The day had come, a prestigious tournament began. As day shone the city, warriors who participated had packed their weapons and items for the upcoming battle.
Akira, prepared everything, including spare of clothes, left his dorm from the Thousand Blade squad headquarters.
"Well well well, looks like you're ready for war, Akira."
The Raishoun gang who waited for his arrival, were sitting, leaning, and standing in the promised meeting.
"You guys don't wanna join me?"
"We're good." Horka replied, insisting they would watch him fight instead of participating. Akira had changed throughout the months of training with Kamui, through his professional training, Akira was surely to impress everyone with his new moves.
With a slight burrowed brows, Horka warned, "Anyway, you should watch out for a guy named Zalkar. He's one big dude with an impressive power, it was said he had been in a match for three years, winning almost everytime. His special? Slaying newbies as the infamous rumor spread." Horka crossed his arm, his eyes showed he distrusted Zalkar as fair fighter.
"Careful with his tricks, tricky and cunning, the saying goes all of his fights came with brutality. Someone even died, but not during the match, but after they were mentally shattered that led their death by their own hands."
"Tch, what a guy, huh? I see. So I'll just have to crush that bastard to win." Akira cracked his neck, enjoying the newfound information and gave Horka a smirk as his answer for him to not worry about.
"Guess concerning you is my last mistake..." Horka rubbed the back of his head and laughed.
"Akira, you're the pride of this gang... Make sure you win."
Horka raised his fist, eyes gleaming with fierce trust.
"You have my word."
Akira met the gesture with a firm bump, his smile quiet but confident—a silent vow.
He walked away alone, his footsteps steady, the promise of victory etched in his stride.
Hours passed, and the path brought him to the tournament grounds—an arena thrumming with raw power. His Keen Instincts flared alive, sensing torrents of mana and overwhelming auras coiling through the air like wild lightning. The hype, the mystery, the sheer magnitude of gathered strength—it lit something inside him.
He raised his head, fire igniting in his chest, and strode straight to registration.
Ahead stood a wall segmented into five open counters, each like a cell in a hive, buzzing with activity. Warriors from across the land waited their turn, faces sharp with determination, shadows of future legends in their eyes.
"State your name," an administrator called to the next in line.
"Sign here."
Eventually, Akira stepped forward, muscles relaxed but ready. He took the pen and scrawled his name with deliberate force.
"Alright, proceed this way," the official said, handing him a small token. "Win or fall—may both sharpen you." She pointed toward the corridor leading deeper into the coliseum.
Once Akira stepped through the gate, the world inside opened like a wound of memory.
The tournament grounds mirrored a gladiatorial coliseum—wide, sand-floored, and lined with steep stone bleachers filled with murmurs and mana. It was just like the brutal survival trials he'd faced to earn his warrior's license. He clenched his fists, trying to push away the memory of the revival angka—those cursed resurrection tokens that had scarred more than his body.
Then his senses pulled him back—Keen Instincts flaring.
The arena brimmed with warriors he'd never seen before, yet their presence was undeniable. They radiated raw, compressed power—like storms waiting for a reason to break. Mana shimmered in the air around them. His danger sense alerted constantly, each pulse a thrill against his skin.
Akira didn't feel fear.
He felt alive.
As he stood among them, waiting for the announcers to appear, a sudden commotion cracked through the buzz of conversation.
"A weakling like you shouldn't be here!"
All heads turned. Zalkar.
The brute towered over a smaller figure—one of the frail-looking warriors, barely out of training. With a snarl, Zalkar kicked him to the ground. The smaller fighter gasped, struggling to rise as the crowd murmured in uneasy silence.
Zalkar's massive frame was built for war, but lack of morality. He wielded his strength like a club, with no trace of restraint.
Zalkar, the ruthless warrior who joined thrice in a year and won thrice in that same year. Three years he had joined and not a single dare to challenge his might. He was praised for his raw strength, feared for his utter lack of morality. Tall and broad-shouldered, Zalkar was a looming figure. A deep scar slashed down his left eye emphasized his appearance, giving his glare a venomous weight. His black, wavy fringe framed a cold, disciplined face. He wore his warrior uniform with a chilling precision, the insignia of the Black Eagle Squad gleaming on his chest like a warning.
Now, his fist was raised high.
"Zalkar, don't—!" one of his henchmen called out, eyes wide with panic.
But Zalkar didn't stop.
Mana surged to his knuckles, his fist glowing with violent intent as he prepared to strike the fallen warrior.
Then—a crack in the air.
A hand caught Zalkar's fist mid-swing.
Akira.
His grip was steady, his eyes sharp with restrained fury.
"Just who do you think you are acting like some self-crowned god?" Akira said, his voice low but unwavering.
"Everyone here has the right to join. Even if the chances are low for him to win—that doesn't mean he should be underestimated just because you're superior."
'This guy's grip...' Zalkar felt Akira's strength through his grips alone, though his eyes left with no impression, he acknowledged him.
Then, in a blink—movement.
Zalkar drove his knee straight into Akira's chest, the sudden blow knocking the wind from him. Before Akira could recover, Zalkar spun, landing a crushing kick that sent Akira flying backwards—slamming him hard against the arena wall.
Dust burst into the air.
Akira dropped to a knee, coughing, bracing himself against the stone as Zalkar marched forward, fist clenched like a sledgehammer ready to swing.
Then—
"Enough, you ruffian."
The voice cut through the air like a blade.
Zalkar froze, his fist inches from tightening further. Every muscle in his body locked under the weight of a single gaze.
Standing across the sand was a figure clad in purple, embroidered with fire motifs that shimmered like coals. The air around him shimmered—not from heat, but from power.
General Saoyi, commander of the Purple Flamingo Squad.
His eyes—cold, commanding—held Zalkar in place as if the very weight of judgment had fallen upon him.
"Best you ought to cool down your acts before I send you something far worse than disqualification." Saoyi said, his voice calm, but laced with danger.
A pulse of mana radiated outward—dense, controlled, and crushing. Even the most battle-hardened warriors nearby felt the chill in their bones.
The wickedness that stirred in many hearts?
Snuffed like a candle in a storm.
Zalkar exhaled sharply, his shoulders lowering. A silent acknowledgment. He wasn't foolish enough to provoke a general.
With a final glare, he turned away, the threat defused—for now.
"Are you alright, Akira?" The voice was calm now, without the steel from earlier.
Akira looked up to see General Saoyi approaching, his expression softened. The fierce pressure from before had lifted, replaced by something cooler—like the calm after lightning.
Akira coughed once, then rose to his feet, wincing slightly.
"I'm fine. Just caught off guard," he said, brushing dust from his shoulder. "Didn't have time to tighten my muscles—took the hit full force."
Then, his eyes narrowed just a little.
"But... how do you know my name?"
He had never met Saoyi before—of that, he was certain. And yet the general had spoken it without hesitation, like one recalling a familiar warrior.
Saoyi let out a warm, amused laugh.
"Well, Kitsune and I go way back. She's rather fond of sharing her little stories about you."
One word—Kitsune—and it was like a spell had been cast.
A chill crept down Akira's spine, his expression faltering just for a moment. That name stirred up memories he'd tried to bury.
"Don't worry," he said, voice light. "Sure, her lewdness might be off the charts—blame a certain mischievous friend of ours who encouraged it—but at her core, she's like us. A warrior, through and through. Protecting others is what drives her. Just like you."
He gestured to the crumpled figure Akira had defended.
"That moment back there? That was the heart of what we do. A warrior doesn't just fight the strong—they stand up when it matters."
Then, with unexpected gentleness, Saoyi reached out and gave Akira a brief pat on the head—more like a fond gesture than a belittling one.
"You should visit my squad sometime," he added, stepping back with a half-smile. "I'd like to get to know you better."
"That aside," Saoyi said, brushing a speck of dust from his shoulder, "I should be going. As a moderator of this tournament, I'm prone to have busy times."
He gave Akira one last nod, his tone shifting back to official—but not without a flicker of warmth.
"I'll be watching you. Best of luck out there."
With that, he turned and walked away, his presence parting the crowd like a tide. Warriors who had once stood tall now quieted, drawn to him by gravity alone. Even in silence, Saoyi commanded the space—each step leaving behind the weight of expectation.
Akira raised a hand in farewell, watching Saoyi disappear into the crowd.
A sense of trust lingered in the air—one that settled into Akira's chest like embers, warm and motivating.
Suddenly, Akira's Keen Instinct detect an approaching familiarity. The spark of lightning, the silent ring of a blade, and the unending blaze. It was Volts, Shura, and Kazoru.
There it was—the unmistakable feeling of familiar magic, three presences approaching like storms on different winds.
"This heat... it's Akira and Shura!" Kazoru said, standing beside Volts in a different building. His sharp eyes scanned the sky as if the heat shimmer itself was calling his name.
"You're not wrong," Volts muttered, his fingers twitching with a faint pulse of electricity. "I can feel Akira's signature. The current in the air—it's his."
Far away, standing alone, Shura lifted his cloaked head toward the sky. His expression calm. His blade at rest.
"So we reunited once again..." he whispered.
To him, the sky shimmered with aura—threads of power weaving together.
It wasn't just coincidence. It was a signal.
Will they stand together once more… or face each other in the crucible of this tournament?