The air in the training hall was thick with static — the kind that settled in before a storm.
Kouji stood near the edge of the ring, adjusting the leather strap on his glove. His breaths came slow, steady. The metal pole in his hand wasn't uniform — it had a groove down one side and a warped grip. Imperfect.
But it felt right.
He'd made it that morning, carving it from a broken lamp base outside his dorm window. The idea had hit him in the middle of tying his boots.
Not from logic. From instinct.
He wasn't thinking like a support anymore.
Across the ring, Yorihito bounced lightly on his feet, chewing gum like he was waiting for a slow opponent to get serious.
It was a spar fight.
Kagami stood off to the side, arms crossed, spear resting against the wall. She didn't speak. Didn't coach.
She just watched.
The match began.
Kouji moved fast — too fast for how his body used to react. The baton swung with precision, deflecting Yorihito's first wire with a sharp clang.
The second wire sliced his sleeve.
Third one? Caught it mid-air with the shaft of his weapon and twisted into a block, redirecting it into the ground.
The two exchanged four hits. Then five. Then seven.
Yorihito's eyes narrowed. He wasn't smiling anymore.
When it ended, Kouji stood with his staff at Yorihito's throat.
The gum-chewer backed off, muttering.
"Guess you're not just some nerd with blueprints after all."
Kouji didn't reply. He turned away, adrenaline still humming in his chest — but the cold part of his brain stayed quiet.
That voice — the one that used to map out enemies' stances and predict outcomes — had gone silent.
His Blessing didn't guide him anymore.
Only his hands did.
Later, outside the hall, Kagami caught up to him by the vending machines.
"You're pushing harder now," she said. "Good form. Cleaner strikes."
"I'm not reading anymore," Kouji muttered.
She tilted her head.
"My Plus — I can't see movements like I used to. People, attacks... it's all noise now. But I can see objects, still. Shapes, textures, weights. I can build."
Kagami didn't answer for a moment.
Then she said, "That's enough. As long as you know what you can do, the rest will catch up."
Kouji nodded, but his hands stayed clenched in his jacket pockets.
He didn't say the rest.
Sometimes, it feels like the weapons build themselves.
Later that day, he was walking past the south corridor when a group of Hunters cleared the hall — stepping back instinctively as a white coat passed by.
Akechi.
Red hair. Yellow eyes and Calm, walking slowly.
S-Rank.
Respected but also Feared.
He didn't speak. Didn't nod.
But as he passed Kouji, his eyes shifted just slightly.
Not fully. Not long.
Just a passing glance.
But Kouji felt it — like the sudden pressure of air before a descending blade.
It was gone in an instant.
But the weight in Kouji's stomach stayed behind.
That evening, Kouji sat alone on the roof of the east wing. A new blade rested beside him — slightly curved, thinner than a katana, thicker than a machete.
It had taken him twenty minutes to form it. One pull of Kyokai from a nearby railing. One idea. One pulse.
He didn't know why he made it that way.
Only that it felt more like him than anything he'd ever carried.
And that terrified him.
It was late. He didn't expect anyone else to be up here.
So when he heard the door creak open behind him, he didn't look right away.
He didn't have to.
"You're getting better at making weapons," said Ryo.
Kouji glanced up as the older Hunter approached, hands in his pockets, silver hair catching the moonlight.
"Wasn't trying to," Kouji muttered. "It just… happens now."
Ryo sat down beside him, the way someone does when they're not planning to stay long.
The silence stretched.
"You ever feel like something's changing," Kouji said eventually, "and you don't know if it's for the better?"
Ryo didn't answer immediately.
"Change always feels like that," he finally said. "You don't get to know what it means until it's already finished."
Kouji leaned his head back against the railing.
"I can't read movement anymore. My Blessing used to tell me where people would go. Now it only tells me what they're made of."
Ryo's gaze stayed on the skyline.
"And yet you're still winning fights."
"That's not the point."
"It is to me."
Kouji hesitated.
Then asked, "Why don't you ever talk to Akechi?"
Ryo's expression didn't shift.
"You pass him all the time," Kouji added. "You never say anything. Everyone else treats him like a general. You act like he's not even there."
Ryo was quiet for a few seconds.
Then: "What does your aura tell you about him?"
Kouji blinked. "What?"
"You're sensitive, Kouji. You pick up on more than you admit. When he walks past — what do you feel?"
Kouji thought about the hallway. The way the air had felt thicker. Off-balance.
"Wrong," he said finally. "Not evil. Just... off."
Ryo nodded slightly.
"That's why."
Kouji frowned. "That's it?"
"Sometimes, you don't need evidence. You just need instinct. Akechi walks like someone who's too calm for his own secrets."
Kouji looked at Ryo carefully.
"You think he's hiding something."
"I know he is," Ryo said. "But this world doesn't let you act on feelings alone. I've made that mistake before."
The wind moved gently between them.
Ryo stood after a while and glanced down at Kouji's blade.
"When that starts shaping itself," he said, "you'd better be sure you know who it's becoming."
He left without waiting for a response.
Kouji sat there long after the door closed again.