Veyl stood perfectly still.
Every muscle poised, every sense extended. Blades floated in lazy orbits around him, thirty-seven in total, each one humming with lethal potential.
Across from him, twenty meters away, Aren hadn't moved since the fights split.
Hoodie up. Hands in pockets. Head slightly bowed.
Veyl's eyes narrowed. "You know, most people at least pretend to be intimidated by Judgment Rain."
No response.
Veyl's smile thinned. "The strong silent type, huh? Fine. Let's see how quiet you are when—"
Aren's head lifted. Just slightly.
Veyl's words died.
Because Aren's eyes—red, vivid, glowing—locked onto him with the cold finality of an executioner sizing up the condemned.
"…You talk too much," Aren said quietly.
Veyl's instincts screamed. He didn't think. He didn't hesitate.
Thirty-seven blades launched.
JUDGMENT RAIN.
The air shrieked as gleaming death descended from every angle—calculated trajectories designed to leave no escape, no counter.
A perfect execution.
Aren moved. One step to the left. A blade passed through the space where his head had been, so close it should've grazed him. Another step—diagonal, minimal. Three blades converged on his torso. He twisted. They missed by millimeters.
Veyl's eyes widened. "What—"
Aren walked through the rain of blades like he was strolling through a light drizzle, each movement precise, economical, inevitable. Swords screamed past his shoulders, his spine—thirty-seven attempts, thirty-seven failures. Not one touched him.
Veyl's breathing quickened. "That's—that's not possible. Those trajectories were perfect—"
Aren stopped walking. Ten meters away now. He reached up slowly, almost lazily, and pulled back his hood.
Silky purple hair spilled out, long enough to touch his shoulders, framing a face that was too young to look that dead inside.
"You're skilled," Aren said quietly. "But I don't have time for this."
His eyes flared brighter. Red. Burning. Absolute.
Purple energy began to seep from his body like smoke—no, like something darker. It didn't rise. It crawled, spreading across the ground, curling up broken walls, swallowing light.
Veyl took an involuntary step back. "What… what is that?"
Aren's expression didn't change. "I need to finish this early," he murmured, more to himself than Veyl.
His right hand extended. Purple energy condensed in his palm, collapsing inward until it formed a perfect sphere of writhing darkness.
Veyl's blades trembled in the air. "Before I am realized."
Aren reached into the dark sphere and pulled out a katana.
The blade was beautiful—curved, slender, the metal so dark it seemed to drink in light. Purple energy coiled along its edge like living veins, pulsing in rhythm with Aren's heartbeat.
The moment the sword cleared the sphere—everything changed.
The pressure hit like a collapsing star.
Pure, oppressive, suffocating weight that slammed down across the entire district, like the sky itself had decided to crush everything beneath it.
Three blocks away:
Lucy's water faltered mid-strike, droplets freezing in place for half a heartbeat.
Her eyes widened. "That mantra—"
Two blocks away:
Rin's fist stopped inches from Bastion's face.
Bastion's grin faded. "…The hell is that?"
Everywhere:
Windows cracked. Street lamps bent. People blocks away stumbled, gasping, feeling something immense pressing down on their chests.
Veyl collapsed to one knee. The pressure was crushing him, forcing air from his lungs, making his vision blur. His blades clattered to the ground, control severed.
"What…" He gasped, eyes wide, sweat dripping despite the cool air. "What… are you?"
Aren stood perfectly still, katana held loosely in one hand, purple mantra radiating from his body in waves.
And behind him—Veyl saw it.
Through the haze of purple energy, through the distortion—a skull.
Massive. Ethereal. Formed from condensed mantra, it loomed behind Aren like a specter of death itself, empty eye sockets staring down with infinite patience.
Veyl's hands trembled. "That's… that's not… you're not supposed to be here. You're not—"
Aren took one step forward. The pressure doubled.
Veyl screamed in terror—and threw himself backward, scrambling across broken concrete, every survival instinct firing at once.
"STAY BACK!"
Aren tilted his head slightly. "I told you."
Then another step. "I don't have time for this."
He vanished. Pure, horrifying speed that left purple afterimages burning in the air.
Veyl's eyes couldn't track it—one moment Aren was ten meters away, then next—the katana rested against Veyl's throat. Cold. Absolute.
Veyl froze. Every muscle locked, breath caught halfway.
"Surrender," Aren said quietly.
Veyl's voice cracked. "I—I yield. I yield!"
The blade withdrew. The pressure vanished instantly, like a storm dissipating.
Aren stepped back, katana already dissolving into purple mist, the dark sphere collapsing back into nothingness.
The skull faded. The mantra dimmed.
Within three seconds, it was like it had never been there at all.
Except—Veyl was on his hands and knees, gasping, shaking, eyes wide with the kind of fear that doesn't fade quickly.
Aren pulled his hood back up, hands returning to his pockets. He glanced once toward where Lucy and Rin were fighting, red eyes flickering with something unreadable. They felt it. Everyone felt it.
"Shit." He exhaled slowly, then turned and walked away, leaving Veyl collapsed in the rubble, alive but broken.
High above, in the observation tower:
An Academy official stared at the readings, tablet screen flashing warning colors.
"Sir… we just detected a massive mantra spike. Sector 7."
The supervisor leaned forward. "Source?"
"…Team 9. Participant designated 'Aren.'"
Silence swallowed the room. Fingers flew across keyboards. A profile appeared.
Name: Aren
Ability: [CLASSIFIED]
Threat Assessment: [UNDER REVIEW]
Notes: Suppression recommended. Monitor closely.
"…Who the hell is that mysterious kid?"
Veyl collapsed fully now, forehead against cold concrete.
His fingers clawed at the rubble, nails splitting.
"Nyx..." The name escaped as barely a whisper. "I'm sorry."
Twelve years ago.
The orphanage courtyard was empty except for two children.
Veyl—barely eight years old, face bruised, knuckles bleeding—stood in front of a smaller girl with the same dark hair, the same sharp eyes.
Nyx. Seven years old. Too small. Too fragile.
The older boys had taken her bread again. Called her weak. Pushed her into the mud when she tried to fight back.
Veyl had found her crying behind the storage shed.
"I hate it here," Nyx whispered, tears cutting tracks through the dirt on her cheeks. "I hate being weak. I hate that they can just... take whatever they want."
Veyl knelt down, eye-level with her. His hands were shaking—from adrenaline, from fear, from the beating he'd just taken defending her. But his voice didn't shake.
"Listen to me, Nyx." He gripped her shoulders gently. "I'm going to get strong. Strong enough that no one can hurt you ever again. Strong enough that we can leave this place together."
"You promise?" Her voice cracked.
"I promise." Veyl's jaw set, something hardening in his young eyes. "And I never give up on my promises. Never. No matter what stands in my way—I'll cut through it. I'll become someone you can be proud of."
Nyx's tears slowed. She reached out with small, trembling fingers and grabbed his pinky.
"Pinky promise?"
Veyl linked his finger with hers. "Pinky promise."
The sunset painted them in gold—two orphans with nothing but each other, making vows they didn't yet understand the weight of.