Shiro exploded from the training grounds like a comet shot from a cannon, his tattered uniform flapping behind him as he zigzagged through the student crowds with a terrifying, single-minded intensity. His stomach roared louder than a caged beast, each growl more desperate and soul-crushing than the last.
Student 1: Wooo! Did you see that?!
Student 2: See what?
Student 1: Something just—whoosh! Past us!
Student 2 (squinting): Bro, lay off the academy mushrooms. I didn't see anything.
To bystanders, Shiro moved like a ghost—one second a blur of white hair and motion, the next gone, leaving only a gust of wind and a sense of confusion in his wake.
Shiro (skidding into the canteen entrance, panting): Made it! Yes! YEEES—
His triumphant victory cry died a sudden, brutal death in his throat. He stumbled to a halt, his eyes locked on the serving counter. The meat bun tray sat empty, a few greasy stains and crumbs the only evidence of its former glory, mocking him.
The lunch lady was wiping down the counter, giving him a sympathetic shrug.
Lunch Lady: Last one sold three minutes ago. Some first-year noble bought ten. Don't know why. Glutton, if you ask me.
Shiro's knees buckled. The last flicker of hope in his heart was extinguished. He crumpled into the nearest chair like a puppet with its strings cut, his forehead thudding against the cool, wooden table with a solid thump.
Shiro (muffled by the table): Shiiiiit... My meat bun...
THUD. He hit his head again lightly against the wood.
All 'cause of that fancy-pants Ashford and his gravity nonsense...
THUD.
Should've killed him the moment the fight began...
Just as he began to slide, boneless, toward the floor in utter defeat, a shadow loomed over him.
Arien (hands on her hips): What happened? I was so confused when that Primarch Assembly guy took you—wait, are you crying?!
Shiro turned his head slowly, his cheek still pressed against the table. His eyes were the lifeless, thousand-yard voids of a soldier who'd seen too much war, who had witnessed horrors beyond comprehension.
Shiro (whispering, voice cracking): Meat... bun...
Arien: Huh?
Shiro (louder, a heart-wrenching sob in his voice): MY MEAT BUUUUN—
Arien sighed, a mixture of exasperation and pity on her face. She rummaged through her leather satchel. The sound of crinkling parchment, the specific rustle of a saved food item, made Shiro's ears twitch. His head lifted a fraction of an inch.
Arien: Here, she said, pulling out a slightly squashed but perfectly intact meat bun wrapped in paper. I grabbed an extra. Just in case.
The effect was instantaneous, miraculous, and slightly terrifying. Shiro shot upright so fast his chair screeched and flipped backward, crashing to the floor. His hands SLAMMED down on the table with enough force to make the cutlery of nearby students jump and rattle, causing a few to yelp in surprise.
Shiro (tears now freely streaming down his face): REALLY?! CAN I?! PLEASE?!
Arien (looking away, her ears turning bright red with embarrassment): I-I already said yes! Gods, why are you crying?! It's just a bun!
But it wasn't. It was a sacrament. It was salvation. Shiro took it with trembling, reverent hands and stuffed half of it into his mouth in one go.
Shiro (stuffing his face, words muffled by bread and pork): 'S jus'... muffled sob ...so... tasty...'
Arien watched, equal parts horrified and fascinated, as he inhaled the bun in two massive bites. Crumbs clung to his cheeks and chin like battle scars earned in a glorious, delicious war.
Arien: You're hopeless. So, what happened with Senior Ashford?
Shiro—still chewing, his mouth full—simply turned and began to speed-walk away, his mission now to find a quiet place to digest his miracle in peace.
Arien (lunging forward and grabbing his sleeve): HEY! Aren't you gonna tell your savior?!
Shiro swallowed the enormous mouthful with a visible gulp.
Shiro: We fought.
Arien (eyeing the ridiculously long katana now strapped to his back): WHAT? And why do you suddenly have that... that log?!
Shiro (grinning, a bit of cabbage on his lip): He said I could keep it! He said it with the pride of a cat presenting a dead mouse.
Arien (disgusted): Why are you proud of that?! Where's your real katana?!
Shiro (cheerful, his mood completely flipped): Don't have one!
Arien: That's not normal! How do you not even—
Shiro (clutching his head as if in physical pain): Ahhh! Too many questions! My head... it's full...
Spotting an exit, Shiro suddenly ducked under a passing servant's tray laden with empty dishes and bolted for the doorway.
Shiro: I have some other business to take care of! See ya later! Ok!
Arien: Wha- HEY!
He vanished into the crowd in the hallway, leaving Arien standing alone, fuming and clutching her now-empty satchel.
Arien: He ran away again. That... that ungrateful, confusing, bun-obsessed... gah!
---
Meanwhile
---
Ashford leaned against a marble pillar in the moonlit courtyard, spinning his sword around his finger like a toy. The night was quiet, the air cool.
Ashford: So, why'd you make me fight that walking disaster, Professor Veylor?
Professor Veylor emerged from the shadows, his long coat rustling like dry leaves. He leaned on his cane, his expression unreadable.
Veylor: First, answer me. Is he strong?
Ashford's smirk faded. His blade stilled. He looked down at his own chest, remembering the phantom spray of blood.
Ashford: For a first-year? He's not just strong. He's... unnatural. His footwork's sloppy, like he's never had formal training, but his swordplay... his instinct... He exhaled sharply, a puff of condensation in the cool air. He already knows how to use a katana better than most of the third-year students. But not having an Art Style, and his own katana... It seems a little... you know. Wrong.
Veylor's cane tapped softly on the stone paving.
Veylor: Well, that's the same conclusion I came to during his exam bout with Lucien Valehart. He never got serious. Not once.
Ashford's eyebrows shot up.
Ashford: Wait—YOU stopped that fight?! He barked a short, sharp laugh. Bet the nobles pissed themselves. A Valehart being protected from a commoner.
Veylor ignored him, his gaze distant.
Veylor: His pattern's clear. First move: a basic, testing strike. If they dodge—mediocre. If they counter—skilled. If they can't react... His eyes gleamed in the moonlight. Beneath his notice.
Ashford's grip tightened on his sword.
Ashford: That's why he reused that move against Valehart... The second was a feint because Lucien couldn't track the first.
Veylor: And when cornered—
Ashford (cutting in, his voice low): —he snaps. Like when I crippled his sword arm. But not gonna lie... it terrified me when he switched his katana to his left hand. It wasn't a desperate move. It was fluid. It's more like he's left-handed.
A cold wind blew through the courtyard, stirring the leaves. Somewhere in the distance, an owl screeched.
Ashford (voice dropping to a whisper): But Professor... that muttering before his attacks...
Veylor stepped closer, his whisper like a grave's echo, carrying a weight of ancient knowledge and fear.
Veylor: An Art Technique. Not a Style. A concept, an art that was created to rival Art Styles themselves. Ones that don't need mana... or a specific weapon. They draw from something else entirely.
Ashford's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
Ashford: But how would a kid—a seventeen-year-old nobody—know something like that?
Veylor turned away, his profile silhouetted against the moon.
Veylor: That... is the problem here.