before us.
"Holy..." Takeshi started, then stopped, apparently unable to finish the thought.
The Academy wasn't just a school—it was a small city. Massive stone buildings rose from carefully landscaped grounds that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Training fields dotted the landscape like patches on a quilt, each one filled with students practicing techniques that sent flashes of colored light across the sky.
Towers reached toward the clouds, their purposes unclear but their construction speaking of power and permanence. Gardens and courtyards provided peaceful spaces between the more martial areas, while what looked like residential districts housed the thousands of students who called this place home.
"It's beautiful," Mina breathed, pressing her face against the wagon's side to get a better view.
"It's huge," Hana said with obvious awe. "How many students do they have here?"
"Thousands," Captain Izuma answered from his position near the driver. "Shinkai Academy serves all six regions, taking the most promising candidates from each area. What you're seeing represents the future leadership of our world."
"Future leadership?" I said, eyes wide. "You mean like... actual important people? Running things and making big decisions and stuff?"
Izuma almost smiled at my reaction. "Some graduates do go on to significant positions, yes."
"Wow," I breathed. "And here I thought the Academy was just about learning to make bigger fireballs."
As our wagon joined a line of similar transports approaching the main gates, I got my first close look at other Academy candidates. Some looked as nervous and excited as our group, but others carried themselves with confidence that suggested they'd been preparing for this moment their entire lives.
"Look at their equipment," Yuma whispered, pointing to a group of students from what looked like a wealthy region. Their weapons gleamed with obvious quality, their clothes were cut from fine materials, and even their luggage spoke of resources far beyond what village families could afford.
"Equipment doesn't make the warrior," Satoru said quietly, but I caught him studying the same group with calculating eyes.
"Yeah," I added brightly. "I bet half those fancy swords have never even cut anything harder than practice dummies. Our village weapons might look plain, but they've seen real work!"
The processing area inside the Academy gates was organized chaos. Hundreds of new students milled around designated areas while Academy officials checked documents, assigned housing, and directed people toward various stations. The noise was overwhelming—conversations in dozens of dialects, shouted instructions from staff, and the underlying hum of excitement and nervousness from people about to begin new lives.
"This is like the harvest festival back home, but with way more people and way less dancing," I observed, craning my neck to take in everything.
"Hayashi group, this way!" called an official wearing Academy colors. "Special housing arrangements to be processed separately."
"Special arrangements?" I perked up. "That sounds important! Are we getting the fancy rooms?"
We followed him away from the main crowd toward a smaller building that looked more administrative than residential. Other Academy staff were waiting with paperwork and serious expressions.
"Miss Hayashi," one of them addressed Mina directly. "You'll be staying in the dependent housing complex with other family members of enrolled students. It's a secure facility with educational programs appropriate for your age group."
"Will I be able to see Kaito?" she asked, suddenly looking very young amid all the official procedures.
"Daily visits are permitted during non-training hours," the official assured her. "And family meals are served together on rest days."
"What about the other students?" I asked, gesturing toward our travel companions who were watching the proceedings with curiosity.
"Standard Academy housing assignments. Four students per dormitory room, arranged by initial assessment results." The official consulted his clipboard. "Which reminds me—placement evaluations begin tomorrow morning. All new students will be tested to determine appropriate class levels and potential specializations."
"Tests already?" I groaned. "I just got here! Can't we at least get a good night's sleep first?"
"What kind of tests?" Kenji asked, ignoring my complaint.
"Shinzai control, technique demonstration, physical fitness, tactical thinking, and general knowledge," came the reply. "Results determine everything from class placement to meal hall seating arrangements."
"Even where we sit to eat?" I asked, amazed. "Man, this place really likes organizing things."
The mention of seating arrangements based on test scores suddenly made the Academy's social hierarchy very clear. This wasn't going to be like village life where everyone knew each other and differences in ability were accepted as natural variation. Here, everything was measured, ranked, and organized according to merit.
"Nervous?" Daichi asked as we were led toward the dormitory complex where we'd be spending our first night.
"Terrified," I admitted. "After seeing what Captain Izuma could do... I feel like I'm about to take a swimming test in the ocean when I can barely float in a pond."
"Yeah. Makes you wonder what the actual Academy instructors are capable of."
Our dormitory turned out to be a large stone building with multiple floors and dozens of rooms. Each room housed four students, with basic but comfortable furnishings and windows that looked out over the training grounds.
"So who are we rooming with?" Ryouta asked as we climbed the stairs toward our assigned floor.
"Says here Hayashi, Matsuda, Tanaka, and..." the dormitory supervisor consulted his list. "Watanabe. Room 237."
That meant me, Daichi, Kenji, and one person we hadn't met yet.
Our room was simple but adequate—four beds, four desks, four storage areas, and a window that provided an excellent view of what looked like an advanced combat training area. Students were practicing techniques that sent small explosions across the field, their movements coordinated and precise in ways that made our transport group's efforts look amateurish.
"I guess this is home now," Kenji said, claiming one of the beds near the window.
"Better than I expected," Daichi added, testing his mattress. "Village accommodations aren't usually this nice."
"Look at this!" I said, bouncing on my own bed. "It's so soft! And check out this view! It's like having front row seats to a fireworks show!"
We were still settling in when our fourth roommate arrived. He was about our age, with dark hair and the kind of confident bearing that suggested either excellent training or wealthy family background.
"Taro Watanabe," he introduced himself with a slight bow. "From Kasai Region. Looking forward to working with you all."
"Kasai Region?" Kenji asked with interest. "That's desert territory, right? We don't see many people from there in our area."
"Watanabe, huh?" I said with a grin. "Any relation to old man Watanabe who sells dumplings in our village? He's got the same serious look you do when he's counting copper coins."
Taro blinked, then burst out laughing. "Dumpling seller? I think my family would be horrified to hear that comparison. We're more the 'charge into battle with flaming swords' type than the 'serve snacks to customers' type."
"Hey, don't knock dumpling sellers," I protested, still grinning. "They're the real heroes. Ever tried to make perfectly round dumplings? That takes serious skill. Plus, they make people happy! You can't fight evil on an empty stomach."
"You have a point there," Taro agreed, still chuckling. "Different climate, different challenges. But Shinkai Academy draws from everywhere. Part of what makes it so competitive."
As we continued introductions and began unpacking our belongings, the conversation naturally turned to family backgrounds and reasons for coming to the Academy.
"My father runs a smithy," Daichi explained. "Always hoped one of his children would make it to Academy training. Says it's the best way to serve the region and help people."
"Similar story here," Kenji added. "Village expectations, family pride, that sort of thing. What about you, Taro?"
"Military family. My older brother graduated from here five years ago, now serves with the Flame Guard in Kasai Region. Following in the family tradition." Taro's tone suggested this was a perfectly normal career path where he came from.
"That's amazing," Daichi said with obvious respect. "Guild service is really prestigious."
"Wow, a real guild member in the family!" I said excitedly. "What's that like? Does he get to wear a special uniform? Does he have a cool title? Can he do that lightning thing Captain Izuma did?"
Taro smiled at my enthusiasm. "He does have impressive techniques, though I'm not sure they compare to what we witnessed yesterday."
"What about your family, Kaito?" Taro asked, turning to me. "What brings a Shinrin Region boy to the Academy?"
I hesitated, not sure how to explain our situation without making things awkward. Before I could answer, Mina appeared in our doorway, having apparently finished her own housing arrangements.
"Kaito!" she called out happily. "My room is just down the hall! And there are other kids my age too—it's going to be fun!"
"That's great," I said, relieved by the interruption. "Did they feed you?"
"Uh-huh. The food is really good here. Much better than village meals." She bounced into the room and looked around with obvious curiosity. "This is nice! You all get to live together like a family."
"Speaking of family," Taro said with friendly interest, "is this your sister? She's adorable."
"This is Mina," I said, putting an arm around her shoulders. "She's seven."
"Seven? That's young to be at the Academy. Are your parents here too?" Taro's question was innocent enough, but it hit like a punch to the stomach.
The room fell silent. Daichi and Kenji both knew our situation from village life, but Taro was looking at us with genuine curiosity, waiting for an answer that I didn't know how to give.
"Our parents..." I started, then stopped, the words catching in my throat.
"Where's Papa, Kaito?" Mina asked suddenly, her voice carrying the innocent curiosity of someone who had never really understood the situation. "The other kids were talking about their fathers, and I realized... I don't remember Papa at all. What was he like?"
The question hung in the air like a physical weight. Taro's expression shifted from curiosity to growing understanding as he began to piece together what our silence meant.
I looked down at my sister—seven years old, bright and trusting, asking about a father she'd never known—and felt something break inside my chest.
"Papa..." I started, then had to stop and swallow hard. "Papa disappeared before you were born."
"Disappeared?"
"He... he went away one day and never came back. Mama was pregnant with you, and she waited and waited, but he never..." I couldn't finish the sentence.
The memory hit me with startling clarity. Mama, seven months pregnant and crying so hard her whole body shook. Seven-year-old me trying to climb onto her lap to hug her, not understanding why she was so sad all the time.
"Don't cry, Mama," I'd said, patting her swollen belly where Mina was growing. "Papa will come back. He promised he'd be here when the baby comes."
But Mama had just cried harder, and I'd felt helpless and confused because nothing I said seemed to make her feel better.
"I hope so, sweetheart," she'd whispered. "I hope so."
But he never did come back. And then Mama died, and it was just Mina and me.
"He never came back," I said quietly, the words feeling like stones in my mouth. "They never found his body, so we don't know what happened to him. And then Mama died when you were born, and..."
I couldn't continue. The room had gone completely silent, and when I looked up, everyone was staring at me with expressions of sympathy and horror.
"Oh," Mina said in a very small voice. "So I never had a Papa?"
"You had me," I said, pulling her close. "You've always had me."
"I'm sorry," Taro said quietly. "I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."
"It's okay," I managed. "People ask. It's natural."
But it wasn't okay. Nothing about our situation was okay. Two orphaned kids trying to make their way in a world that expected families to be whole, support systems to be stable, backgrounds to make sense.
"You've done an amazing job taking care of her," Kenji said softly. "She's lucky to have you."
"We're lucky to have each other," I corrected, because that was the truth that had kept us going through everything.
Mina was quiet for a long moment, processing information that redefined her understanding of her own life. Then she looked up at me with those serious eyes that sometimes made her seem much older than seven.
"Is that why you promised Mama you'd take care of me? Because Papa couldn't?"
The question hit hard, but not the way I expected. "No, Mina," I said, my voice thick with emotion. "Papa loved us both so much. He would have taken care of you if he could have. He was so excited about meeting you."
I swallowed hard, remembering fragments of conversations I'd overheard before he disappeared. "Mama used to tell me how happy he was about having a little girl. He was planning to teach you everything—how to climb trees, how to catch fireflies, how to be brave when you were scared."
"Then why didn't he come back?"
"I don't know," I admitted, and that was the truth that hurt most of all. "Something must have happened to him. Something that kept him from coming home to us. But I know—I know—that if he was alive, he'd be here."
I pulled her closer, feeling the weight of years of unanswered questions. "I didn't promise Mama I'd take care of you because Papa couldn't. I promised because I wanted to. Because you're my little sister and I love you more than anything in the world."
"Do you think Papa would be proud of us?" she asked quietly.
The question nearly broke me all over again. "Yeah," I whispered. "I think he'd be so proud he wouldn't know what to do with himself. His brave little girl and his son who learned to make fire dance."
"I wish I could have met him."
"Me too. But you know what? I think he's watching over us somehow. And I think he's happy that we take care of each other."
"Then I'm glad you're my big brother," she said simply. "Even if I never got to meet Papa, I got to have you."
I felt my throat getting tight again, so I forced my biggest, brightest grin and ruffled her hair. "Hey, but look at us now! We made it to the Academy! Papa would probably be laughing at how far we've come from that tiny village. I bet he never imagined his kids would be living in a place this fancy!"
The grin felt like it was going to crack my face, but I kept it up. "And the food here is amazing, right Mina? Way better than my terrible cooking! Remember that time I tried to make rice and somehow burned it AND made it soggy at the same time?"
"Kaito..." Mina said softly, seeing right through my act.
"I mean, seriously, how do you burn AND soggy-fy rice? That takes real talent!" I laughed, but it sounded hollow even to me. "The Academy chefs are probably going to teach me how to cook properly. Maybe I'll become the first Academy graduate who's also a master chef! 'Kaito Hayashi: Fire Technique Expert and Rice Ball Specialist!'"
The room had gone quiet again, but not the uncomfortable kind. Everyone was looking at me with these gentle, understanding expressions that somehow made it worse and better at the same time.
"Kaito," Mina said again, stepping forward and wrapping her small arms around my waist in the biggest hug she could manage.
She didn't say anything else, just held on tight like she was trying to squeeze all the fake cheerfulness out of me and replace it with something real.
My forced grin finally cracked, and I hugged her back properly, burying my face in her hair for a moment.
"We're okay," I whispered, and this time I meant it. "We're really okay."
When I looked up, Daichi, Kenji, and Taro were all smiling—not with pity or awkwardness, but with the kind of warm understanding that said they got it. They got that sometimes you had to laugh to keep from crying, and that was okay too.
"You know what?" Taro said after a moment. "My brother always said the Academy teaches you more than just fighting techniques. It teaches you about the different kinds of strength people carry." He gestured around the room. "I think we're all going to learn a lot from each other."
"Yeah," Daichi agreed. "And if anyone can figure out how to make Academy training fun, it's probably Kaito."
"Definitely," Kenji added with a grin. "Though maybe we should keep him away from the kitchen."
"Hey!" I protested, my real smile returning. "My cooking isn't that bad! It's just... creative."
"Is that what we're calling it?" Mina giggled, and just like that, the heavy atmosphere lifted.
The Academy was going to test my abilities, measure my potential, rank me against hundreds of other students from across the regions. But none of their evaluations would matter as much as the quiet approval in my sister's voice and the understanding smiles of new friends who didn't judge our story.
Whatever happened here, whatever challenges we faced, we'd face them together.
Just like we always had.