The morning light filtered through the Academy's high windows, catching the dust motes in a halo of gold. Shinjiru's violet aura flickered faintly as he walked through the corridors, still stiff from Aoi's infusion. Today was different. Today he would face his first official test against one of the Elite 8.
He entered the Training Arena, a vast chamber of polished stone and suspended platforms, where the walls themselves seemed to hum with contained essence energy. At the center, standing silently, was Akihara Shion—The Thorned Tempest. His deep violet aura, flecked with crimson, pulsed gently, wrapping around him like a storm barely contained.
Akihara's eyes glimmered with cold scrutiny as he regarded Shinjiru. "You survived your first field mission," he said, voice low but precise. "But survival does not make one competent. It only shows you are stubborn enough to stay alive. Let us see if you can wield power responsibly."
Shinjiru tightened his grip on his kusarigama, the familiar weight grounding him. He had trained under Masaru and endured Aoi's healer's price, but this—facing an Elite Himen—felt like stepping onto a different plane entirely.
The arena shifted suddenly. Platforms rose and fell, the walls became mirrors, and from the shadows, thorned chains sprouted like serpents along the floor and walls. Akihara moved without warning, his chains blooming and retracting in a deadly dance.
"Rosethorn Spiral," he intoned, and the chains spiraled outward, tearing through the air with deadly precision.
Shinjiru's violet aura flared instinctively, phasing the kusarigama's chain strikes through minor thorns. Yet the bloom of essence-twined roses, pulsating with dark energy, shredded the air and left faint crimson streaks across the platforms.
He dodged, ducked, and swung, relying on intuition as much as skill. Every move required split-second decisions: strike or retreat, parry or evade. Akihara was relentless, each chain attack testing his tactical judgment and restraint.
"You rely too much on instinct," Akihara said, his voice echoing amid the arena's shifting walls. "A Himen must understand control. Power without consideration is a liability—to yourself and to others."
Shinjiru faltered for the first time, his kusarigama grazing a thorned chain, sparks of violet essence scattering as he was thrown backward. The arena's platforms shifted violently, forcing him to twist mid-air to avoid a descending lattice of spikes. Pain shot through his side, the lingering effects of the healer's infusion making itself known.
But amid the chaos, clarity struck. His father's words, glimpsed in forgotten files, flashed in his mind: Power is nothing without purpose, and restraint is the true mark of strength.
Shinjiru rose to his feet, aura stabilizing with newfound determination. He adjusted the kusarigama, focusing not just on offense but on strategy—reading the ebb and flow of Akihara's chains, predicting openings, and exploiting them with precision.
"Bloom of Agony," Akihara called, detonating a cluster of rose-thorn petals that shredded essence wherever they struck. The arena filled with a storm of red and violet streaks. Shinjiru reacted, weaving through the explosion, chains flashing in tandem with his aura.
Finally, with a calculated strike, he ensnared one of Akihara's thorns mid-flight, redirecting it harmlessly against the arena wall. The motion was precise, disciplined, and deliberate—an act of restraint as much as skill.
Akihara's expression, unreadable moments ago, softened just slightly. "Not bad, hybrid," he said, almost as if testing the weight of the word on Shinjiru. "You understand now. Restraint… foresight… discipline. These are not lessons one learns without failure. You survived your first real test. But remember this: The world outside this arena will not wait for hesitation."
Shinjiru nodded, chest heaving, aura flickering but strong. "I understand," he said. The words felt heavier than the battle itself, an acknowledgment that survival was meaningless without mastery and purpose.
Akihara stepped back, chains retracting into shadow. "Rest. Train. Tomorrow, the Succession Trials begin in earnest. If you survive, you may find that the next test is not a battle—but a choice."
As Shinjiru left the arena, the echoes of the blooming rose-thorns faded, replaced by the quiet hum of the Academy. He could feel his body still trembling, but within him burned a clarity he had never known. The path ahead would demand skill, restraint, and courage beyond measure—and the first true lesson of being a hybrid Himen had been learned.
He walked through the corridors, the sunlight catching the faint silver streaks in his aura. The Elite 8 watched, always watching, and somewhere in the distance, the whispers of his father's legacy stirred—guiding, warning, challenging.
Shinjiru Arakami was ready to face what came next.