The bell rang out through the air with the gravitas of a death chime, ringing out across the wide marble courtyard of Toyotaro Miracle High, cutting through the morning mist with an unrelenting and brutal clarity that could not be ignored. In a heartbeat, students stopped in their tracks, their bodies suspended mid-step, as the sound reverberated around them, with the soles of their shoes scraping to a stop on the immaculate white-tiled courtyard, while their breath hung suspended in the air, caught somewhere between sensations of awe and a profound sense of fear.
And then, suddenly, she appeared on stage.
Principal Sakura Toyotaro stood atop the obsidian pedestal, radiating an aura of unbreakable strength and unshakable resolve. Her navy-blue blazer was so sharp it appeared to be able to cut, buttoned so precisely that even the threads of it appeared disciplined and perfectly aligned. Underneath the jacket, a white blouse hugged her, spotless and crisp like newly fallen snow glinting in the sun. The pencil skirt she wore was more than fashion; it was control, hugging her chiseled form in a way that unmistakably said, "You are not allowed to blink until I say so."
Her own hair, a bold, gleaming violet, was not merely voluminous but seemed to carry an aura of menace, perfectly styled high up in a resplendent cascade that flowed down her back in the style and majesty of a victorious royal banner. Every single strand glimmered magnificently under the golden light of the sun, looking perfectly styled but with that dynamic quality of a coiled whip poised to lash. Two flawlessly straight locks bracketed her face, highlighting her angular jawline, sharply hollowed cheekbones, and lips painted on with the very essence of judgment. Her eyes—cold and amethyst, the color of bruises left on the very soul—raked the wide courtyard with the precision of searchlights from a mighty warship in search of enemies.
"Good morning, students," she started brightly, her smile warm, her voice strong not due to the microphone that stood between her and the room but due to the phenomenal power of her presence that engulfed the room. "As you are no doubt aware. The first half of the 2023 academic term has now concluded."
No clapping. No cheering. None. Only silence—the silence that pulls itself taut before the blade of an axe.
She moved forward a step. Heels clicked—an executioner's rhythm.
"It has been," she spoke deliberately and slowly, measuring each syllable carefully, as a surgeon with a scalpel, "a year of great progress." "Most of you—who very likely did so unexpectedly—have exceeded expectations that were set."
Her eyes paused for a moment. Among the sea of uniformed bodies that filled the room, there was one student who exhibited a nervous flicker.
"But with progress," she continued, her voice smooth and sharp like a finely honed blade, "comes the necessity for elimination. A staggering thirty percent of our entire student body has not succeeded in passing the pre-summer test series. That's right, thirty percent. Just like that, they are gone."
She said it like she was announcing the weather.
No gasps. They'd already cried. They already packed their bags. Already vanished like names erased from a chalkboard.
"I have, naturally, written recommendation letters to all of them. I do not wish to stand in mediocrity's way. Let it flourish elsewhere."
The quiet grew denser—thickened into a tar-black and choking silence. Lines of students, shoulder to shoulder, tensed like statues in the middle of prayer. No one was brave enough to breathe too hard. The summer breeze blew in the courtyard, but it brought no happiness—only the antiseptic flutter of banners flapping like executioner's flags behind her.
Principal Sakura tucked her gloved hands into the small of her back, performing the action with a daintiness and deftness reminiscent of the precise movements of a surgeon in an operating theater.
Her voice cut through the air again, sharp, mechanical, and unyielding.
Toyotaro Miracle High is not an ordinary school," she asserted sternly, her eyes shining with the luster of well-cut gemstones. "It is, in reality, a potent crucible."
A pause. She let the word hang there, molten and heavy.
"You enter raw," she said, slowly, almost with cruel poetry. "You leave refined."
Another pause. The final note dropped like a guillotine.
"Or you burn away."
And then she smiled.
There was no hint of a gracious smile to be found. Not even a shadow of a victorious one that would suggest triumph or happiness. Instead, it was the unsettling smile of a god who had left all pretense of humanity behind. Cold and unforgiving. Razor-sharp in its delivery, it was like a sophisticated mechanism performed flawlessly like clockwork. Yet for all its mechanical feel, it was utterly devastating in its precision and impact.
"Starting today," she declared, as if shoving the deceased aside, "your summer vacation begins."
No cheers. No movement.
Only the breeze, softly curling around the imposing marble arches, stirred as if it were something that felt an overwhelming sense of shame about lingering there.
Her heels clicked on the obsidian platform, the sound once—twice—resounding over the marble like the discharge of a warning. The silence did not break; it grew. Even the birds ceased, and even the sun seemed to withdraw behind a cloud.
Sakura Toyotaro, the headmaster, slowly raised one hand, and at once the courtyard responded in unison.
"Your break," she articulated, her voice resonating with authority akin to a judge's gavel but softened by the delicate touch of silk, "is not to be misconstrued as permission to decay."
She swept her eyes across the rows of perfect uniforms—blazers crisp, shoes polished, spines stiffened by fear and tradition. Her eyes didn't miss a single one. They unraveled them.
All of you will be asked to submit your assigned reading logs, your reflective philosophical insights, and your overall ethical deconstructions of the Seven Toyotaro Principles before the residency process.
A flick of her wrist. Somewhere, a drone whirred to life—its projector casting shimmering script into the air. The list was endless. The work was brutal. The implication was clear: rest is earned. Survival is not success.
"Also," she added in a firm, soft voice, her tone never rising, never wavering, "any student found to be attending unauthorized meetings, unauthorized club activities, or trying senseless acts of rebellion—" Her gaze narrowed ever so slightly at this, a glimmer of her seriousness. The wind, which had been blowing steadily, dropped once again, and there was a moment of strained silence. "—won't be coming back," she concluded firmly, her words weighed with importance.
The ensuing silence was in no sense an idle moment.
It was charged. Like the breath before a lightning strike. Everyone felt it, even if no one looked directly at it.
We all knew who she meant.
The barefoot boy who walked into school as if it were a roadside shrine. The one with that goddamn sword not held as a threat, but as an extension of his body. Who smiled too much, too liberally—like compassion itself was treason. The one who defied not gravity, but expectation. Shotaro Mugiwara. Anomaly. Anarchist. Unwanted myth.
The principal didn't name him. Her power didn't require names. Only precision.
"Vice Principal Waguri," she said, her tone as matter-of-fact as if she were requesting a cup of tea after a very solemn execution. "Please bring out the best results of the test that were taken."
And then, as if with the subtle movement of a mask in a classical Noh drama, the mood underwent a dramatic shift.
She had arrived.
Vice Principal Asaka Waguri floated effortlessly across the air, her form seeming to ignore gravity as she floated along rather than walking so that her descent down the southern staircase looked like the arrival of an unwanted but wondrous presence. Her pink hair streamed across her shoulders in beautiful silken waves, each individual strand softly radiant with that utterly impossible pastel hue—something far too delicate to be a part of the mundane world around her. She was dressed in traditional shrine maiden dress, but it clung to her form with the intimacy of a second skin, beautifully dyed in pale lavender gradients with glittering crimson thread interspersed in them that radiated with a heavenly allure, and with every step that she took, the tassels on the sleeves of her dress danced in harmony like sacred ritual pennants in the gentle breeze.
Her manner was the exact opposite of Sakura. Whereas the principal was thunder, Waguri was perfume, and perfume would kill you slower.
She was tall, her height towering and commanding. She had lush curves that hugged her body like a second skin. There was a carefree sensuality to her that seemed to pull people in with ease. She was a beauty that could make students forget their names for a moment, leave them in a trance of amazed wonder, and even made teachers forget their sense of propriety and professionalism. Her eyes, burning like hot amber, swept the crowd with a wicked hint of playfulness—almost as if she was deliberately weighing whom among them would be her next source of entertainment, or the next fervent plea, or even the latest focus of her interest. Her smile was not only warm and inviting; it was deeply knowing and contemplative. It bore the weight of one who once danced with a god, only to leave him waiting, suspended in hope of a return that never materialized.
Flirty? Definitely. But not innocent.
Because Waguri was not merely a fox in shrine regalia. She was an oracle. It was said that she could read tea, blood, or the timing of your stutter. She addressed unseen spirits in faculty meetings. She had once soothed a riot with a hand fan and a lullaby.
She stepped onto the stage, teetering on her sandal heels, and handed Sakura a holographic scroll. It unfurled in the air, releasing student names in golden-light script. Her voice came next, otherworldly and melodramatic:
And here we have the shining and brilliant ones who are our highest scorers," she cooed, as if introducing a lineup of souls who are really worthy of the chance for reincarnation. "But one of them has again forgotten to put his name on the paper. again.
Her amber-colored eyes swept elegantly over to the left side of the crowded mob—a section of the space where Shotaro probably wasn't even present to start with, and yet, strangely, everyone for some reason was somehow gazing in that direction anyway.
"Classic," she softly breathed, her lips curving into a wicked smile.
Even Sakura's eye twitched too.
The ceremony went on, but tension hadn't dissipated. Because when there are two goddesses on stage, you don't take it easy—you hope you're not in your way.
It was charged. Not metaphorically—electrically. Like the air before a lightning bolt. Everyone sensed it, even if no one looked directly at it.
We all knew whom she was talking about.
The barefoot boy who walked into the classroom like it was a roadside shrine. The one who wielded that damn sword not as a threat, but as an extension of himself. Who smiled too hard, too freely—like kindness was sedition. The one who bent not gravity, but expectation. Shotaro Mugiwara. Anomaly. Anarchist. Unwanted myth.
Principal Sakura had not given him a name. Her ability did not need names. Only accuracy.
"Vice Principal Waguri," she remarked, her tone as nonchalant as if she were placing an order for a cup of tea at the conclusion of a rather grim execution. "Please bring forth the highest results of the test."
And then, as if by the slow and reflective turn of a mask in a very old Noh play, the entire mood started to shift in a palpable manner.
She arrived.
Vice Principal Asaka Waguri drifted serenely more than she moved, descending from the southern staircase as if an unbidden miracle conjured out of thin air. Her pink hair cascaded down her shoulders in silken curls that appeared to dance in the light, and every single lock glowed softly in that impossible pastel color—something that was much too fragile and otherworldly for the prosaic world around her. She donned traditional shrine maiden robes, but they hugged her form like a second skin, dyed in lovely lavender gradients that melted into deep crimson threads, all radiant with a celestial allure that entranced anyone who caught sight of her, and as she moved, the tassels on her sleeves flowed elegantly like ritual pennants that announced her arrival.
Her atmosphere was just the opposite of Sakura's. While the principal was thunder, Waguri was perfume, and perfume could kill you slower.
She was tall, with an imposing presence that arrested attention. Her figure was graciously curved, with an effortless elegance which seemed to flow of itself from her. She possessed that uncommon sort of beauty which had the ability to make students forget their own names for a split second and reduced even the most stern teachers to utter loss of decorum. Her eyes, molten amber shining, swept over the crowd with a teasing trace of mischief—almost as if she were playfully weighing who of them might be the target of her next witticism, or the target of her prayers, or even the subject of her creative energies in a private work. Her smile, however, was not simply warm and friendly; it held awareness and knowledge. It had the aura of a person who had once danced intimately with a god and left him in a state of eager expectation as she went her way.
Flirtatious? Yes. But not innocent.
Waguri was more than just a fox in shrine robes; she was a much greater figure. She was, in fact, an oracle. Rumors and whispers abounded that she had the incredible gift of reading fates through a variety of techniques, be it tea leaves, the lines in blood, or even the strange cadence of one's stutter. At faculty meetings, she spoke with spirits long forgotten by the passage of time. There was even a miraculous time when she was able to calm a firestorm-raging riot with nothing but the soft motion of a hand fan and the sweet song of a lullaby.
She tottered onto the podium in her sandal heels and handed Sakura a holographic scroll. It unrolled in mid-air, emitting student names in gold-light letters. Her voice lingered behind, ethereal and over-the-top:
"And here are our radiant top scorers," she puffed gently, as if introducing a most noble set of spirits who are surely worthy of being reborn into a new life. "Even though one of them has forgotten to sign their name on the page. again.".
Her golden-colored eyes slid effortlessly to the left of the dense throng—where Shotaro probably wasn't even present at all, and yet for some inexplicable reason, everyone just sort of seemed to be glancing in that direction anyway.
"Classic," she breathed, her lips twisting into a wicked grin.
Even Sakura's eye twitched.
The ceremony continued, but the tension hadn't been broken.
Vice Principal Asaka Waguri glided with the stealth of a secret knitted into fine lace. Her loveliness went beyond the mundane—she was beautifully made with the intention of disarming all those in her path. A strange paradox, she possessed the holy innocence of a shrine and the seductive charm of subtle corruption, and she glided down the stairs with a ceremony that could only be defined as ritual. The sparkle in her amber eyes whispered an ancient and primal message, one which spoke, "I have seen the gods themselves weep, and yet they burn incense to me still."
But beneath the rich silk draping and the suggestive, teasing smiles exchanged, there existed something that was fiercely old. It was charged with an aura of motherly presence.
Not in the cold, antiseptic, institutionalized way that one would conventionally expect such places. No—Waguri was a girl mom, in the very real and very significant sense of the term. The old, traditional way. The mythic way that evokes tales of yesteryear. She was the kind of mother who would press a cool cloth to your forehead when you had a fever, kiss softly at your forehead to comfort you, and then, with a fierce heart, curse the boy who so indiscriminately broke your heart. Her protective nature towards the female students was not based on any kind of favoritism—but on a natural and deep-seated maternal impulse. Whenever a girl wept in the bathroom, Waguri knew instinctively something was amiss. When one was running late to class, she knew the unspoken battles that may be raging. She took the time to slide love letters under pillows for her students, left blessed talismans hidden in lockers for them to discover, and spent hours on the teaching of self-defense charms during after-class lessons, so that they felt empowered and protected.
She wasn't fair. She was tough.
The boys—well, Vice Principal Waguri had no quarrel with them. They were fine. Polite enough. Grateful, in that vague, bumbling way boys often were. But they weren't the core of her mission. Not the reason she walked these halls like a priestess surveying a battlefield. They were like distant stars scattered across an overly ambitious sky—some bright, some dull, some burning out quietly. She had no interest in mapping them.
But the girls… oh, the girls. They were her constellations. Each one tracked with the devotion of an astrologer reading portents. She watched their rises and collapses like eclipses, whispered to them in hallways, tucked quiet protections into their pockets when no one was looking. Her concern was not soft. It was sacred. Directional. Alarm-bearing. She did not merely care—she believed in them.
"The third years," she called sweetly, and names rippled through the courtyard like stones skipping over still water. Gasps here, murmurs there. Some clutched their hearts in relief. Others blinked against tears.
Then came the second years.
"Ruka Ryumon," she announced.
In the crowd, Hiyori sat up straighter, jaw twitching slightly.
Ryumon? Damn. Same last name as Riona.
But behind the veil of announcements, Principal Sakura Toyotaro stood like a queen in a war of ideals, still and smiling, her voice never wavering. On the surface, she was grace itself.
But inside, her mind was an ice storm:
Keep the rhythm. Maintain precision. Show them the system works.
Her fingers tensed behind her back.
Waguri's favoritism again. Always the flowers. Always the drama. It's the boys we need to steel. It's the boys who burn the world when we look away. But she—she lets them drift. She wants them tame. I want them tamed.
She glanced briefly at Hiyori. That one. A rough spark, half her mother's control and half some chaos no one had properly diagnosed yet.
But still salvageable. If she stops orbiting that Mugyiwara delinquent.
And so the voice continued, level and kind.
"The following second years have exceeded expectations…"
"The first-year toppers," Vice Principal Waguri declared, her voice soft but clear, like a bell rung in a dream. "Shirou Fujimaru, class I-D."
A beat. Then came footsteps that didn't belong. Not the clean, crisp rhythm of a model student. No—this was a slow, sauntering swagger that disrupted the air like static.
Out from the crowd emerged a boy who looked like he belonged to another story altogether. Chewing gum with the kind of open defiance that felt both suicidal and charming, he walked like a graffiti mark in human form—tall, lanky, bones all relaxed into a posture of supreme I-don't-care. Blue hair tousled like he'd just rolled out of bed and never looked back. Amber eyes glinting with some private joke that no one would ever get to hear the punchline of.
6'3. Probably still growing. His uniform was half-worn, his tie hanging somewhere between ironic and accidental. When he winked at the crowd, a few girls giggled. One boy cursed under his breath.
Principal Sakura's molars tightened against each other like tectonic plates.
Gum. He's blowing chewing gum on stage. This is the top scorer. This gum-chewing gutter clown.And Waguri is smiling?
Vice Principal Waguri applauded, but it wasn't courteous—it was proud, motherly, infuriatingly generous. Her eyes sparkled. "There he is," she beamed, "My unpredictable genius."
"Second place," Vice Principal Waguri stated, voice poised to pass like wind—until it cracked ever so slightly. Her eyes twitched. A blink. A shift in gravity. "Hiyori Toyotaro, Class I-A."
For the first time in the ceremony, Sakura's breath caught—not in her lungs, but somewhere deeper, in that ancient, bone-deep center of hers where heritage was everything.
The name spread like a fallen pin in a cathedral. Toyotaro. It resonated. Echoed. Her name.
Sakura did not flinch. Not a blink. Not a misfired breath.
But within—within was shattered porcelain.
Second?
Second?
The syllable resonated in her head like a shattered bell. The universe halted. The flags overhead sagged under the burden of it. The heat twisted into her back. The murmur of students shifting beneath the podium became cacophonous. Each beat of every heart in that sea slammed against hers.
Who. who the devil is first?
Her lips continued to smile—tight, perfect, politician's smile—but her mind bubbled into an icy tsunami.
My daughter. My blood. My heir. She was supposed to stand alone.
We spent years. Training. Drilling. Shaping. Sculpting her into the apex of this institution. She eats discipline like air. She bleeds ritual. She dreams in rubrics. She is the mirror of my glory.
And now… she is a reflection cracked.
The scroll trembled in Waguri's fingers. Her voice—always soft, always melodic—curdled into static.
"Fi… first place…"
A shiver ran through the crowd like a lost match in dry grass.
Sakura held her breath. Couldn't breathe. Her grin froze on her face like something glued onto it. Her nails dug into the edge of the podium, silent as death.
"Mugy----
[Shotaro: Journey of A hero that Kept moving forward]
No. No. This can't be. This is a mistake. A misread. A prank. A virus in the system. A joke from the gods. A hallucination born of stress. They wouldn't—he couldn't—
Waguri blinked in horror. Her voice cracked, barely above a whisper.
"Class… I-C."
The last syllable hung like a knife in the air.
Sakura's heartbeat halted. Then boomed.
NOOOOOO—
NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO!!!
Her brain imploded. A scream of white noise burst behind her eyes. Her thoughts wracked themselves like feral dogs inside a cell. Blood thudded in her ears. Reason disintegrated. Grace disintegrated. Pride disintegrated.
"THIS IS NOT OCCURRING. THIS IS NOT OCCURRING. YOU BLOODY PIECE OF SHIT. YOU STAIN ON THE FLOOR OF MY SCHOOL. YOU FILTH. YOU obstinate, uncoachable, unteachable bit of a child"
She couldn't blink. Couldn't move. All she could do was scream within the mausoleum of her skull.
I CREATED THAT TEST TO BREAK YOU. TO HUMILIATE YOU. TO PROVE TO THEM ALL THAT WILDNESS IS A DISEASE. THAT YOU WERE A FLUKE. A CANCER IN THE SYSTEM. YOU weren't SUPPOSED TO PASS. YOU weren't SUPPOSED TO EXIST"