His gaze was immediately drawn to the center of the courtyard. A boy around his age was training against two advanced Akaari — and holding his ground effortlessly. Each move he made was swift and calculated, dodging blades and countering with precise strikes. There was no flash in his movements, just brutal efficiency.

Standing beside Haruto was a sharp-eyed recruit with black side-swept hair and a calm aura. "That's Hinaru," he said, noticing Haruto staring. “He’s been training for two years now.”

Haruto blinked. “Two years? Is he… an official Akaari?”

The recruit shook his head. “No. His name is known in every wing of the academy. But… he’s never checked his Shūketsu sword. People say he refuses to. His younger brother… died in an S-Rank Yamari assault. Since then, he’s been obsessed with training. The only person he had left was taken from him.”

Before Haruto could say more, a voice broke in. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

A girl with shoulder-length hair swaying in the breeze and a bright smirk on her face appeared beside them. Her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her presence was anything but subtle.

“I’m Yuki! First day? First time in the capital? You look like it,” she grinned. “I swear, everyone on their first day looks like they’ve seen a ghost or a Hanma.”

Haruto stepped back slightly. “Yeah, it’s… my first time here.”

Before she could talk more, a bell echoed across the academy grounds. Students began gathering toward the main building.

“Come on!” Yuki chirped. “History class is where the real stuff begins.”

---

Inside the class, Haruto sat near the back, next to Yuki, who was still muttering about who might pass or fail. The instructor, a tall man with a scar across his jaw, entered with a quiet authority. He tapped the board, and the lights dimmed.

A projection lit up the room — a drawing of a massive swirling rift in the sky.

“500 years ago,” the instructor began, “a portal tore through our skies. From it descended an entity far beyond human understanding — known only as the Nameless One. No weapon could touch him. No army could stand against him. Even one of the three great tribes — the Shirokaze — betrayed humanity and joined him.”

Haruto leaned forward.

“The other two tribes, the kazanami and the hibana, rebelled. And just when all hope seemed lost, a warrior awakened the first Shūketsu Sword — its crimson glow slicing through the void. That blade turned the tide of war. The entity was defeated… but not destroyed.”

A grim silence followed.

“He cursed the blood of those who helped him — the Shirokaze. His soul was shattered into millions of fragments and seeded through their descendants. These fragments only awaken after a near-death experience… If they awaken unnaturally, the bearer turns into a Hanma — mindless, violent, and ranked D to C threat levels.”

The screen changed again — showing twisted figures and monstrous silhouettes.

“Yamari,” the teacher said, “are evolved fragment bearers. Unlike Hanma, Yamari retain their minds… and gain elemental powers. They can command flames, stone, wind, lightning, ash, sound, nature, and crystal. Each element shapes their fighting style — making them unpredictable, and deadly.”

Haruto clenched his fists. For the first time, the weight of his choice to come here truly settled in.

The teacher’s voice dropped lower. “Only the Shūketsu swords can kill a Yamari. And only the rarest of souls can awaken the red.”

Haruto looked around. Every student was listening. All… except one.

In the shadows of the room, still as stone, sat Hinaru. His eyes weren’t on the screen. They were closed — as if he’d heard all this a thousand times before.

And yet, his sword remained untouched.