Chapter 19
Special Tournament 7
People filled the arena floor as the crowd rolled in, families with children, solo travelers, and high-class elites all taking their seats. Individuals of various races began to trickle in, gradually packing the stadium. Behind a faded, mirrored panel, the Presidents arrived. Their faces remained hidden as they each took a seat, grabbing a thin slip of paper in silence.
Shiro leaned back in his chair, lifting a cold hand to his face. His thumb tucked under his chin while his fingers rested over his lips. He shut his eyes.
He couldn't stop replaying it, the venom in the Legacies' laughter, the way their words cut deeper than any blade.
Suddenly, he jolted upright. His body moved on instinct, hand catching the desk as he nearly fell. His heart thumped hard enough to echo in his ears. Sweat slid down his temple.
W–What the hell was that?
He stared down at his trembling hand, breath uneven.
S–Since when… did I get so soft?
Didn't my ability, my Foreseeing Past, strengthen my mentality? My emotions?
A sharp pang hit his head as he tried to recall the ability's vision. His memories were fuzzy, blurred like static. But he remembered something.
Was I… watching myself? Or was I someone else, watching me?
A flash: A rural landscape. Fields of dark, sullen green grass. Small brown houses with windows fogged over and dull, cracked wood. Fences wrapped around the buildings, worn, brittle, untouched for years.
I was there… seeing myself. But after that… what happened?
The image slipped further from his mind, becoming mist.
Groaning, Shiro rubbed his temples. His vision felt off, blurrier than normal. He got to his feet, each step toward the bathroom pounding like an earthquake in his skull. The hallway seemed to stretch, distorting around him as he passed commoners and tables.
Why does this walk feel so long…?
The sharp tang of beer and wine filled the air, crawling into his nose and making him twitch. He quickened his pace, pushing through the crowd until he reached the back corner of the fifth floor.
The bathroom door was a dark, weathered oak. A cartoonish drawing of a man sat above the word: Male. As he pushed it open, a sharp, foul stench rushed out.
White tiles cracked and stained. Graffiti sprawled across the walls, some pieces crude, others disturbing. Two gray stalls sat to the left, and three white sinks lined the wall. The urinals beside the stalls trickled with yellowed water.
Gross, Shiro thought, face twisting as he covered his nose and stepped inside. He approached a sink and splashed cold water on his face.
Breathing slowly, he turned to glance at the man beside him.
An old commoner. Grumpy-looking. Thin, flaky white hair that barely clung to his scalp. His face was carved with deep lines from age, and his gut hung over his belt.
Trying to lighten the mood, Shiro gave a nervous grin. "Hey! Please cheer for me. I'll fight for all of us!"
The old man turned, cackling harshly. "For us? Kid, we're commoners. We're nobodies."
Drying his hands, the man's face darkened. "Look at you. You're nothing. No matter how hard you try, the best you'll be is some academy teacher. Give up on those dreams. You'll just end up a failure."
Shiro froze. The words hit harder than he expected. A lump rose in his throat as he clenched his fists.
"What?!" he shouted, throwing his arms out. "You don't get to decide that! I promised my sister I'd make it! I'll prove we're not useless! I'll show the world that commoners can stand tall!"
His face flushed, veins bulging with frustration.
"Why do we still let the past control us?!"
The old man lowered his gaze and sighed, placing a hand on Shiro's shoulder.
"Kid… I'm sorry. But the past has already been done. Most of us… we're just spectators. Some of us rise — sure. But you?" He shook his head. "I don't see it in you."
Something in Shiro snapped.
His hands opened, then shoved the old man backward. The man nearly stumbled, catching himself. He looked up with wide eyes, but instead of anger, he smirked.
Shiro blinked, trembling, staring down at his palms. Why did I do that? He rarely let his anger out like this.
Regret flickered across his face. He reached toward the old man. But the moment he extended his hand—
Clack.
Something cold pressed against his forehead. A strange steel muzzle met his skin.
Shiro froze.
A gun.
Sweat rolled down his cheek.
The old man grinned. "You ever hear of someone named… Shiru?"
Shiro stammered, eyes widening. "Sh–Shiru?"
The man scratched at his nearly bald scalp and sighed. "Eh. Never mind. Just know I've got your face memorized, so don't pull that stunt again."
He lowered the weapon, shoving it into a holster at his waist. Silence fell again in the bathroom.
Shiro couldn't stop thinking.
Shiru…?**Doesn't ring a bell. Wait, why am I even thinking about this? I just got threatened!"
Rubbing the sweat from his face, Shiro sprinted out of the bathroom.
The space that was once half-full was now packed.
As he pushed through the crowd, his eyes shot to the screen overhead.
Two girls stood opposite each other.
The one on the left had soft pink hair, like cherry blossoms in the spring. Her eyes were an unnatural blackish-gray, hollow, distant. She wore the standard gray Academy uniform. At her waist hung a battered black lantern, strapped with a fraying leather belt. A gloomy dagger sat beside it, stained by years of blood.
Kaela Raelith
On the right stood another girl.
She wore the same uniform, her expression calm and unreadable. Her raven-black hair was tied in a messy bun, and her amber eyes gleamed like fresh sap. In one hand, she held a white bell trimmed with golden lining. Coiled around her leg was a manriki-gusari, a chain weapon with dark links. The ends were sharp and faintly stained with a dry, rusty orange.
Mei Morrin.