One Day Left Until the Duel
"I'm sorry, Olaf, but it seems like a lost cause." The student head of the newspaper club, a third-year named Ishi Someragi, sat behind his desk in his study. His elbows rested on the desk's surface, fingers tented.
"Wh–what?" Olaf—a round, tubby boy with patchy black hair—stammered, taking an instinctive step backward. "What do you mean it's a lost cause? This is Dominic Faye we're talking about! The same student who brutalized Samson on orientation day!"
"Yes, I know," Ishi nodded. "…But the opponent Dominic is set to fight against—there's talk of him being a fraud. Some loser who isn't even an accessor, who got into the school off daddy's money." Ishi scoffed. "The fight will be totally one-sided."
"One-sided?" Olaf raised his voice. "Of course it will be one-sided! I know that! But still—you know how the students at this academy are! They go bonkers over any kind of fight! It doesn't matter if it's one-sided… as long as someone gets beaten to a pulp, it's entertaining."
"You've only joined the academy this year," Ishi smirked. "…You don't know the first thing about the students. Sure, your cohort might be filled with blood-lusting psychopaths, but we—your seniors—value an actual fight. You need to understand," Ishi pointed a finger, "…entertainment is not as simple as you think."
"Hmph," Olaf gritted his teeth. "Then at least put the sole responsibility of writing the article on me! If you don't want to do it, then I will myself! I'll do anything for the sake of a good story!"
"You're not even a proper member of the club yet," Ishi raised an eyebrow. "…But you have spread news about this forthcoming duel all across the academy, so there's bound to be a crowd tomorrow."
"Hah!" Olaf grinned. "Leave it all up to me, senior! I'll give my fellow first-years a truly tantalizing story that'll have them drooling with their mouths wide open!" He jabbed a thumb toward himself.
"Haha," Ishi chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "All right then, go on. Go watch the spar tomorrow, and if you come up with a decent article, I'll let you publish it. And if it's even better than decent… maybe you can get into the club early." Ishi shrugged. "Who knows? Now, shoo."
Olaf nodded, a passionate fire lit in his eyes as he took a step toward the study's exit. And then—
"Wait," Ishi spoke up, a smile playing on his face. "…That look in your eyes." Ishi pressed a finger against his temple as his smile widened into an uncanny grin, pearlescent teeth glinting in the evening sun. "…You're not hoping for the underdog, are you?"
Olaf gulped, refusing to turn around. "What if I am?" He knew Ishi's personality. Behind the good looks and charming demeanor, Ishi was an utterly pragmatic snake who didn't waste time on fantasies—and he surrounded himself with similarly minded people. That was how the newspaper club had come to be.
"Nothing," Ishi shook his head. "…But if the fraud ends up winning like you so desperately want," he rested his chin on his palm, "then I'll let you become the head of the newspaper club after I graduate. Doesn't matter if you write the shittiest article ever—if he wins, then you win."
"Hah?" Olaf whipped around, his eyes wide with shock. 'Why would he make a deal like that? There's nothing in it for him.' Olaf wet his lips, his heartbeat quickening with excitement. "…Why would you say that? Wh–what's in it for you?"
Ishi looked out the window, gazing at the campus grounds as yellow-tinted sunlight illuminated his profile. "Hope, I guess. I have a feeling…" He pressed a palm against his chest.
Olaf's eyes narrowed in realization. He had only briefly heard about Ishi's ability, but he knew it was similar to Rotteger's—a clairvoyant variant of one of the theorized four hidden chords. The name left his lips, tinged with awe. "…The Chord of Heart."
Ishi didn't seem to hear him. He continued smiling out the window. "I have a feeling," he repeated, "…something's going to happen soon. How lucky our academy is… to be the singularity point."
* * *
"There's one thing we have to do before your duel," Eyra pointed out, her fingers reaching out to lightly tug at Ansel's overgrown hair. "We desperately need to get you a haircut."
"What?" Rotteger, walking beside Eyra, went pale. "His hair is amazing! It's so long and illustrious—like a lion's mane! It's his most unique feature, and you want to cut it off?"
"For a practical reason," Sven interjected, as if reading Eyra's mind. "Long hair is a hazard during a one-on-one spar. Dominic could easily latch onto Ansel's hair and hold him back."
"I see," Ansel nodded, his gaze dropping for a moment. He hadn't cut his hair since he was six years old. Though it might seem superficial to others, Ansel felt a pang of despair at the thought.
"But couldn't he just tie it back?" Rotteger asked as the group arrived at Training Ground Delta's entrance arch. Then, mentally registering the sheer, voluminous mess that was Ansel's hair, he sighed. "…All right. I suppose cutting it is the best option."
"I'm kind of curious to see what he looks like without all that hair covering him up," Cerua raised an eyebrow, spinning on the sand as she stretched her arms above her head.
"We won't be doing any physical training today," Sven spoke up. "…We don't want you sore and cramped during your duel with Dominic tomorrow."
"So…" Eyra approached. "Just focus on meditation today. Are you close to perfecting your inner void now?"
"Yeah," Ansel nodded, a distant look in his eyes. "I'm trying."
* * *
Ansel sat on the training ground floor with his eyes closed, lids clenched shut. The world slowly disappeared around him, flaking away into an infinite stretch of darkness. He was in his personal void, floating on a surface that might not even exist.
The place was the epitome of emptiness, save for a tiny golden particle hovering across from him—its incessant buzzing causing its outline to blur.
'Why won't you go away?' Ansel furrowed his brow, pouring all his mental energy into focusing on it. 'What are you?'
The particle jostled to and fro, as if attached to a humming guitar string. It never relented. It always held on. There was something admirable about that—but Ansel knew he could never reach a perfect infinite void as long as it existed. That single golden particle was a distraction, something binding him to the material world.
'Please… just let me remember,' Ansel exhaled with a shudder. 'So I can forget.'
* * *
Sitting in front of his bathroom mirror, Ansel tilted his head to the right to give Sven better access to the strands hidden behind his ears.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
Stray locks scattered across the tile as Sven worked, his tongue poking out in concentration. "I'm sorry for the mess," Sven said, gazing at Ansel's reflection with sympathy. "…We really should've done this somewhere else."
"Or gone to an actual barber," Rotteger added, sitting on the edge of Ansel's bed and watching with poorly disguised interest.
"It's all right," Ansel smiled as the last overgrown strands fell from his scalp.
Looking at his reflection, his hair now sat at nape length. Jagged auburn strands poked outward from the back of his head, and his classic fringe draped across his forehead. Tilting his head, Ansel smiled. 'I look… way older.'
Rotteger nodded with genuine approval, his lips forming a surprised 'O.' "Wow… I never thought you were hiding such a pretty face under all that hair. No wonder Cerua and Eyra like you so much."
"H–hey!" Ansel's face flushed pink as he shot Rotteger an irritated glare.
"If Rotteger says you're pretty, it must be objective," Sven shrugged with a smug grin. "…Just own it, dude. Take another look in the mirror." Sven grabbed Ansel's head, turning it toward his reflection. "…Because this is how you'll be looking when you defeat Dominic tomorrow."
"Yeah," Ansel smiled. "I think I kind of like this look."