"Yes," I said, cautiously tightening my grip on my empty tray. "Yes, I am."
I expected the kid to flinch, or talk down on me, or immediately back away like the rest of the recruits had. Instead, a massive, genuine grin split his face, showing his chubby cheeks and tiny black freckles.
The kid was relatively plump, he had brown eyes, wore glasses, and had short curtained hair.
"Awesome! I knew it!" he practically cheered, stepping right into my personal space.
"Everyone else is acting like you're screwed just because you defended yourself against Harasayuki. But honestly? That was the coolest thing I've seen all day."
Ramen Sensei slammed a massive, stacked tray of twenty steaming bowls of ramen onto the metal counter. The rich smell of pork broth and scallions hit the air.
My eyes lit up in excitement, "Enjoy, kid!" Ramen Sensei told me, with a big smile on his face and with a thumbs up.
I thanked Ramen Sensei, and hastily grabbed each bowl and set them onto my tray.
The kid's eyes went wide, staring at the sheer mountain of food. "Whoa. Okay, you're definitely my new best friend. I'm sitting with you."
Before I could even process what was happening, he grabbed one of my bowls and started walking toward an empty table. I stood there, stunned. My grandfather had trained me for combat, endurance, and discipline. He had never trained me on how to handle someone this exhausting.
"Hey," I barked, my voice dropping into a dangerously serious register. "Give that back. Now."
I didn't wait for a response. My exhaustion temporarily vanished, replaced entirely by the primal need to protect my calories. I dropped my center of gravity and launched myself after him.
He was surprisingly quick on his feet, weaving through the crowded cafeteria, but my footwork was forged from dodging actual attacks. In seconds, he reached an empty metal table. Just as he set the bowl down, I materialized right behind him.
My hand snapped out, stopping barely a millimeter from grabbing the collar of his uniform.
"That is my ramen, kid," I warned.
He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. Instead, he let out a bright, easygoing laugh and held both hands up in mock surrender.
"Relax, relax!" he said, smoothly sliding the bowl across the table to my side. "Did you actually think I would steal your food? I just needed bait to get you over here."
I paused, slowly lowering my hand. I squinted at him, completely thrown off by his lack of fear or intimidation. "I don't even know who you are."
He puffed out his chest and planted both hands firmly on his hips. He closed his eyes, tilting his chin up to strike a ridiculously proud, heroic pose that completely contradicted his round, freckled face.
"Ging Hojiro!" he announced, his voice practically booming with confidence. "Son of Ubukiri and Atsuka!"
He opened his brown eyes, the goofy, theatrical facade dropping for just a fraction of a second. A sharp, knowing look flashed behind his glasses as he looked at me.
"And you're Ryomen," Ging said, his tone shifting to something much more respectful. "Son of Tujin and Shuza."
I walked over to the table, setting the massive, heavy tray of my remaining nineteen bowls down with a loud clank. I pulled out a chair, keeping my eyes locked onto his.
"Shujinko."
Ging scoffed, though there was no malice in it—just a breezy, carefree amusement. "Right. Shujinko. Son of Tujin and Shuza. There, now we're fully introduced."
I just stared at him, my expression completely flat. "And what does that mean, exactly?"
"It means," Ging beamed, stepping right past my defenses and casually throwing an arm over my shoulder, "that we are one step closer to being best buds."
I immediately grabbed his wrist, gripping it firmly, and peeled his arm off my uniform like a leech. "Get off me."
Ging didn't look offended. He just blinked, his cheerful expression dropping into a perfectly flat, deadpan stare that mirrored my own. "Do you ever take a break from being so edgy?"
I broke eye contact, suddenly feeling incredibly awkward, and stared down at the metal table.
My brain was struggling to process the entire interaction. I didn't understand why he was trying so hard to be friendly. To the rest of the ship, I was either a ticking time bomb or completely "dead weight." Was he just trying to leech off my father's legendary reputation? Or was he genuinely just this clueless about the social hierarchy that I am clearly at the very bottom of?
I grabbed my first pair of chopsticks, letting out a slow, exhausted sigh. I had just survived a brutal, three-hundred-lap physical trial against hundreds of magic users, but as Ging happily sat down across from me, there was one thing I knew for absolute certain:
I wasn't going to survive two more minutes of this guy.
"Looks like the dead weight actually managed to pass the test," a voice sneered. "And he even found a pet."
Two heavy hands clamped down onto my and Ging's shoulders.
I didn't need to turn around to recognize the dense, suffocating, unmistakable, arrogant, aura. Harasayuki. I stiffened, but Ging completely dropped his bubbly demeanor. He spun around, aggressively swatting Tsume's hand off his shoulder. "What do you want, Harasayuki? Can't you see we're eating?"
Tsume smirked, flanked by two massive, intimidating recruits. "Boys, look. The pig has a mouth." He looked Ging up and down with exaggerated disgust.
"Who is this loser you're sitting with, Ryomen? I'm honestly amazed that someone his size managed three hundred laps without collapsing into a grease puddle."
Ging's jaw tightened. "You're a miserable jerk, you know that?"
Tsume's mocking smile turned razor-sharp. He leaned in, his voice dropping into a cruel whisper. "Watch your tone, fat face. Or your mother won't be the only person in your bloodline that's dead."
I felt Ging's entire body lock up beside me. The sudden, dark shift in the atmosphere was terrifying. I immediately reached out, pressing my forearm against Ging's chest to keep him anchored.
"What is he talking about?" I whispered, keeping my eyes locked on Tsume.
Tsume caught the whisper and his grin widened. "He didn't tell you, Ryomen? The kid is a stray. Daddy left him on the streets, and Mommy is in the dirt. He's just an orphan, the only reason he's even here is because he has nothing else!"
Tsume and his goons erupted into booming, manic laughter that echoed across the cafeteria.
Without a single word, he forcefully shoved my arm aside and vaulted over the metal table. He crashed into Tsume, sending them both tumbling onto the hard steel floor. Ging scrambled on top of him, throwing uncoordinated, desperate punches fueled by pure, unadulterated grief.
But Tsume wasn't fazed.
He didn't even look stressed. He casually swayed his head left and right, letting Ging's sloppy, emotionally charged fists strike nothing but empty air. With a bored scoff, Tsume planted a boot firmly into Ging's stomach and effortlessly kicked him off.
Ging hit the ground hard, sliding across the floor. He was already completely drained from the 300 laps; the kick knocked whatever breath he had left right out of his lungs. He struggled to push himself up, gasping for air.
Tsume stood up, casually dusting off his pristine uniform. "And they wonder why people are disenchanted with the next generation of Elemental Swordsmen."
He cracked his neck and gestured to his two goons. They stepped forward, towering over Ging, preparing to finish the job.
They didn't take a second step.
I moved. In a blur of motion, I placed myself directly between the goons and Ging's fallen body.
"Leave him be, Harasayuki," I demanded, my voice deadly quiet.
Tsume's visible eye gleamed with a violent thrill. "You're going to have to make me dead weight."
He dropped into a loose, arrogant fighting stance. His goons smirked, cracking their knuckles as they fanned out to flank me.
My lungs were still burning. My legs felt like absolute lead from the three hundred laps. But as I listened to Ging struggling to breathe behind me, my grandfather's discipline washed over my exhaustion.
I let out a slow exhale and sank perfectly into my combat stance.
"Then so be it."