The indifferent stars of their night's labour paled and died as the relentless dawn clawed its way across the bruised sky, their cold luminescence extinguished by the academy's flaring torches and the suffocating blanket of cloud rolling in from the Nyxion peaks like a shroud. By the time the great bronze bell in the tower groaned its seventh, soul weary toll, even the defiant outline of Cassiopeia's throne on Shiro's chart had been smothered beneath a uniform wash of oppressive grey cloud, an echo of the Temple's own censors meticulously blotting heresy from sanctioned star maps, a celestial silencing. The air tasted of impending frost, sharp and metallic on the tongue.
Shiro lingered in the arched stone threshold of the Grand Lecture Hall, the star scar on his palm pulsing with a low, insistent thrum that seemed synchronized with the sharp, rhythmic crack crack crack of Professor Vayne's telescopic cane striking the marble dais. Each strike reverberated through the vaulted chamber like a hammer on an anvil, a metronome of dogma that vibrated in Shiro's teeth. Through the tall, leaded windows, thick with centuries of grime, he watched the last defiant pinpricks of true starlight vanish, one by one, snuffed out like candles before a gale of sanctioned lies. It felt like an omen, a silent retreat of truth before the advancing army of Ryo's constructed reality. The cold seeped through the stones beneath his worn boots, a constant, gnawing presence.
"Sacred measure!" Vayne hissed within the hall, his reedy voice amplified by the stone into a nasal whine that scraped the nerves. He jabbed his brass tipped cane towards the shimmering projection of Polaris on the far wall. The star's image trembled, distorted and blurred, a deliberate flaw courtesy of the cracked lens Kuro had swapped into the projector during a midnight excursion, a subtle sabotage poised to unleash beautiful chaos. "Declination is not a suggestion, you mewling whelps of indolence! It is the divine axis! The immovable fulcrum upon which the celestial order, and thus our order, depends! To ignore it is to court cosmic chaos!" Spittle flew, catching the torchlight in tiny, fleeting sparks.
Kuro slouched into the front row, a dark nebula amidst the glittering constellations of privileged students draped in silks that whispered of unearned wealth. He still faintly reeked of fig pulp and rooftop rebellion, a scent alien and dangerous in the perfumed air thick with lavender and hypocrisy. "Divine axis," he muttered under his breath, the stylus in his hand scratching rapidly across his wax slate. He wasn't taking notes; he was sketching a noose tightening around the distorted image of Polaris, the lines deep and defiant. "Feels more like a garrotte. Slowly choking the light out. Fitting."
Outside, perched on the leering stone face of a rainspout gargoyle slick with frozen condensation, the crow watched. Its prismatic eyes, fractured galaxies swirling with cold fire, tracked Vayne's every jerky gesture, every spittle flecked word. Waiting. Hungry. Patient as glacial ice forming in the heart of a mountain. Its obsidian feathers seemed to absorb the weak morning light, leaving only those unsettling, knowing eyes visible.
Vayne's lecture unfolded with predictable, soul crushing monotony, a drone that threatened to freeze the blood. "True navigators," he droned, tapping the wobbling, sickly Polaris projection, "obey celestial order. Declination is the sacred measure of…"
THWACKKKK.
A perfectly aimed meat bun, still steaming slightly and radiating the greasy, fatty aroma of cheap mutton stew, smacked directly into the centre of the projected Orion constellation. Gravy erupted in a viscous brown nebula, blossoming obscenely across the celestial hunter's sword and dripping down the polished limestone wall like corrupted stardust. The sound was obscenely wet, a slap of reality against dogma, echoing in the sudden, shocked silence that followed. The scent of gravy, rich, greasy, and incongruous, began to overlay the usual smells of dust, old parchment, and cloying noble perfume.
Then chaos erupted like a supernova detonating in the confines of a sacred library.
"WHAT IN THE BLAZING FIRES OF THE TEMPLE'S PURIFYING LIGHT?!" Vayne roared, a fleck of gravy landing on his cheek like a grotesque, glistening beauty mark. His face purpled, veins bulging like worms beneath his thin skin at his temples. Above him, hidden in the shadowed rafters thick with cobwebs, decades of dust, and forgotten ambitions, the pulley system creaked ominously. The net of stolen meat buns swung in a wide, deliberate arc over the lectern, a constellation of imminent, greasy doom casting dancing, mocking shadows on the horrified, upturned faces below. Shiro could taste the anticipation, metallic and sharp.
His projected masterpiece flickered onto the wall beside the dripping Orion: Lord Kuro's Celestial Ego, rendered in bold, defiant strokes of stolen berry dye, lounged insouciantly on Cassiopeia's throne, popping figs into a smirking mouth while twirling a dagger pointed suggestively at the proud Oji crest. The caption, courtesy of Kuro's stylus, blazed beneath like a challenge: True North: Defiance.
Nobles gasped, a collective intake of breath sharp enough to cut glass. Lady Reina dropped her pearl handled fan with a delicate, horrified clatter. Lord Takeo Sudo choked on his own astonishment, a strangled cough echoing in the sudden quiet. Koji Raiden shot upright from his slouch, his jade cufflinks, miniature green stars winking with ill gotten wealth, clattering like falling ice against the wooden bench. "This is BLASPHEMY!" he shrieked, his voice cracking with outrage and an underlying tremor of remembered pain, his knuckles whitening on the bench's edge. "An assault on the celestial order! Demon work! It's him! The Ghost!"
"AGREED!" Vayne bellowed, apoplectic, his eyes bulging. He stabbed his cane towards the insolent projection, hitting a hidden pressure plate disguised as an ornamental star on the lectern's edge. CLUNK. A bucket concealed in the ceiling's ornate plasterwork tipped. A shower of "stardust", finely ground glitter mixed with crushed, pungent juniper berries, dumped onto Vayne's balding head and expensively robed shoulders. He looked like a demented, spice crusted constellation momentarily blinded, sputtering and coughing. "GYAAAH! FILTH! VERMIN! WHO DARES?! I'LL HAVE YOUR HANDS STRUNG FROM THE OBSERVATORY DOME FOR THI…"
SPLATTT.
Another bun, launched with unerring accuracy from the pulley's swinging net, exploded squarely on Vayne's chest. Gravy sprayed in a wide, glistening arc, splattering Lady Reina's exquisite pearl embroidered ivory gown with Rorschach blots of greasy brown. She shrieked, a sound like the most expensive silk tearing violently under a knife, leaping back and swatting at the mess as if it were molten lead or acid, her powdered face contorted in pure, unadulterated disgust. "MY SILKS! YOU BARBARIAN! DO YOU HAVE ANY CONCEPT OF WHAT THESE COST?! THE LABOR?! THE GOLD?!"
"Three years of your father's most creative tax assessments on Higaru's fishmongers you bitch?" Kuro muttered under his breath from the shadowed balcony alcove where he and Shiro crouched, unseen spectres grinning like twin comets flaring in the dark. The air up here was thick with dust motes dancing in stray light beams, the faint, metallic scent of the pulley mechanism, and the exhilarating ozone tang of impending disaster. Shiro's fingers closed around another warm, greasy bun, its yielding softness a stark contrast to the cold, unyielding stone beneath his knees.
"Aim for Koji next," Shiro whispered, his voice low and tight with suppressed glee. The bun's warmth was a small, stolen comfort against the pervasive chill. "Let's see if his bladder holds under celestial bombardment. Bet it bursts like a rotten fig."
"Way ahead of you, Ghost," Kuro whispered back, a feral grin splitting his face. He deftly adjusted the guide ropes with fingers that moved like a master helmsman navigating treacherous asteroid fields, his storm grey eyes narrowed in concentration. The projectile arced downwards, a greasy brown meteor trailing the scent of cheap meat and humiliation, and smacked wetly against Koji's padded silk shoulder with a satisfying thump.
"GHOST!" Koji screeched, recoiling as if branded, gravy soaking into the expensive fabric, darkening the jade green silk. His voice trembled, the thin veneer of noble arrogance cracking like cheap lacquer over rotted wood to reveal the raw, primal terror beneath, the memory of Shiro's fists from their past encounter resurfacing like a summoned nightmare made flesh. "It's HIM! That demon ghost! He's doing this! Summoning meat from the void! Look at his eyes! Look at them!" He pointed a shaking, gravy smeared finger towards the balcony, his face pale as parchment beneath the spatters.
Shiro leaned forward over the ornate stone balcony railing, just enough to be seen, a shadow emerging from the gloom. The weak, filtered light from the high windows caught his amber eyes, making them gleam with unnerving, almost feral intensity in the dimness, like banked coals in a frozen wasteland. 'Demon Ghost.' The words landed like a shard of Nyxarion ice in his gut. Aki would have flinched, her kind eyes wide with worry. His mother might have wept, her gentle spirit recoiling. But the raw, undiluted terror in Koji's eyes… the way the nobles around him recoiled as if his gaze carried the very frostbite of the north… it was a weapon. A different kind of carving knife, sharper than any hook, forged in their own fear. He let the name settle, cold and heavy, a mantle he could wear. "You flatter me, Lord Jade," he called down, his voice cutting through the din with chilling clarity, laced with deliberate, mocking menace. "Didn't realize I held such prime real estate in your nightmares. Must be the decor." He gestured vaguely, dismissively, at the defaced projection of Kuro lounging on the throne. "Or perhaps it's just your guilty conscience, finally catching up."
A ripple of nervous, half hysterical laughter ran through some of the younger nobles, quickly stifled by glares from their elders. Lady Yumi, Koji's usual shadow, clutched her pearls so tightly the delicate strand threatened to burst, scattering ivory beads like frozen tears. Her wide, frightened gaze darted between Shiro's scarred knuckles, visible as he gripped the railing, and the spreading, dark stain on Koji's shoulder. Fear, thick and cloying as the gravy smell now permeating the hall, began to solidify in the air, a palpable miasma of dread.
Lord Takeo Sudo, trying to back away from the unfolding chaos towards the perceived safety of the grand doors, stepped squarely on a patch of spilled juniper glitter "stardust." His polished, expensive boots skidded treacherously on the gritty, sparkling mess. With a startled yelp, he lost his balance, arms windmilling wildly like a doomed bird, and crashed backwards into a heavy, brass mounted telescope on a stand. The instrument, a symbol of Vayne's sterile celestial order, toppled with a resounding, metallic CRASH, scattering priceless lenses that skittered like crystal marbles across the marble floor and brass gears that rolled like dislodged, miniature planets. "DEMONS!" Takeo wailed from the wreckage, covered in glitter that caught the light like malevolent stars and shards of optical glass, his voice raw with panic, stripped of all noble pretense. "DEMONS IN THE ACADEMY! THEY'VE COME FOR OUR SOULS! NYXARA'S SPAWN! SHE SENDS THEM FROM THE ICE!"
Kuro snorted, muffling laughter in the rough sleeve of his coat, shoulders shaking silently. "Demons? Please," he breathed, the sound barely audible over the chaos below. "If I'd actually summoned fucking demons, you'd be wearing your spleen as a fashionable hat by now, vermin. This is merely… interactive education. Consider it applied celestial mechanics." His voice, when he spoke louder, dripped with scornful amusement. Shiro flexed his star scarred hand, the fresh wound sending a sharp, grounding spark of pain up his arm. Demon Ghost. Let them fear the name. Let it haunt their silken sleep like the unnatural frost haunted the forgotten fig stems in the greenhouse. Let it fester.
"YOU!" Vayne screeched, his voice shredded by rage, pepper, and humiliation. He pointed his glitter dusted, juniper sprinkled cane like an accusing comet's tail directly at Shiro, his entire body trembling. "SLUM RAT! THIS REVOLTING PAGEANTRY BEARS YOUR FILTHY STENCH! YOUR HANDIWORK! YOU DEFILE THIS SACRED SPACE!"
Shiro raised his right hand, fingers splayed wide in a gesture both defiant and damning. The raw, four pointed star carved into the base of his thumb caught the flickering torchlight, a brand of defiance glowing lividly against his skin, a stark counterpoint to the sanctioned constellations above. "Guilty as charged, Professor," he declared, his voice carrying easily, cold and clear. "But don't blame me entirely." He pointed his scarred palm towards the distorted, gravy smeared projection of Polaris, the sacred axis trembling under its layer of grime. "Blame your sacred axis. The North Star told me to do it. Seemed… profoundly dissatisfied with your interpretation. Finds you…" He paused, letting the word hang, "…derivative. Dull. A poor copy of a flawed original."
The lecture hall erupted anew. Nobles hissed, pointed, recoiled as if his marked hand emitted a visible contagion, a plague from the slums. "Barbarian!" "Star cursed abomination!" "He's marked by the north's corruption!" "Demon Ghost!" The whispers swirled like toxic nebulae, feeding on the primal fear Koji had unleashed, growing louder, more hysterical. The carefully constructed order of the academy was crumbling into greasy, glittering chaos.
Kuro stood up fully in the balcony shadows, brushing imaginary fig pulp from his worn, dark coat with deliberate slowness. He stepped to the railing beside Shiro, a dark prince emerging from the void to stand shoulder to shoulder with his marked companion, a united front against the gilded hysteria below. "Careful, Professor," he drawled, his voice carrying effortlessly, cold and sharp as a shard of glacial ice honed for centuries. "Call him a rat again in my hearing…" He let the pause stretch, heavy with unspoken threat, "…and he might just decide to redecorate your robes with your own entrails. He's got an artistic flair, our resident slum rat. Abstract, chaotic, but undeniably… visceral." He let the image hang in the gravy scented air, a promise etched in frost and blood.
"YOU DARE THREATEN A TEMPLE APPOINTED MASTER OF THE CELESTIAL SCIEN…?!"
FWUMPPPP.
The final bun in the net, deliberately heavier and packed to bursting with finely ground stolen pepper, dropped onto Vayne's lectern with a heavy, final sound. It exploded not with gravy, but with a pungent, eye watering cloud of spice that enveloped the professor like a miniature supernova of agony. He dissolved into a violent, body wracking coughing fit, tears streaming down his glitter encrusted, spice dusted face, gasping for air between wracking spasms, bent double, utterly undone. "I'LL… cough… HAVE YOU… wheeze… ALL WHIPPED! gasp… ALL OF YOU! HERETICS! VERMIN! GHOSTS! I'LL SEE YOU BROKEN ON THE WHEEL!"
Shiro didn't wait for the next incoherent threat. He vaulted cleanly over the stone balcony railing, a shadow detaching itself from the gloom. He landed with a heavy, deliberate thud on the polished marble floor ten feet below, the impact sending a jolt up his legs and a visible tremor through the clustered nobles nearby. They skittered back like a flock of startled starlings caught in a sudden gale, a wave of expensive silks rustling and panicked gasps filling the air. Koji, already unbalanced by terror, gravy, and the sight of Shiro dropping from above like an avenging spirit, tripped over his own ornate boots in his haste to retreat. He crashed backwards, flailing uselessly, directly into a large, free standing celestial globe depicting Astralon's supposed dominance over a void where Nyxara should be. The globe wobbled violently on its stand, then rolled with gathering, inevitable momentum straight into Vayne's already bruised shins as the professor bent double, consumed by coughing.
"YOU CLUMSY, SPOILED, JADE ENCRUSTED VERMIN!" Vayne shrieked, hopping on one foot while clutching his shin, his juniper studded hair wild around his contorted, glitter streaked face. "THIS… THIS CATASTROPHE IS YOUR FAULT! YOUR INCOMPETENCE INVITES CHAOS! YOUR VERY BREATH BREEDS THE GHOST!"
Koji gaped from the floor, sprawled amidst gleaming globe fragments and glitter that stuck to his gravy stained finery, a dark, wet stain spreading visibly down the front of his fine brocade trousers, the sharp, acrid tang of urine cutting through the spice and gravy stench. "MINE?! YOU'RE THE ONE COVERED IN MEAT AND SPICE AND GLITTER, YOU MAD OLD STAR GAZING FOSSIL! IT'S HIM! THE DEMON! HE'S CURSED US ALL!" His voice rose to a hysterical, wet shriek, pointing a shaking, gravy smeared finger directly at Shiro, his eyes wide with abject terror. Kuro's smirk tightened, the earlier amusement replaced by a colder satisfaction. It wasn't just victory; it was the sour, necessary taste of the terror they'd unleashed, a tool as double edged and brutal as Star Breaker itself. A weapon forged in their defiance.
Lady Reina whimpered, clutching her ruined silks as if they were mortal wounds, her face ashen beneath the powder. "Someone fetch Priest Gin! Now! Seize that slum rat! Burn the heresy from his hands! Burn the demon mark from his flesh! Purify this place!"
Kuro descended the grand staircase at a leisurely, utterly contemptuous pace, seemingly oblivious to the surrounding chaos. He plucked a final, perfect fig from his pocket, its purple skin flawless. He reached Shiro's side, radiating a dangerous, icy calm amidst the boiling panic, a prince surveying his handiwork. "Tempting offer, Lady Reina," he purred, his storm grey eyes like chips of flint catching the flickering torchlight, holding a glint of pure, unadulterated malice. "But last I checked, ash makes for rather poor embroidery. It clashes terribly with… well, everything." He examined the fig with mock contemplation, then tossed it with deceptive gentleness. It landed with a soft, definitive thud at her expensively shod feet, rolling slightly in a puddle of diluted gravy. "Consider it divine seasoning for your next bout of theatrical vapours. Compliments of Cassiopeia's court jester." He gave a shallow, mocking bow.