It had been two weeks since Megumi started going to school. The routine was the same repetitive, monotonous cycle he remembered from his previous life.
The only class that caught his attention was the one about the Nightmare Spell and the Dream World, and even that covered basics he had already deduced from the datapads.
During this entire time, he stayed reclusive. He hardly tried to talk or make connections with other students.
Many had approached him at first, attempting small talk about homework or cafeteria food, but Megumi's curt answers and the awkward atmosphere around him made them back off one by one.
After a few days, even Rain stopped staring at him from across the classroom.
The pattern was simple. Megumi went to school, did his classes, stayed alone during break time, and came home.
The only connection he maintained was messaging Sunny.
Today was different.
Among the standard courses was Practical Combat Fundamentals. Self-defense and survival tips in preparation for the Nightmare Spell. The last two sessions had taught him nothing; his body still remembered the violence of jujutsu sorcery from a life these instructors couldn't know about.
At first, Megumi tried to opt out. He had never been an instigator. If there was nothing to gain, he didn't fight. That's why he never fought back in the outskirts. It would have only made them gain more animosity and make them return with more people.
But he wasn't a pacifist either. He fought when he found a reason in it.
The homeroom teacher had rejected his request. Combat Fundamentals was a graded course, one of the major principle courses required for certification. No exceptions.
So here he was, an uninterested participant among over-excited kids who thought learning how to throw a punch made them warriors.
The Academy's training hall smelled like old sweat, industrial disinfectant, and the particular ozone scent of teenage anxiety. It was a Tuesday afternoon, which meant two hours of Practical Combat Fundamentals—a course title that suggested far more competence than the student body currently possessed.
Megumi stood against the wall, arms crossed, watching his classmates bounce on the balls of their feet with the kind of enthusiasm that suggested they'd never been punched in the face. Two weeks into the semester, and the novelty of "Awakened training" hadn't worn off yet. For them, this was the prologue to their legend, the opening chapter of their heroic journey.
For Megumi, it was remedial education at best, tedious theater at worst.
His pocket buzzed.
He palmed the communicator discreetly.
Sunny: The food here is great. I'll pack some for you when I return.
Megumi's lips twitched—a rare breach in his carefully maintained mask of indifference. He thumbed a reply, fingers moving with practiced speed.
Megumi: You're in the academy. Why are you focused on the food, instead of training?
The response came thirty seconds later.
Sunny: I was hungry.
Megumi: Does the food taste that good?
Sunny: ...Yes.
Megumi: Then stop eating it, and start training.
Sunny: Too late. If I die, know that I loved you. Also, delete my browser history.
"Communicators away, Megumi!" Instructor Targh's voice boomed across the hall like a cannon shot.
The man was a mountain in human skin—six-foot-four, scarred, weathered, with a nose that had been broken enough times to zigzag like a lightning bolt. He wore the standard instructor's uniform: black tactical pants, reinforced boots, and a sleeveless compression shirt that displayed arms like tree trunks. "Unless you're texting your girlfriend about your funeral arrangements, pocket it."
Megumi silenced the device without argument, sliding it into his pocket with a fluid motion.
Around him, students snickered—nervous, performative laughter meant to demonstrate their own innocence.
Across the room, Louis Beaumont caught his eye. The Golden Boy of Class 3-B. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed, with the kind of symmetrical features that belonged on magazines. He was stretching his shoulders, rotating his arms in wide circles.
Trained since childhood by a father who served in the Awakened Bureau. Megumi had catalogued him weeks ago.
Louis flashed a grin—perfect teeth, warm, inviting. The kind of smile that collected friends like trophies.
Megumi looked away.
"Today's agenda," Targh barked, pacing the perimeter of the circular rope ring laid out on the padded floor. His boots squeaked against the vinyl mats with each step. "Live sparring. Five-minute rounds. Win by submission, ring-out, or referee stoppage. That means me. I see any cheap shots, any eye-gouging, the matchs over. After that we're going to have a very educational conversation in my office. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, sir!" rippled through the class.
"Line up. Alphabetical order. I call your name, you step up. Winner stays in until they lose or until I say they're done. Losers go to the observation corner and write me a three-hundred-word essay on what they did wrong."
The class scrambled into a ragged line. Megumi took his place near the end. Twenty-three students. Assuming average match length of two minutes, he had approximately eighteen minutes before his turn.
He noted the energy shift among his peers. Some paled, hands shaking. Others with the sharp eyes and sharper elbows—cracked their knuckles with predatory focus.
"First match!" Targh consulted his clipboard. "Anders versus Chen!"
Tom Anders stepped forward, a tall boy with red hair. He grinned nervously at his opponent, Elaine Chen, who was preparing herself.
"Begin!"
Anders immediately threw a right cross. Unfortunately, his mechanics were nonexistent. He swung from the shoulder, elbow flared, chin up, weight overcommitted. The punch missed Chen by approximately six inches and the momentum spun him around like a top.
Chen, to her credit, tried a roundhouse kick. She chambered the leg correctly, but her pivot foot stuck on the mat. Instead of rotating her hips, she hopped in a circle, arms windmilling for balance, and stumbled forward out of bounds without ever making contact.
"Stop!" Targh's voice cut through the nervous laughter. "Just... stop. Chen, you're out. Anders, you're still in. Learn to guard your face. You're not boxing your own shadow! Next! Anders versus Park!"
The pattern continued. Megumi watched with the enthusiasm of a man observing paint dry, cataloging the failures with the clinical detachment of someone who had seen real combat.
These children—because that's what they were, moved like they were underwater. Telegraphs wide enough to drive trucks through. Guards that consisted of flinching and hoping. Footwork that suggested they were fighting on ice.
There was the boy-girl hesitation problem. When paired against female opponents, most male students developed sudden cases of chivalry. Hands hovered awkwardly, strikes pulled at the last moment, apologetic whispers of "Sorry!" accompanied every attempted hit. It was inefficient, stupid, and dangerous. In the real world, these kinds of mistakes got to you killed. (AN: Careful, Megumi.... your Zenin is showing)
One girl, Martinez something, lanky and apologetic—burst into actual tears after taking a light jab to the stomach from a boy named Viktor. She sat in the corner, writing her essay.
Megumi observed the hierarchy forming in real-time. There were the helpless ones, soft children from safe homes who had never known violence.
There were the enthusiastic but incompetent ones, strong bodies without the software to run them properly.
There were the dilettantes, kids who had taken karate classes at malls, performing kata with rigid precision but no understanding of application.
And then there were the outliers.
"Rain versus Anders!" Targh called.
Rain stepped forward. She looked compact, nervous, her stance too square and her hands held too low.
Tom Anders, still the reigning champion by virtue of not having faced anyone competent yet, grinned at her.
"Don't worry," he said, loud enough for his friends to hear. "I'll go easy on you."
.
"Begin!"
"Look," Anders said, raising his hands in a placating gesture as they entered the ring. "I don't really feel comfortable hitting a girl, so maybe we could just—"
"Start!"
Rain didn't wait. She lunged forward with no technique whatsoever, just raw, scrappy aggression.
She barreled into Anders' chest shoulder-first, grabbing handfuls of his uniform rather than any proper grip. Anders, still mid-apology, barely had time to register surprise before she drove forward with all her weight, pushing rather than throwing.
He stumbled backward, off-balance from his own hesitation, trying to catch her without hurting her. His foot hit the rope boundary.
Rain shoved again, clumsy but effective. Anders tripped over the rope and sat down hard on the mat outside the ring, blinking in confusion.
"Winner, Rain!" Targh called, sounding amused. "Exploitation of hesitation is still a win. Anders, you're an idiot, never negotiate during a fight. Rain..."
He paused, looking at her awkward stance, her heavy breathing, the way she was already backing away. "Good instincts, I guess. Stay in."
Rain's friends shrieked congratulations from the sidelines. She bowed once, quick and stiff, and retreated to the corner with obvious relief.
"Rain versus Park!" Targh called.
Rain stepped up again, still breathing hard from her last match. She faced Jun Park. He didn't look particularly threatening, just another student trying to get through the day.
"Begin!"
Rain tried the same tactic. She rushed forward immediately, aiming to barrel into him before he could set his feet, grabbing for his shirtfront with both hands.
But Park didn't hesitate.
As Rain charged, he simply stepped aside, clumsy, but effective, and stuck out his foot. Rain tripped over it, momentum carrying her forward. She stumbled, flailing, and Park pushed her in the back with both palms. Not hard, just enough.
Rain stumbled out of bounds, catching herself on the ropes before she could fall.
"Winner, Park!" Targh barked. "Rain, you have exactly one move and it only works on chivalrous idiots. Learn to actually fight. You're out."
Rain's face flushed red. She ducked her head and hurried to the observation corner, her earlier luck having run out against someone who simply treated her as an opponent rather than a girl.
Megumi watched her go.
Then the energy shifted.
"Next!" Targh's voice took on a different timbre. "Louis Hensen versus Bruno Schmidt!"
The class murmured. Louis stepped forward, rolling his shoulders with the relaxed confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
His opponent, Bruno, was tall, the tallest in the class. He cracked his neck, grinning, clearly believing that size would translate to dominance.
They entered the ring. Targh checked them over, then stepped back.
"Begin!"
Bruno swung a haymaker the size of a dinner plate. It was fast for a big man, wind whistling as it cut through the air.
Louis didn't even blink.
He slipped inside the arc, pivoted on his heel, and drove a short, vicious fist into Bruno's solar plexus. The big boy folded like a card table, gasping, eyes bulging. He hit his knees, then his face, wheezing for air that wouldn't come.
Silence.
"Match!" Targh helped Bruno up, clapping him on the back. "Louis—clean entry, good discipline. Bruno, learn to jab. You telegraphed that swing from last Tuesday. Next! Louis versus Jenkins!"
The girls' section erupted in cheers. "Louis! Louis!"
"Quiet!" Targh roared. "Or I'll make you all run laps!"
Jenkins was the winner of the previous bout—a decent striker with quick feet. He tried to box Louis, keeping range with jabs. Louis absorbed one on his shoulder, let Jenkins overextend on a cross, then ducked under and executed a textbook double-leg takedown. The submission came thirty seconds later via arm-triangle choke.
"Again," Targh called. "Louis versus Morrison!"
The third challenger was the same wiry kid who'd given Rain trouble. He kept mobile, refusing to engage directly. Louis pursued patiently, cutting off angles. When Morrison threw a feint-high, low-kick combination, Louis checked the kick and drove forward with a shoulder tackle that carried them both to the ropes. Morrison tried to scramble out, but Louis controlled his hips, pinning him until the instructor called the ring-out.
"Three wins," Targh said, looking impressed despite himself. "Louis, you're done for today. Good work."
Louis grinned, bowing to the applause. His eyes scanned the room, looking for the next challenge, and landed on Megumi.
No, Megumi thought. Don't.
"Last match!" Targh consulted his clipboard. "Megumi versus Louis!"
Of course.
Megumi stepped into the ring with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to the gallows. The cheers for Louis were deafening—an entire seating section of admirers chanting his name, girls clutching their hands to their chests, boys looking on with the kind of hero-worship that made Megumi's stomach turn.
Megumi's section had... well, Megumi didn't have a section. He had empty space and the faint hope that this would be over quickly.
"Rules standard," Targh said, looking between them.
"I want a clean fight," Targh continued. "Five minutes. Win by submission, ring-out, or my call. Begin!"
Louis rushed immediately. Same opening as his previous three fights—a blitzing right hook aimed at the jaw, fast and committed, designed to overwhelm opponents before they could settle into the match.
Megumi took one step back. Just one. The fist whispered past his nose, close enough to feel the wind of it.
Louis didn't pause. He followed with a left straight, then a right uppercut, stepping forward with each strike, maintaining pressure. Step, step, pivot. Megumi moved like water, never engaging, never committing. He wasn't fighting; he was observing.
Telegraphed, Megumi noted, his mind running cold and clinical. Cross follows the hook. Leans forward on the third strike. Weight transfers to the front foot. Guard drops on the second phase of the combination.
"Hit him!" someone yelled from the crowd.
"Why won't he fight?" another voice complained, frustrated by the lack of action.
Louis pressed harder, frustration creeping into his perfect technique. He threw a jab, then a cross, then a sloppy roundhouse kick that Megumi ducked under by exactly three inches. The kick passed over his head, Louis's leg extended fully, exposing his back for a quarter-second.
Megumi didn't counter. He simply reset his position, maintaining distance, letting the clock run.
Pattern established, Megumi thought. He chains combinations—one-two, one-two-three, always ending with the right hand heavy. Predictable. Pretty, but predictable. He's used to winning quickly against inferior opponents. No endurance training beyond the second minute. Breathing is already labored.
It was true. Louis was breathing hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He wasn't used to being the pursuer. He was used to being the executioner, ending fights in the opening seconds. This cat-and-mouse game was draining him psychologically as much as physically.
Two minutes in. Louis lunged with a desperate Superman punch, overextending his base, reaching for a knockout that wasn't there.
Megumi moved.
He weaved inside the attack, grabbed Louis's extended arm and lapel with both hands, twisted his hips in a perfect tai sabaki, and executed a classical ippon seoi nage. Louis flew through the air in a perfect arc, his body rotating 180 degrees before landing hard on the mat outside the rope boundary with a stunned thud that echoed in the sudden silence.
The school bell rang.
"Winner," Targh said slowly, ''Megumi."
Louis lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, blue eyes blinking in disbelief. The wind had been knocked out of him—not by the throw, which had been controlled and safe, but by the sheer impossibility of what had just happened.
Megumi stood over him, expression neutral. He offered a hand.
For a long moment, Louis just stared at it. Then, slowly, he took it, allowing Megumi to pull him to his feet.
"That was..." Louis started, his voice hoarse.
"Boring," Megumi finished quietly. "Sorry."
He turned and walked out of the ring before the whispers could coalesce into conversation. He grabbed his bag from against the wall and headed for the exit.
"Megumi!" Targh's voice stopped him at the door.
Megumi turned.
"Who taught you to fight like that?" The instructor's eyes were sharp, probing. "That wasn't Academy standard. That was... something else."
Megumi considered the question. The answer was complicated. He'd learned to fight, in a life that this world said had never happened.
"No one you'd know," Megumi said. "Sir."
He left before Targh could ask more.
---
The message came at midnight.
Megumi was sitting on his dormitory bed, reading a textbook on Nightmare Creature taxonomy that he'd already memorized three days ago. His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Sunny: Winter Solstice tomorrow. Don't wait up. Might be... a while.
Megumi sat up straight, the textbook forgotten. Winter Solstice. The crucible that would either kill Sunny or forge him into something else.
He'd been trying not to think about it, trying to pretend that Sunny was just on a school trip, that the casual texts were normal. That his brother wasn't walking into a death trap from which most people never returned.
He typed, deleted, typed again. His thumbs hovered over the screen.
Megumi: Don't die.
Sunny: Planning on it. You focus on school. Don't get into trouble.
Megumi: Too late.
Sunny: ?
Megumi: Nothing. Good luck.
He set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.
His communicator buzzed again.
Louis: Hey, it's Louis. From class. Got your number from the class chat. Hope that's okay.
Megumi stared at the screen. He hadn't given anyone his number. He'd made sure of that.
Louis: That throw was amazing. Where did you learn judo?
Megumi: Books.
Louis: lol seriously though, can we train together sometime? I want to learn how to read opponents like you do.
Megumi didn't respond. He turned the communicator face-down and went to sleep.
---
Three days later, the mock exam results went up.
Megumi hadn't even tried to top the charts. He'd simply... answered the questions.
He'd been careful to miss a few questions—just enough to avoid suspicion, to maintain the image of a smart but not exceptionally gifted student. He'd aimed for the top ten, maybe top five.
He stood before the notice board in the main hallway, surrounded by the usual morning crowd of students checking their grades, and felt the blood drain from his face.
1. Megumi.
2. Louis.
3. Kuroshima.
Perfect score. Not just first place, but perfect. He'd second-guessed himself on the trick questions, changed answers that he'd known were correct, and still ended up with one hundred percent.
He stood frozen, staring at his name in black ink, and felt a sinking sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with nausea and everything to do with dawning horror.
"Oh my god, it's him!"
The voice came from his left, high-pitched and excited. He turned to see a gaggle of girls—three, then five, then eight—converging on his position like piranha scenting blood in the water. They carried notebooks, bento boxes, and the terrifying enthusiasm of newfound admiration.
(AN: Hahahaa Sasuke from wish.com)
"Megumi-kun! You scored perfect on the theoreticals!"
"Is it true you trained with the Yamamoto clan? My cousin said he saw you at their dojo!"
"Your fight with Louis was amazing! Can you teach me that throw? I keep getting pinned by the boys!"
"I made you lunch! It's got your favorite—wait, do you have a favorite? What's your favorite food?"
(AN: Tomatoes.. maybeee?)
The questions came like machine-gun fire, rapid and relentless. Megumi backed up, hitting the wall, looking for an exit that was suddenly blocked by more students. Boys now too, looking at him with expressions ranging from envy to curiosity to the desperate hope that proximity to excellence might rub off on them.
"Move," Megumi said quietly.
They didn't hear him. Or if they did, they didn't care.
"Megumi, can you help me study for the practicals? I'll pay you!"
"Are you going to the Winter Ball? We could go together—I mean, if you want—no pressure!"
"Is it true you're an orphan? That's so tragic! You must be so lonely!"
The last comment made Megumi's eye twitch. He pushed forward, using his elbows with surgical precision—not hurting anyone, but creating space through pressure points and leverage. He broke through the crowd and walked fast, head down.
"Wait! Megumi!"
"Come back!"
He turned the corner and broke into a light jog, weaving through the hallways. But the school wasn't big enough to hide in forever, and the crowd followed, chattering like a flock of excited birds, growing larger as more students joined the parade.
He ducked into a supply closet and held his breath, listening to the stampede pass by.
This is bad, he thought, leaning his head against the metal shelving. This is very bad.
He'd spent two weeks cultivating invisibility. The quiet seat in the back. The noncommittal answers. The careful avoidance of eye contact and conversation. All destroyed in a single morning because he hadn't been careful enough on a test.
He stayed in the closet until the bell rang, signaling the start of classes. He slipped out and made his way to his first period—Advanced Nightmare Theory—taking his usual seat in the back corner.
The seat next to him was usually empty. Today, it was occupied.
"Hey," Louis said, grinning that perfect, radiant grin. "Fancy meeting you here."
Megumi stared at him.
"I switched my schedule," Louis explained, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Turns out we have similar academic interests. Nightmare Creature taxonomy, tactical application of Aspects, survival psychology... we're in all the same classes now."
"Why?" Megumi asked. It came out flat, hostile.
Louis's grin didn't waver. "Because you're interesting, Megumi."
Megumi looked at him for a long moment.
"Fine," Megumi ground out. "But don't talk to me during class."
"I make no promises."
Class began. Professor Hemlock, began her lecture on the ecology of the Nightmare Spell. Megumi tried to focus, but he could feel eyes on the back of his neck. Whispers in the rows ahead. Notes being passed.
He caught Rain looking at him from across the aisle. She didn't smile. She simply nodded once.
Great. Now he had two of them watching him.