Everyone had been asked to practice their powers. It was supposed to be routine, like sharpening a blade that was already theirs.
Then the teacher called his name. She held out a thin silver needle. He didn't flinch when she pricked his skin. A drop of blood slid down, caught in a glass vial. She studied it for a second—her eyes narrowing, unreadable—then turned around and walked out without a word.
Confused, he turned towards Haru.
"Why did she take my blood?" he asked.
Haru, rested on the desk.
"She wants to know what kind of power you have."
Before Yuuri could respond, the teacher returned. Her gaze fixed on him again.
"You have some kind of weapon-creation ability," she said, flatly.
"I don't know clearly. We'll only know when you start to control your power."
The words didn't offer comfort—only more questions.
"Do humans have magic powers...?" he wondered
Soon after, Haru motioned for him to follow. They walked through a side hallway into a wider space behind the training room.
He stopped and gestured forward.
"Alright. Show me your right hand," he continued, "just think that you have a weapon there. Imagine it's already formed—already part of you."
He did as told.
Focused.
Focused harder.
But nothing came.
"I can't," he said.
Haru didn't look surprised. "It's okay. Just keep practicing."
After a moment, he asked, "What about your power?"
A small grin touched the edge of Haru's mouth.
"I have fire power."
He opened his palm, and a thin flame danced over his knuckles—controlled, elegant, like it belonged there.
He extinguished it with a flick.
"Hikari has some unique power. She can heal anyone"
"And Aiko… she has the power to summon creatures."
"Summon creatures." Yuuri tried to picture that—beasts forming from thin air, bound by will, claw and breath and shadow. He couldn't imagine holding something like that. He couldn't even imagine holding a blade.
He looked again at his hand.
Still empty.
Still shaking.
Somewhere at the Unknown place
The hall stretched wide, shadows settled in the corners like watchful eyes. It wasn't too bright—no golden chandeliers or flickering torches—nor was it dark enough to feel hidden. The place held a strange balance, caught between warmth and cold.
A long table rested in the center, surrounded by figures, some seated in silence, others murmuring quietly. Their voices were muffled by the weight of the hall itself, and it felt like the walls had heard too many secrets to let new ones echo.
Then, footsteps—slow, firm—clicked against the polished stone.
The room shifted.
A man entered. No one needed to be told; they stood as one, chairs scraping back in unison. They only returned to their seats once he had settled into his own. His presence said everything that words didn't need to.
He spoke briefly—sharp words, to the point, without indulgence. No names. No pleasantries. His voice felt like the strike of a match just before it touches wick.
Then he leaned back.
"Dismissed."
Chairs pushed back once again, slower this time. No one rushed. Everyone left with practiced calm, slipping into the silence like ghosts through mist.
Everyone went to their quarters.
One man went to his quarters.
The small quarters were lit by a single overhead light, humming faintly. A book sat on his desk, untouched. He wasn't reading. He stared ahead at nothing, caught in thought—or waiting for something.
He didn't wait long.
A shadow moved at the edge of his vision. At first, he thought it was nothing. But then came the footsteps—wet, dragging.
He looked up.
It's Deimos. A man who was sitting near him. His shirt, pitch black, clung to his frame like it was part of his skin. Over it, he wore a white coat, streaked and soaked with something far darker—fresh blood, not yet dried. It clung to his face, smeared and glistening under the faint light, making his features hard to read.
In his right hand, he gripped a severed human head. Its face was twisted in the final expression of death—eyes wide, mouth half-open like it had never finished screaming. Blood still dripped from the neck, pattering softly onto the floor.
In his left hand?
Only flower petals. Soft, untainted, almost glowing against the gore-stained contrast of his other hand. Not a single drop of blood marred them. They were impossibly clean.
He stopped in front of him, eyes unreadable through the red coating his face.
Then, he extended both hands.
"Kai… choose. What do you want?"
The room felt colder now.
The weight of the moment hung like a noose.
Kai didn't speak.
And he chose.
He reached forward… and gently placed his hand on the man's bloodied right arm.
He chose the head.
Meanwhile back at the school
The teacher leaned against the desk, arms crossed with a small smile.
"Alright, everyone—just a heads-up. Tomorrow we're heading to Clicko Mountain for a field test. It's part of your magic evaluation, so don't slack off."
She waved a hand lightly.
"Get some rest, pack what you need, and don't be late. That's it—you're free to go."
As they walked, Yuuri looked over at him, his brows knitting.
"What kind of test is it exactly? And where even is this... Clicko Mountain?"
Haru let out a short breath.
"It's a magic assessment. A serious one. Not the kind we do in class."
He paused, then added, "I'll explain everything once we're home. It's easier to talk there."
Haru walked past him and slumped onto the couch, stretching with a groan before sitting up again, his expression a little more serious than usual.
"Alright," he said, brushing his hair back. "About that test... and the mountain. You should understand the ranking system first. They've divided our powers into ten stages. Each one reflects a different phase of growth."
Yuuri leaned forward slightly, listening.
"The first stage is called Zoe," Haru continued. "It basically means 'beginning of life.' This is when your power first awakens."
He paused to let that sink in, then went on.
"After that comes Riora. Think of it as light—you've found your power, and now you train with it, nurture it. People in this stage start creating sparks, literally and figuratively."
"Then there's Acra. That's when you've mastered control. You understand your power clearly. It's no longer wild or unstable. People in this stage stay calm, always in control of themselves."
"Next is Kenshi. Soldiers. These people are fighters—not just trained but forged by battle. Their true strength shows here. This is where most warriors settle."
He hesitated, as if measuring his words.
"After that comes Mizuki. Only a few ever reach this point. It's not about strength—it's about pain. Pain and understanding. They've gone through so much, they see the world… differently. They don't shine on their own anymore—they reflect light, like the moon. They've forgotten the brightness of Riora. They carry deeper knowledge, but also heavier scars."
Yuuri's eyes narrowed slightly. The way Haru spoke about that stage—like he wasn't just describing it, but remembering something.
The room fell quiet for a moment.
Then Haru added softly, almost like a confession:
"There are five more stages beyond Mizuki. But only a human can reach up to that level."
Haru's voice lowered, almost as if saying the next words too loudly might invite them into the room.
"The sixth stage… is Achlys," he said. "Once someone crosses into this, they're no longer human. Their mind begins to warp. The power consumes their soul, reshaping them into something else. Some call them gods... others, gods of death."
Yuuri's breath caught.
Haru's tone hardened.
"Then comes Shinigami. They're beyond control. Even the higher ranks fear them. Once someone becomes a Shinigami, they don't follow rules. They create their own rule."
"The eighth is Orpheus. That's the night itself—emptiness, silence, pure shadow. People who reach this are called Void."
He paused. The weight of the next word seemed to press on his chest before he said it.
"And then… Asaemon. The sons of god. Not divine in the holy way. Divine in power. Their decisions shape entire nations."
Yuuri stared at the floor, barely blinking. Each name etched itself into him like a curse waiting to bloom.
Then Haru lifted his gaze.
"And the tenth…?" Yuuri asked quietly.
"The last one is called Yurei."
The word rolled off his tongue with reverence.
"It means ghost. Not just the dead… but the ones who refused to die."
"Still no one knows what happens when we reach this stage."
I don't believe him.
The thought pressed cold against his mind. *I only want peace and if they take it from me…* A faint curl touched the edge of his mouth—too slight to be called a smile.
*…I'll kill them.*