Spears of amber sunlight painted the vast training fields behind Chiba Academy's main building, cutting through the crisp autumn air with gold-dusted precision. Students scattered across the grounds in small groups, clad in matching PE uniforms, laughing, panting, shouting—a typical day.
But not all of them were engaged in activity.
Most had gathered around one focal point, where a certain trio stood like a scene torn from the pages of an action novel. Victor, Yuzuki, and Kiana drew the attention of nearly half the student body—even faculty members had begun sneaking glances.
At the center of it all, seated upon a low bench with a paper parasol resting casually on her shoulder, Eden smiled. Her wine-red hair tumbled down her back in gentle waves as she watched the scene unfold like a song only she could hear.
"...What's so interesting about this?" Victor muttered under his breath as he rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck. Sweat glistened on his jaw, dripping slowly down the line of his neck.
A shriek—then two.
Several girls gasped audibly. One actually fainted.
"Hmm, I'm not really sure myself," Elysia whispered from beside him with a mischievous smile, her eyes glued to where Victor's soaked shirt clung tightly to his torso. "But I'm not complaining."
"I guess we're all plenty popular," Yuzuki added dryly, stretching one leg. Around him, a handful of girls and more than a few boys had crouched under the guise of tying their shoes—entirely too focused on his rear.
And then there was Kiana, hopping up and down with boundless energy, waving at anyone who dared shout her name. "HI! HI! YES, IT'S ME!"
Victor sighed and approached Mei, who stood off to the side clutching a stopwatch like it might explode.
"You ready?" she asked, glancing up at him. He dropped into starting position without a word, muscles coiled like springs. She nodded slowly. "Then… go."
___________________________________
It was silent.
So utterly, unnervingly silent.
Victor didn't run—hevanished, blurring forward as if the world around him moved at half speed. Wind whipped across the track in a rolling boom, sweeping hair and dust into the air.
"...Woah," Kiana mumbled.
Yuzuki could only nod.
He'd seen Fu Hua fight. He'd seen monsters. But this? This was something buried in his bones. His throat tightened, and a flicker of forgotten, formlesshatred gripped him. Watching Victor run felt like watching a star collapse.
Even inside the building, students froze at the sound. One girl dropped her phone. A teacher simply blinked and muttered, "No way…"
___________________________________
Mei was speechless. Her thumb hovered over the stopwatch long after the screen flashed the result. When she finally hit the button, she felt like she needed to double-check.
Seven seconds.
A perfect 100-meter dash in seven seconds flat.
Victor jogged back, utterly relaxed. "What's next?" he asked, voice cool and unaffected.
Mei blinked. "I… I-I'll check," she stammered, struggling to steady her pen as she jotted the time down with a shaky hand.
From behind them, Eden's voice drifted through the tension like silk.
"Oh dear," she mused, barely containing her amusement.
Yuzuki's fingers tightened around his kneecaps. He felt it again—thatburn. Thatdread. Otto's words came back, sharp as needles:
"He is a variable unspoken in all my calculations—a ruinous note in a composition I thought I had mastered. And if providence were kind, I would have lived my life never having heard it played."
Yuzuki believed it now.
___________________________________
From behind the tinted window of the observation deck overlooking the field, a lone figure stood, arms folded behind her back. Gray eyes shimmered faintly with digital overlays, tracking Victor's biometrics. Heart rate—steady. Muscle response—barely peaking. As if the effort hadn't even registered.
She watched in silence as Victor began push-ups, Eden now seated gently atop his back, laughing quietly as she hummed a tune. The man didn't strain. He didn't falter. He completed each motion leisurely, as though gravity simply obeyed him out of habit.
The comm link in her ear buzzed softly.
"Report," came a low, calm voice—velvet with subtle authority.
"…Push-up performance confirms anomalous strength," the girl replied, voice level and cold. "Load pressure exceeds known physiological limits for his build. He's not using augmentation."
"Do you believe he can be of use to us?"
The girl hesitated—just a moment.
Then: "I… don't know. He's powerful. Efficient. But I feel…" Her fingers twitched by her side. "Afraid. There is something unnatural about him."
Silence followed. Then:
"Hmm. Stand by for now, dear," came the warm voice again. "And continue observing. We'll decide what to do when he shows his true hand."
The girl didn't reply.
She simply narrowed her eyes once more at Victor, who smiled absently as Eden fed him a grape and Kiana cheered over something trivial nearby.
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The image feed stabilized, casting grayish-blue hues across the table at which a slender man sat with unnerving stillness. In the soft flicker of the monitor's light, GraySerpent stirred his tea with a quiet hand.
The feed displayed a clear view of the practice field. Students. Laughter. Running shoes kicking up dust. And among them, him—the subject of ancient nightmares, the sleeping titan—
Visage.
"Node Delta transmitting," came the whisper over the earpiece. "Subject is mid-trial—long jump. Local readings stable. Zero signs of fatigue.
Musculature is not degrading. Heart rate is..." the agent paused, tone confused. "—elevated slightly, but not from exertion."
Serpent exhaled through his nose, slow and thoughtful.
"Proceed," Serpent intoned, his voice smooth as velvet over aged oak—measured, deliberate, and touched with patience.
"Yes, sir. Estimations project no loss in physical capability despite over ten thousand years of cryo-inertia, and the... um..." the subordinate hesitated, "...the prior wound inflicted by—"
There was a soft clink.
He stirred his tea once, gently, then lifted a single gloved finger as the agent dared speak further.
"That shall be enough," he interrupted—ncutting cleanly across the report, like a butler removing a tray before dessert. "Let us not linger in the shadow of memories best left buried."
A long silence followed.
He leaned back in his chair with fluid grace, the gleam of polished leather gloves resting atop a cane engraved with a subtle serpent's coil. The faintest tilt of his head allowed the lamplight to glint off the insignia on his collar.
"Observe him," Serpent murmured, as though reciting a rule of etiquette rather than a directive. "At a respectful distance, if you would. Do not engage unless the winds shift—sharply and beyond doubt. Do we understand each other?"
"Y-Yes, sir."
The line went dead.
Gray Serpent closed his eyes, tilting his head toward the ceiling, toward gods long since dead or dreaming.
"May your hand guide me gently, whoever still listens," he murmured softly, more to the silence than to anything divine. "For I walk beside a weapon who has forgotten that he detonates when he bleeds."
Then, very gently, he sighed.
And in that sigh was notrelief.
But resignation.