The rooftop of the Upbringers’ Citadel was not meant for training.

It had no markings.
No reinforced floor.
No observation nodes or Shuryoku stabilizers.

Just stone, wind, and the night sky.

Royushi Kairo liked it immediately.

He sat on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling over several hundred meters of empty air, chin resting in his hands. The Citadel below glowed softly—lantern-lit corridors, distant patrols, a city that never truly slept.

Above him, stars stretched across the sky like scattered glass.

“This feels unsafe,” Royushi said.

“That’s because it is,” Rikishu replied.

Royushi didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

The hologram stood a few steps behind him, translucent and calm, the faint shimmer of his form blending almost perfectly with the moonlight. Anyone else on the rooftop would have seen nothing but empty air.

Only Royushi could see him.

Which, frankly, made conversations awkward in public.

Royushi glanced sideways. “You know, if someone walks up here and sees me talking to myself, I’m officially done.”

Rikishu folded his arms. “You talk to yourself anyway.”

“That’s different. I’m mentally ill in private.”

Rikishu considered this. “Fair.”

Royushi smiled despite himself.

The wind tugged at his uniform, cool and sharp. Midnight suited the Citadel in a way daylight never did. It stripped away the noise. The expectations. The weight of eyes.

“You picked a dramatic place,” Royushi said.

“You picked it,” Rikishu corrected. “I just didn’t stop you.”

Royushi blinked. “So this is on me?”

“Yes.”

“…I hate that you’re right.”

Rikishu stepped closer, his hologram’s feet making no sound on stone.

“Stand up,” he said.

Royushi sighed dramatically, then rose to his feet. He stretched once, rolling his shoulders.

“So,” Royushi said, “what are we doing tonight? Punching the air? Staring at the moon? Existential dread exercises?”

“Circulation,” Rikishu replied.

Royushi groaned. “Again?”

“Yes.”

“I was hoping we’d graduated.”

Rikishu’s expression didn’t change. “You haven’t.”

Royushi stared at him. “That was cruelly efficient.”

“Thank you.”

Royushi shuffled toward the center of the rooftop, feet scraping lightly. He took a breath and let it out slowly.

The Shuryoku responded.

Not loudly.
Not brightly.

Just a quiet hum beneath his ribs, like a current remembering a path.

Rikishu watched closely.

“Good,” he said. “You’re not forcing it.”

“I’m tired,” Royushi replied. “I think my body gave up arguing.”

“That’s called adaptation.”

“That sounds suspiciously positive.”

Rikishu gestured. “Move.”

Royushi blinked. “Move how?”

“Walk.”

“…That’s it?”

“Yes.”

Royushi took a step.

Then another.

He walked a slow circle around the rooftop, breathing evenly, circulation flowing in a gentle loop. The wind brushed past him, tugging at his sleeves, threatening to disrupt his balance.

Rikishu snapped his fingers.

The pressure shifted.

Royushi stumbled, barely catching himself before stepping too close to the edge.

“HEY,” Royushi barked. “Warning would’ve been nice.”

“You didn’t fall,” Rikishu said.

“I almost did.”

“But you didn’t.”

Royushi glared. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Marginally.”

Royushi resumed walking, muttering under his breath. “This is how mentors get abandoned in alleyways.”

Rikishu smiled faintly.

Again, the pressure changed—subtle this time, like the air thickening around Royushi’s chest. His circulation wavered.

He adjusted without thinking.

The current bent.
Slid.
Stabilized.

Rikishu’s gaze sharpened.

“Again,” he said.

Royushi exhaled. “You know, for someone who’s supposed to be dead, you’re very demanding.”

“I had free time,” Rikishu replied. “I’m making up for it.”

They continued like that—pressure, movement, correction. No techniques. No attacks. Just walking, breathing, existing under controlled imbalance.

After several minutes, Royushi stopped abruptly.

“…Wait.”

Rikishu raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Royushi frowned, eyes unfocused. “You changed it. The pressure.”

“Yes.”

“No,” Royushi said slowly. “I mean… I noticed before it happened.”

Silence stretched between them.

Rikishu studied him carefully.

“How long?” he asked.

Royushi shrugged. “A second? Maybe less.”

“That’s enough,” Rikishu said quietly.

Royushi looked up. “Enough for what?”

“For awareness.”

Royushi absorbed that. “So… I’m not terrible?”

“You’re inconveniently competent.”

“I’ll take it.”

They stood in silence for a moment, wind whispering past them.

“…Can I ask you something?” Royushi said.

Rikishu nodded.

“Why only me?” Royushi asked. “Why can only I see you?”

Rikishu didn’t answer immediately.

“This projection isn’t meant to exist,” he said finally. “It’s bound to resonance. Not location. Not hardware.”

Royushi tilted his head. “So my Shuryoku is basically… compatible?”

“Yes.”

“…That’s unsettling.”

“It should be.”

Royushi sighed. “Of course.”

He hesitated, then added, “You ever think about what happens if someone else sees you?”

Rikishu’s voice softened. “Constantly.”

Royushi glanced at him. “And?”

“And I end it,” Rikishu said.

Royushi stiffened. “End what?”

“The projection. The training. Everything.”

“…Oh.”

“That’s why we’re careful,” Rikishu added. “And why do you fail publicly?”

Royushi nodded slowly. “Got it. Be weird. Be average. Don’t glow.”

“Exactly.”

“Story of my life.”

Rikishu almost laughed.

Later, Ishara Veyl stood on a different rooftop, arms folded, eyes narrowed.

She hadn’t followed Royushi. Not directly.

But she had noticed his absence.

Midnight patrols were quiet, but not empty. The Citadel had a rhythm even in rest, and Royushi’s pattern had begun to deviate.

He was calmer lately.

Not relaxed—calm.

That bothered her.

She replayed training footage in her mind. His inconsistencies. His timing. The way his mistakes are never repeated the same way twice.

Deliberate.

Her fingers tightened around the railing.

“Who are you training with?” she murmured.

The answer didn’t come.

But she made a decision.

Tomorrow, she would stop observing from a distance.

Elsewhere, far beyond the Citadel, Sevran Axiom watched a projection bloom to life.

Data streams cascaded across the air—Citadel schedules, patrol rotations, psychological profiles.

Royushi Kairo’s file hovered at the center.

Still inconsistent.
Still suppressed.

Sevran smiled.

“He’s hiding,” Sevran said softly.

A figure knelt before him—his scout, face obscured, presence disciplined.

“Proceed with caution,” Sevran instructed. “Do not confront. Observe.”

“And if he notices?” the scout asked.

Sevran’s smile sharpened. “Then he’s further along than we thought.”

Back in the Citadel, Master Devrik stood alone in a quiet training hall.

He watched the space where cadets usually sparred.

Patterns repeated themselves over decades.

Talents bloomed.
Talents broke.
Talents were claimed.

But sometimes—

Sometimes something slipped through.

Devrik exhaled slowly.

“Pressure reveals truth,” he murmured. “But too much breaks it.”

His eyes drifted toward the ceiling.

Toward the rooftops.

Royushi sat cross-legged on the stone, breathing steadily.

His legs ached. His head felt light. His chest buzzed faintly with circulation.

Rikishu stood nearby, arms crossed.

“You’re improving,” Rikishu said.

Royushi smirked. “You say that like it’s a problem.”

“It is,” Rikishu replied.

Royushi laughed softly, then sobered. “…You ever regret it?”

Rikishu tilted his head. “Regret what?”

“Leaving,” Royushi said. “Disappearing.”

The night felt heavier.

Rikishu looked at the stars.

“Someone was waiting for me,” he said quietly.

Royushi froze.

“I told them I’d come back,” Rikishu continued. “After the battle. After everything.”

He didn’t say more.

Royushi swallowed. “…Did you?”

Rikishu’s silence was answer enough.

“I couldn’t,” he said at last. “If I returned then, everything I learned would’ve been wasted.”

Royushi looked down. “That doesn’t make it hurt less.”

“No,” Rikishu agreed. “It doesn’t.”

They sat in silence, two figures—one real, one not—under the same sky.

“…I’m not you,” Royushi said eventually.

“I know,” Rikishu replied.

“That scares me,” Royushi admitted.

Rikishu turned to him, expression unreadable but gentle.

“Good,” he said. “Then you won’t repeat my mistakes.”

Royushi smiled faintly.

“…You’re a terrible mentor,” he said.

Rikishu’s lips twitched. “And yet.”

The wind swept across the rooftop, carrying the night with it.

Unseen.
Unnoticed.

But very much awake.