The Training Fields — Dusk
The Yokai stood silently several metres away.
Still.
Unmoving.
Expressionless.
Yet—
something had changed.
Subtle.
But undeniable.
Earlier—
it had moved carelessly.
Confident.
Almost dismissive.
Like the two of us had been nothing more than inexperienced prey fumbling through survival.
Now—
that confidence was gone.
Not fear.
No.
Something colder.
Sharper.
Calculation.
The thing stood there watching me with a stillness that somehow felt heavier than movement.
Like it had understood something.
Like it had realized—
seriousness was no longer optional.
Survival demanded it.
The evening wind swept through the training field, disturbing loose frost beneath its feet.
Silence settled.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Then—
I noticed it.
The damage.
Burn marks from Raimei's lightning still covered parts of its frame.
The fractures from my strikes remained visible too—
or at least—
they should have.
Because slowly—
they started changing.
Wrongly.
The flesh around damaged areas began to swell unnaturally.
Inflating.
Not bloating—
correcting.
Muscles twisted beneath skin before tightening back into place.
Burned tissue darkened—
then mended.
Bone shifted.
Readjusted.
The process wasn't clean.
Wasn't natural.
But it was fast.
Way too fast.
Not instant healing—
no.
Recovery.
Forced recovery.
Like the Yokai itself refused inefficiency.
Refused weakness.
Every injury simply became—
temporary.
Raimei noticed too.
His breathing remained uneven from overuse, fingers still held loosely in position to snap despite the faint trembling.
Yellow static flickered weakly around his hand.
"…That thing wasn't healing earlier," he muttered quietly.
His voice carried tension now.
Carefulness.
Akira—
of course—
looked mildly entertained.
"Good."
His voice drifted lazily from behind us.
Neither of us acknowledged him.
Mostly because we were too busy trying not to die.
I tightened my grip around Clever.
The heavy metal rested naturally in my hands now.
Familiar.
Reliable.
Its weight no longer fought against me.
And for the first time—
instead of panicking—
I watched.
Actually watched.
The Yokai lowered itself slightly.
Muscles tightening.
Its posture shifted.
Small.
Controlled.
Precise.
And slowly—
something became obvious.
It had no Art.
No manifestation.
No activation.
No strange ability.
No elemental phenomenon.
Nothing.
Just—
KA.
Pure enhancement.
Simple.
Efficient.
Terrifying.
Every movement came from reinforced limbs.
Its legs tightened unnaturally before movement.
Small bursts of compressed KA flowed into joints.
Ankles.
Knees.
Hips.
Its shoulders adjusted too.
Even the fingers twitched with unnatural precision.
The speed—
wasn't natural.
It was enhancement.
Focused entirely into movement.
Into efficiency.
That realization settled heavily inside me.
Which meant—
in theory—
I could do the same.
But—
something still felt wrong.
Something I couldn't explain.
Every time the Yokai moved—
something felt…
off.
Subtle.
Almost impossible to notice.
Like movement happened—
before movement happened.
Its body shifted—
just slightly—
before the actual motion occurred.
Not delayed.
No.
The opposite.
Like intention itself moved first.
Like the body followed something invisible.
A warning.
A preparation.
Something happening beneath the surface of motion itself.
My eyes narrowed.
The pain in my knee still pulsed sharply.
Raimei remained tense beside me.
Akira stayed quiet for once.
Watching.
Waiting.
And for the first time—
I stopped thinking about surviving.
Stopped thinking about pain.
Stopped thinking about fear.
I started studying.
Because if I couldn't understand what this thing was doing—
then eventually—
it was going to kill me while teaching the lesson anyway.
The Training Fields — 16:31
The Yokai moved.
No warning.
No shift in expression.
No visible preparation.
One second—
it stood still.
The next—
the frozen ground beneath its feet ruptured.
Gone.
Too fast.
But this time—
I saw it.
Barely.
That strange distortion.
That subtle shift before movement itself.
Its body tightened—
KA condensed through its joints—
knees—
hips—
shoulders—
Then—
speed.
Like tension releasing.
Like motion had been compressed beforehand.
And suddenly—
it was in front of me.
Light.
Instinct moved first.
My body reacted before my thoughts could.
The KA around me shifted—
lighter—
cleaner—
less resistance.
I stepped sideways.
Barely.
The Yokai's strike sliced through empty air where my head had been.
Pressure brushed past my face hard enough to sting.
Heavy.
I switched instantly.
BOOM.
Clever slammed into its ribs.
The impact exploded through my arms.
The Yokai folded sideways before skidding violently across frozen dirt.
Its body twisted unnaturally.
Corrected itself.
Bones clicking back into place with a wet sound.
It stood again.
Expressionless.
Silent.
Watching.
Its seriousness had changed now.
Before—
it looked curious.
Testing.
Now—
it looked deliberate.
Like it understood carelessness could kill it too.
Beside me—
Raimei moved.
No clapping.
No ranged bolts.
Not anymore.
Electricity gathered around his arms instead.
Yellow lightning wrapped tightly around his fists, crawling over his skin in violent streams.
Controlled.
Focused.
Enhancement.
His stance lowered.
Then—
movement.
Fast.
Lightning cracked beneath his feet as he surged forward.
Not Yokai fast—
but close.
Close enough.
His fist slammed into the creature's jaw.
BOOM.
Yellow electricity burst outward violently.
The Yokai staggered.
Raimei twisted immediately—
another reinforced strike crashed into its side.
CRACK.
Bone bent inward.
Lightning exploded through torn flesh.
The Yokai slid backward—
but didn't fall.
Instead—
it vanished.
Again.
Pain exploded across my shoulder.
Too late.
Something sharp slammed into me hard enough to spin my body sideways.
I hit the ground.
Hard.
The Yokai didn't stop.
Its movements sharpened.
Faster now.
Calculated.
No wasted motion.
A strike for my ribs.
My knee.
My shoulder.
Joints.
Weak points.
Precise.
Efficient.
It wasn't fighting to overpower me.
It was dismantling me.
Light.
Heavy.
Light.
Heavy.
I switched instinctively now.
Movement.
Defense.
Attacks.
The rhythm finally beginning to click.
Not strength.
Balance.
Too little—
you die.
Too much—
you destroy yourself.
The Yokai lunged again.
An opening.
Tiny.
But there.
Light.
Step.
Heavy.
I swung.
BOOM.
The cleaver crashed downward hard enough to fracture the frozen earth.
The Yokai barely blocked.
Its arm bent unnaturally.
The impact drove it backward.
KA surged violently through my grip.
Too violently.
The cleaver vibrated.
Again.
White KA flickered beside the blade.
Familiar.
Wrong.
I felt it before I understood it.
Something forming.
Something impossible.
Then—
another cleaver appeared.
Exact.
Perfect.
A flawless copy.
Solid.
Real.
For a second—
everything stopped.
Raimei glanced over.
The Yokai hesitated.
Even Akira—
silent for once.
I didn't understand it.
Didn't question it.
Didn't have time.
The Yokai moved.
Instinct answered.
I grabbed the second cleaver.
Heavy.
Cold.
Real.
And suddenly—
my body moved.
One blade.
Then two.
Heavy.
Light.
Heavy.
Switching mid-motion.
The first strike tore through its chest.
Flesh split apart.
The second buried into its shoulder.
The Yokai staggered violently.
For the first time—
losing ground.
Raimei stepped forward immediately.
Lightning wrapped tighter around his arms.
Violent.
Focused.
He moved.
Fast.
A reinforced punch twisted the Yokai's jaw sideways.
Another strike shattered its ribs.
A spinning kick landed across its torso—
electricity exploding through exposed flesh.
CRACK.
One of its legs collapsed beneath it.
The creature stumbled.
Damaged.
Disfigured.
Its body barely resembled what it had been minutes ago.
Its face caved inward.
One arm twisted grotesquely.
Burn marks spread across shredded flesh.
Exposed muscle twitched unnaturally.
Yet—
it still stood.
Breathing.
Watching.
And somehow—
neither of us understood how things had escalated this far.
Minutes ago—
I could barely control KA.
Now—
we had nearly destroyed something Akira called average.
Then—
the copied cleaver trembled.
Cracks spread through its surface.
Thin lines of white fractured across the metal.
Five seconds.
No more.
The weapon disintegrated.
Gone.
Breaking apart into white particles that scattered into the cold air like ash.
Nothing remained.
Silence followed.
Heavy breathing.
Cold wind.
Broken earth.
And then—
something warm touched my fingers.
I frowned slightly.
Looked down.
The handle of Clever had warped.
Metal bent unnaturally.
Its edge distorted.
Thin pieces flaked apart slowly—
breaking down in my grip.
Like the weapon itself had endured something it wasn't meant to survive.
Across the field—
Akira stood still.
Hands in his pockets.
Expression unreadable.
For once—
he wasn't smiling.
He simply watched.
Quiet.
Interested.
Like he had just seen something he hadn't expected.
And somehow—
that felt far more unsettling than praise.
The Training Fields — Evening
The cold wind drifted quietly across the ruined field.
Broken frost.
Scorched earth.
The smell of ozone still lingered from Raimei's lightning.
The Yokai—
or what remained of it—
barely stood.
Its once athletic frame had become grotesque.
One shoulder hung unnaturally low.
Burns covered most of its torso.
Half its face looked collapsed inward.
Yet somehow—
it still breathed.
Still stared.
Still refused to fall.
And behind us—
Akira looked…
happy.
Unreasonably happy.
Not the calm smile he usually wore.
No.
This felt different.
Like a nursery teacher watching children finally write their names properly for the first time—
except one of them had somehow also spelled Wednesday correctly.
Unexpectedly proud.
Dangerously excited.
His hands remained lazily in his pockets as he walked toward us.
"Well."
He stopped beside the ruined field.
"That was way faster than expected."
His pale eyes moved between me and Raimei.
Then—
for once—
he looked openly impressed.
"Raimei," he nodded casually. "Your control got better."
Then his attention shifted toward me.
"Kurosaki…"
A pause.
That smile returned.
"…you actually started thinking."
For some reason—
that felt more insulting than praise.
Behind me, Raimei sighed.
"Took him long enough."
"I heard that," I muttered.
Akira ignored both of us completely.
"So," he continued casually, glancing at the nearly destroyed Yokai like it no longer mattered—
"I think you're ready for the thing."
Pause.
He tilted his head slightly.
"…Probably."
Another pause.
"…Actually—"
He frowned slightly.
"No."
"Maybe."
Silence.
Raimei looked tired instantly.
"You're doubting yourself," he said flatly.
Akira scratched the back of his head.
"Little bit."
Then—
like he had suddenly remembered something important—
he raised a finger.
"Oh right."
"Grades."
His tone shifted slightly.
Teaching mode.
Though somehow—
still lazy.
"Yokai and Executioners both get classified."
"Makes response time faster."
"Stops people from sending weak Executioners to horrible deaths."
He pointed vaguely into the air like invisible charts existed there.
"There are basically classes."
"Third Grade."
He held up one finger.
"Usually for D and C-rank Executioners."
"Lower threats."
"Manageable."
"Usually."
Then another finger.
"Second Grade."
"B and A-rank."
"Dangerous."
"Actually annoying."
Raimei visibly straightened at that.
"And then…"
Akira paused.
His expression shifted slightly.
Subtle.
But serious.
"First Grade."
"Specialized Executioners."
"People built for specific situations."
"Monsters."
Not arrogant.
Not dramatic.
Just—
matter-of-fact.
Then—
he raised one final finger.
"The last one."
"U Grade."
Silence followed.
Cold wind passed through the field.
Even Raimei stopped talking.
I frowned.
"…What's U Grade?"
Akira looked at me.
Then toward the ruined Yokai.
Then back.
His smile returned—
smaller this time.
Calmer.
"…Things that shouldn't exist."
Silence.
Heavy silence.
Then suddenly—
he clapped his hands together.
Way too casually.
"ANYWAY."
"You'll be dealing with a Grade 3 mission."
He smiled brightly.
"Should be easy."
Pause.
"…Probably."
Raimei immediately looked concerned again.
And somehow—
that worried me more than the actual mission.
The ruined training field had finally grown quiet.
Cold wind moved through fractured earth.
Burn marks stretched across frozen grass where Raimei's lightning had struck, and pieces of broken concrete still smoked faintly from the aftermath.
The Yokai was gone.
Reduced to scattered traces of dissolving KA.
For once—
silence.
Real silence.
A rare thing around Akira.
A few metres away, me and Raimei sat near the edge of the field.
Exhausted.
Talking quietly.
Mostly correcting mistakes.
Failures.
Openings we missed.
Movements that could have gotten us killed.
Raimei flexed his swollen fingers painfully.
"You switch too late," he muttered. "When you go heavy, you commit too much."
I frowned.
"You overextend."
"Yeah," he admitted immediately. "But that thing moved weird."
"It moved before moving," I replied quietly.
Raimei paused.
Then looked at me.
"…You noticed that too?"
Behind us—
Akira stood silently.
Hands in his pockets.
Watching.
Listening.
His usual lazy expression remained unchanged.
But inwardly—
his thoughts moved elsewhere.
The blade melted…
His pale eyes shifted briefly toward the warped remains of Clever, now barely recognizable.
That means Grade 2 KA refinement.
Not output.
Refinement.
Dense.
Controlled.
Efficient.
Rare.
Especially for someone this new.
Like Kazuo, he thought quietly.
That comparison alone made him pause.
Then—
the second part.
The thing that interested him more.
The copy.
For a brief instant—
the duplicate had stabilized.
Perfectly.
An exact replica.
Not imagined.
Not incomplete.
Functional.
Real.
Even if only for five seconds.
So his Art is already active.
That much was obvious now.
Though unstable.
Crude.
Instinctive.
His body was adapting faster than his mind understood.
Trying to find the best method of output.
Trying to survive itself.
Akira exhaled softly.
Almost amused.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
If things aligned correctly—
if they survived—
there might still be time.
A Grade 3 should be enough.
A test.
Nothing overwhelming.
Nothing impossible.
Enough pressure to force growth.
Enough danger to reveal weaknesses.
If the boys survived it—
he had a small window.
A very small one.
A chance to make them a force to reckon with.
The thought alone almost made him smile.
Almost.
Then—
another thought ruined his mood instantly.
HANZU TECH.
His expression twitched faintly.
Annoyance.
Huuuuh…
They're such a pain.
Evaluations.
Rules.
Psychological stability reports.
Overseers asking questions.
"Why are the hatchlings injured?"
"Why are they unstable?"
"Akira, stop using dangerous methods."
Always complaining.
Always interfering.
And yet—
they never complained when results appeared.
Akira glanced back toward the two boys.
Still discussing mistakes.
Still learning.
Without realizing how unusual either of them actually were.
Raimei—
naturally talented.
Fast learner.
Disciplined.
Kurosaki—
something else entirely.
Something unfamiliar.
Something old.
Dangerous.
Unpredictable.
Akira smiled faintly.
Quiet.
Almost excited.
Yeah…
This might actually get interesting.