The days rolled by with near-military precision.
Before dawn: wake.
Arena. Training. Break. Training. Dinner. Sleep.
Yuma had started syncing his lightning with his steps—the Thunder Dance was taking shape, hesitant but real. The Black Sun Fist began to materialize in his hands, compressed fire ready to explode all at once.
Enji, on the other hand, cut his mana consumption in half. Coffin of Ice now erupted in under a second. Absolute Blade pierced through three reinforced targets consecutively without fail.
Reishin watched everything. Rarely corrected. Always thinking.
And every evening, before leaving, he fixed Yuma with the same expression—the one of someone seeking an answer to a problem they couldn't yet name.
That night, Reishin didn't leave.
He sat at the edge of the arena, arms crossed, eyes locked on Yuma.
"Something wrong?" Yuma asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
"Your two elements are progressing well. Lightning is almost clean. Fire is starting to flow with your motion."
"But?"
Reishin paused.
"The darkness… hasn't moved a single inch since day one."
Yuma dropped his gaze to his hands. He knew. Every time he tried to reach that element, it was like stretching for something always retreating.
"I've studied it," Reishin said. "For weeks. Twenty-three different approaches—gradual focus, sensory deprivation, mana meditation, external pressure…"
"Twenty-three?"
"None worked."
Enji, sitting on a distant bench, lifted his head.
Reishin stood.
"But I realized something." He looked Yuma directly in the eyes.
"The darkness doesn't respond to technique. Doesn't respond to conscious will. It responds to something much deeper. An emotional trigger. Inner pressure that nothing ordinary can replicate."
"So how do we awaken it?" Yuma asked.
Reishin descended into the arena.
"I'll fight you. No holding back. Until you collapse."
Silence.
"And if the darkness doesn't awaken tonight…"
He paused.
"We'll find another way."
Yuma studied him for a moment. Then smiled.
"When do we start?"
Enji had silently taken a seat in the stands. Alfred appeared out of nowhere with a cup of tea—as if the house itself knew something important was about to happen.
The runes in the arena glowed.
They faced each other.
Reishin had no ninjatō. No artifacts. Bare hands. Relaxed stance—the most dangerous setup possible.
"When you're ready," he said.
Yuma exhaled.
And vanished.
Thunder Dance erupted.
Yuma appeared left, right, behind—each turn powered by electric impulses. He struck. Reishin wasn't there. A slight sidestep, a palm redirecting Yuma's strike without taking a scratch.
Yuma stumbled. Changed approach.
Black Sun Fist.
Fire compressed to its limit, slow to charge, devastating.
Reishin let it charge.
At impact, he shifted a centimeter. The fist passed. Fire explosion ignited the floor behind him.
"Good," Reishin said. "But predictable."
He advanced.
One simple, precise strike to Yuma's ribs.
Yuma took it. Flew back two meters.
He rose immediately.
"Again."
Ten minutes passed.
Then twenty.
Yuma unleashed everything—lightning, fire, weeks of combo drills.
Reishin countered everything—not with brute force, but with shocking economy of motion, like every move Yuma made was a question he already knew the answer to.
Enji said nothing in the stands. His eyes followed everything.
Yuma slowed. Mana reserves dwindling. Legs heavy with weeks of training.
Reishin sensed it. Accelerated.
Three strikes—arm, shoulder, plexus.
Yuma dropped to one knee.
He rose.
Reishin struck again—harder this time.
Yuma hit the ground.
He stayed still for a second, cheek against the cold stone.
Then pressed his hands down and began to rise.
Reishin leaned in slightly. Voice calm, cold, almost bored:
"If this is all you've got…"
He paused.
"You'll never become the greatest hunter."
Yuma froze.
"You should abandon your dream."
Silence fell over the arena.
Enji rose instinctively.
Alfred set down his tea.
Something shifted.
Not mana. Not lightning. Not fire.
Something else.
A heavy, colorless pressure rising from Yuma's core, like black water searching for a crack.
Three seconds.
Four.
Five.
His shoulders shuddered.
Thick, black smoke began seeping from his body—hands, arms, back—like something burning inside without flame. It wrapped around him, absorbing the rune light.
Enji stepped forward.
"Yuma…"
Yuma's eyes lifted.
Red.
Not flame-red. Deep, nearly black at the edges—like buried embers.
No expression.
Just rage.
And darkness.
He launched.
Reishin barely had time to retreat.
The first strike hit at a speed Yuma had never reached—even with full Thunder Dance. Reishin parried just in time, feeling the force surge up his arm.
What…
The second strike followed. Reishin dodged. Yuma corrected midair—impossible at this speed.
Black smoke enveloped his fists. Absorbing fire and lightning mana—the elements vanished into the darkness and returned amplified, unstable.
Third strike hit Reishin's shoulder.
Sent him three meters back.
He landed on his feet, knees bent.
Yuma advanced, empty-eyed, red.
"Enji, back," Reishin said, voice low.
Enji clenched his fists in the stands.
"What's happening to him—"
"Back," Reishin repeated.
He drew his ninjatō from his bag. Not unsheathed—held flat, two hands, like a staff.
Yuma charged.
The fight lasted under a minute.
Not because Yuma was weak—but because the darkness burned through his mana at terrifying speed.
Reishin saw him weaken with each strike, growing wilder, more desperate.
He waited for the right moment.
Dodged a side charge.
Grabbed Yuma's wrist.
Twisted.
Slammed him to the ground—back-first—using momentum against him.
Impact heavy.
Black smoke dissipated slowly.
Yuma's red eyes lingered for a few seconds… then went dark.
Reishin knelt beside him.
Yuma breathed—hard, ragged, exhausted.
"Yuma."
No response.
"Yuma."
Eyelids flickered.
Enji entered the arena, kneeling opposite him.
"Is he conscious?"
"He's coming back," Reishin said.
He stood, looked at his own hands—shoulder still ached where Yuma had hit.
Phone vibrated. He pulled it out.
Expression shifted slightly.
"I have to go."
Enji looked up.
"Now?"
"Take care of him. Give a potion when he can swallow. Don't leave him alone tonight."
He grabbed his bag.
"We'll talk tomorrow."
A gust of wind.
He vanished.
Enji stayed alone with Yuma in the silent arena.
He slid an arm under his shoulders, lifted him slowly.
"Come on. Up."
Yuma groaned incoherently.
"I know. Come on."
The room was quiet.
Enji laid Yuma on the bed, got a potion from Jules' stash, and made him drink slowly once he was lucid enough. Then he sat across from him.
Two hours passed.
Yuma opened his eyes.
Ceiling. Window. Moon outside.
Blinking repeatedly.
"What happened?"
Enji watched him.
"Short version or long version?"
"Both."
Enji inhaled.
"Reishin told you to give up your dream. You snapped. Black smoke came out of your body. Eyes went red. You attacked him with power you've never had. He barely contained you, then slammed you to the ground—you passed out."
Silence.
"And Reishin?"
"He got a call and left."
Yuma stared at the ceiling.
"I don't remember anything after hitting the ground."
"Thought so."
"Just… rage. Like something took over."
"Darkness," Enji said simply.
Yuma lifted his hands in the dark room. Normal. No smoke. No red. Just hands.
But he felt something—far, deep—that he'd never felt before.
Like a door he didn't yet know how to open.
He exhaled, half relieved, half lost.
"Good that it worked… but if this is how power awakens, I'm not sure I'd call it a victory."
"You almost gave Reishin serious trouble," Enji said. "He calls that a victory."
Yuma turned toward him.
"You're exaggerating."
"He drew the ninjatō."
Yuma stayed silent for a few seconds.
Then slowly sat on the bed.
"I'm waiting for him to come back. He has to teach me control. If I can't… it's useless."
"I know," Enji said.
A comfortable silence fell.
"Were you scared?" Yuma asked.
Enji thought a second.
"Yes. But not of you."
Yuma stared.
"Then of what?"
"What you could become if no one teaches you to rein it in."
Yuma nodded slowly.
"Yeah."
He lay back.
"We wait for Reishin tomorrow."
Next morning. Reishin was there before them.
Standing in the arena as always.
They approached. He looked at both.
His shoulder bandaged under his jacket—subtle, but Enji noticed.
"You okay?" Yuma asked.
"Very."
"I hit you."
"Yes."
"Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Exactly what I wanted."
He let them take positions.
"I have a decision to make in less than two weeks," he said. "About joining the guild. If you don't beat this clone by then, you won't get my approval."
"We're ready," Yuma said immediately.
"Not yet."
Reishin raised his hand.
A circular gust formed at the arena center.
It condensed.
Took shape.
A figure.
Exactly like Reishin.
The wind clone stabilized. Eyes glowing white. Relaxed stance.
"You have two weeks. Beat this clone together—or no guild approval. Without that, you remain unattached hunters."
Yuma stared. Pressure radiated—not an exercise, a real opponent.
"An exact copy?" Enji asked.
"Eighty percent of my abilities. Enough to kill you if reckless."
Yuma and Enji exchanged a glance.
Eighty percent of Reishin.
The same Reishin who'd knocked Yuma down effortlessly.
"Two weeks," Reishin repeated. "Use them wisely."
He turned.
"Wait," Yuma shouted. "The darkness—how do I control it?"
Reishin stopped.
Half-turned.
"You don't. Not yet. First, you learn to welcome it without losing yourself. Difference between last night and real mastery? Knowing exactly where you are even when it's there."
"How do I learn that?"
"By surviving the clone."
And he vanished in the wind.
Yuma and Enji faced the immobile clone with glowing white eyes.
"Eighty percent," Enji whispered.
"Yeah."
"How strong was he in our first fight?"
Yuma thought.
"Full power. And barely used twenty percent of his techniques."
Enji exhaled slowly.
"So… we're in deep trouble."
Yuma looked at the clone, then at his own hands.
Somewhere inside, the door remained. Closed. But there.
"Two weeks," he said.
Looked at Enji.
"We'll make it."
Enji nodded.
"We'll make it."
The clone moved.
End of Chapter 11