The sun had barely begun to rise over the scarred skyline of Oukoku, but the "Higher-Ups"—the shadowed council that governed the city's peace—were already moving with a cold, bureaucratic efficiency. Specialised containment units moved through the streets, erasing the silver residue of the Animaju with specialized decontamination fields. But it was almost as if everyone forgot about Jiro.
"The public cannot know the extent of the breach," a voice crackled over the secure channels of the academy. "And we cannot wait. Move the National Academy Exams forward. We need these students in the field, not in classrooms."
Within an hour, every student's device chimed with a notification that sent a ripple of panic through the dorms: The Exams will commence in 48 hours.
Uri didn't panic. He stood on the balcony of his apartment, the morning wind tugging at his purple blazer. The light heart he'd found with Tori-san was still there, but the sight of the "erased space" where Levi had fought had reignited a familiar, burning drive. He knew his magma was strong, but against the likes of Levi or Michiru, it was still unrefined.
He sought out the one man who had survived the era of the giants: Uncle Shirotora.
He found the veteran warrior at the old city shrine, a place that reminded Uri of home. Shirotora was sitting on a stone bench, a simple wooden staff resting across his knees. He didn't look up as Uri approached.
"You have the eyes of a man who has seen the abyss, Uri-kun," Shirotora said, his voice like grinding stones.
"Daigo-san said I'll never be like you," Uri replied, bowing deeply. "He was right. I don't want to be like you. I want to be strong enough to protect the people you couldn't. Train me."
Shirotora finally looked up, a sharp, predatory glint in his weathered eyes. "My training isn't like the academy's. I won't teach you how to 'control' your magma. I'll teach you how to let it consume everything in its path without losing yourself to the black."
He stood up, the ground beneath his feet cracking under a sudden, invisible pressure. "If you can't land a single hit on me by sunset, don't bother showing up for the exams."
Uri's hands ignited, the viscous magma bubbling with a new, aggressive intensity. "I wasn't planning on failing."
The training grounds of the old city shrine became a furnace as Shirotora's Conquerors Energy crushed the atmosphere. The veteran warrior stood motionless, his wooden staff tapping rhythmically against the stone.
"Your magma is heavy, Uri-kun, but it is static," Shirotora growled, parrying a molten strike with a flick of his wrist. "If you want to pierce the defenses of someone like Levi, you cannot just push. You must grind."
Uri gritted his teeth, his purple blazer discarded and soaked in sweat. He focused on the viscous fluid coiling around his right arm. Following Shirotora's barked instructions, he didn't just let the magma flow; he began to force it into a high-speed centrifugal motion.
The heat intensified until the air screamed. The magma began to spiral violently around his fist, tightening into a dense, rotating cone of liquid fire.
"Magma Technique: Uzumaki!" Uri roared.
He lunged. This time, when his fist met Shirotora's defensive aura, it didn't just thud—it bored through. The drilling rotation shredded the spiritual pressure, forcing the veteran to actually step back for the first time. The friction sent sparks of white-hot slag flying across the shrine, leaving a scorched furrow in the ancient stone.
"Better," Shirotora admitted, though his eyes remained hard. "But destruction is only half the battle. You saw what happened to the city. Sometimes, you don't need to kill. You need to contain."
Shirotora led him to a withered, ancient tree at the edge of the grounds. "Shape your intent. Don't let the heat escape. Construct a cage."
Uri spent the remaining hours of the night in a trance-like state of concentration, his mind reflecting on the seal Tori-san had placed on his heart. He began to weave his magma into thin, hair-like filaments of glowing orange. Instead of burning, he manipulated the viscous fluid to become incredibly sticky and dense, cooled by his own willpower.
He lashed the filaments out at a training dummy. They wrapped around the target, hardening instantly into a crystalline, bark-like structure that pulsed with a rhythmic, sealing light.
"The Fik Tree," Uri whispered, watching as the target was completely encased in a petrified, molten prison. It wasn't just a physical shell; it was a spiritual anchor that suppressed the energy of whatever was caught inside.
As the sun began to rise on the day of the National Academy Exams, Uri stood tall. He was no longer just a boy with a "psycho" reputation or a "darkness" inside. With the Uzumaki drill and the Fik Tree seal, he finally had the tools to face the world—and the brother—that had abandoned him.
(play offs skipped)
The atmosphere in the Oukoku Colosseum was electric, the air vibrating with the collective Conquerors Energy of thousands of spectators. The playoffs had weeded out the weak, leaving only the elite for the semi-finals.
The bracket was set:
Akasake Uri vs. Hanabi Aizawa
Hidari Blyna vs. Giko Lancid
Uri stepped into the sand-dusted arena, his purple blazer replaced by a lightweight tactical vest. To balance the reach of Hanabi Aizawa, a renowned swordsman from the Eastern Dōjōs, Uri was granted a pair of obsidian daggers.
As the gong rang, the two blurred into motion. Aizawa's blade danced with a fluid, lethal grace, but Uri countered with a surprising proficiency, his daggers parrying steel with rhythmic precision. Each strike sent sparks flying, a high-speed chess match of blades and intent.
"You move like a man who has lived a thousand lives, Uri-kun!" Aizawa shouted, his blade igniting. "But can you withstand the Ryu no Sōzō—Dragon of Creation!"
A massive, spiraling dragon of white-hot flame erupted from Aizawa's katana, roaring as it lunged. Uri didn't back down. He planted his feet, his right hand coiling with molten energy.
"Uzumaki!" Uri roared.
The magma drill clashed against the fire dragon. The friction was immense, but Uri noticed something terrifying: Aizawa's flames weren't just hot—they were consuming the oxygen in the immediate vicinity. Uri's lungs burned, and his magma output began to flicker as the chemical reaction struggled to breathe.
He's suffocating my power, Uri realized, sweat stinging his eyes.
Aizawa looked at Uri, a flash of recognition crossing his face. That look in his eyes... he looks exactly like Master.
Seeing a momentary lapse in Uri's stance, Aizawa seized the opening. He sprinted forward, his blade held low for a finishing draw. But as his foot hit the sand, a hidden trap triggered. A stray puddle of magma Uri had "accidentally" dripped during the opening exchange rose like a sentient vine, snaring Aizawa's ankle mid-stride.
"Got you," Uri whispered.
In that split second of shared respect, Uri drove a clean, heavy blow into Aizawa's gut. The swordsman coughed, the wind knocked out of him, but his spirit remained unbroken. With a final, desperate roar, Aizawa poured every remaining drop of his energy into one last strike. Uri met him head-on with a maximum-output Uzumaki.
The collision was blinding. A pillar of white light engulfed the arena, silencing the crowd. When the dust settled, Aizawa lay unconscious but smiling, and Uri stood the victor, his hand trembling from the sheer force of the win.
On the other side of the bracket, the match between Hidari Blyna and Giko Lancid was a chaotic display of versatility. Lancid proved to be a monster of utility, cycling through diverse elemental sub-types that kept Blyna on the defensive. Despite Blyna's fierce resistance, Lancid's overwhelming tactical variety eventually wore him down, securing him a spot in the finals.
After a week The Final Round was about to commence.
The finals reached a fever pitch as Giko Lancid shed his nonchalance. The air around him didn't just vibrate; it fractured into a prismatic static. He pulled a liquid-black substance from the air, shaping it into a twin-headed glaive that hummed with every elemental nature at once.
"My existence is a contradiction, Uri-kun," Lancid said, his eyes glowing with a dual-toned light. "The Naraka and Tengoku clans spent centuries trying to erase one another. My parents chose a different path. They created me—the bridge between the hells and the heavens."
He held out his hand as the black material coated his arms like obsidian armor. "I call it Mugendo—The Infinite Paths. It is the synthesis of all natures into a single, absolute void. I haven't mastered the true depth of my lineage yet, but my black arsenal is more than enough for a mountain boy."
With a sudden burst of energy, Lancid manifested jagged black wings that tore through the back of his vest. He soared into the air, gathering a massive, swirling orb of pitch-black elemental chaos above his head. Below him, Uri didn't flinch. Inspired by the sheer scale of the attack, Uri planted his feet, drawing every ounce of his Magma Nature into a singular, rotating sphere that pulsed like a dying star.
In the VIP stands, Levi leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand. A small, sharp smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Impressive, Uri. But you're still just scratching the surface of the heat I know you possess.
The two orbs collided in the center of the arena. The shockwave shattered every reinforced window in the colosseum. When the smoke cleared, Lancid's black armor had faded, leaving him bruised and bleeding. Uri's tactical vest was gone, his skin scorched, but both boys stayed on their feet.
They discarded their techniques and went up close and personal. It became a brutal, bloody slugfest—fist against fist, bone against bone. Neither would yield; the passion of the fight had transcended the exam. They were two souls proving they existed.
"One last time!" Lancid roared, his face split by a bloody, exhilarated grin. He gathered a sphere of pure, blinding white energy in his palm—the opposite of his black arsenal. "Tendo!"
Uri lunged, his right arm a blur of high-speed, drilling magma. "Uzumaki!"
The explosion of white and orange light was the loudest sound the city had ever heard. When the dust finally settled, both boys were facedown in the cratered sand. The silence was agonizing. Then, with a guttural groan, Uri pushed himself up. He stood, swaying on broken legs, and raised a single fist to the sky.
The crowd erupted in a deafening wall of sound.
After being treated by the medical teams, Uri sat on the edge of the arena, his body wrapped in bandages. He scanned the VIP stands, searching for the white dress shirt and the cold eyes of his brother. But the seat was empty. Levi was gone.
Uri let out a long, shaky breath, looking at the scorched sky. He had survived the mountain, the trauma, and the finals. Now, all that remained was the official assignment—the moment he would be placed into a permanent squad to begin his real journey.