A frantic voice, sharp with panic, shattered the tranquility of the night, yanking Yotsuba Mahiro from the depths of sleep. The buzz of his phone felt like an alarm bell in the silent darkness.
"Mahiro-kun, it's terrible! Satomi-kun… something awful has happened to Satomi-kun!"
That familiar, dreaded opening line. It was a chilling echo from another time, another life—a call he remembered all too well from the chaos of the Nine Schools Competition. He never imagined he'd hear its counterpart in this world, a world of Initiators and Promoters, of cursed children and endless conflict. A sense of bitter, unwelcome déjà vu settled in his gut as he threw on his clothes, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Without a second thought, he was out the door, the night air whipping past him as he raced toward the Gouda Public University Affiliated Hospital.
The sterile, antiseptic smell of the hospital hallway was suffocating. And there, sitting on a cold bench, was Tendou Kisara. The usually proud, indomitable student council president looked… small. Her shoulders were slumped, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. When she saw Mahiro, she scrambled to her feet, her dark, bright eyes—usually so full of fire and cunning—glistened with unshed tears. She grabbed his arm, her grip desperate.
"Mahiro-kun… what do we do? Rentaro-kun, he's… he's…" Her voice was a fragile whisper, stripped of all its usual authority. In that moment, she wasn't the powerful Tendou heiress or the savvy class president; she was just a terrified 16-year-old girl, and he was the only pillar she could cling to.
Pushing open the door to the private room, the scene that greeted him was almost comical in its severity, if it weren't so serious. Satomi Rentaro lay on the stark white bed, wrapped from head to toe in pristine bandages, looking less like a person and more like a poorly wrapped gift from the Grim Reaper himself. He was a mummy, a cocoon of gauze and medical tape.
"Rentaro, you… you really are a hopeless baka," Mahiro couldn't help but let the complaint slip, a sigh laced with exasperation and a touch of relief.
Because, for all the dramatic presentation, the guy was fundamentally fine. A thorough check with his innate magic—a sensory pulse honed in a different world—revealed the truth beneath the bandages. No fatal wounds. Excessive blood loss, yes. Widespread fractures and a tapestry of contusions that would make a normal person weep, certainly. But for a Promoter of Rentaro's caliber? It was a recoverable inconvenience.
His gaze then drifted to the other bed in the room. There, Tendou Kisara had finally succumbed to exhaustion, her form curled up on the sterile sheets. Still clad in her dark sailor uniform, she looked utterly vulnerable. Her cascading black hair fanned out across the pillow like a spill of ink, and the harsh fluorescent light softened the lines of her serene sleeping face. Her slender shoulders, the elegant curve of her exposed neck and collarbone… it was a picture of delicate beauty. The soft swell of her chest rose and fell in a gentle rhythm with each breath, a stark contrast to the usual fierce energy she projected.
A sweet, subtle fragrance, uniquely hers, clung to the air around her, a fragile bastion against the overwhelming pungency of disinfectant. It made the atmosphere feel almost… intimate.
Shifting his gaze slightly, he saw her legs, sheathed in those signature thin black stockings, drawn up tightly as if seeking warmth and security she couldn't find in wakefulness. She looked so fragile. It was impossible to reconcile this image with the girl who haggled over yen with a merchant's gleam in her eye, or the one who would instantly transform into a blushing, furious tsundere ready to trade blows with that infuriating Shiba Miori at the slightest provocation.
Now, she was just… pitiful. And heartbreakingly young.
With another soft sigh, Mahiro reached out and gently took her hand, his fingers enveloping her smaller, cooler ones. Immediately, he saw the tightly furrowed brows on her sleeping face visibly relax. Her fingers twitched, then squeezed his hand back with a surprising strength, as if he were her only anchor in a stormy sea.
Her lips parted, and a pained murmur escaped, so quiet it was almost stolen by the hum of the hospital equipment.
"…Don't… leave me… alone…"
A pause, and then her expression twisted, the vulnerability hardening into something darker, more vengeful.
"…Help me… Avenge me… Kill… Tendo…."
Mahiro's eyes widened slightly at the venom in her sleep-slurred words. But just as quickly, it melted away, replaced by a deeper, more primal sorrow. She curled in on herself further, a slight tremble running through her.
"Father… Mother… I hate it… don't die… someone… please… save me…."
Hearing her desperate pleas, seeing the tears welling from beneath her closed eyelids, and feeling her grip on his hand tighten until her knuckles turned white—it was a raw, unfiltered glimpse into the trauma that haunted her. It clawed at something inside him. All he could do, feeling utterly useless, was stand up, lean over, and with his free hand, gently pull the thin hospital blanket up to her shoulders, tucking her in.
It was a pitifully small gesture.
"Ugh…."
A low groan came from the mummy-cocoon on the other bed. Rentaro was stirring, consciousness slowly returning to his battered body. His head lolled slightly on the pillow.
Mahiro released Kisara's hand, the moment of tenderness broken, and slipped back into his usual dry demeanor. He looked down at his bandaged friend.
"You're awake," Mahiro stated, his voice flat. "The surgery was a complete success. Congratulations, Satomi-kun. You're a girl now."
"..."
Rentaro didn't speak. But the thin blanket draped over his lower body twitched. It was a minute, almost imperceptible movement, followed by a long, shuddering sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world—and a profound wave of relief. He actually checked! Mahiro thought, his gaze turning utterly incredulous. This baka actually checked!
After a long, awkward moment, Rentaro finally found his voice, hoarse and weak. "…Don't joke about things like that, Mahiro-san."
He blinked slowly, his one visible eye scanning the blindingly white ceiling. "Where… where am I?"
"..."
Mahiro looked at him with the unimpressed, deeply pitying expression usually reserved for a particularly slow-witted child. "Did the Varanium hammer smash your common sense out along with your ribs? Do you really need to ask such an obvious question? Look around."
"Uh…." A deep flush of embarrassment spread across the parts of Rentaro's face not covered by bandages. Right. Of course, it was a hospital room. Where else would he be, a five-star resort?
Fumbling for a new topic, his eye drifted to the neighboring bed. "That… what about Kisara-san? Is she okay?"
"She forced some food down once she knew you were stable, then passed out from exhaustion right there," Mahiro explained, his tone softening a fraction as he glanced back at the sleeping girl. "Don't worry, she's fine. Just worried sick about you, you idiot."
"Oh… I see." Rentaro fell into a heavy silence, the weight of the night's events seemingly pressing down on him all over again.
Yotsuba Mahiro, seemingly unbothered by the solemn atmosphere, casually reached over to the fruit basket on the bedside table—a gift clearly meant for the patient—and plucked out a shiny red apple. He gave it a perfunctory wipe on his sleeve and took a loud, defiantly crisp crunch. The mundane act of eating was a stark, almost comical contrast to the drama suffocating the room.
Rentaro watched, speechless. If I'm not mistaken… that was my get-well present…. But he didn't have the energy to protest. The ward fell into a brief silence once more, punctuated only by the rhythmic, irritatingly loud crunch, crunch, crunch of Mahiro enjoying his ill-gotten gains.
"You…," Rentaro began, the silence finally becoming unbearable. "Don't you have anything you want to ask me?" He needed to talk about it, to process the nightmare.
"There's nothing to ask." Mahiro tossed the apple core into a trash bin with a perfect arc. "It's simple, isn't it? You didn't bring Enju-chan along this time, ran into another IPDA enforcement team, and got your ass handed to you. Right?" That was the only logical conclusion he could draw. After all, Hiruko Kagetane was dead, his body vaporized. The original plot's events shouldn't be happening at all. Unless that freak had the ability to possess others.
"That's not it…." Rentaro shook his head, the movement slight and pained. "The one I encountered… it wasn't an IPDA team… If it was the IPDA, it wouldn't have ended like this…." His voice grew distant, and his eyes, the only part of his face visible between the bandages, fixed on a crack in the ceiling as if watching the event replay. The lips beneath the gauze trembled slightly.
"That guy… like me and Hiruko Kagetane… he's a survivor of the «New Human Creation Project»… No, wait, that's not right. He said he was newly created. Created to… surpass me."
Rentaro's words were becoming incoherent, tangled in the trauma of the memory. But the image was burned into his mind: the boy who called himself 'Dark Stalker,' whose real name was Yuuga Mitsugi. It was impossible! The «New Human Creation Project» had been terminated, scrapped! And yet, that boy was a genuine, fully-realized mechanized soldier, and his performance specs were… above his own.
He remembered it with terrifying clarity—his every move was seen through, predicted, and countered. It was a feeling of utter helplessness, reminiscent of when he'd first sparred with Yotsuba Mahiro. His signature spinning kick, a move he'd honed to perfection, was caught with an effortless, crushing grip. And those eyes… the way the boy's pupils had shifted, geometric patterns flickering within as the black cores spun rapidly. He would never, ever forget those eyes.
"…So you lost? You still need to keep training, Rentaro-kun."
The voice that interrupted his painful recollection didn't belong to Mahiro. It came from the doorway of the ward. Leaning against the doorframe with her characteristic languid grace was Dr. Sumire Muroto, who waved a casual hand. "Ara, ara~ Am I interrupting a touching moment between friends?"
"Do you have any leads, Muroto-sensei?" Mahiro asked, getting straight to the point.
"Well… a little bit, I suppose." Taking his question as an invitation, Sumire clacked into the room on her high heels, the sound echoing on the marble floor. A gust of wind followed her white coat, carrying a faint, expensive scent of perfume as she boldly plopped herself down on the edge of Kisara's bed. She crossed her legs, the sleek black silk of her stockings shimmering under the lights. It was a display of pure, unapologetic confidence and wealth.
Then, with a mischievous glint in her eye, she added, "Anyway, I didn't do it."
Satomi Rentaro: "..."
Yotsuba Mahiro: "..."
Was that even a joke at a time like this?
"Oy, can't you provide some actually useful information?" Yotsuba Mahiro let out a deeply exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Of course I can, Mahiro-chan. Don't be so impatient." Sumire Muroto twirled a strand of her long, dark hair around a pale, jade-like fingertip. "Actually, this kind of thing is easy to guess. Back then, there were four people in charge of the «New Human Creation Project»… including little old me."
The four of them, she explained, were collectively known as the Four Sages. Sumire Muroto herself was responsible for developing the artificial eye and its calculation systems. The man she called "an unprecedented, unparalleled old stubborn," An Rand, developed the thought-driven interface. Arthur Shanack was the genius behind the Varanium spine with self-healing capabilities and the research into subdermal optical camouflage.
But above the three of them, there was one man who commanded them all. The head of the Four Sages, the highest authority of the mechanized soldier project—Albrecht Grünewald.
"Hiruko Kagetane, the one you killed, Mahiro-chan… his mechanization surgery was performed by that man personally. Well, although that guy's personality is even stranger than mine—he has a particular obsession with 'copying' things—I have to admit it frankly. His technical ability and vision far surpass the rest of us."
Hearing Dr. Muroto, a woman of immense and unshakable ego, praise someone so openly and honestly sent a jolt through Rentaro. Even immobilized, he felt a cold sweat seep from his pores, a nameless, unspeakable chill crawling up his bandaged spine.
"So," Sumire continued, her tone losing its playful edge and becoming lethally serious, "if everything Rentaro-kun said is true, then this new opponent is a specimen even more refined and powerful than Hiruko Kagetane. It may very well be that the Tokyo Area is about to truly usher in the [Great Extinction]."
"G-Great Extinction?" Rentaro stammered, confusion and dread warring in his voice. "Doctor, what are you talking about?"
Sumire Muroto looked down at the bandaged boy, her gaze one of profound pity. So pure… so tragically naive. Like a little white mouse in a maze, scurrying about without a single clue about the nature of the experiment it's trapped in, or the terrible price of failure.
BRRRT. BRRRT.
The jarring ring of a cell phone shattered the heavy silence in the ward, a welcome intrusion. Mahiro fished his device from his pocket and put it to his ear.
"Moshi moshi, Mahiro-san? It's me."
The voice that came through the speaker was gentle, soft, and carried the soothing, melodic quality of a warm spring breeze. It was a voice that commanded immediate respect.
"Oh~? Seitenshi-sama," Mahiro replied, a hint of playful familiarity in his tone. "To what do I owe the honor of a call at this ungodly hour?"
"Um… there is a matter. First of all, please allow me to apologize for disturbing your rest, Mahiro-san," the Holy One's voice was laced with genuine contrition. "I am also already aware of the injuries sustained by your colleague, Satomi Rentaro-sensei. Please, allow me to offer my deepest condolences…"
"Alright, alright, Seitenshi-sama, let's skip the formalities," Mahiro interjected, though not unkindly. "I'm just a simple Initiator. There's no need to be so excessively polite with me. Why not just cut to the chase and tell me what's going on?"
"Hai. Understood." Though he had interrupted her, Seitenshi showed no sign of annoyance. Instead, she issued her request with a crisp, clear resolve, though a subtle undercurrent of pleading wove through her words. "Just moments ago, we discovered the exact location of the Seven Stars Legacy. Therefore, I would like to formally entrust you, Mahiro-san, with the task of retrieving it and bringing it back safely."
"Is the reward still one billion yen?"
"Yes, it is."
"Then let me ask this," Mahiro's tone turned serious. "This operation shouldn't be a solo mission, right? I can't imagine they'd put all their yen on one horse."
"You are correct. In addition to you, Mahiro-san, many other Promoters and Initiators will be participating. It is, in fact, the largest mobilization in the Tokyo Area's history. Even so…" her voice softened, emphasizing the next words, "…I still sincerely hope that you, personally, will participate in this operation."
The level of sincerity was immense. In the entire Tokyo Area, there was likely no one else besides Yotsuba Mahiro who would receive a personal, direct request from the ruler herself.
Moreover, Seitenshi felt compelled to elaborate on the operation's true danger, her voice dropping to a grave whisper.
"…There is something I feel I can no longer keep from you, Mahiro-san. The truth is… the 'Seven Stars Legacy'—the contents of that suitcase—is a catalyst capable of summoning a Stage Five Gastrea."
"Um."
"Although we do not yet fully understand the enemy's ultimate goal, no matter what, we cannot allow that man, Yuuga Mitsugi, to take possession of it."
"Um."
"Because if he succeeds… that object will bring about the [Great Extinction] upon the Tokyo Area."
"Um."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, as if she was baffled by his utterly placid responses. "…Mahiro-san? Do I… need to explain what a Stage Five Gastrea is?"
"There's no need," Mahiro replied, his voice flat and certain. "Even someone like me knows about that thing."
It seemed she had expected a more dramatic reaction, perhaps even prepared to foolishly try and explain the common-sense apocalypse to him. But how could he not know? He was already intimately familiar with the legend of the Seven Stars Legacy, the cursed experiments of Seven Stars Village, and the bitter fruit they had borne. This was the sin committed by the people of this world, a debt now coming due, and the repayment was being exacted from all who lived here, especially those connected to that accursed village.
Finally, after he gave his simple, firm reply—"I will participate in the request"—the call ended.
On the other end, listening to the burst of dial tone, Seitenshi, dressed in a pure white dress, stood before a massive floor-to-ceiling window. She placed her slender, snow-white fingertips against the cool, transparent glass, her gaze lost in the bright, indifferent moon hanging in the night sky.
"I pray for your victory in battle… Mahiro-san," she whispered to the silent night.
Sigh…
Meanwhile, back in the hospital room.
"Where's the doctor?"
After hanging up, Mahiro noticed that Sumire Muroto had vanished.
"The doctor… she left just now," Rentaro replied, his tone unsettled. He was still visibly trying to process the terrifying concepts of 'Stage Five' and 'Great Extinction' he'd just overheard.
"I see." The situation was urgent, so Mahiro didn't dwell on the doctor's whereabouts. He slowly stood up from his chair.
"Are you leaving?"
Unbeknownst to him, Kisara had already woken up. She sat up on the hospital bed, her voice soft but clear. She reached out and grabbed the hand he had released earlier, her grip surprisingly firm. "Mahiro-kun, let me ask you… will we… will we really win?"
"Of course," he answered without a hint of hesitation, his confidence absolute. "We'll definitely win. Don't worry, President. I'm not like Rentaro here."
"Is that so…?"
Although his words were a clear jab at Rentaro, neither Rentaro himself nor Kisara offered a rebuttal. They knew it was the simple truth.
Kisara's eyelids drooped slightly as she thought for a moment. Then, she suddenly looked up, her dark eyes burning with a fierce, presidential intensity. "Mahiro-kun… no. Yotsuba Mahiro! As your President, I hereby order you: Achieve victory, no matter what! And please… no matter what happens, come back alive! I… Asaka, Enju, and even this useless Rentaro… we will all be waiting for you back at the office!"
"I understand."
Mahiro put away his usual joking demeanor. A faint, genuine smile touched his lips as he met her gaze squarely, his expression turning utterly serious.
"I have clearly received your will, Kisara-san."
...
…
..
Just outside the ward, in the sterile hospital corridor, he found Sumire Muroto waiting for him, as if she had known he would emerge at that exact moment.
"The path ahead leads to hell, young man," she stated, her voice a low, knowing murmur.
"But it's a path I choose to walk willingly," he finished, his tone matching hers.
Their wavelengths, for a moment, perfectly aligned, and they exchanged a small, understanding smile.
Without another word, Sumire Muroto handed him a heavy duffel bag. It was filled with an arsenal of Varanium weaponry and gear, all prepared for him by Shiba Miori. They were mostly simple, bladed weapons—knives and tantō—with no firearms in sight. Though simple, the selection was perfect, tailored precisely to his close-quarters preferences.
And then, along with the bag, she pressed a single, ominous-looking black syringe into his palm.
"What is this…?" he asked, though he had a suspicion.
"Consider it my farewell gift. It was synthesized by that young lady. The solution is suspended in a Varanium-based medium," she explained, her voice clinical. "A single injection can temporarily and aggressively suppress the Gastrea virus in a host's bloodstream."
A slow, knowing smirk spread across Yotsuba Mahiro's face. "You're going to let me do it anyway, aren't you?"
"As expected, I can't hide anything from you, Doctor." His smile widened.
Sumire Muroto was not just a genius; she was, in her own twisted way, his confidante. She could read his intentions like an open book, anticipating his moves before he even made them.
His original plan had been simple: with Hiruko Kagetane eliminated, this entire mess should have been neatly wrapped up. But he never accounted for a new spoiler—a wildcard named Yuuga Mitsugi—crashing the party. The fact that this new enemy had snatched the briefcase changed everything. And judging by the grave urgency in Seitenshi-sama's voice, the entire Tokyo Area was now balancing on the edge of a knife.
If that's how it's going to be... he mused, then I don't mind doing a little fishing in these troubled waters. He would go with the flow and use the ensuing chaos to his advantage. His goal was clear: secure a sample of the Scorpius Gastrea's blood. At worst, if things got out of hand, he'd just have to find a way to put the Stage V down for good. With the strategic-level magic at his disposal, there was always a way.
Besides, the life he had just started building here mattered. The home for those Cursed Children, the familiar, warm presence of the Tendo Civil Security office... Asaka, Enju—they were all here in the Tokyo Area. No matter what, he had to see this through.
"Don't you dare die on me, young man," Sumire murmured, her voice a low, theatrical purr. "If you die, I'll be short one reliable errand boy for my basement deliveries. It would put me in a very difficult position, you know?"
"Hah? Really?" Mahiro shot back with a lopsided grin. "I think you'd be secretly thrilled, Muroto-sensei. One less nuisance, right?"
"Fufufu… Now that you mention it," she hummed, a dangerous glint in her eyes. "I do have one very important suggestion. Would you like to hear it?"
"What suggestion?"
The moment he turned to face her fully, Sumire Muroto closed the distance between them in a single, fluid step. Enveloped in her unique, clinical scent mixed with expensive perfume, she rested her hands gently on his shoulders, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"…If you are going to die, you must die beautifully."
"Nani?"
"If possible, I'd prefer you freeze to death. — Ara, no, no, that's too extravagant of me," she corrected herself, tapping a finger on her chin. "I should be more practical. Even starving to death would be acceptable. Then, I would inject turpentine into your corpse's… backside… wrap you in alkali, and leave you to bask in the sun."
"Pfft— Hahaha! Doctor, you're as much of a degenerate as ever," Mahiro laughed, genuinely amused. "What's the plan? To mummify me and put me on display in a museum for everyone to admire?"
"Iie," she stated resolutely, her gaze intense. "It will be exclusively in my private laboratory. For my eyes only." She leaned even closer, her breath ghosting his ear. "You would be my unique masterpiece. I would never let anyone else lay a finger on you."
"Hai, hai," he conceded, his smirk never fading. "But, Doctor, you know better than anyone… I have no intention of dying."
"I believe that, too."
Instantly, all the playful menace vanished from her expression. Sumire Muroto stepped back, offering him a smile that was, for once, genuinely sweet and unguarded.
"So, you must come back alive, young man."