The rooftop was quiet, almost painfully so. The city sprawled below, indifferent to the small war brewing above it.
Haruto sat cross-legged on the concrete, hands resting loosely on his knees, cerulean eyes fixed on the horizon. The turquoise yin–yang pattern at their center rotated slowly, steadying after the chaos of the archive. But the weight lingered—threads of potential reality tugging at him, reminding him how close he had come to losing control.
Megumi stood a few meters away, posture relaxed but alert, shadow pooling like a tether. He had said nothing for the entire walk to the rooftop, letting Haruto settle into the silence, but his presence carried that same unyielding steadiness.
Finally, Haruto spoke, voice low and hesitant. "I… I can't let that happen again. Not like before. Not here, not anywhere."
Megumi's eyes didn't flicker. "Control comes from understanding what you can't control."
Haruto tilted his head, narrowing his gaze. "Which part of me do you think I don't understand?"
Megumi smirked faintly. "All of it."
That earned a short, sharp laugh from Haruto—half amusement, half disbelief. "You're infuriating."
"Good," Megumi said evenly. "Means you're paying attention."
The boy sighed, standing. Cerulean eyes scanning the rooftop, taking in every crack, shadow, and potential vector. He raised a hand, curling his fingers. A shimmer appeared—a half-formed construct: a blade of light, wavering, trembling as if unsure whether it should exist.
"That's… unstable," Megumi said.
Haruto gritted his teeth. "Yeah. I feel it too. It doesn't obey. It… reacts to what it thinks you expect, not what I intend."
Megumi stepped closer, voice calm but firm. "Then don't fight the expectation. Shape it. Anchor it in something real. Start small."
Haruto blinked, hesitating. Small? That wasn't his instinct. His heart still raced at the memory of the archive, the collision of layers and voids. The manic clarity that had surged—he'd tasted it once, and it had been intoxicating. But intoxicating wasn't sustainable. Not if he wanted to survive the next encounter.
He exhaled sharply. The blade of light quivered, then stabilized slightly. Not perfect, but… present.
Megumi nodded once. "Better. Focus on perceptual weight. You control what others see—or fear. Not everything. Not yet."
Haruto's grin was small, almost shy. "Perceptual weight…" he muttered. The concept rolled in his mind like a gear clicking into place. Slowly, deliberately, he began to understand.
For the first time in days, he didn't feel the pull to mania. He felt… potential.
A flicker of satisfaction passed between the two. Words weren't needed.
But both knew this was only the first spark.
The training ground was a derelict warehouse on the outskirts of Tokyo—dust motes floating in beams of late afternoon sunlight. Concrete walls, scattered debris, and the faint scent of rusted metal made it a perfect canvas.
Haruto stood in the center, hands slightly raised. Cerulean eyes glinted, turquoise yin–yang spinning slowly in the center—a heartbeat syncing with his breath. Around him, small constructs shimmered: half-formed blades, flickering spears, and fragmented shields. Each responded to his thought, but none fully obeyed.
Megumi watched from the perimeter, arms crossed, shadow coiling at his feet like a tether. "Start small," he said. "Focus on perception. Let them believe it's real before you try anything bigger."
Haruto inhaled. "Right. Small." He closed his eyes briefly, feeling the pulse of the air, the weight of the warehouse, the unspoken expectations that surrounded him. Slowly, a single construct emerged—a dagger of light, translucent but sharp enough to reflect a sliver of sunlight.
"Good," Megumi nodded.
Then Haruto's pulse skipped. A whisper of thought—the warehouse could crumble, the constructs could tear through the walls, the shadows could fight him back. The dual layer of possibility pressed against his mind, teasing, tempting.
He shook it off. "Stay focused," he muttered.
The dagger solidified. He raised it, imagining the strike against a low-level curse—a static target conjured by his own energy. The moment it landed, it did more than hit. It resonated, echoing outward, shaking the constructs nearby. The others twitched violently, destabilizing.
Megumi's voice cut through the vibration. "Too much! You're feeding perception too fast!"
Haruto's grin flashed, manic for a heartbeat. "No… I need to feel it! The weight—it tells me what's real!"
The dagger trembled. Its edges wavered. For a split second, the warehouse seemed to split into layers—Haruto saw the real, the potential, and the forgotten all at once. His pulse hammered, adrenaline mixing with the manic high he had tasted in the archive.
Then Megumi stepped forward, shadow coiling beneath him. His presence grounded Haruto's perception, like dropping an anchor into turbulent water. The layers wavered, then collapsed into a single reality.
Haruto exhaled, dagger solid and humming faintly. "Okay… I get it now. The more I push, the more the constructs want to exist, but if I let them go too far… they fight me back."
Megumi nodded once, approving but unamused. "Exactly. Fantasist doesn't just create—it negotiates with reality. That's why a Grade One could almost overwhelm you."
Haruto's grin softened, thoughtful now. "Negotiation… Not domination. Interesting."
A pause. He looked at Megumi, eyes steadying, pattern slowing. "So, next step… bigger test?"
Megumi smirked faintly. "Bigger… yes. But carefully. Don't forget—perception is heavy. Even for you."
Haruto's fingers twitched, and for the first time, he felt the thrill of controlled chaos.
The spark had caught fire.
Haruto's constructs quivered in the dusty warehouse air, humming faintly like distant wind over broken glass. Each was tethered to a thought, a fear, a possibility he wasn't fully controlling.
He grinned, fingers twitching. Cerulean eyes fixed forward; the turquoise yin–yang spun faster, edges slipping out of perfect alignment.
"This is it," he whispered, almost to himself. "Let's see what happens if I don't hold back."
He unleashed a flurry of constructs—daggers, shards, and half-formed beasts of light. They lunged, collided, and multiplied as if each believed it truly existed. The warehouse distorted in response: floors seemed to warp, walls stretched and flexed, and shadows bent unnaturally, as if they, too, were negotiating with perception.
Megumi's eyes narrowed. "Haruto! Too much!"
Haruto barely heard him. A manic exhilaration coursed through his veins, sharper than any he had felt before. The constructs pulsed with perceptual weight, responding not only to what he imagined but to what he expected the warehouse to feel like.
For a moment, he was unstoppable. The space around him quivered under the force of belief. Possibility solidified into fragments of reality.
Then—the first tremor.
A shard he hadn't intended wavered violently, clashing with another. Sparks of energy ricocheted, and for a heartbeat, Haruto's vision multiplied: the warehouse splintered into three versions at once—real, potential, and half-remembered. His Dual-Focus eyes struggled to reconcile the layers; the turquoise yin–yang spun unevenly, flashing with green-tinted streaks of instability.
"Haruto!" Megumi's voice cut sharp, grounding. Shadow leapt, latching onto a loose construct, holding it steady.
Haruto blinked, heart hammering. The exhilaration faltered. For the first time, he felt the cost: perception pushed too far, reality fighting back. The constructs resisted, refusing obedience, tugging at him like wild animals. The potential he had forced into existence screamed for definition.
He staggered, gripping his head. The manic thrill was gone, replaced by dizzying vertigo. "I… I overreached," he muttered, voice hoarse. "Too much… weight…"
Megumi stepped closer, presence anchoring him. "Control it. You're not alone. Remember what I told you—negotiation, not domination."
Haruto inhaled sharply, slowly forcing the layers to collapse. His constructs shimmered and shrank, bending back into manageable forms. The warehouse snapped back into singular reality. The last trace of strain hovered like a sigh in the air.
Haruto's cerulean eyes settled, yin–yang slowing to a steady, deliberate spin. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. "Negotiation… not domination," he murmured, repeating it like a mantra.
Megumi didn't answer. He just nodded, letting the lesson sink in.
For the first time since the archive, Haruto felt both exhilaration and humility coexisting—a fragile, combustible balance.
And somewhere deep in his mind, a quiet thought whispered:
Next time… I might not get to stop it in time.
The warehouse was silent now. Dust settled like slow snow. Haruto's hands shook slightly, his cerulean eyes still spinning a slow, deliberate turquoise yin–yang, grounding after the overload.
Megumi stood a few meters away, calm but alert. Shadow coiled at his feet, ready, steady.
"Not bad," Megumi said finally, voice neutral. "But there's a ceiling. You hit it today."
Haruto frowned, brushing at a smear of dust on his sleeve. "I… felt it," he admitted. "The constructs… they pushed back. Like reality was saying no."
"That's exactly it," Megumi said. "Fantasist doesn't just respond to you. It responds to perception. Yours. Others'. And the world's. The bigger the belief, the more resistance you'll face."
Haruto's pulse quickened. The thought sparked an uncomfortable thrill. "So if someone… really believes in a curse? A strong one… it could fight me back harder than I ever imagined."
Megumi's expression didn't soften. "It won't just fight back. It could break you if you're not careful."
Haruto nodded slowly, eyes scanning the warehouse. Dust, light, shadows—all ordinary, harmless. Yet every corner felt pregnant with potential danger. Something primal stirred in him: the memory of the archive, the void, the layering of forgotten spaces.
A faint shiver ran up his spine.
From the street outside came a whisper of static—almost inaudible. Haruto's senses twitched. The air felt wrong.
He tilted his head. "Do you… feel that?"
Megumi didn't answer immediately. Instead, he narrowed his eyes toward the doorway. Shadow stretched, low and tense.
Haruto stepped forward, the whisper brushing against his Dual-Focus. His eyes flicked to the street, catching it almost reflexively: a vague outline, a distortion in perception. Not fully visible—but something existed there, layered, like a memory half-remembered.
Perceptual weight, Haruto thought. This thing… it's aware someone might see it.
Megumi's voice broke through the thought: "It's coming."
Haruto's grin returned, small but fierce. Not playful, not manic—focused. His pulse raced, adrenaline and anticipation interlacing. "Finally," he muttered. "Something with weight. Something real."
The shadows in the doorway shifted. Not naturally. Not obeying gravity. Like the city itself was bending to accommodate it.
Haruto inhaled, feeling the familiar spark of mania flicker—contained, tempered, but alive. The turquoise yin–yang in his eyes rotated faster, syncing with the thrum of anticipation.
"This isn't a test anymore," Megumi said quietly. "It's a Grade One waiting to decide if you belong—or if you're just another forgotten possibility."
Haruto's lips curved into a grin. "Then let's make sure they remember me."
The air shimmered. The warehouse, the street, the fading sunlight—they all felt heavier, waiting.
And somewhere in the half-light, a new presence solidified—aware, patient, and hungering for perception.