April 3, 2103 — 09:12 Imperial Standard Time
Imperial Falconry Institute, Northern Capital District
Six months after the night that shattered Neo-Japan's sense of invincibility, the Empire still claimed control.
Few believed it.
The word Nightmare never appeared in official reports, but among the young—especially those standing now beneath the Falcon Gates—it had taken on a life of its own.
Fragmented footage circulated in private channels.
Blurred stills.
Audio leaks scrubbed just before the screams began.
Stories layered atop stories until no one could tell where truth ended and bravado began.
A single combatant.
Imperial Agents overwhelmed.
A bridge turned red in minutes.
Some called it exaggeration.
Others called it propaganda gone wrong.
A few whispered that the Nightmare was proof—proof that the Empire's perfect weapons could bleed.
For applicants aged sixteen to twenty-one desiring to make a name of their own, raised on doctrine and ambition, the idea was intoxicating.
The courtyard of the Imperial Falconry Institute was wide, immaculate—white stone pathways framed by glass spires and banners bearing the falcon crest of the Empire.
New applicants moved in clusters, laughing too loudly, posturing, clinging to family names that had carried them this far.
Akira Hayashi walked right through the center of it.
Alone, unnacompanied.
She walked through the gates of the Imperial Falconry Institute knowing she was being watched.
The sensation had become familiar over the past months—not the crude attention of crowds, but something quieter and more deliberate.
Eyes that did not linger too long. Conversations that lowered half a second too late.
The presence of protection that never announced itself.
She moved anyway, posture straight, pace unhurried, as though the weight of a vanished clan did not walk beside her.
The academy uniform fit her perfectly. Black and white, crisp lines meant to erase individuality, altered subtly at the sleeves with the cut of an old kimono style that anyone well versed to culture would recognize.
Her long, dark hair fell cleanly down her back, secured by a simple metal clip engraved with the Hayashi crest—unadorned, unmistakable. At her hip rested her sword, its saya worn just enough to signal use rather than ceremony.
That, more than anything, made people stare.
Applicants filled the courtyard in clusters—sons and daughters of noble houses, corporate dynasties, old Samurai Agent lineages. Most arrived wrapped in noise and expectation, buoyed by family names that had prepared them for this place since birth.
Only Akira walked alone.
Whispers followed her like a current.
"That's her." "The Hayashi girl."
"She was supposed to win the Campaign Tournament."
"She withdrew at the finals, didn't she?" "No explanation. Just gone."
The Imperial Campaign Tournament was not merely sport; it was theater, propaganda, a promise of future heroes. Akira Hayashi had reached its final match with frightening ease.
And then she had vanished.
The Empire sealed the footage. The commentators changed the narrative. Officially, she had withdrawn for "personal reasons."
Unofficially, she became something else.
The uncrowned champion, the girl who didn't finnish.
Rumors filled the silence.
And then there was the other reason people stared.
The last Hayashi.
A name spoken carefully now. A clan erased in public, remembered in private. People bowed to her lineage—but avoided her presence.
Too close to tragedy.
Too close to politics.
Too close to blood.
Some found her terrifying.
Others found her beautiful.
Both kept their distance.
A reminder of a clan erased so thoroughly that people spoke its name only when they thought no one important was listening.
Some avoided her out of fear. Others out of superstition. A few looked at her with something closer to reverence.
Akira ignored them all.
She had learned that silence unsettled people far more than defiance.
Then suddenly, a noise broke the silence. The sound came before the sight.
Engines.
The noise rolled through the courtyard like a pressure change. Conversations faltered. Heads turned toward the Falcon Gates at the far end of the grounds.
A convoy of black vehicles approached.
No banners.
No family insignia.
No academy escorts.
That was strange.
Speculation sparked immediately.
"A noble house?" "Southern Empire family, maybe." "Corporate heir?" "Look at the plating—those aren't civilian."
The convoy stopped.
Doors opened.
Four men stepped out first.
They were huge, still, disciplined—and marked.
The tattoos were visible even beneath tailored coats. Old Yakuza ink, the kind that wasn't meant to be hidden because it didn't need to be. Symbols of loyalty sworn far from the Empire's courts.
The realization moved through the crowd like a held breath finally released.
"…Yakuza?" "At Falcon?" "They're serious?"
Then the fifth door opened.
He stepped out without hesitation.
Ichiro Yoshima.
He wore the standard applicant uniform, unmarked and regulation, as though he had nothing to announce.
No insignia.
No family crest.
No attempt to soften what he was.
It should have made him invisible.
Instead, it made him impossible to ignore.
He carried himself with a calm that felt earned rather than practiced, hands relaxed, expression neutral.
Not arrogance—something more unsettling.
The composure of someone who had already endured worse judgment than this.
He was good looking in a way that made people uncomfortable.
Not refined, not gentle. Sharp lines, controlled presence, eyes that seemed to measure distance and consequence instinctively.
Attention followed him whether he acknowledged it or not.
Eyes followed him instinctively.
Some assessed him as a threat.
Some dismissed him as spectacle.
Some—quietly—felt afraid.
Then someone noticed the insignia.
Low on the collar. Barely visible.
A simple crest.
Yoshima.
The name hit like a dropped blade.
"No way." "That's impossible." "They wouldn't let—"
The gate scanned him.
Green.
Accepted.
As the Falcon Gates opened, Ichiro stepped inside.
His bodyguards stopped at the gate.
They bowed.
Not to the academy.
To him.
And the rumors finally found a name.
Ichiro did not react.
But the courtyard did.
The name spread the way fire does when it catches dry air—quiet at first, then all at once.
Voices lowered, then overlapped, then forgot to pretend they weren't staring.
"…The Nightmare?"
"No way."
"They put a bounty on him. An Imperial one." "I heard it's nine figures."
"Higher," someone else whispered.
"Enough to buy a province."
"That's insane."
"So is killing Imperial Agents."
Fragments of rumor stitched themselves together as he walked.
A bridge slick with blood.
Elite samurai units erased in minutes.
Footage sealed so tightly that only ghosts of it survived—blurred frames, distorted audio, a scream cut short.
Some spoke of the Nightmare with awe, others with disbelief.
"If it was really him, he'd be dead by now."
"Or locked under the Palace."
"The Empire wouldn't let something like that walk free."
"Unless they couldn't stop it."
A taller applicant, wrapped in the confidence of old money, scoffed softly.
"You're all reaching. Yoshima or not, if he were the Nightmare, he wouldn't be here. This place screens for loyalty before skill."
Another voice answered, quieter, older-sounding despite the youth.
"The Yoshima weren't always Yakuza. Their bloodline started as samurai—pre-Empire. That much is recorded. Stripped of status, not erased. By Imperial law… he qualifies."
That explanation didn't calm anyone.
It only made the unease more precise.
Ichiro walked through it all as though the sound never reached him.
His stride was unhurried, each step placed with the same deliberate economy.
Black hair fell neatly into place, untouched by wind or nerves.
His expression remained fixed—eyes sharp, distant, unreadable.
There was nothing inviting about his presence, and nothing accidental either. He looked like someone carved down to essentials and left that way.
Some applicants tracked him the way hunters watched a rival enter their territory.
Others looked away too quickly, instincts warning them not to linger.
A cluster of female applicants near the fountain whispered among themselves, not bothering to hide their interest.
"He's… different." "That look—like he doesn't care if people hate him." "It's terrifying." "…I kind of like it."
A few steps away, another group fell silent as he passed, shoulders stiffening, conversation dying mid-sentence.
Fear and fascination moved alongside him in equal measure.
Then—he slowed.
Not because of the stares. Not because of the rumors.
Because he saw her.
She stood apart from the clusters and banners, framed by nothing but open space.
No attendants.
No family crest hovering nearby. Just a girl in academy uniform, posture composed, presence quiet in a way that drew the eye precisely because it did not demand it.
Long black hair.
Sword—not ornamental, not ceremonial.
Old.
Legitimate.
The kind of blade that had history soaked into its steel.
It's blade dulled, the Hayashi way.
In a courtyard crowded with heirs and protégés, entourages and expectations, she stood exactly as he did—unaccompanied.
Ichiro stopped.
The world narrowed, sharpened.
There was no doubt. He didn't need confirmation, records, or whispered names.
Akira Hayashi.
The last.
His chest tightened—not with longing, not with nostalgia, but with the strange weight of inevitability.
Once, long ago, their names had been spoken together in quiet negotiations.
An arrangement inked on paper between clans aqAt the time, it had been abstract. Political. Distant.
Now, standing here, it felt uncomfortably real.
She had grown into her reputation.
The attention surrounding her wasn't loud, but it was constant—curiosity, reverence, caution all braided together.
Ichiro knew what she represented to the public.
He knew what she represented to the Empire.
And he knew what she represented to him.
His mission.
Protect her.
Support her.
Help her move where the Empire could not see.
She didn't look at him.
Not even once.
Akira Hayashi walked with purpose, eyes forward, attention fixed on her own path.
Whatever awareness she carried, it wasn't for him.
To her, he was just another applicant—another obstacle, another shadow in a place filled with them.
She passed him without slowing.
The space she left behind felt colder.
Ichiro remained still for a moment longer, watching her move away, committing the rhythm of her steps to memory.
There was no disappointment in him—only a quiet acknowledgment.
This was how it had to begin.
Uneven.
Unbalanced.
Unknown to her.
A bell rang out across the grounds, sharp and commanding.
Then the announcement followed, amplified and unmistakable.
"All applicants of the Imperial Falconry Institute—please proceed immediately to the Main Hall.
The admission examination is about to begin."
The murmurs shifted again, excitement cutting through tension.
Ichiro exhaled once and resumed walking.
Ahead of him, Akira Hayashi did the same.
Neither looked back.