The morning sun—or the crystalline glow that passed for one in the Serium Realm—cut through the misted courtyards, catching the edges of Shinjiru's hair. He rubbed his arms, muscles still sore from the duel with Kaito, and stared across the vast expanse of the Academy's training grounds.
Masaru Jinkuro appeared silently, his steel-gray aura pulsing faintly with each measured step. He carried no weapons in his hands, yet every inch of his posture screamed lethal precision.
"Today's lesson will test more than your strength," Masaru said, his voice low, carrying over the soft hum of the Academy. "It will test your mind, your patience, and your understanding of consequence."
Shinjiru's stomach knotted. The previous duels had already pushed him to the edge. What could Masaru possibly have in store?
Without another word, Masaru drew his chain-kusarigama. The weapon arced and snapped through the air, cutting a clean line of silver energy across the courtyard. Shinjiru barely flinched, heart racing.
"You will replicate that," Masaru commanded. "Exactly. Timing, arc, velocity. I want precision. No more, no less. Fail, and you start again. Ten times."
Shinjiru's hands trembled as he summoned his own kusarigama. Chains lifted, sickle in hand, aura flickering violet with streaks of silver. He lunged forward, replicating Masaru's strike, but his timing was off by fractions. The sickle grazed the training dummy, not clean enough.
Masaru's eyes narrowed. "Again."
Hour after hour, Shinjiru repeated the strike. Sweat stung his eyes, his fingers ached from the strain of controlling the chains with untrained essence. Yet every repetition brought subtle improvement—tiny corrections in stance, arc, and aura flow.
By the fifth round, he felt a strange connection between his own pulse and the chains. It was as if the weapon responded not just to his movements, but to his intent. Still, Masaru's sharp eyes caught the faint hesitation in his aura.
"Your hesitation will get you killed in the field," Masaru said bluntly, stepping forward. "Do you understand why, Arakami?"
Shinjiru swallowed. "Because timing and intent must be unified… or the strike fails."
"Correct." Masaru nodded once, but his expression remained stern. "But more than that… hesitation creates openings. Krawlers sense it. Humans sense it. Even your allies will notice it. You must commit fully or risk everything. Remember, every choice has a cost."
Shinjiru's mind flashed to the human world—his mother, his life before Serium—and the reality that his father had died by breaking the very rules he now trained to follow. The weight of legacy pressed on him, heavier than any weapon.
The afternoon brought a different trial. Masaru led Shinjiru into a simulated field mission. The walls of the courtyard shifted, creating shadowed alleyways filled with illusions—phantoms of Stage 1 Krawlers, moving unpredictably, some barely perceptible.
"You will navigate this field," Masaru said. "Without detection, without alerting your targets, and without collateral damage. One false move, and it's as if the Krawler strikes."
Shinjiru's aura flared instinctively as he moved. The chains lifted and extended, guided by his violet intent. He dodged a phantom snapping at his ankles, swung to entangle another, and felt the energy of the illusions pulse through him. Each step required focus, each strike a combination of instinct and discipline.
A sudden shadow loomed—a Stage 2 Krawler projection. Its corrupted essence glowed red-black with veins of ember, eyes gleaming. Shinjiru's heart pounded. One wrong move could be fatal.
He remembered Masaru's words. Commit fully.
He struck, chains moving with decisive precision. The Krawler collapsed into a burst of red particles—an illusion, yes, but the satisfaction of success was real. He breathed deeply, aura dimming but steady.
Masaru's voice cut through the silence. "Good. But understand this—failure has consequences in the real world. You've passed today, but remember: the first real battle will not forgive hesitation. The cost is life itself."
Later, alone, Shinjiru sat under a glowing Essence Tree, bruised and exhausted. His thoughts drifted to his father—Haruto Arakami—whose death had been a mystery until now. Somewhere between the warnings Shinu had given him and the secrets Masaru insisted he respect, Shinjiru felt the first tremors of understanding: his father had broken rules, tried to protect something vital, and paid the ultimate price.
And Shinjiru realized, with chilling clarity, that he was alone in shouldering this legacy.
But as fatigue weighed on him, a spark of determination flared. He would train, he would master his aura and chains, and he would uncover the secrets his father had died protecting.
Because he could not fail.
Not now.
Not ever.