Royushi Kairo learned he had been recruited by accident.

Not because someone told him—no one bothered—but because his name was printed wrong on the roster.

He stood at the edge of the Upbringers’ Citadel courtyard, watching hundreds of recruits line up in precise rows. Uniforms crisp. Shuryoku faintly humming beneath their skin like restrained lightning. Excitement buzzed in the air, thick and restless.

Royushi felt none of it.

He scanned the board again.

Kairo, Royushi — Intake Class C

He blinked once.

Then twice.

Class C was not for people like him.

He knew that much.

Class C was for early bloomers, high-output candidates, those whose Shuryoku readings had spiked enough to justify immediate induction. People who had shown something.

Royushi had shown nothing.

He shifted his weight, hands buried in his pockets, and glanced around. No one else seemed confused. No one else was checking the board twice. They were smiling, talking, comparing ranks already assigned before their first day had even begun.

He considered leaving.

The thought passed through him calmly, without panic. He could walk away now. Pretend he’d misread the notice. Go back to whatever quiet, directionless life waited beyond the Citadel’s walls.

No one would stop him.

But something held him there.

Not curiosity. Not ambition.

Just… inertia.

“Excuse me.”

Royushi turned.

A girl stood beside him, posture straight, eyes sharp. Her uniform fit perfectly, as if it had been tailored with her in mind. There was a quiet confidence in the way she stood—unforced, unquestioned.

“Ishara Veyl,” she said. “You’re blocking the roster.”

“Oh.” Royushi stepped aside immediately. “Sorry.”

She glanced at the board, then at him.

“You’re in Class C too?”

“I guess,” he replied.

That was the most honest answer he had.

She studied him—not rudely, not openly—but with the same precision one might use to assess a weapon. Her gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary.

“You don’t look surprised,” she said.

“I am,” Royushi answered. “Just not enough to react.”

That earned him a pause.

Most people tried to impress on day one. Or at least explain themselves. Royushi did neither. He didn’t straighten his posture. Didn’t ask about rankings. Didn’t even seem interested in where he belonged.

Ishara looked away first.

“Try not to slow us down,” she said, not unkindly, and walked toward her assigned row.

Royushi watched her go, then turned back to the board.

An average mistake, he thought

The first assessment came sooner than expected.

No ceremony. No speeches.

Just a transport vehicle and a single line from the instructor:

“Minor reconnaissance mission. Real conditions. Survive.”

The recruits exchanged excited glances.

Royushi sat quietly at the back.

The assignment zone was an abandoned industrial sector—rusted structures, narrow corridors, poor visibility. Perfect for testing Shuryoku control under stress.

Teams split quickly. Royushi ended up alone.

Again, not surprising.

He moved carefully, conserving energy he didn’t know how to use properly. His Shuryoku barely responded when he called for it—faint, sluggish, like a muscle that had never been trained.

That was when the ambush hit.

It was fast. Brutal. Efficient.

Hostile entities poured from the shadows, movement distorted, presence heavy. Royushi reacted on instinct alone—dodging, retreating, misstepping. Pain flared across his side as he was thrown against a wall.

His vision blurred.

Shuryoku slipped from his control entirely.

So this is it, he thought distantly, sliding to the ground.

He wasn’t afraid.

Just tired.

Then the air changed.

Pressure folded inward. Sound dimmed. The world seemed to hesitate.

A figure stood between Royushi and the approaching threat—translucent, flickering, unreal.

A hologram.

The man looked calm. Familiar in a way Royushi couldn’t place.

With a precise gesture, the pressure shifted. Not an attack—more like a correction. The enemies faltered, as if reality itself had rejected them.

Royushi stared.

“Who… are you?” he managed.

The hologram didn’t look back at him immediately.

“It doesn’t matter who I am,” the man said.

Finally, he turned.

His eyes were sharp. Assessing. Recognizing.

“But you,” the hologram continued, voice even,
“are wasting something extraordinary.”

Royushi swallowed.

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about.”

A pause.

Then—almost amused—

“I know,” the man said. “That’s the problem.”

The hologram’s gaze softened, just slightly.

“You have the same silence,” he added. “The same hesitation.”

The enemies stirred again.

The man straightened.

“If you live,” he said,
“I’ll ask you a question.”

The pressure snapped.

And the world rushed back in.

Royushi didn’t know it yet.

But that was the moment his life stopped being accidental.