March 27, 2007. The Benikaen.
Sleep, when it came, was short and strange.
I woke up in a room I didn't recognize — guest quarters, someone had said, the Benikaen had them, they'd become relevant — I was disoriented from having slept in an unfamiliar place after an overfull night.
Sunlight.
That was the first shock, through a paper screen window. Painting the room in the color of an uncomplicated morning... It felt like the night was never ending.
I lay still for a moment and took inventory.
Hand: cut, bandaged — someone had done that while I was sleeping, which I chose not to think too hard about. Ribs: sore. Behind my sternum: the ember of Kenji Eito, gone now.
I could feel something else. A presence that was aware — imagine if a person was in the same room as you not making any noise. Watching without watching.
I sat up and stared at the wall and thought about that for a moment.
Okay.
Then I got up, found the bathroom, established that yes everything still worked as it should, and went to find food.
---
The common area of the residential wing smelled like rice and miso. Genkei was already there, seated with perfect posture, eating with efficiency. Saiko was sprawled sideways on a cushion consuming her bowl in a way that would have prompted commentary from any adult who had ever watched her eat.
Miu was at the table with a cup of tea and her notebook.
She looked up when I came in.
"Good morning," she said.
"It's morning," I said. A technical agreement rather than an assessment of quality.
"There is food," she said. "Sit."
Food was produced — I hadn't asked by whom, the logistics of the Benikaen remained mysterious, but someone maintained this place and that someone apparently included cooking in their responsibilities.
"You slept four hours," Miu said.
"How do you know how long I slept?"
"I woke up at the same time you did," she said. "And I know what time we went to sleep."
Saiko looked up from her bowl. "She keeps track of pointless shit like that, just ignore it."
I looked at Miu.
She looked at her notebook.
I ate my rice.
---
Arata arrived after breakfast, in the same clothes he'd been wearing the night before, with the energy of someone who had either slept extremely well or not at all.
"There's a full group rookie meeting at the meeting room with the school," he said.
I looked at him. "What do you mean, school? You're not about to enroll me in math class after nearly killing me with a bathroom ghost."
"Not that kind of school. A building that looks like a school. Technically it was one, about seventy years ago. Now it's a meeting room, Miu, Genkei, Saiko, you come too."
Genkei tugged his hood lower. "That always seemed ridiculous to me."
"Everything's ridiculous until you get used to it," Arata shot back.
"How many buildings in this organization have unexpected secondary functions?"
"Most of them," Saiko said.
"All of the interesting ones," Miu said, without looking up.
We headed to the meeting room.
---
Miu had been walking silently behind me, her hands folded neatly, her expression unreadable as always. Then, like she'd been rehearsing the timing, she tilted her head and spoke.
"Do you think cemeteries are schools for the dead," she asked, "or that schools are cemeteries for the living?"
I froze. "…What?"
Her glasses reflected the lantern light, and her voice didn't change at all. "Both are filled with names you memorize. Stories you never revisit. Buildings where the people inside decay slowly, and leave nothing behind but marks."
"…I hate this. Stop talking."
Saiko nearly tripped from laughing too hard. Genkei's shoulders tensed, and he muttered, "You're unbearable Saiko."
I sighed. "You really like saying things that sound profound until I actually think about them."
"That is what makes them profound," she answered without missing a beat.
I groaned. "I'm getting this feeling of déjà vu."
The walk wasn't long—stone corridors threaded like veins beneath the earth, eventually opening into a staircase that climbed upward, unlike everything else in the Benikaen that always dragged us down.
When we reached the top, sure enough, there it was: a school hallway, complete with sliding classroom doors and polished wood floors, preserved like some eerie diorama from another time.
"You've gotta be kidding me," I muttered.
"Welcome back to homeroom," Arata said, grinning.
"Your hood makes you look like a depressed crane," she said, poking at the droop of Genkei's hoodie.
Genkei pulled it tighter. "I'm not depressed. Or a crane."
"That's exactly what a depressed crane would say."
He kept walking without looking back.
I sighed.
"Did you know that every time you sigh a little bit of happiness gets let out?" She grinned and skipped ahead, deliberately brushing past Genkei.
The building had been a school. The evidence was architectural — the proportions of the hallways, the placement of doorways, the ghost of a notice board on one wall where a notice board had clearly been for decades. Someone had converted it, slowly, into the kind of space that a group of people who dealt with the dead and the supernatural needed. Walls covered in charms. Rooms set up as briefing spaces, practice areas, libraries with collections that didn't correspond to any educational curriculum.
Then we reached the doors. Heavy wood, lacquered black, carved with curling designs. The crest of the Onmyōji clan painted in stark white across them. The smell of incense grew sharper as Arata casually pushed them open.
Inside—desks. Neat rows. A blackboard at the front. For one dizzy second, it looked like an ordinary classroom. Then my eyes adjusted, and it felt nothing like school.
The room was full. Every desk occupied by men and women in cloaks and coats like ours. Some wore patterns, others stripes. At least thirty of them, seated in neat order, watching
Saiko froze. "…Wait. There's this many of us with customs?!"
She smacked her hands on a desk. "You made us sound like we were special, the first cool kids in history, Arata! Like pioneers! What the hell?!"
Arata shrugged, strolling in with his usual lopsided grin. "Well these uniforms for Gravebinders was a recently suggested thing, but you are special, just not exclusive. I mean, I never said you were the only cool kids. Just the ones I picked."
"That's worse!" Saiko hissed.
"Look," he said, pulling a chair back lazily, "you need to be able to tell Gravebinders apart from Onmyōji. Colors make it easy. Fashion and function. What's wrong with that?"
I sat down, groaning. "…I feel kinda scammed."
"I thought you hated yours itsuki," Saiko said.
Saiko folded her arms, sulking. "Scammed and underdressed."
At the front of the room, three men were waiting. And none of them looked normal.
The first had a shaved head except for a single braid that began at his left temple and hung down to his collarbone. His robe sleeves were covered in ink stains that moved, the kanji of sutras shifting slowly across the fabric as if being continuously written and rewritten. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he hadn't slept in years.
The second was enormous, shoulders filling his patched-together robe. His jaw was lined with a scar shaped like a lightning bolt, and a necklace of shattered rosary beads clinked faintly as he moved. He chewed on a toothpick as if daring someone to question it.
The third was thin and wiry, his hair sticking up like quills, dyed half white and half black. He smiled with too many teeth, his foot tapping constantly, and the dozen folded ofuda tags on his belt jingled whenever he shifted.
The braided man spoke first, voice flat and sharp as a blade. "Arata. Your choir is late."
Arata yawned loudly, waving dismissively.
"Eh. If the song's good, nobody cares when it starts."
The scarred giant grunted. The wiry one cackled, clapping his hands together.
"Since there are unfamiliar faces," the braided man continued, ignoring them, "introductions come first. My name is Kanzeon Ryūkō. My classification is Seal." He pressed his tattooed palms together in a prayer-like motion.
The giant cracked his knuckles, voice low and rumbling. "Daiten Gorō. Classification: Seal. Don't bother remembering my face—remember my fists."
The wiry man leaned forward, smiling far too wide. "Shōjō Karame. My classification is also Seal.
Saiko whispered, "They all sound like pro wrestlers."
I whispered back, "Because they are. Just with ghosts."
Ryūkō ignored us, his red-shot eyes scanning the crowd. "You have chosen—or been chosen—for the path of the Shaman. A path of burden, of weight. Some of you carry a fragment of the dead. Each of you will climb—or fall." The scarred giant folded his arms across his chest. The wood beneath him creaked in protest.
"Before any of you idiots start dreaming about becoming legends," Gorō rumbled, "you should probably know where you stand."
A boy immediately raised his hand.
"I stand above everyone spiritually."
"You stand one sentence away from getting executed."
He lowered his hand.
Ryūkō sighed.
"The classifications exist for a reason. They tell us how dangerous someone is, what duties they're trusted with, and how much burden they can safely carry." Ryūkō said.
He pressed his palms together.
"Among Gravebinders and graves, power is measured through five classifications."
The room darkened slightly.
A projection of pale gravestones appeared behind him.
"Grave-Class. Crypt-Class. Mausoleum-Class. Catacomb-Class. Necropolis-Class. A grave of a random nobody would be classified as Grave-Class, a grave of an ancestor would be Crypt-Class, a grave of a warrior would be Mausoleum-Class.
His eyes narrowed.
"Now unmarked graves are very tricky. They've been left with no information for however long and have built up negative spiritual energy which corrupts them, making the grave and spirit attached extremely aggressive and dangerous. These graves should never be bound to and low class Onmyōji cannot try to confront these spirits, these would be classified as Catacomb-Class. Finally graves of imperials or nobles…The Goryō. Spirits Of Wrath so great they toppled dynasties. These are forbidden and fall under the Necropolis-Class. Beyond those..."
The gravestones vanished.
"...is a title spoken very rarely."
Nobody missed the way all three instructors suddenly became serious.
"A Grave-Class Gravebinder is where most of you currently sit."
A small spirit appeared above his shoulder.
"At this stage, a Gravebinder typically possesses one bound grave and can at least bring forth their spiritual abilities.
Gorō nodded.
"Most Grave-Class assignments involve local hauntings. Wandering dead. Possession cases. Small curses."
Karame pointed at a student.
"You know those horror movies where the family buys a house for suspiciously cheap?"
The student nodded.
"Yeah. That's your job."
Laughter spread through the room.
Ryūkō continued.
"In terms of power..."
The room quieted.
Even the students who'd been whispering stopped.
"Necropolis-Class."
A few people exchanged nervous looks.
"A single one can alter history."
The spirit beside him transformed into a man holding a shotgun.
"A competent Grave-Class could survive a confrontation against conventional firearms."
The spirit fired.
The image shattered against an invisible barrier.
"They are no longer ordinary humans."
A murmur spread through the room.
---
"Next comes Crypt-Class."
Several more graves appeared.
"Most Gravebinders spend 2 or 3 years attempting to reach this point."
Gorō cracked his knuckles.
"Crypt-Class operators handle regional incidents."
The giant leaned forward.
"If a Grave-Class is called when a house becomes haunted..."
A grin spread across his face.
"A Crypt-Class is called when the entire neighborhood starts dying."
The room fell silent.
"A Crypt-Class usually has Greater manifestations of their unique abilities and stronger grave techniques."
Ryūkō nodded.
"A Crypt-Class Gravebinder could comfortably defeat armed military personnel in a head-on confrontation."
Several students visibly straightened in their seats.
---
"Mausoleum-Class."
Karame hopped onto a desk.
"A Mausoleum-Class can erase a city."
Several students immediately stopped taking notes.
Karame's voice lowered.
"Most Gravebinders never reach this level."
The graves behind Ryūkō grew larger.
Older and more ancient.
"Mausoleum-Class binders are trusted with national incidents."
Gorō continued.
"Natural disasters, Cursed outbreaks, Mass spirit manifestations. If one appears in a city, every spirit starts paying attention if they don't hide their spiriton flow."
---
"Then comes Catacomb-Class."
The walls vibrated slightly.
Just from the way everyone suddenly sat up.
"A Catacomb-Class is no longer considered as a gravebinder."
Ryūkō's eyes swept the room.
"They are strategic assets."
The giant folded his arms.
"Nations that know about Shamans keep records on Catacomb-Class individuals."
Karame's smile returned.
"The funny part is that by this point most records are outdated"
Several students exchanged nervous looks.
Gorō continued.
"A Catacomb-Class possesses enough power to destroy cities with consistency, influence countries, reform battlefields, command armies of spirits."
Saiko stopped spinning her pen.
Miu simply wrote something in her notebook.
I looked over to see what she'd written.
It said:
Cities are just large graveyards that haven't realized it yet.
I immediately looked away.
Ryūkō raised a single finger.
"Finally."
The projection changed.
A sprawling city of tombs.
An endless graveyard stretching beyond the horizon.
"Necropolis-Class."
"A Necropolis-Class Gravebinder is a disaster. A single Necropolis-Class can alter the course of history on a global scale."
Gorō's voice became unusually quiet.
"If one decides a country or continent should disappear..."
He paused.
"It disappears."
Karame spoke quietly.
"Multiple continents have changed because of people in this classification."
The room erupted.
"What?!"
"No way!"
"Continents?!"
Ryūkō struck the floor with his staff.
The room immediately fell silent again.
"Very few exist."
His voice was calm.
"Most people will never meet one."
His expression darkened.
"Be grateful for that."
---
A nervous hand rose.
"What about Pale Monarchs?"
All of the instructor's faces became hardened.
Finally Ryūkō spoke.
"That title is not a classification, It is an exception, As far as you're concerned..."
He opened his eyes.
"...they are myths."
Nobody asked a second question.
---
Karame immediately clapped his hands.
"Now! Gravebinders aren't the only poor souls stuck doing paperwork."
Several students groaned.
"That's right!" Karame shouted. "Paperwork!"
A collective wave of horror spread through the room.
Ryūkō rubbed his temples.
"Onmyōji."
The room brightened slightly.
"The second path."
Ancient looking talismans floated into existence.
"Where Gravebinders carry burdens… Onmyōji manipulate the threads connecting the living and the dead."
The talismans arranged themselves.
"Scribe-Class."
"Seal-Class."
"Invocation-Class."
"Paragon-Class."
"Exarch-Class."
"All of these ranks are equivalent to the gravebinder ranks in order, so i'll just give you their jobs." Gorō pointed toward the first symbol.
"Scribes spend most of their lives drawing seals."
A student raised his hand.
"That sounds boring."
"Uh, yeah it is."
Most of the room laughed.
Karame nodded enthusiastically.
"Yet every barrier, ward, and seal in this country begins with them."
The symbols shifted.
"Seal-Class operators maintain spiritual infrastructure like shrines or graves."
"Invocation-Class operators negotiate with and command spirits."
"Paragon-Class possess insight beyond perception. Which allows them to engage with catacomb and above level spirits."
The final symbol remained.
Exarch.
Even its appearance felt important.
"Exarch-Class Onmyōji are among the most respected supernatural authorities in the world."
Gorō leaned forward.
"An Exarch can stop wars before they begin."
Karame grinned.
"Or start them."
"Karame."
"What?"
After a moment of silence Gorō continued.
"The one who sits at the top of the Onmyōji and Gravebinder food chain is the Grand Onmyōji. He is in charge of both factions."
---
Ryūkō finally looked over the room.
"The classifications are not goals, they are warnings."
His gaze swept across every student.
"And every single one of them started exactly where you're sitting."
I frowned.
The more Ryuko spoke, the less believable it sounded.
A Grave-Class could survive gunfire.
A Necropolis-Class could alter the course of history.
A Catacomb-Class possessed enough power to threaten entire nations.
It sounded less like a hidden society and more like a child's fantasy.
"Yeah, no."
The words slipped out of my mouth before I could stop them.
Everyone turned towards me.
I pointed accusingly at Ryūko.
"So let me get this straight. A Necropolis-Class can change history, a Catacomb-Class can destroy countries, and somehow nobody knows about any of this?"
Silence.
"I've lived seventeen years on this planet. I've watched the news. I've gone to school. I've read history books. If people that powerful actually existed, don't you think somebody would've noticed?"
Karama snorted.
"A fair question."
Genkei pulled his hood lower.
"Then answer it."
Gorō leaned against a nearby gravestone.
"The problem is that you're taking our descriptions too literally."
"What does that mean?"l
Ryuko sighed.
"When we explain ranks to rookies, we convert power into examples they'll understand."
"What?" I asked.
"Think about it," he continued. "Spiritons don't exist in regular textbooks. Neither do Onmyōji Arts, Ossuary Arts, or Gravebinding. If I told you a Necropolis-Class possesses enough spiritons to generate a seventy-two-fold increase in spiriton pressure relative to a Catacomb-Class, would that mean anything to you?"
"...No."
Karame raised a finger.
"So instead we say things like 'Erasing countries' or 'history-changing.' They're approximations."
I was still unconvinced.
"Approximations of what?"
"Potential."
Gorō answered immediately.
"The amount of force, influence, destruction, or supernatural impact they can theoretically exert."
He tapped the side of his head.
"A rank isn't a list of guaranteed achievements."
Ryuko nodded.
"Not every Catacomb-Class can walk outside and erase a country."
"Then why say they can?"
"Because some can literally do that while some use influence or other means."
I paused.
Karame crouched beside me.
"Listen carefully, kid."
His usually playful voice had become serious.
"A Gravebinder's strength isn't determined by rank alone."
He held up a finger.
"The spirit they're bound to."
A second finger.
"The amount of spiritons they possess."
A third.
"The mastery of their Arts."
A fourth.
"The compatibility between themselves and their grave."
"And finally..."
A fifth finger.
"The conditions of the battle itself."
Gorō continued.
"Two Gravebinders can share the exact same rank and differ in power by ridiculous amounts."
"How ridiculous?"
"Imagine two professional boxers. One might be good enough to win local tournaments. The other might be the greatest boxer in history."
"...Fair."
"Same rank but vastly different results."
Ryukō folded his arms.
"A Necropolis-Class bound to the grave of an obscure merchant and a Necropolis-Class bound to a legendary conqueror are both Necropolis-Class. But they won't be equal, not even close."
The realization slowly settled in.
"So when you say a Necropolis-Class binder can change history… you should hear that as they possess enough power that, under the right circumstances, they could alter the course of history."
"Not literally every single one," I responded.
"Based on my knowledge, yes."
I rubbed my temple.
That sounded far more reasonable, still insane but reasonable.
"Okay."
I pointed toward the endless rows of graves.
"Then if people that strong exist, why hasn't the world seen them?"
Karame spoke.
"Because the people strong enough to do that are usually smart enough not to reveal real shamans and spirits to the public."
Gorō's eyes drifted toward the cemetery.
Ryūkō said one last thing before we left.
"By the way, It's much easier to rise through the ranks as an Onmyōji, due to the fact that they're naturally superior."
Arata rolls his eyes.
Some Gravebinders start whispering.
What does he mean superior?
"The fundamental distinction," he said, "is one of origin. A Gravebinder's power is borrowed. Leased from the dead, contingent on the contract, shaped by someone else's life and death. Remove the grave and the Gravebinder returns to baseline. The Onmyōji produce their own power. It originates within them. It cannot be taken, cannot be severed, cannot be revoked by anything outside the practitioner themselves. This is not a matter of opinion. It is a structural fact about how each path operates."
He pressed his tattooed palms together.
"An Onmyōji at equivalent rank will, in most circumstances, outlast a Gravebinder in a sustained engagement simply because the Gravebinder's ceiling is determined by what the dead are willing to give on any given day. The Onmyōji's ceiling is determined only by themselves."
The room was quiet.
Then a chair scraped back.
Not carefully, nor with the hesitation of someone asking permission to speak.
He wasn't tall or particularly imposing.
The first thing I noticed about him was that he took up more room than his actual size accounted for.
He was medium-to-tall, broad across the shoulders in a way that happens from years of physical work rather than deliberate training, the kind of build that arrives gradually and then just stays. It wasn't that. It was something about the way he occupied space, like his presence had strong opinions about its own radius and expected the room to respect them.
His face was the kind that broadcast everything happening behind it before he'd decided whether to share it. Dark green eyes that went sharp when something landed wrong — and I got the sense things landed wrong for him fairly regularly. His hair was white and slightly too long and slightly too unkempt to be a deliberate choice. It was just what happened when someone didn't think about their hair.
His uniform was where it got interesting.
Regulation in structure — same cut, same clan markings in the right places — but that's where the similarity to standard issue ended. The jacket had been modified at the cuffs, the original fabric replaced with something darker and more reinforced, it looked like the original got destroyed enough times that he stopped replacing it and start upgrading it instead. The collar had been raised slightly, stiffened, and along the inside of it — barely visible unless you were looking — he'd stitched a lining of small silver thread in a pattern that wasn't decorative but functional. Some kind of basic spiritual reinforcement sewn directly into the fabric. I could tell from looking.
The patches were the main event. Not talisman patches like Saiko's, not the clan insignia — personal ones, irregular in size and placement, covering the left shoulder and part of the upper chest in a pattern that looked chaotic until you realized each one was positioned over a seam. Every structural weak point in the jacket had something over it. Whatever had torn him up bad enough to learn where jackets failed, he'd apparently decided to remember it this way.
And on the collar — attached to the stiffened inner edge was a slightly worn and slightly improvised small rabbit charm. Brass. Old enough to have lost most of its finish. He wore it where most people would put a military rank insignia.
"My name is Daichi Usami."
Long pause. Then he starts.
"Sir, what do you mean by that."
It wasn't a question. It was a demand wearing a question's punctuation.
Ryūkō looked at him. His expression didn't change. "I mean what I said."
"You said borrowed." Daichi's jaw was tight. "Like we're renting something. Like the dead just — loan us power and we give it back at the end of the night."
"That is approximately what occurs, yes."
"It's not." The word came out hard. "I buried my rabbit. I put him in the ground myself. I was there when he died. I made the offering because I wanted to honor him, not because I was trying to get something out of it, and the grave took me anyway. That's not a lease."
You can even bind to animals?!
He put his hands flat on the desk. "That's a relationship. That's eight years of feeding him and cleaning up after him and knowing exactly how he moved when he was comfortable versus when he wasn't, and apparently that meant something to whatever decides these things, because he chose me."
He looked at Ryūkō directly. "You're standing up there telling me that's structurally inferior to producing your own power. I'm asking you what you mean by that."
Many students stopped what they were doing to listen, even Miu.
Ryūkō was quiet for a moment.
"I mean," he said, "that in a sustained engagement against an Onmyōji of equivalent rank, a Gravebinder's output will degrade before an Onmyōji's does. The grave's willingness has limits. The practitioner's own reserves do not have the same kind of limits." He paused. "I did not say the relationship was meaningless. I said the power is borrowed. Both of those things are true simultaneously."
"They're not the same thing," Daichi said.
"No," Ryūkō agreed. "They're not. I didn't say they were."
Daichi stared at him for a moment longer.
Then he sat down. He didn't seem satisfied but he'd made the point he needed to make and understood that this particular conversation had reached the end of what it was going to give him in this room.
The rabbit charm on his collar was still. He didn't touch it.
Gorō leaned on the lectern. "The distinction Ryūkō is drawing isn't really a hierarchy of worth," he said, in his low rumbling voice. "It's more of a description of mechanics. A Gravebinder who understands their grave deeply, who has built a genuine relationship with what they carry, will outperform an Onmyōji who is technically capable but spiritually shallow. The ceiling isn't fixed by the path. It's fixed by the person." He looked at Daichi.
"What you described — eight years, genuine grief, an offering made without calculation — that's the kind of foundation most Gravebinders spend their entire careers trying to build and never fully manage. Ryūkō wasn't diminishing it. He was describing where it sits in a mechanical framework that doesn't account for it properly."
Ryūkō said nothing. He didn't confirm or deny this. He simply moved on.
Daichi didn't say anything either.
But Saiko leaned over to me and whispered, very quietly: "He's right though."
"Which one?" I whispered back.
She thought about it.
"I don't know," she said.
—
in the hall, heads spinning. Tenmyō was waiting for us.
"Well done," he said smoothly. "Congratulations. You're officially Crypt-Class binders now."
We all froze.
Genkei frowned. "…That can't be right. We're only Grave-Class."
Tenmyō tilted his head, almost amused.
"Grave-Class? None of you are there anymore. You've already proven stronger. You're Crypt-Class, whether you realized it or not."
I blinked. "Wait, then why—"
Arata scratched his cheek, grinning. "Ah, that's on me. I mixed them up. Forgot which one came first. Crypt, Graven—same ghostly paint to me. My bad."
I gawked at him. "You're telling me you didn't even remember the basic rank order? You're supposed to be our teacher!"
He shrugged, smirking wider. "Me and my peers never started that low, so I mixed it up."
Saiko groaned. "Are you kidding me?!"
I turned to him, exasperated. "Then what rank are you now, Arata?"
He tilted his head just enough for the lantern light to catch his eyes. "I'm one sea away from the top. Paragon-Class"
The words dropped like stones in water.
Genkei stiffened. Miu adjusted her glasses, silent. Saiko gawked, caught somewhere between impressed and annoyed it seems.
I realized for the first time just how high above us Arata really stood.
None of us spoke for a long moment I think.
Saiko was the first to break the silence, blurting out, "One from the top?! You've been clowning around this whole time and you're basically… a god?"
Arata grinned, rocking back on his heels.
"Nah, not a god. If I was, I'd be taller."
I wanted to smack him.
"You can't just drop that and laugh it off.
You're saying you're basically the strongest Onmyōji we'll ever meet other than Tenmyō."
He tilted his head, his smirk widening. "I didn't say strongest. I said close, don't confuse directions with destinations, kid."
Miu's voice cut through gently.
"A step from the peak is still higher than the ground."
Genkei folded his arms.
"Then why are you even with us? If you're that powerful, wouldn't your place be elsewhere?"
Arata winked.
"Maybe I got bored. Maybe I like climbing with company."
Tenmyō cleared his throat. His tone was calm, but it silenced us faster than any shout.
"You all misunderstand the more important point. Rank is only one thing. What concerns me is your particular… peculiarity, Itsuki Ririku."
I blinked. "My… what?"
Genkei adjusted his hood, speaking for me.
"The thing we discussed before. He means how you bound with Aka Manto. With no grave."
Saiko leaned forward, eyes wide. "Yeah, seriously. You just absorbed her. You weren't even trying!"
"Now that a few hours have passed, can you try to explain it in detail?" Tenmyō asked.
I rubbed the back of my neck, uneasy.
"I don't know. It didn't feel like the gravebinding I experienced or everyone else was describing. It wasn't heavy or suffocating. It was… like falling into someone else's dream. Then I woke up with her cloak and knife."
Tenmyō studied me quietly. His gaze wasn't harsh, but it was heavy, like he was measuring me against a scale I couldn't see.
"Unprecedented."
Miu raised her hand like she was answering a riddle only she understood. "Unprecedented and unnamed."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Saiko asked.
Miu adjusted her glasses, her voice flat but faintly musical.
"If a child is born with no family registry, are they not still alive? If a grave has no marker, is it not still a grave? Absence does not erase. It only confuses.
Tenmyō finally spoke again. "Then he bonded with the ghost itself."
"Ghost? I don't get it. What's the difference if it has a grave or not? I'm still bonding with a ghost."
Arata leaned in, resting his chin on his palm, eyes twinkling with amusement.
"Ah, now we're getting somewhere. You kids keep mixing 'spirit' and 'ghost' like they're the same thing."
Saiko raised an eyebrow. "Okay, so what's the difference?"
Arata straightened, suddenly serious. "Spirits are just that—spirits. People who died. Your average father, sister, warrior, merchant, monk. Their graves hold their memory, and gravebinders pull on that memory to fight. Simple."
Then he wagged a finger. "But ghosts… ghosts are different. Ghosts are the ones you whisper about. The ones with folklore. The ones kids tell each other at night to scare themselves. Kuchisake-onna. Teke Teke. Aka Manto. They're spirits too, but shaped, chained, locked into what their stories say they are. You can't make Aka Manto into a gentle nurse, no matter how nicely you ask. Her powers are bound by her tale."
Genkei's eyes sharpened. "So Itsuki didn't just bind a spirit. He bound a ghost. Which is an imaginary entity brought forth into our world."
"Exactly," Arata said, snapping his fingers. "Impossible, and yet here he is, standing, drooling a little, but alive."
I scowled. "I wasn't drooling."
"You were absolutely drooling," Saiko said, smirking.
"Genkei, back me up."
Genkei actually nodded. "…You were drooling."
I threw my hands up. "Unbelievable."
Miu's voice slipped in again. "Belief is irrelevant. The world does not wait for us to believe in it."
"So you have your own philosophy on this…. Not helping!" I shot back.
Tenmyō ignored the bickering. His gaze was still fixed on me.
"Ghosts are dangerous because their fame feeds them. The more their story is told, the stronger they become. To bind one is unheard of. Dangerous, yes. But also… perhaps necessary."
"Necessary?" I echoed.
"We'll see soon enough. The age of ordinary spirits may be ending. This new ability may be of use in the future."