The air in the Peru Sector training arena was sharp—a heavy cocktail of sweat, dust, and the cold tang of iron. The rhythmic clack of wooden swords echoed off the high, soundproof walls, a deafening percussion in the sterile space.
Ren stood at the center of the mat, his posture perfect, gripping a wooden katana in his left hand. Even without live steel, his presence was stifling. Clarissa lunged, but Ren's response was a ghost of a movement—minimalist and precise. Each time Clarissa's blade whistled past, he didn't counter with a strike; he countered with a critique.
"Drop your shoulders. You're leaking energy there," Ren's voice was flat, as clinical as a machine. He used the tip of his practice sword to nudge Clarissa's wrist, adjusting her swing mid-motion. "Your grip is too rigid. A blade isn't a burden; it's an extension of your nervous system. Focus."
Erebos stood sentinel at the edge of the mat, his eyes unblinking, recording every frame of movement. To him, seeing Ren fight left-handed was common, yet it remained a masterpiece of efficiency.
Suddenly, the far sliding door hissed open.
A girl stepped in, looking for someone. Before she could wander, another dark-haired girl—a regular—approached her and led her to the low bleachers. The arena lights caught the newcomer's pink hair, creating a silhouette that, for a fraction of a second, sent a jolt of pure disorientation through Ren's nerves.
The figure was a stranger, yet hauntingly familiar. That shade of pink... Ren's memory dragged him back to an optical shop a year ago, to a girl he'd nearly collided with. At the same time, she was the shadow he suspected held the 'moral debt' from a past he'd tried to bury.
For the first time in years, Ren's absolute rhythm faltered. His eyes anchored on the figure in the bleachers, abandoning reality for one fatal second.
Sret!
The tip of Clarissa's wooden blade grazed the skin of Ren's neck. Silence swallowed the room.
Clarissa panted, her eyes wide with disbelief that she had actually breached the Young Master's guard. Yet, she didn't pull back. "Your words, Young Master," she whispered, a thin veil of triumph in her tone. "In a fight, a single second's lapse is a death sentence."
Ren didn't answer immediately. He felt the cold wood against his throat, but his mind was still miles away, lingering on the girl in the stands.
Erebos froze. To him, this was a massive anomaly. He knew his master never held back, nor did he make amateur mistakes in a serious trial. Driven by protective instinct, Erebos traced the line of Ren's diverted gaze.
His eyes landed on the pink-haired girl.
Erebos remained a statue, but behind his stone-faced exterior, a very human thought flickered. He looked at his master, then back at the girl. Is the Young Master finally taking an interest? Considering Ren's age, it was only natural. A strange sense of pride—like a father watching a son grow up—bloomed in Erebos's chest.
Ren caught the shift in Erebos's aura. He frowned, a bad premonition crawling up his spine. He knew Erebos; if the man started filling in the blanks himself, things would get far more complicated than business and blades.
The silence in the arena deepened. Clarissa was still locked in place, her sword pressing against Ren's throat. In the distance, Rena—the owner of that pink hair—sat as a silent witness, unaware that her mere presence had just dismantled the Young Master's ironclad focus.
Ren didn't pull away from the blade. Instead, he stepped forward. The movement forced Clarissa's wooden katana to dig into his skin, leaving a faint red mark. He leaned in, closing the distance until Clarissa could feel the cold radiating from him.
He whispered, his voice so low it seemed to bleed into the hum of the ventilation.
"Few people know my name and live long enough to speak it," he said, the vibration of his voice sending a chill down her marrow. "My name is Ren. Don't let your tongue slip in front of others, or your next trial will be surviving my hand."
Clarissa felt her fingers tremble. That name—Ren—was short, but its weight felt heavy enough to crush the room. It wasn't an introduction; it was the handing over of a key to a Pandora's box.
Ren stepped back slowly. He didn't look back, leaving Clarissa frozen on the mat, her breath hitched. That name echoed in her mind like a death warrant signed in blood.
At the sidelines, Erebos watched with an unreadable expression. He saw his master walk away from Clarissa, but his eyes caught Ren's microscopic glance back toward the bleachers—toward the pink-haired girl.
In the stands, Rena watched the group with bated breath.
Nadia emerged from the locker room hallway, dressed in chic loungewear. "Sorry, my session ran over," she said, taking a seat next to Rena.
Rena didn't answer at first. Her eyes were glued to the tall man handing his wooden sword to the veteran at the edge of the mat. "Nadia... they have to be nobility, right?"
Nadia followed her gaze. "Hard to say. They've been training here a lot lately. They don't move like athletes. More like... elite mercenaries? But the way they dress screams Arena District high society. Don't tell me you're thinking about the Royalist Faction?"
Rena turned to Nadia, a fierce glint in her eyes. "I need backing, Nad. If they really are Royalists, they're my ticket to surviving Survival Idol. I can't just let them walk away."
As Ren's group began to exit the arena with rapid, efficient movements, Rena stood up abruptly. "Come on. Follow them."
"Rena! That's too risky!" Nadia hissed, but she grabbed her bag and hurried after Rena, who was already half-running.
They kept a safe distance, stalking them through the Peru Sector sidewalks as the evening mist began to roll in. Rena and Nadia ducked behind concrete pillars every time Erebos—whose instincts were razor-sharp—seemed on the verge of looking back.
The chase ended at a classic, upscale restaurant. The atmosphere was warm, lit by crystal chandeliers with low jazz humming in the background. Rena peeked through the glass door before entering.
"They went in there," Rena whispered, her breath ragged from the pace.
After straightening her pink hair, Rena stepped inside with practiced confidence, Nadia trailing behind like a wary shadow. In a dimly lit corner booth, the man from the arena sat with his two companions.
Rena chose a table two rows away—a strategic vantage point to observe without being obvious.
"There they are," Rena whispered as they sat. "Now, we just wait for the right moment for an 'accidental' greeting."
Rena didn't realize that at that corner table, Ren had known they were there since the second block of the pursuit. His amber eyes watched Rena's reflection in his water glass, waiting to see what move the girl who broke his focus would make next.
Ren took a sip of his coffee, but his senses weren't on the caffeine. Beyond Rena's staring, something else was scratching at his predatory instincts. His eyes swept the room in microscopic jerks. Three men near the kitchen hadn't touched their food. The waiter at the bar was holding a tray in a way that suggested his hand was ready to draw something from his waistband.
"Erebos, you feel that?" Ren's voice was barely a ghost of a sound, but it was sharp.
"Yes, Young Master," Erebos replied lowly.
"Clarissa, get ready. This is your field exam." Ren leaned toward the center of the table, letting the steam from his coffee shroud his lips. His voice stayed at a frequency only his companions could catch over the jazz.
Erebos nodded without expression. Clarissa tensed slightly, but kept her composure.
Ren stood up on purpose, adjusting his collar, and walked calmly toward the quiet back hallway—the path to the restrooms and staff lounge.
Rena saw her opening. "I'm going to the restroom," she told a worried Nadia.
Rena followed quickly, her heart hammering against her ribs. She rounded the corner into the dim corridor, but the man was gone. The hallway was empty, lined only with heavy, closed wooden doors.
"Where did he—?"
Wush!
A movement as fast as a lightning strike grabbed Rena's shoulder. Before she could scream, she was dragged into the darkness of a janitor's closet, illuminated only by a sliver of light from under the door.
Rena's back hit a shelf of detergents, and a second later, a large, warm palm clamped firmly over her mouth. She thrashed in blind panic, but the man pinned her with a strength that was absolute—cold and unyielding as a steel wall.
"Don't make a sound," Ren hissed directly into her ear. The scent of masculine cologne mixed with the sharp tang of the training hall flooded her senses.
Ren pressed her body still, his amber eyes flashing in the dark as he peered through the door's keyhole.
"You have a good instinct for following," Ren whispered, his voice icy yet offering a strange sense of security amidst the terror. "But this is a terrible time to pick a target. This restaurant is being hijacked. If you'd stayed at your table, you might have ended up much worse."
Rena froze. Her breath hitched against his palm, and for the first time, she realized that the ticket to the top of CLOVER she was chasing might have to be paid for in the most expensive currency of all: her own life.