The silence that settled in "Tenran" after the Game began was deceptive. The air was thick with anxiety, and the crimson light of the spheres hanging on the horizon cast ominous shadows on the ancient walls. And then one of them, the one called the "Colony of Endless Swarming," shuddered. Like a giant pulsating bubble, it began a slow, inexorable movement toward the academy.
First, there was only a hum—low, swelling, emanating from reality itself. Then the sphere's wall thinned, and a torrent poured out. Not of energy, but of bodies. Dozens, hundreds of low-level reincarnated warriors. Their eyes were empty, faces distorted by a mask of eternal rage, their bodies exuding a weak but foul stench of decomposed Kokuro. They weren't masters, not titans. They were a horde. Former soldiers, bandits, mercenaries—cannon fodder raised from oblivion.
An alarm bell roared, echoing through all the halls and corridors of "Tenran."
On the walls, as if from the stones themselves, teachers appeared. A hundred people in strict uniform haori. Third-class teachers. Their movements were honed to automatism.
"Barriers, circular formation!" a command rang out.
The air trembled as dozens of basic Kokuro merged into one, creating a translucent glowing dome over the academy. Volley fire followed. Spheres of compressed air, blades of ice, spears of light—everything that constituted the basics of combat training—rained down on the advancing horde. Berserkers shattered against the barrier, their flung bodies colliding with flying projectiles. This wasn't a battle; it was a methodical repulsion of an attack. Strength lay in numbers and discipline.
But the horde didn't cease its movement. They rolled in waves, and their numbers were overwhelming.
And then the second-class teachers stepped forward. There were fewer of them, but each was a master of their craft. One, wielding the Kokuro of stone skin, charged into the thick of it, his fists crushing skulls like ripe fruit. Another, with the "Whisper of the Wind" technique, floated above the battlefield, her invisible blades cutting down enemies from a distance.
A master of illusions, an elderly man with grey mustaches, stood out. He folded his hands in an intricate mudra, and his Kokuro "Mirages of the Eternal Labyrinth" came to life. Before the horde, dozens of false walls and winding passages appeared, causing the berserkers to collide with each other, attack emptiness, losing their already meager minds. It disrupted their pace but didn't stop them.
It became clear: discipline and tactics were losing to a blind, endless mass. The shining dome of the barrier cracked under the pressure of the living battering ram. And at that moment, when it seemed the wall would fall, he appeared at the very top of the main tower.
A single man. His dark haori fluttered in the wind, not touching his shoulders, as if flowing around an invisible shield. This was Haruya Tanaka, a first-class teacher. His face was calm, and his gaze, sharp as a blade, swept over the battlefield, assessing the situation in a fraction of a second.
He didn't utter a word. He simply stepped forward from the tower's edge. And vanished.
Not in the sense of teleportation. He moved. With speed that defied perception. The air hissed, cut by his body, and a dent remained on the wall where he had just stood from the shockwave.
He crashed into the horde like a living projectile. But not crudely. With lethal grace.
In his hand was a katana. Not an ordinary one. Its guard was carved in the shape of a stylized golden sun, and the dark red hilt seemed to pulse in time with his heartbeat. The blade wasn't steel but as if carved from the very darkness of night, in which stars sparkled. This wasn't just an artifact. It was "Tsukinome"—"Eye of the Moon," and it was so saturated with his Kokuro that it possessed its own intelligence.
"Phantom Visage of the Moon"—his unique Kokuro—was already active. It didn't just enhance him. It made him a perfect instrument of death. His sensors caught every movement, every breath, every weak Scar on the berserkers' bodies. His physical parameters surpassed human limits.
And the dance began.
He didn't slash. He passed "Tsukinome" through the air. And where the blade passed, the berserkers' bodies simply... disintegrated. There were no blows, no resistance. They split into two perfectly even parts, as if their existence at that point in space was negated. He didn't stop. He was lightning weaving between raindrops. A flash here—three disintegrated bodies. A turn there—five more. He left behind not corpses, but neatly laid-out anatomical specimens that began turning to dust before they hit the ground.
In a few moments, in the time an ordinary person takes a breath, he carved a zigzag of absolute death through the entire horde. A corridor of disintegrating flesh and ash formed in his wake.
He stopped, his back to the academy. "Tsukinome" in his hand emitted a soft, satisfied hum, as if sated. Silence fell, deafening after the roar of battle.
But it didn't last long. From the yawning maw of the "Colony of Endless Swarming," a new wave poured out. And after it—another. They were innumerable.
Haruya Tanaka slowly turned toward the academy walls. His calm face expressed something for the first time that evening—not fatigue, but a cold, ruthless understanding.
"Pointless," his voice, quiet but distinct, reached everyone on the walls. "They are inexhaustible. As long as the source exists, they will flow like a river."
He looked at the pulsating sphere of the colony, this monstrous abscess on reality's body.
"We cannot hide behind walls. Defense is the path to defeat." He raised "Tsukinome," and the blade pointed straight at the heart of the threat. "We must attack the source. Destroy the colony itself."