Deimon High looked smaller than he remembered.
Three years ago, its red-bricked buildings and winding courtyards felt like a maze. Now, Alex stood outside the front gates and saw it for what it was: a box with history. A public school with half its signage rusting and the same cracked security mirror above the bike racks.
But the air was the same — loud, bright, humming with early morning chatter and fresh uniforms. Students moved in groups, brushing past with wide yawns and louder conversations.
He could hear it all.Feel it all.And still felt slightly removed.
"Ready?" Mamori asked, stepping up beside him, adjusting the straps of her shoulder bag.
Alex's uniform blazer fit snug across the shoulders, shirt collar crisp. He'd rolled his sleeves up already — out of habit. His duffel was slung over one side.
He didn't answer right away.
"I guess."
Mamori smirked. "Don't get philosophical. You're just going to class."
"Philosophy's elective, right?"
"Shut up."
Sena jogged up from behind, clutching toast between his teeth, bag bouncing behind him.
"Sorry! I forgot the new timetable!" he gasped. "Class 1-B is down the west wing now."
Alex raised an eyebrow. "You still late to everything?"
"Some things never change!" Sena said proudly — then tripped over a stone and barely caught himself.
Mamori facepalmed.
"He's your problem now."
Inside, the hallways were narrow but loud — lockers clanged open, announcements crackled from old ceiling speakers, and the faint squeal of sneakers on tile echoed with every turn. Deimon smelled like floor wax and dusty window blinds, the kind of scent that got into your uniform and stayed there.
Alex walked down the center of the corridor, shoulders relaxed, head slightly down. He wasn't avoiding attention — it just followed him whether he wanted it to or not.
Students peeled off the walls as he passed.
"Whoa—who is that?""He's in our year?""No way. He looks like a senior."
A girl whispered to her friend, not very quietly.
"I think he's the guy who transferred from America."
Alex didn't slow. He wasn't glaring, wasn't smiling either — just moving with that unshakable calm that made even the loudest cliques go quiet for a second.
Sena scurried to keep up. "They're already talking about you. One guy in Class 1-C said you look like a combat-trained exchange student."
"What does that even mean?" Mamori muttered.
"You do have the posture," Alex added.
As they turned the corner toward the second-year hallway, a tall guy in a track jacket stepped into Alex's path.
"Yo. You the foreigner?"
Alex stopped.
"No."
"Huh?"
"I'm local. Just built different."
The guy blinked. By the time he thought of a comeback, Alex had already walked past.
Homeroom buzzed with pre-bell energy — desks scraped across the floor, someone blasted music from a phone before the teacher shut it down, and half the class looked like they hadn't slept.
Alex stepped in, eyes scanning the room casually. He didn't expect to recognize anyone. But then—
"Huh?"
A round face near the windows turned.
"Kurita?" Alex said.
"HUH?! ALEX-KUN!?"
Kurita bolted from his chair like a rocket-powered wrecking ball and wrapped Alex in a bone-rattling bear hug.
"You came back!" Kurita sobbed, squeezing. "I thought you were gone forever!"
"Still breathing—Kurita—easy—!"
Mamori stepped in, tugging Kurita back. "Okay, okay! That's enough affection. Let him live."
Kurita sniffled, beaming. "I just—I really missed you. I didn't know if I'd ever see you again."
"You got rounder," Alex said.
"And you got bigger!" Kurita grinned.
Mamori tilted her head. "Wait… you two know each other?"
"Middle school," Kurita said proudly. "Same homeroom. He helped me when people knocked over my lunch trays."
Sena looked over, surprised. "You never said anything."
"You never asked," Alex replied without blinking.
Mamori raised an eyebrow. "So you've been friends this whole time and just… didn't mention it?"
Kurita chuckled nervously. "It's been years... I didn't even think he'd remember me."
"I do," Alex said. "You're hard to forget."
The teacher stepped in, quieting the room with a sharp clap.
"All right, everyone. We have a returning student joining us today."
Alex walked to the front as the teacher gestured for him to introduce himself.
"Alex Black. Second year."
No bow. Just a calm, unreadable stare.
"You'll be in the seat by the window… next to Hiruma's desk," the teacher added.
Mamori winced audibly.
"Of course it is."
"Who's Hiruma?" Alex asked as he walked over.
Kurita leaned in, a little nervous.
"The quarterback."
"Devil Bats?" Alex asked.
Kurita nodded. "You'll meet him. Eventually."
The rest of class passed in a slow blur. Alex didn't take notes. He listened. To everything.The teacher's voice. The sighs. The clicks of mechanical pencils. The whispering from behind him.
People were still looking at him.
Some were guessing his weight.Others were trying to figure out his story.
Sena leaned over during the break.
"You're kind of terrifying, you know that?"
"Noted."
By the time lunch hit, the trio had escaped to the roof — a small, fenced-off square with a view of the neighborhood and a rusted bench that creaked under Sena's full-body collapse.
"Why is math class so long?" he groaned.
"Because you're slow," Mamori said.
Alex stood by the fence, arms crossed. The wind tousled his bangs slightly as he looked out.
"Same view," he muttered. "Smaller now."
Mamori raised an eyebrow. "You say that like you've seen something bigger."
"I have."
She didn't ask what. He didn't say.
Eventually, he sat down beside them. His bento was clean — salmon, tamagoyaki, umeboshi — not flashy, but deliberate.
"You still eat like a grown-up," Sena said.
"You still talk with your mouth full," Alex answered.
Mamori laughed. "Some things really don't change."
A few minutes passed in peaceful silence.
"So," Mamori said eventually, "you're not gonna tell us why you came back?"
"No."
"Not even a hint?"
"Family stuff."
"That's a hint."
"No, it's not."
"You suck."
"Missed me?"
Mamori looked away. "No comment."
Sena leaned in. "You gonna join a club or something?"
"Haven't decided."
Mamori narrowed her eyes. "That's a lie."
"No, it's not."
"You haven't changed either."
"Should I have?"
The wind picked up. Then—
Click.CHUNK.
Mamori froze. "No. Not here…"
"Wait…" Sena looked at the door. "Is that—?"
It burst open.
Smoke curled from the doorway.
Boots. Bleached hair. Grin like a loaded gun.
"Kekekekekeke…"
Hiruma strolled onto the roof, manila folder in one hand, shotgun slung over the other.
Mamori stood. "What are you doing up here?!"
"Scouting," Hiruma said — his eyes never left Alex.
He dropped the folder on the bench and flipped it open with one hand.
"Alex Black. Notre Dame High. Started both ways. Fullback. Linebacker. Sophomore year — 1,200 rushing yards, 17 touchdowns, 74 tackles. Combine 40-yard dash: 4.2 seconds. Transferred before junior playoffs. No senior data. Nickname in the States..."
Snap.
"Asura."
Mamori blinked. "Wait… what?"
Sena's eyes widened. "That's you?!"
Alex said nothing.
"Didn't know I was trending."
"Oh, you're very trendy," Hiruma said, grinning. "You think you can just walk into Deimon and hide?"
"Wasn't hiding."
"Then what were you doing?"
"I didn't come back for you."
"No," Hiruma said. "But you came back because something over there stopped being enough."
Mamori stepped between them.
"He's not joining your ridiculous team."
"Did he say that?"
Hiruma dropped a folded flyer onto the bench.
"Devil Bats. Field 3. After school. Optional."
Alex didn't touch it.
Hiruma turned, walking away.
"Let's see if Asura was just a name… or the real thing."
The door slammed behind him.
Sena turned slowly.
"So… when were you going to tell us that?"
Alex stood.
"Guess I forgot."
"You forgot you were Asura?!"
"Not my favorite name."
Mamori pinched the bridge of her nose. "If you join that team, I swear—"
"I didn't say I would."
"Good."
"…But I didn't say I wouldn't."
Mamori groaned. Sena grinned.
Alex stared at the flyer. He didn't touch it.