Masakiro slid the dorm door shut behind him and leaned his back against it for a moment.
The room was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the window.
He crossed the space slowly and sat down on his bed—the white side, neatly kept, sheets tucked in with careful precision.
Across from him, on the opposite bed—the black side—someone was already there.
Nairo sat in silence.
Dressed in dark clothes that seemed to drink in the light, he lounged casually, one leg crossed over the other. His black hair fell over one eye, shadowing it completely.
The visible eye watched Masakiro with quiet sharpness.
Masakiro's gaze drifted downward.
On the floor beside his bed sat his egg.
Cracked.
The fracture ran deep across the shell, faint energy leaking out like a breath held too long.
He sighed.
Nairo spoke without looking away. "Still not going to tell them, huh?"
Masakiro shook his head. "No."
Nairo clicked his tongue softly. "Even after it hatched."
Masakiro's jaw tightened. "If I tell them," he said, "they'll start sending me on missions."
He glanced at the cracked egg again.
"…Like they do with Tsuramo."
Nairo's visible eye narrowed slightly.
"And you don't like that."
"I don't," Masakiro replied. "Not yet."
Silence settled between them.
Then Nairo spoke again, voice low and casual. "I heard what Tsuramo did in the tunnel."
Masakiro looked up.
Nairo leaned back slightly, smirking faintly. "That Shinryu? Yeah. That was him."
He clicked his tongue.
"Cool," Nairo said simply. "I expect that kind of thing from you people."
Masakiro frowned. "You people?"
Nairo shrugged. "Quiet monsters."
Masakiro snorted despite himself.
His hand rested near the cracked egg, fingers brushing the shell gently.
"…I'm not like him."
Nairo's smirk widened just a little. "You don't have to be."
The room fell quiet again.
Two beds. Two eggs. Two paths waiting to be chosen.
And neither of them was ready to tell the academy just yet.
-
The classroom was already loud before the door opened.
Not loud with shouting—loud with whispers.
"…That's him, right?"
"I heard he stopped a Shinryu…"
"No way. That thing wasn't even hatched—"
"They said the tunnel collapsed around him—"
The door slid open.
The room fell silent.
Tsuramo stepped inside.
His uniform was clean, properly fastened, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
His posture was straight, his expression calm, eyes half-lidded beneath the shadow of his hat.
No tension. No pride. Just quiet presence.
He walked in like this was any other morning.
Every head turned.
Some students froze mid-whisper. Others stared openly now, unable to help themselves. A few instinctively straightened in their seats.
Tsuramo didn't react.
He crossed the room at an unhurried pace and took his seat, setting his bag down neatly beside him.
Only then did the noise return—softer, faster.
"…He doesn't even look tired."
"That's terrifying."
"CM class is unreal…"
Across the room, Masakiro was doing his best to disappear.
He hunched slightly in his seat, white hair pulled lower than usual, pretending to be deeply invested in absolutely nothing on his desk.
When someone glanced his way, he immediately looked busy—adjusting his bag, checking a paper that wasn't there, anything.
"Don't look at me," he muttered under his breath. "Please don't look at me."
Someone leaned over and whispered, "You were with him, right?"
Masakiro nearly jumped. "I—what—no—I mean—maybe—look, class is about to start."
The whispering continued.
Tsuramo sat still through all of it.
He didn't acknowledge the stares. Didn't correct the rumors. Didn't meet anyone's eyes.
To him, it was just another class.
To everyone else—
CM class had just become a lot quieter
--
The mansion of Lord Malakar did not sleep.
It breathed.
Ancient pillars of obsidian lined the great hall, etched with old demon script that pulsed faintly like a living heartbeat.
Heat shimmered near the floor, rising slowly, patiently—like something waiting to erupt.
At the far end of the hall sat the throne.
Lord Marakāru (Malakar) rose from it.
His skin was deep crimson, hardened like forged iron, marked with natural lines that glowed faintly as power moved beneath them.
Heavy ceremonial robes draped over his broad frame—black and blood-red layers bound with gold seals meant to restrain, not decorate.
As he stepped down from the throne, the air bent.
Servants pressed their foreheads to the floor.
At the base of the steps stood Kōtei Tai — Empress Thai.
The moment she sensed his presence, she bowed deeply.
Her long dark hair flowed forward, brushing the cold stone.
Her shoulders trembled, not from weakness—but from the weight of what she carried.
When she spoke, her voice shook despite her discipline.
"My lord… it is complete," she said."The Tokoshima Mission has ended."
Lord Marakāru stopped before her.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then—one slow nod.
"I see."
His eyes narrowed slightly, burning gold beneath shadowed brows.
"And tell me," he said quietly, dangerously calm, "who defeated my Shinryū?"
The word Shinryū carried authority—a title meant for monsters created to rule over other monsters.
Kōtei Tai swallowed.
Her head lowered further.
"Tsu…" Her breath caught."…Tsuramo."
The name echoed unnaturally through the hall.
Lord Marakāru's eyes widened.
For a fraction of a second—something rare appeared on his face.
Shock.
"Tsuramo…?" he repeated.
His thoughts turned sharply inward.
Shinryū Kōryū Ryūgan. A dragon-class demon engineered to dominate battlefields. A being designed to be ten times stronger than its chosen successor.
Stronger than Tsuramo.
Stronger than any heir.
"…Impossible," Marakāru murmured.
His clawed hand tightened.
"How," he whispered, "could Tsuramo defeat Shinryū Kōryū Ryūgan…?"
Silence answered him.
Then—slow understanding.
The lord straightened.
A low breath escaped him—not anger, not relief.
Realization.
"So it has happened," he said at last. "The dragon has fallen… before fully awakening."
He nodded once.
That single motion carried command.
Kōtei Tai felt it immediately.
Her eyes widened as she bowed again. "Y-Yes, my lord."
"I understand," she said. "I will retrieve him."
Marakāru turned away, gazing up at the towering ceiling where ancient symbols burned brighter.
"The throne does not choose the strongest," he said. "It chooses the one who survives the impossible."
His voice lowered.
"Bring Tsuramo Malakar back to me."
The hall trembled softly.
Far from the obsidian court—far from demon thrones and ancient designs—
A quiet student sat in a classroom, unaware that the world had just decided he was no longer allowed to remain ordinary.