April 3, 2103 — 10:00 Imperial Standard Time
Imperial Falconry Institute, Northern Capital District
A deep, ceremonial tone rolled through the Grand Hall—low and resonant, vibrating through stone and bone alike.
It was not a bell, nor a siren, but something older: a call modeled after battlefield horns once used to signal the beginning of an Imperial purge.
The noise cut cleanly through the murmurs.
Lights along the vaulted ceiling dimmed, then realigned, casting the hall in disciplined symmetry. A voice followed—calm, formal, stripped of warmth.
"Applicants, please rise."
One by one, then all at once, the hall stood.
"Please welcome the Headmaster of the Imperial Falconry Institute, Supreme Commander Emeritus of the Northern Campaigns—
Lord-General Masanori Yamamoto."
A presence stepped forward from the elevated platform.
He was tall, but not imposing by size alone. His frame was lean, hardened by years that had not softened him but refined him. His hair was iron-gray, worn short and severe.
His face bore the kind of scars that no longer needed explanation—thin lines along the jaw, a burn mark disappearing beneath the collar of his uniform. His eyes were sharp, alert, and utterly disinterested in approval.
Those who recognized him went still.
Whispers rippled again.
"That's Yamamoto."
"He led the suppression in the North."
"They say he's never lost a campaign."
"Why would someone like that run an academy…?"
Lord-General Yamamoto regarded the hall in silence, letting it stretch until the last restless breath settled.
When he spoke, his voice was steady, unraised—and carried everywhere.
"You stand," he said, "within the institution that produces the Empire's most precise instruments."
Not heroes.
Not champions.
"In another era, you would have been called samurai," Yamamoto continued. "In this era, you are called Agents. The title has changed. The burden has not."
His gaze moved slowly across the sea of faces.
"Power is not talent. Power is not lineage. Power is the willingness to act when the Empire requires it—and to endure what follows."
A pause.
"There are one thousand six hundred forty-two of you here today."
The number landed heavily.
"That is far too many."
A faint stir ran through the crowd.
"Some of you believe this entrance examination will be written. Others expect interviews, simulations, psychological screening."
Yamamoto's mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"You are wrong."
The silence sharpened.
"In ten minutes," he said, "you will fight."
A collective intake of breath.
"You will fight each other. No weapons beyond what you carry. No external interference. Victory is determined by incapacitation or surrender."
He raised a finger.
"At the end of ten minutes, those still standing will be accepted into the Imperial Falconry Institute."
A second finger.
"Those eliminated today are barred from ever applying again."
A murmur—fear, excitement, disbelief.
"One of you," Kurogane added calmly, "will receive an incentive. The applicant with the highest number of confirmed eliminations. Its nature will be announced later."
His eyes hardened.
"Understand this: becoming an Agent is not the goal. Imperial honor is. Only the best of the best will survive their careers. Only the strongest will be remembered as the Empire's blades."
He stepped back.
"Begin."
The horn sounded.
For half a second, nothing happened.
Then the hall exploded.
Applicants surged, instincts overriding formation. Old grudges, rivalries, ambition—all collided at once.
Blows landed.
Bodies fell.
Shouts echoed against crystal and steel.
Yet in one pocket of the hall—
Nothing.
Ichiro Yoshima remained where he stood.
So did Akira Hayashi.
And Mitsui Arakawa.
A wide, unnatural clearing formed around them, as if the chaos itself avoided that space.
Mitsui glanced left, then right, eyebrows lifting.
"Well," he said lightly, "this is awkward."
Akira's lips curved faintly. "It seems we're unpopular."
Ichiro didn't move. "Or the opposite."
Mitsui tilted his head. "Should we start eliminating each other?"
Akira gave him a look. "Sounds tempting. But inefficient."
Ichiro exhaled. "We can just stay here. No one's coming."
Mitsui scoffed. "You're really going to stand around? There's an incentive."
"You go," Ichiro replied flatly. "I'll pass."
Mitsui grinned. "Suit yourself."
He stepped away easily, scanning for opponents.
Akira followed moments later, blade already loose in her grip, eyes calm, deliberate.
Ichiro was alone again.
That was when the circle closed.
Several applicants stepped forward—broad-shouldered, disciplined, moving with the confidence of military upbringing. Their stances were practiced, coordinated.
One of them spoke.
"We're not letting you through."
Ichiro met his gaze. "You should walk away."
A scoff. "A Yakuza doesn't belong here. A Yoshima doesn't belong here. And someone rumored to be the Nightmare—"
He spat to the side.
"Definitely doesn't belong here."
"I'm not here to fight," Ichiro said evenly.
"I just want to pass."
"Too bad."
Movement flashed at the edge of Ichiro's vision.
He caught the attacker's wrist without turning, fingers closing with practiced certainty. Bone shifted beneath his grip—just enough to steal strength, not enough to shatter. The boy cried out as Ichiro twisted, redirected the momentum, and sent him stumbling into another body.
The circle tightened.
They came in waves now—hesitant at first, then bolder when they realized he wasn't striking back with lethal intent. Fists, elbows, poorly measured kicks. Ichiro stepped through them with quiet precision, turning shoulders, guiding force past his frame, striking only where balance could be taken rather than flesh broken.
Yoshima techniques. Restrained. Measured.
A palm to the sternum sent one sprawling. A sweep dropped another hard onto the stone. An elbow clipped a jaw, just enough to daze. He never lingered, never followed through more than necessary.
"Stop holding back!" someone shouted, frustration cracking their voice.
"Show it!" another snarled. "You think you're better than us?"
Ichiro didn't answer.
He pivoted, blocked, countered—moving like water forced into narrow channels, efficient and unyielding.
Then—
A sharp metallic snap split the air.
Pain exploded at the back of his head.
His vision lurched sideways as warmth spilled down his neck. Blood. The taste of iron filled his mouth as his foot slid half a step across the polished stone.
The world slowed.
The attacker behind him unfolded a telescoping baton with a grin born of desperation and fear.
The second strike came fast.
Ichiro caught it.
Barehanded.
Steel groaned as his fingers closed, knuckles whitening. With a sharp twist of his wrist, the baton bent inward, collapsing under pressure it was never meant to withstand.
The sound echoed—screaming metal in a hall suddenly gone quiet.
Ichiro lifted his head.
Something in his posture changed.
Not speed. Weight.
He stepped forward, and this time he didn't wait for them to come to him.
A straight punch dropped one cleanly. A hook to the ribs folded another. A sharp knee took the breath from a third. Each strike was deliberate, economical—professional. They fell one by one, gasping, bodies skidding across the stone.
The remaining two froze.
Fear finally won.
They turned and ran.
Ichiro took a step after them.
Just one.
His heartbeat thundered too loud in his ears. The edges of his vision darkened, creeping inward like ink in water. His breath came slower, heavier, as though something inside him had leaned forward, curious.
He raised his hand—
And stopped.
A figure stepped between him and the fleeing students.
Akira Hayashi.
She didn't shout. Didn't draw her blade.
She simply placed herself there, close enough that he had to see her, had to register the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
"That's enough," she said quietly.
Not as a command. Not as a warning.
As a choice.
Ichiro blinked.
The darkness hesitated—then loosened its grip.
He exhaled sharply, shoulders lowering as the pressure receded, leaving only the dull ache of blood and exhaustion behind.
The horn sounded.
Once. Twice.
Time expired.
The echo rolled through the Grand Hall before fading into silence.
Bodies lay scattered across the polished stone—some groaning, some unconscious, others staring upward in stunned disbelief. Those still standing remained where they were, bloodied and shaken, unsure whether to move.
High above them, Lord-General Masanori Yamamoto observed without a word.
His gaze did not wander.
It fixed first on Ichiro Yoshima.
Yamamoto had seen countless candidates break—some to fear, some to arrogance, some to the thrill of violence. He had seen prodigies burn out before their potential ever took shape.
What stood below him now was different.
A blade that had stopped itself.
The faintest smile touched the corner of the Lord-General's mouth.
Then his eyes shifted.
Akira Hayashi stood where she was, sword still sheathed, posture composed. No triumph. No hesitation. Only the quiet certainty of someone who had stepped forward simply because it felt right.
Yamamoto regarded her with the same expression.
Interest. Recognition.
Two anomalies.
His voice carried easily through the hall.
"Applicants still standing," Lord-General Yamamoto announced, "congratulations."
The massive inner gates of the Falconry Institute began to open, light spilling across the scarred floor.
"You have been selected."
His gaze flicked once more—Ichiro. Then Akira.
"Welcome," he said, softly but unmistakably.
"Welcome to Imperial Falcon."