Right at the entrance of the first-floor lobby, where people were coming and going, the students suddenly parted ways, circumventing the man standing in the middle of the doorway, or standing far away, observing with curiosity.
The gray-green hakama he wore was without a single wrinkle, draped with a black haori jacket, his feet in wooden clogs.
And in his hand, he held a slender Sword Bag.
He stood solemnly, waiting.
The middle-aged man's temples were tinged with white, casting his face in a particularly weathered look. What was originally a dignified appearance took on an indescribable authority after being coated with a layer of chill.
It was frightening.
