Below, in the stark, unforgiving circle of the ring, Akari Minowa lay bruised and breathless, her defeat a brutal, undeniable fact.

Mikado stood still in the instructor's bay, his eyes cold as freshly honed steel, fixed on the crumpled figure. "Medical team," he said, his voice cutting through the thick, horrified silence like a scalpel.

White-clad personnel materialized, moving with a chilling, practiced efficiency. They pushed a black-stretched gurney, its silent wheels gliding across the mat, reaching Akari within seconds. They worked with detached professionalism, gently lifting her. No one clapped. No one cheered. The victory had been too absolute, the defeat too raw. This wasn't that kind of triumph; it was a public execution of hope.

As Akari was carefully placed and then lifted, her arm dangled from the stretcher, fingers twitching, a phantom echo of the fight she'd just lost, as if still trying, futilely, to fight. Her entire Class D watched, stunned — their faces pale, etched with a shared, silent agony. Even the delinquents who’d scoffed during orientation, their usual bravado stripped away, now sat up straighter, their expressions a mixture of shock and unease.

Rin looked down, his throat tightening, the air growing impossibly thick. His mind screamed a terrifying, visceral truth:

That could be me next.

Bruised. Beaten. Humiliated.

Is this what it takes... just to survive here?

Beside him, Daiki’s jaw tightened—not from fear, but from a profound, simmering disgust and hatred that seemed to make his very shoulders tremble.

Up in the instructor’s bay, Reika stepped forward beside Mikado, her face a mask of strained composure. Her voice, usually so steady, trembled with a barely restrained anger. "This… is this really necessary?" she asked, the question less about Akari's current state and more about the very fabric of the academy.

Mikado didn’t glance at her. His eyes, unblinking, followed the stretcher as it vanished beyond the metallic doors of the infirmary corridor, taking Akari out of sight. Then, without a flicker of emotion, he replied, his voice flat, devoid of warmth: "From the moment you step into these grounds— student, cleaner, teacher, instructor — you belong to the law of this school." His gaze finally, briefly, flickered to Reika, chilling her to the core. "And here, Reika… mercy is a ghost, long dead. You should know that better than anyone."

Reika’s fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palms. She did know how this school worked, had seen it time and again. Yet, every time, the cold, brutal outcome still pierced through her hardened resolve, leaving her with the bitter taste of sorrow.

Below, the collective spirit of Class D was visibly falling apart — not in chaotic action, but in the quiet, insidious erosion of their hope. You could see it in their posture. Shoulders dropped. Eyes looked everywhere but at each other. Whispers broke out like desperate cracks in a crumbling foundation.

"Will we even survive this?" someone breathed, the question hanging heavy.

"They’re monsters…" another muttered, voice barely audible.

"They want us to fight that?" a third whispered, a raw disbelief in their tone.

Even Sayaka Motegi, the most hot-headed of the three delinquents, didn’t have a comeback. Her usual sharp retort withered on her lips. "This place is sick," she muttered under her breath, her gaze fixed on the empty spot where Akari had fallen.

Rin stared at the floor, the image of Akari's crumpled form seared into his mind. Daiki muttered something beside him, a low, guttural sound that sounded less like a prayer and more like a curse.

In the spectator box, Class B murmured with a different kind of intensity—one of cold intrigue.

A black - haired boy, his features sharp and calculating, leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. His gaze was fixed on the now-empty ring, a subtle, almost predatory gleam in his eyes. "Huh. I didn’t expect Class C to have this much bite," he said aloud, his voice clear and resonant. Then, a slow, thin smile stretched across his lips, devoid of warmth. "Now I’m curious what kind of despair awaits Class D." His tone wasn’t mocking; it was hungry.

Kaito, seated just a few rows ahead, tensed. The voice behind him, casual yet unsettlingly sharp, struck a strange, discordant chord within him. He turned slightly, his gaze sweeping over the blonde boy. The Class B student noticed Kaito’s gaze and gave him a friendly wave, a deceptively pleasant expression on his face.

"Yo. You’re Kaito, right?" he said, his smile widening. "Name’s Gota Shindou. Let’s enjoy the show."

Kaito didn’t wave back. His expression remained carefully neutral as he looked away, his eyes narrowing, a subtle frown etching itself onto his brow.

Enjoy the show?

This isn’t a show… Kaito thought.

Beside him, Rem leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper, a thread of genuine concern woven through it. "Do you still think that boy you’re watching, Do you think he’ll last?"

Kaito didn’t answer. The question lingered, heavy and unspoken.

Because the truth was…

He had no idea.

Not who Rin was.

Not how he fought.

Not whether he belonged here at all.

Then Mikado's voice boomed once more, slicing through the moment like a blade, sharp and unavoidable.

"Attention. The second match will commence shortly. Kenji marubo and Renji Okabe, proceed to the arena."

-----

Mikado's voice echoed through the arena like a war drum.

Kenji didn’t move at first. His hands were clenched so tightly at his sides that his knuckles were white. His legs felt like jelly, each muscle vibrating with an uncontrollable tremor. He could hear his own heartbeat drumming in his ears like static, a deafening rhythm drowning out the distant hum of the crowd.

He adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand, the frame slightly crooked, mirroring his own dislodged composure. "This is a mistake, I can't fig-h-t" he whispered, the words barely audible, swallowed by the rising bile in his throat.

A few seats behind him, Daiki gave him a quick, sympathetic glance, his jaw still tight with the disgust from the previous match.

Kenji swallowed hard, forcing down the nausea. Then, with a slow, agonizing effort, he pushed himself to stand fully, his gaze locked on the approaching figure.

Renji Okabe had already begun walking. Not fast. Not slow. Just... steady, like a program running its course, utterly devoid of hesitation or emotion. His hood was up, casting his face in shadow, his bangs hung low, concealing his eyes. What little could be seen of his gaze was half-lidded, glassy, yet behind that blank stare, a rapid calculation spun:

Data. Movement. Timing.