Yami yawned.
He had been doing it on and off for the last hour, ever since the third match of the day had ended and the prospect of organizing a fourth had presented itself as something requiring effort he wasn't interested in providing. Beside him nobara — the first instructor any of them had met.
"We could just let them keep signing up," Yami said. Not really to her. Mostly to himself. "But honestly." He looked at the destroyed sections of arena floor, the craters, the scorch marks, the evidence of a combat season that had gone significantly further than any of them had planned for. "I don't want to deal with the paperwork from another one of these."
"You never want to deal with paperwork," nobara said.
"Accurate."
He stood. Stretched. Walked to the center of the arena with the energy of someone doing the absolute minimum required and feeling fine about it.
"Alright," he said, his voice carrying without effort across the hall. "Combat season's over."
A pause. Several students exchanged glances.
"Now — before some of you ask why we let just anyone walk in instead of picking matches properly," he continued, "let me tell you something."
He sat down on the edge of the destroyed arena floor like it was a perfectly reasonable place to have a conversation.
"There was a man who wanted to marry a dragon girl," he said. "Her father said fine. But first — a test."
Several students settled in despite themselves. Even Yami's laziness had a certain magnetism when he decided to use it for storytelling instead of avoiding work.
"He took the man to his farm. Where he trained dragons. Told him — there are three dragons in this cage. If you can touch the tail of one of them, you can marry my daughter. If not — turn back and never come back."
"The first dragon came. Mid-sized. Bigger than the man expected. He decided to wait for a better opportunity."
"The second came. Ten times bigger. More menacing. He decided to wait again."
"The third came. Significantly smaller than the other two. He thought — finally, his chance."
A pause.
"When he went to touch it — there was no tail."
"And just like that. He lost his opportunity."
He stood. Looked around the hall.
"This is a school that trains some of the best fighters the world has ever seen," he said. "What do you think happens if a real threat shows up here and you run? You leave the school unprotected."
His tone didn't change. Didn't sharpen into something performative.
"So — the rest of you who haven't battled yet. You're disqualified. Go home. Effective immediately."
They didn't get a chance to respond.
The teleportation took them before anyone could ask a question — the specific, immediate removal of people from a space that had decided their participation in it was finished. The hall thinned out significantly. What remained was the group who had actually stepped into the ring across the entire combat season.
"Those of you who won your matches," Yami continued, like the disqualification had been a minor administrative note rather than the removal of half the year, "will occasionally get private lessons from an Emperor."
A faint smile crossed Elara's face.
After everything — the jungle, the fight with Yuki, the chaos of the last several days — something in her settled into quiet anticipation. Stronger. She could get stronger. Lectured by an Emperor.
She thought she might actually enjoy this school.
The announcements were still going when Shiro saw the purple light flash behind her eyes.
She knew immediately what it meant.
She stood with the unhurried casualness of someone heading to the restroom — a normal excuse for a normal absence — and moved through the corridors of the academy until she reached a section that was secured, isolated, the kind of space that existed for exactly this purpose. She set up a concealing barrier. Dropped to her knees.
"Good evening," she said.
A pause.
Then the figure appeared.
Dark hair, pulled back. A dark purple fighter's kimono, fitted for movement rather than appearance. A sword at her waist. Fairly dark shading beneath her eyes — not exhaustion, something closer to permanent, the kind of mark that came from a particular relationship with sleep that wasn't about tiredness.
"Senior Ren," Shiro said.
"Heyyy Shiro." The voice that came back was warm in a way that had a particular quality to it — bright, almost playful, the specific register of someone who enjoyed being exactly as unsettling as she chose to be. "How have you been? You don't need to be so formal." A small smile. "I was on a mission on a closer planet, so I came to check on you. Don't tell me you haven't made any progress."
Shiro knew the smile was a lie. A cover. Ren was capable of things that didn't belong in a smile this casual — an emotionless killer who could end someone and make their family watch, who had been known to sing while doing it.
But she summoned her courage anyway.
"How was your mission, if I may ask?"
"It went well. Just a wipeout. Nothing much." The smile stayed. "You're always so caring, Shiro. That's why I trust you." A pause. "So I believe you've made progress on your mission. Right?"
A small sweat broke across Shiro's face.
"Not really," she said, trying for confidence she didn't have available. "I'm still in the starting stages. I promise to report back before the end of the month."
"Eh."
The single syllable carried more weight than a full sentence.
"You haven't made progress."
Ren's hand moved to the hilt of her katana.
The atmosphere changed instantly — dark purple Anym pouring outward from her with a density that pressed against the sound barrier and found it wanting. Something far greater than the bloodlust Levi had filled the healing room with. Older. More refined.
"You know how the clan works," Ren continued, the brightness in her voice completely unchanged despite the pressure climbing around her. "You're part of the seniors. You've disciplined failures. Tortured them, even." A small tilt of her head. "Trust me. You wouldn't want to know what it feels like to be tortured back home."
"Ren — please calm down." Shiro's voice carried genuine strain. "You could draw attention with that much bloodlust. Even with my barrier — I can't breathe well."
Ren paused.
Removed her hand from the hilt.
Bent down to where Shiro was still kneeling. Held her chin gently between two fingers.
"Sorry, dear."
The smile hadn't moved.
"I guess I went overboard." A pause. "But if you don't report in two weeks — well. You know what happens." She straightened. "Let me be on my way. Don't want people coming here to take me on."
It was too late.
Levi was already there.
He struck before either of them registered his arrival — the barrier breaking instantly upon contact, his blade aimed directly for Ren's neck
Ren raised her katana.
Still sheathed.
Blocked the strike without drawing it.
"I'd rather not fight you right now, Levi," she said. The brightness in her voice unchanged — like the strike against her sheathed blade had been a minor interruption rather than a genuine attack. "You and I both know you can't beat me. Especially not right now." She tilted her head, examining him. "You look fine on the outside. But I can tell you don't have much strength left to fight. Especially not someone like me." A small, almost curious smile. "I wonder who was strong enough to push you that far. Levi. The Hollow Executor."
"Shut up," he said.
He stepped toward her.
She read the movement immediately — the specific tension of someone about to attack again — and spoke before he committed.
"Levi, you shouldn't stay here long." Her voice softened slightly. "You should return home. I could put in a word for you. You might not even be punished." A pause. "Just please. Come back home."
"You call that home," he said.
"You're clearly blind."
"I see you've made up your mind," Ren said. "Since you brought down the concealing barrier — I can't stay here much longer." Her eyes held his. "But know this, Levi. You can't leave."
He didn't respond.
He charged.
Faster than he had moved since arriving at the academy.
She was faster.
By the time he reached the space where she had been standing, she was already gone.
He looked at Shiro.
Pure anger in his eyes — the cold, controlled fury of someone who understood exactly what had just happened.
He vanished.
End of Chapter 34