The Shinkansen from Saitama to Tokyo didn't move so much as decide.
It lifted, aligned itself with invisible rails of magnetism and gravity-suppression spells, and then accelerated with the quiet confidence of something that had never once been late in its life.
To most passengers, it was just a commute.
To Alex Scott, it was a sleek white coffin traveling at four hundred kilometers per hour toward a very public execution.
He sat by the window with his forehead pressed lightly against the glass. It was cool. Steady. Reliable. Unlike his pulse.
Outside, Greater Tokyo smeared into streaks of concrete and neon.
Overpasses layered like ribs.
Industrial mana plants vented faint blue vapor into the sky.
Holographic advertisements flickered against distant towers.
In his lap, Alex clutched his rucksack with both hands.
"I can't believe you did this," he said quietly.
Renjiro Kaen sprawled across his seat like he'd personally funded the railway system.
His boots were propped on the opposite chair, his arms stretched wide in lazy dominance. He was chewing on a "Mage-Fuel" protein bar that smelled faintly of ozone and artificial chocolate.
"Did what?" Renjiro asked, crumbs falling onto his jacket.
"Entered us into a national combat tournament."
Renjiro waved a dismissive hand. "Details."
"Mr. Kaen," Alex continued, voice thin but desperate, "I am an F-Rank. My official mana rating is lower than the emergency lighting in this train. Putting me in a tournament with A-Ranks is like—like putting a goldfish in a blender. It's not a competition. It's a smoothie."
A businessman across the aisle glanced up briefly.
Renjiro laughed. "Relax. You're the mascot."
"The—what?"
"The emotional support Englishman. It's branding."
Alex closed his eyes.
"You saw what I did at the ant nest," Renjiro went on, lowering his voice into something that hovered between confidence and self-hypnosis. "Spatial collapse. That wasn't even my full power. If some smug A-Rank tries to flex, I'll just compress the field again. Boom. Glass crater. We collect ten million yen. Retirement by thirty."
Alex stared at him.
He believes this.
That was the frightening part.
Renjiro had told the story so many times over the past three days that the lie had fossilized into memory.
His expression wasn't guilty anymore. It was proud.
"We're going to die," Alex murmured.
"We are not going to die."
"We are absolutely going to die. On live television."
Renjiro slapped his shoulder.
"That's the spirit."
As the train slowed, Tokyo rose around them.
In 2025, the capital wasn't a city so much as a vertical ecosystem. Steel towers layered with glowing sigils. Corporate logos the size of small moons.
Massive holographic dragons coiling around skyscrapers—an aggressive recruitment campaign by the Global Mage Management Corps.
Mana hung thick in the air even inside the station.
When the doors opened at Shinjuku, Alex was swallowed.
The Human Tide.
Thousands moving with purpose. Shoes clicking. Suit jackets brushing. Mana signatures humming faintly like electrical wiring under the floor.
Renjiro walked through it like a ship splitting water.
Alex tried to follow.
Someone's elbow bumped his side. A suitcase clipped his ankle. A B-Rank insignia flashed too close to his face.
Too many bodies. Too many voices. Too much sound.
He couldn't find a wall. Couldn't find a shadow. Every inch of the station was bright and intentional.
He fixed his eyes on the back of Renjiro's red hair.
Don't lose him. If you lose him, you'll have to ask for directions. If you ask for directions, you'll mispronounce something. If you mispronounce something, you'll die.
By the time they reached the Tokyo Dome Arcane Arena complex, his uniform clung damply to his back.
The registration hall was obscene.
Glass walls stretching upward like a cathedral. Gold trim catching the light. Mana-powered chandeliers floating midair.
Huge banners declared:
2025 FESTIVAL OF MIGHT
Mages from across Japan filled the space. A-Ranks and B-Ranks in sleek combat attire. Their mana meters glowed in vibrant blues and violets.
Alex's flickered weakly at 0.01.
Renjiro strode to the marble counter and slapped his ID down.
"Team Blazing Singularity!"
The clerk scanned it.
Her eyebrows lifted.
"One D-Rank… and one F-Rank," she read aloud.
Alex felt smaller than physics should allow.
"That's us," Renjiro said brightly. "Underdogs. Dark horses. Narrative tension."
The clerk's professional smile twitched.
"Your suite is on the forty-fourth floor of the Athlete's Village," she said. "Preliminary matches begin tomorrow morning. Try not to… exhaust yourselves tonight."
As they walked away, Alex heard her whisper to a coworker:
"F-Ranks in the Open? That's practically assisted suicide."
It wasn't cruel.
It was factual.
The elevator shot upward with gentle but undeniable force.
Forty-four floors.
Each one another step away from escape.
When the doors opened, Alex forgot to breathe.
The suite was enormous.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Tokyo's glittering expanse. A kitchenette stocked with mana-infused luxury snacks. A bathroom with a whirlpool tub labeled "Cleansing Light — Premium Salts Provided."
The sofa alone could have comfortably housed his entire Saitama apartment.
Renjiro threw his boots into a corner and flopped onto the couch.
"Now this," he declared, "is how real mages live."
Alex walked to the window.
The city looked unreal from up here. Like circuitry instead of streets.
For one dangerous moment, he felt something close to excitement.
Maybe it's worth it. Just to see this.
Then he saw the bunk beds.
High-end. Polished steel and dark wood. Mana-cotton sheets faintly glowing silver.
"The bottom one's mine," Renjiro said immediately. "Strategic positioning."
"Strategic for what?"
"In case of earthquakes. Or assassins."
Alex stared at the top bunk.
Five days.
Five nights.
"Maybe I could take the sofa?"
"Nonsense! We bond."
Renjiro sat upright, eyes gleaming with theatrical gravity.
"Scott. It's time you learned the truth about me."
Alex sat down slowly on the edge of the top bunk.
He already regretted this.
"You see," Renjiro began, staring dramatically at the ceiling, "I was not meant to be a D-Rank."
Here we go.
"I was born with S-Rank capacity. Unstable. Monumental. The High Council feared my power. They sealed it."
"With what," Alex asked weakly.
"The Seal of Mediocrity."
Alex blinked.
"That sounds fake."
"That's because it's classified!"
Renjiro leaned forward conspiratorially.
"The spatial collapse at Omiya? That was a leak. One percent of my true self."
"One percent."
"Yes."
"And the tectonic plates?"
"Threatened."
"Of Japan."
"Immensely."
Renjiro went on. Dragon invasions. Secret missions. An A-Rank Russian he allegedly defeated in a drinking contest. Fire magic descended directly from the sun.
At some point, Alex's thoughts drifted.
The mini-fridge probably has those expensive fruit sandwiches.
If I faint during the first match, does that count as participation?
If my opponent is polite, maybe we can mutually agree to minimal violence?
Renjiro's voice became background hum.
The bed was soft. Softer than anything he'd slept on in years.
The tension of the past week—the lies, the tournament, the crowd at Shinjuku—finally caught up with him.
"…and that," Renjiro was saying, "is why I avoid the color blue. It interferes with the Primeval Flame's resonance."
Silence.
"Scott?"
No response.
Renjiro looked up.
Alex was sprawled awkwardly across the top bunk, one arm dangling off the side, mouth slightly open. Fast asleep.
Renjiro stared at him for a long moment.
"…Unbelievable."
He lay back down on the lower bunk.
"Tomorrow," he muttered to the ceiling, "the world meets the Blazing Singularity."
Above him, Alex shifted slightly in his sleep.
For just a second—so brief it could have been imagination—the air in the room felt heavier. Colder. As if something vast had turned its attention toward Tokyo.
Then it was gone.
And the only sound left was Alex's soft, uneven snoring.