The hallway outside the gym stood quiet—only the distant hum of fluorescent lights and the muted sounds of students leaving for the day echoed through the walls. Sam and Saji stared at one another like two wolves circling the edge of territory.
Sam blinked once, slowly. "You good?"
Saji's lips twisted into a sneer. "So you were one of them. A church dog."
Sam's brow furrowed. "The hell are you talking about?"
"You've got holy energy all over you." Saji took a half-step closer, voice low and sharp. "I can't believe they haven't noticed it yet. Are you seriously trying to infiltrate this school? Or are you just that cocky?"
Sam tilted his head, confused. "Okay… either I've taken one too many hits to the head, or you're auditioning for school paranoid of the year."
Saji's eye twitched.
Sam didn't back down, though he felt the hairs on his arms rise. That shift in Saji's aura hadn't been imagined. It was darker now—tinged with something… wrong. Different. He could sense it more clearly now, the subtle signature that marked devils. But he still didn't quite know—not fully—not consciously. It was instinct without understanding.
"Whatever weird beef you think we have," Sam continued, "I'm not part of the church, I'm not spying on anyone, and I sure as hell didn't ask to get nearly killed by flying emo priests."
Saji's eyes narrowed. He glanced over his shoulder once, ensuring they were alone in the hall, then muttered, "Then let's see what bleeds out when I hit you."
The surge came fast—no warning, no banter.
Saji's foot sigil lit up in a flash, demonic energy flaring.
Sam barely had time to widen his eyes before the punch landed square across his jaw.
The impact rang out with a dull thwack, his head snapping to the side. His body staggered, stumbling back several steps, a metallic taste blooming in his mouth.
Holy Hero energy surged at the very last second—a thin layer of resistance, instinctual and clumsy. It softened the blow enough to keep his skull from rattling, but it hadn't done much more than cushion the edge of the impact.
"What the fuck?!" Sam barked, one hand rising to cradle his jaw.
His legs spread instinctively, grounding himself. The air between them felt charged now, brittle with friction. That wasn't just a hotheaded shove. That was a real hit, backed with power.
Saji didn't apologize.
His posture was low, aggressive, ready to follow up. His left hand hovered slightly open—too practiced, too ready.
Sam's eyes narrowed, still feeling the sting in his cheek. "You don't throw around accusations and punches unless you're either stupid or sure."
Saji's lips curled. "You lit up with holy energy. That's either Heaven's blessing—or a setup."
"I'm not part of any faction," Sam growled. "I've been on my own since this madness started."
"Then what the hell are you?" Saji spat.
Sam's hands dropped to his sides, fingers loose but twitching. "Trying to figure that out. Without catching cheap shots."
A brief silence hovered—tense, jagged.
The hallway seemed quieter now. Oppressively so.
Sam's jaw clenched. He didn't want to fight—but he wasn't going to take another hit, either.
Some part of him knew this wasn't smart. That it might escalate things.
But the choice had been taken the moment Saji threw that punch.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath. "Guess we're doing this the hard way."
The air shifted.
A soft hum—almost like an electric current—vibrated from the soles of his feet up through his chest. Blue light flared along his shoulders, tracing out lines like glowing veins beneath his skin. In a blink, it surged outward—
Armor formed.
Not from nowhere—but from within. Plates of gleaming silver-white metal erupted along his arms, chest, and shoulders—flowing like quicksilver before locking into place with hydraulic precision. The helm formed last, a sleek design with faint horned edges and glowing sapphire eyes that stared through narrow slits.
It was knightly, elegant—but brutal in its utility. Built not for beauty, but for survival.
Exoskeleton fully engaged.
Sam didn't move toward Saji.
He raised both hands—palms open, defensive.
"I'm not your enemy," his voice echoed slightly from the helmet, deeper and more hollow from the internal acoustics. "But I will defend myself."
The armor hissed slightly as joints adjusted. Mana pulsed faintly from the seams, not aggressive—yet. Like a dam holding back force.
"Try me again," Sam said, eyes glowing cold behind the visor, "and I won't just stand there."
Saji's foot shifted back an inch—not retreat, but precise recalibration. His eyes narrowed, scanning Sam's armor as it glowed with shifting blue-white energy—solidifying around him in a rhythmic pulse. That mana rang potent, but it didn't burn with the weight of holy power.
The sanctified aura still shimmered inside him, but what formed the armor wasn't divine. It felt alien, finely tuned, refined.
Saji's jaw clenched. His Sacred Gear stirred—ready, humming with suppressed energy. A flicker of his fist could have sprung it into motion—
The gym doors slammed open.
Harsh hallway light spilled in, followed by measured, poised footsteps.
Tsubaki Shinra appeared first—Sona's Queen—clipboard in hand and expression sharp.
Behind her: Momo Hanakai (nervous but earnest), Yura Tsubasa (curious and eager), and Sona Sitri herself—composed, analytical, and commanding the hallway with a single penetrating gaze.
Flanking them were two more girls:
Reya Kusaka, calm and analytical, her eyes narrowing slightly at the sight of Sam's armor—though not with hostility.
And Tomoe Meguri, quiet, calculating, and absolutely still, as if poised for anything.
Neither one spoke, but their body language said enough. Tension had shifted, and now they were reading the room just as sharply as their King.
Tsubaki's voice cut clear: "Summarize. Now."
Yura let out a low whistle. "Armor? Sam? Looks like I missed the dress code memo."
Momo carefully stepped forward. "Are you okay?"
The two bishops exchanged a glance, then locked their gazes on Sam.
Sona's eyes moved from Sam to Saji and back, her stare forging through the tension as though she were mapping out every intention, every heartbeat.
Sam's hand slowly lowered, the arcane hum of Exoskeleton fading as the blue light dispersed from his limbs in shimmering fragments. The armor dissolved into the air, retreating into his skin with a soft shimmer. In its place, his injuries returned to full view—most noticeably, the bruising blooming over his cheek and the split in his lower lip where Saji had landed his punch.
He let out a slow breath, not from pain but from sheer frustration.
His eyes moved to the group now clustered at the gym doors.
He immediately recognized Momo and Yura—they'd each been part of the watch rotation during his recovery. Reliable, present, and surprisingly personable.
Tsubaki had mostly appeared during group interactions. Formal, evaluative, clipboard always in hand.
Reya and Tomoe? Familiar faces. He'd seen them around Momo and Yura before—student council proximity. Never directly spoken, but he'd noted the quiet competence.
Now it made sense.
They were all Sona Shitori's peerage.
His gaze cut back to Saji, who hadn't moved but looked distinctly less sure of himself now. His hands were still clenched, his eyes unreadable, but the aggression had bled out of his posture.
"…He accused me of being a church dog," Sam said flatly, voice edged with the sting of insult, "and then punched me."
There was a pause.
Tsubaki's eyes narrowed behind her glasses. "Did he now?"
Yura clicked her tongue. "Classic."
Momo sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "You're lucky you didn't break your hand, Saji."
Tomoe exchanged a glance with Reya—neither looked surprised.
Sam wiped a smear of blood from the corner of his mouth and shook his head.
Then he turned toward Yura, raising a brow.
"…This part of the training?"
Yura smirked, hands slipping into her jacket pockets. "Not unless you count 'punch first, explain later' as a warm-up."
Sona turned slightly, her voice low but cutting. "Everyone inside. Resume drills."
No one questioned it.
Inside the gym, the atmosphere felt cooler—less hostile, but still tense. Sam moved near the wall, rotating his jaw. Momo lingered nearby, her bag half-unzipped, watching him with a sidelong glance.
"That should not be healing that fast," she murmured.
Sam shrugged. "Just how it is."
Yura joined them a beat later. "You sure you're human?"
"Nope," Sam replied without hesitation.
She snorted. "Well, whatever you are, that was a hell of a punch to eat standing."
"You offering a second opinion?"
"Tempting," she said, grinning. "But I like my knuckles unbroken."
Meanwhile, near the far side of the gym, Sona and Tsubaki flanked Saji, their postures cold and professional.
"What exactly did you think you were doing?" Tsubaki asked, tone clinical.
Saji shifted his weight. "I felt it. Holy energy. Radiating off him. I thought he was dangerous."
"You thought," Sona echoed, her voice calm but razor-edged. "So you struck a fellow student. Without verifying. Without warning."
"I wasn't trying to kill him."
"But you hit him," Tomoe added from across the gym. "And he's still recovering."
Saji closed his mouth. There was nothing else to say.
Sam stayed off to the side. Jaw bruised. Lip scabbing. Body settling.
He didn't say a word.
Whatever came next—it wouldn't come from him.
It wasn't his turn anymore.
Moments later, Sona crossed the floor again, clipboard under one arm, gestures calm but decisive.
"Everyone inside. Resume drills."
Her voice wasn't cold—but it carried a fatigue that hadn't been there before.
Tsubaki followed closely behind. Then the others. Momo and Yura flanked Sam as he stepped inside, Reya and Tomoe trailing. Saji lingered in the back, silent.
Sam glanced at Sona once more.
"Mind if I just… test a few things on my own today?" he asked, tone neutral. "Still technically recovering."
Sona met his gaze.
Not sharp. Not cold. Just tired. Calculating. Watching him.
"…Within reason," she said finally. "Stay where I can see you."
Sam nodded.
She didn't smile. But she didn't frown either.
That was enough. For now.