April 3, 2103 — 3:15 pm Imperial Standard Time
Falconry Institute Inner Campus — Obsidian Plaza
"Hey, Mr. Top Scorer," Mitsui's lazy drawl cut through the noise of the plaza. "Maybe we should continue checking the others before half the campus starts circling him."
Ichiro turned slightly.
Mitsui and Akira had already drifted over during the recruiter's warning. Together, the contrast between them was impossible to miss.
The two Crest students stood wrapped in the tailored authority of Falcon's elite uniforms—double-breasted charcoal coats, gold-thread embroidery woven sharply into the Falcon insignias across their chests. Even among the crowds of incoming freshmen, they carried the composed presence of people the system had already decided to elevate.
Beside them, Ichiro's standard black three-piece looked almost severe in its simplicity.
And on his shoulder, the white FEATHER IV insignia remained impossible to ignore.
The sophomore recruiter looked between them, the confidence she carried moments ago visibly faltering. Realization settled across her face in pieces.
The abnormal freshman she had cornered was not isolated.
He was already walking beside monsters.
Ichiro looked back at her, calm and unreadable.
"Thanks for the warning," he said evenly. "But I'll manage."
Then he turned and walked.
The recruiter remained standing beside her holographic clipboard as the three disappeared deeper into the currents of Obsidian Plaza.
Around them, the plaza moved like a living machine.
Recruitment banners rotated overhead in massive holographic loops. Upperclassmen intercepted freshmen at every intersection. Combat Houses advertised sponsorships while political factions quietly evaluated bloodlines beneath polite smiles.
Every interaction felt transactional.
Every glance carried calculation.
"You really do attract attention without trying, Yoshima," Mitsui remarked casually, slipping both hands into the pockets of his coat.
His relaxed posture hid the constant movement in his eyes. Even while speaking, he tracked the surrounding crowds automatically, reading reactions, exits, and potential threats with practiced ease.
"She was explaining the rules," Ichiro replied.
"The rules are simple," Akira said quietly from his other side. "The politics are not."
She moved through the crowd with smooth precision, never once breaking stride.
"Falcon already began filtering students the moment we entered the gates," she continued. "The only difference is how each class gets filtered."
Mitsui gave a faint grin.
"If you think about it, every tier has a disadvantage."
Akira glanced toward him briefly, signaling for him to continue.
"The higher-tier students with inflated FPIs earned purely through family influence are being pampered," Mitsui said. "It gives them a false sense of security."
His eyes drifted toward a cluster of Crest students gathering near one of the tactical recruitment booths.
"If what that recruiter said is true, then those students become targets the second Falcon starts applying pressure. Weak, privileged people always attract attention."
Akira nodded once.
"Meanwhile, the lower tiers suffer from the opposite problem," she said. "Most of them begin with low FPIs, which means they will become desperate to gain more."
Her gaze remained fixed ahead.
"Either way, Falcon achieves the same result. The strong remain. The weak are removed."
A brief pause.
"Regardless of lineage."
The sounds of the plaza seemed to dull slightly around them as the implication settled.
Falcon Institute was never designed to eliminate inequality.
It was designed to weaponize competition until only useful people survived.
Mitsui exhaled quietly through his nose before tilting his head toward Ichiro.
"With that being said," Mitsui said lightly, "all I can see is that our famous Yakuza heir here somehow ended up with the worst position possible."
"That is correct," Akira replied calmly.
Her eyes shifted toward Ichiro briefly.
"Because he is being targeted by both the strong and the desperate."
Ichiro remained silent for several steps before speaking.
"I already know what I need to do," he said.
His voice stayed calm. Clinical.
"Falcon is deliberately making advancement difficult for me. There are only two possible reasons."
His eyes remained fixed ahead.
"Either they expect me to remove myself, or—"
"They're sharpening you," Akira interrupted quietly.
For the first time since leaving the recruitment booth, she looked directly at him.
"They're maximizing your capacity."
A brief silence followed.
Then Ichiro gave a slow nod.
Mitsui glanced between the two of them before letting out a quiet laugh.
"You know," he muttered, "that's officially the longest conversation I've heard him have all day."
Neither of them reacted.
But Mitsui's faint amusement slowly faded as his gaze drifted toward the surrounding plaza.
Toward the Crest students.
Toward the lower tiers watching from a distance.
Toward the invisible pressure already forming around Ichiro without most people realizing it.
"You both don't see it," Mitsui said quietly. "But I do."
That earned a brief glance from Akira.
"Some people are going to look at this situation and assume Falcon is testing whether Ichiro survives."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"The way I see it…"
A small smirk formed at the corner of his mouth.
"He's the filter."
The noise of the plaza seemed strangely distant around them.
"The strong will challenge him because of pride," Mitsui continued. "The desperate will come after him because of opportunity."
His gaze shifted toward Ichiro.
"And Falcon wants to see which ones are worth keeping after they collide with him."
Akira said nothing.
Because she understood it too.
The realization sat quietly behind her eyes long before Mitsui spoke it aloud.
Ahead, the black architecture of House Yamamoto loomed over the academy skyline like a fortress carved into the city itself.
Ichiro's expression never changed.
No pride.
No intimidation.
Only acceptance.
"Because she's right," he said quietly.
Something colder entered his voice then.
Not anger.
Recognition.
"The administration didn't leave that loophole in the system by accident. They cornered me with a Tier Four insignia…" He paused briefly. "Then handed me a fourteen-twenty score."
Holographic light flickered faintly across his eyes as students moved around them in endless currents.
"They aren't trying to hide me from the elites."
His gaze hardened almost imperceptibly.
"They're placing me in the center of the arena to see what survives once the fighting starts."
The deeper they moved into Obsidian Plaza, the more the atmosphere around them changed.
It wasn't obvious at first.
Conversations merely softened.
Footsteps slowed slightly.
People looked once—
then looked again.
The three of them walked side-by-side beneath the fractured afternoon light, their AR halos still dimmed to private mode, their scores hidden from public view. Yet somehow, that only made the attention worse.
The crowd filled the spaces around them naturally, but never too closely.
Students parted instinctively as they passed.
Not out of respect.
Out of uncertainty.
Ichiro walked on the left side of the formation, hands tucked loosely into the pockets of his coat. The crisp black lines of his standard-issued three-piece fit him almost too well, giving him a sharpness that contrasted violently against the white FEATHER IV insignia stitched onto his shoulder. He moved quietly, almost lazily, but there was something deeply dangerous in the way he carried himself—as though violence sat just beneath the surface, perfectly restrained.
Mitsui walked beside him with effortless ease.
Where Ichiro drew tension, Mitsui dissolved it.
Tall. Refined. Wire-rimmed glasses catching light beneath perfectly styled dark hair. His double-breasted Crest coat looked less like a uniform and more like formalwear designed specifically for him. He smiled easily when people glanced his way, carrying the kind of inherited charisma that made others relax without realizing why.
And then there was Akira.
She drew the eye first.
Always.
The fitted silhouette of her Crest uniform framed her with almost surgical precision, dark fabric layered subtly over the traditional lines she had insisted on preserving. Long black hair fell neatly over her shoulders, pale skin illuminated beneath the shifting plaza lights.
Beautiful.
Cold.
Composed.
Students watched her the way soldiers watched old monuments after wars ended.
Not because she was famous.
Because she shouldn't still exist.
Whispers followed them in waves.
"That's Mitsui Arakawa—"
"The Minister of Defense's son?"
"No, look beside him—"
"...Hayashi."
The tone changed immediately.
Not admiration.
Unease.
"The Hayashi girl?"
"I thought their house collapsed."
"It did."
"So why is she here?"
"No idea."
"They actually let her in?"
And then—
"The other one..."
"That's Yoshima."
Silence followed that one.
Even the whispers became quieter afterward.
The trio continued deeper into the plaza.
Recruitment booths lined both sides of the massive avenue—combat houses, political factions, tactical syndicates, corporate military branches—all aggressively hunting promising first-years before the semester officially began.
Several recruiters noticed them immediately.
Three attractive Crest-level students moving together was impossible to ignore.
A pair of second-years from a mid-tier tactical house intercepted them first, both smiling confidently.
"Excuse me," one of them began smoothly, "you three interested in hearing about House Rei—"
His ocular implant activated mid-sentence.
A blue scanning line swept across Akira first.
The recruiter's expression changed almost instantly.
AKIRA HAYASHI
CLASS I — CREST
TRACK DECLARATION: DUAL MAJOR
PRIMARY: CLASSICAL KENJUTSU
SECONDARY: CLAN MANAGEMENT
The recruiter's smile faltered.
Clan Management.
Not support studies.
Not administration.
Power structure.
The implication hit immediately.
The Hayashi heir wasn't here to survive quietly.
She intended to rebuild influence.
Beside him, the second recruiter issued another scan toward Ichiro.
And froze.
The amber glow reflecting across his visor burned violently bright.
FPI: 1,420
His pupils contracted.
Then the second line appeared.
LINEAGE TIER: FOUR
COUNTER-SYSTEMIC BACKGROUND // YAKUZA
The recruiter physically stepped backward.
Not metaphorically.
Actually backward.
His throat tightened visibly as his eyes moved from the monstrous combat score to the calm expression on Ichiro's face.
The contradiction was horrifying.
A Tier Four student wasn't supposed to possess numbers like that.
And yet the man standing in front of him looked completely unbothered by it.
The recruiter lowered his hand slowly.
"...I see," he muttered weakly.
Neither recruiter attempted to continue the pitch.
Their confidence had completely evaporated.
What made the situation worse, however, was Mitsui.
Because Mitsui still looked perfectly approachable.
He stood there smiling politely while flanked by what appeared to be a disgraced imperial ghost and a heavily armed underworld weapon disguised as a freshman.
The recruiters looked at him with something dangerously close to pity.
As though the Minister's son had somehow been politically trapped between two catastrophes.
"Right..." one of them said awkwardly. "We'll... leave you to your tour."
The two recruiters retreated almost immediately.
Then another group approached.
Then another.
And every single interaction ended the same way.
Confidence.
Scanning.
Recognition.
Retreat.
Eventually, people simply stopped trying.
By the time the trio crossed into one of the quieter concrete breezeways connecting the recruitment sectors, a visible empty radius had formed around them.
The recruiters scattered almost immediately after the scans finished.
Some left stiffly, trying to preserve dignity. Others turned so fast it bordered on panic. Within seconds, the flow of the plaza subtly shifted around the three of them, students instinctively widening the space between themselves and the trio.
The result was almost comical.
A perfectly open stretch of walkway in the middle of one of the busiest recruitment sectors in Falcon.
Mitsui glanced around the suddenly empty corridor before letting out a quiet laugh.
"Well," he murmured, adjusting the sleeve of his double-breasted coat, "I think we just destroyed somebody's recruitment quota."
Akira's gaze drifted toward a nearby booth where several upperclassmen were very deliberately pretending not to look at them.
"They're not even trying anymore," she observed dryly.
Her eyes shifted briefly toward Ichiro.
"You've successfully terrified the student body before classes even started."
Mitsui let out a soft laugh beside them.
"You're really going to say that with a straight face, Ms. Hayashi?"
Akira looked at him immediately.
"Look who's suddenly acting important because of his father's status."
Mitsui placed a hand lightly against his chest.
"Wounded."
Akira then continued.
"...I don't think we're getting invited into any Houses anytime soon," she said dryly. "At this point they're probably debating whether approaching Yoshima counts as a health risk."
Ichiro didn't react.
Mitsui grinned immediately.
"You're the one to talk, Ms. Hayashi."
Akira turned toward him slightly.
"What do you mean by that?"
"The crowd's been avoiding you since the entrance ceremony," Mitsui replied casually. "Half the students here look at you like you're going to overthrow the government by lunchtime."
A faint pause.
Then, unexpectedly—
Akira let out the smallest breath of amusement through her nose.
"And the other half?" she asked.
Mitsui adjusted his glasses with effortless ease.
"The other half are too intimidated to decide whether they should salute you or confess to you."
Akira stared at him for a moment.
"...You spend too much time observing people."
"That's a political survival skill."
"That's called gossip."
Mitsui placed a hand dramatically against his chest. "Again, how cruel."
Beside them, Ichiro continued walking in complete silence.
Mitsui glanced sideways at him.
"You know, you're unusually quiet even for someone feared by the entire student body."
"I'm just looking arround."
"See? That's exactly what I mean."
Then footsteps approached from ahead.
Three upperclassmen emerged from one of the adjacent corridors, all wearing the dark blue trim of House Arakawa.
The one in front stepped forward immediately upon seeing Mitsui.
Then bowed deeply from the waist.
"Sir."
The shift in Mitsui was immediate.
The relaxed warmth vanished completely.
His posture straightened subtly, and for a brief second, something colder surfaced beneath the easy-going persona he normally carried.
Not arrogance.
Authority.
The two students behind the spokesman lowered their heads as well.
Mitsui sighed quietly through his nose.
Then he turned back toward Akira and Ichiro with a pleasant smile that looked almost rehearsed now.
"I need to handle something," he said lightly. "Try not to destroy the Institute while I'm gone, alright?"
Neither of them answered.
Mitsui laughed softly to himself before turning and walking away with the House Arakawa representatives.
The atmosphere shifted strangely after he disappeared into the corridor.
Akira watched him leave for a few seconds.
"...What's that about?" she asked eventually.
Ichiro kept walking.
"Probably an offer."
Akira looked toward him.
"The men were from House Arakawa."
His voice remained flat.
"It must be convenient having an established House tied directly to your family."
The moment the words left his mouth, Akira went silent.
Completely.
Ichiro noticed immediately. He realized what he did wrong.
He glanced toward her once.
Her expression hadn't changed.
But something behind her eyes had.
A small pause followed.
Then she slowed slightly.
"...Hey," she said quietly. "I need to take care of something too."
Ichiro stopped walking.
Akira avoided looking directly at him now.
"You can go ahead."
Before he could answer, she turned down one of the branching side paths cutting through the lower plaza sectors.
And left.
Just like that.
Ichiro stood alone.
The effect was immediate.
The moment Mitsui and Akira disappeared from view, the surrounding atmosphere changed completely.
Students began scanning him openly now.
No hesitation.
No restraint.
Blue ocular flashes flickered across the courtyard as people pulled his hidden profile data directly from the network.
Then came the whispers.
"...That's him."
"Yoshima."
"The one from the entrance exams?"
"Not just—the other rumor."
"The Nightmare."
"They said he killed Imperial Agents."
"He crippled fourteen applicants."
"No, seventeen."
Some of the rumours are getting blown put of proportion. Still, it didn't made a difference.
"Don't get close."
The plaza emptied around him with unnatural speed.
People physically moved away.
Some lowered their eyes entirely.
Others stared openly with poorly concealed fear.
Within less than a minute, a perfect circle of empty space had formed around Ichiro Yoshima.
A dead zone.
And right at its center—
Ichiro remained completely still.
As though none of it mattered.
Then footsteps broke the silence.
Measured.
Unhurried.
Even.
Ichiro recognized them before he looked up.
The students surrounding the dead zone noticed too. Conversations lowered almost immediately as a figure stepped through the widening space around him.
It was her.
The woman from the Red Track orientation.
The third-year who had stood in front of hundreds of incoming Agent-track candidates earlier that same morning.
Yumi Ishikawa.
Her uniform was unmodified, absent of decorative status markers or personal insignia. Dark fabric. Clean lines. Nothing excessive. Yet somehow, that simplicity only made her stand out more.
Short black hair framed a pale, composed face. Her eyes reflected the plaza lights softly, unreadable without feeling cold.
She stopped a comfortable distance away from Ichiro.
Not cautious.
Not careless.
Simply precise.
Around them, the crowd continued keeping its distance.
Yumi inclined her head politely.
"Mr. Yoshima."
Ichiro looked at her quietly.
"You handled the Red Track orientation," he said.
A small nod.
"I did."
Her voice sounded exactly the same as before—clear, level, impossible to misread.
For a brief moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Yumi's gaze shifted once toward the empty space surrounding him before returning calmly to his face.
"It seems your reputation spread faster than expected."
Ichiro glanced toward the students avoiding eye contact nearby.
"They're dramatic."
That earned the faintest change in her expression.
Not amusement exactly.
Recognition.
"Falcon encourages that," she replied simply. "Fear creates movement. Movement reveals intent."
The statement sounded less like philosophy and more like observation.
Yumi folded her hands lightly behind her back.
"I wanted to introduce myself properly."
Another small pause.
"Yumi Ishikawa. Third Year. Student Council Representative."
Her eyes remained steady on his.
"Imperial Agent Track."
"Assassination Doctrine Major."
Unlike the recruiters earlier, she didn't scan him.
Didn't stare at his insignia.
Didn't mention his score.
And somehow, that made her feel far more dangerous than the others.
Ichiro noticed it immediately.
"You already know who I am," he said.
"Yes."
Simple.
Direct.
No hesitation.
Yumi continued.
"I came on behalf of House Yamamoto."
The surrounding students visibly stiffened at the name.
Yumi ignored them.
"The House is interested in speaking with you."
Ichiro's expression remained unreadable.
"About what?"
"A proposal."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"I thought everyone else decided avoiding me was the smarter option."
"They did."
Again—simple. Matter-of-fact.
No mockery.
No reassurance.
Yumi looked briefly toward the edge of the courtyard where students continued pretending not to watch them.
"Most students here react emotionally before strategically," she said. "House Yamamoto does not."
A quiet silence settled between them.
Then Ichiro asked,
"And what exactly does House Yamamoto want from me?"
Yumi met his gaze evenly.
"That conversation is not meant for the middle of a plaza."
Her tone never changed.
Calm. Elegant. Controlled.
But beneath it sat something unmistakably sharp.
Not aggression.
Precision.
Then she added,
"Headmaster Yamamoto asked for you specifically."
That finally shifted the atmosphere.
Not outwardly.
But enough.
Ichiro's eyes sharpened slightly at the mention of the old man.
Yumi noticed.
Of course she did.
"If you're willing," she said, "I'd like you to come with me."