I can't believe it, 1k Collections, 100k views, and 100 powerstone. Thank you very much everyone.
I will treat myself to an oreo cake to celebrate.
Thank you for following this story.
I will try publish a bonus chapter tomorrow or maybe something extra.
Anyhow, thank all of you that followed this story.
Withou any further to do. Enjoy!!!!
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(Hikigaya Hachiman's POV)
Time had ceased to function in any recognizable way.
The shrill cry of the period bell felt like something from a previous lifetime, a memory of a world that operated on sane, predictable rules.
That world was gone. It had been unmade, replaced by the low, resonant cadence of Yoshioka-sensei's voice and the terrifying, beautiful architecture of the prose he was weaving around us.
For an hour and a half, we had not been in a classroom.
We had been in Antarctica. We had felt the biting, sterile wind that carried the promise of ancient, cyclopean secrets.
We had stared into the abyss of a vast, mountain range that defied all known geology and all known God, and felt the abyss not just stare back, but understand us in a way we could never understand it.
He hadn't just been teaching. He hadn't been explaining.
He was reciting.
He stood at the front of the room, but he wasn't looking at us.
His crimson gaze was fixed on some point far beyond the scuffed walls of the classroom, his voice a low, hypnotic instrument that didn't seem to need breath.
"The madness was a strange, ethereal white… the sheer, brain-paralyzing despair of knowing we were not the first…"
He wasn't reading from a book.
The text was on the board, copied in his unnervingly perfect script, but his eyes were closed. He was pulling the words from some internal archive, his delivery flat, devoid of dramatic flourish, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
He wasn't performing horror. He was stating facts. He was a coroner reading the autopsy report of reality itself.
"...for it was of the elder world, a world before and beyond our own, a cosmos of unthinkable cold and silence, where other laws and other gods hold sway."
A profound, suffocating silence had swallowed the room whole.
It wasn't the silence of boredom. It was the silence of sheer, unadulterated dread. The kind of quiet that falls when you're hiding and you hear the footsteps of something immense stop right outside your door.
Yukinoshita was a statue of pale intensity, her pen forgotten on her desk, her hands clenched into tight fists in her lap. She wasn't trying to analyse or deconstruct. She was simply trying to withstand the onslaught of the concept itself.
Yuigahama had shrunk in her seat, her usual bubbly energy replaced by a wide-eyed, genuine fear. She looked like a child who had just heard a ghost story she believed completely.
Tobe's mouth was agape, all traces of his clownish persona vaporized. He was completely, utterly lost, adrift in a sea of concepts so vast it short-circuited his brain. He wasn't even trying to swim; he was just drowning quietly.
Hayama's perfect mask of polite attentiveness had finally, fully shattered. There was a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, his eyes darting between the teacher and the horrifying words on the board as if trying to find a safe place to land and finding none.
Miura had given up all pretence of texting. She was just staring, her brow furrowed not in her usual disdain, but in a deep, uncomfortable confusion. This wasn't a social game she understood. This was something that threatened the very foundation of her sunny, surface-level world, and she had no defence against it. She looked… small.
And Ebina… Ebina was terrifying. That faint, knowing smile was still there, but it had frozen into a rictus of pure, ecstatic horror. Her eyes were gleaming behind her glasses, not with fujoshi delight, but with the rapturous terror of a zealot witnessing a true apocalypse. Her fingers were steepled under her chin, and she was trembling, just slightly. She wasn't shipping anyone. She was witnessing the cosmic insignificance of all ships, all relationships, all of human endeavour, and she was loving it.
Hachiman could feel his own heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, pathetic rhythm against the vast, glacial pace of the horror Yoshioka-sensei was describing. His pen was slick in his sweaty hand. He hadn't written a word in forty minutes. What was the point? You don't take notes on your own autopsy.
This was the logical, horrifying endpoint of the "fearful symmetry" he'd described with Blake. Blake's tiger was a question of creation, a magnificent and terrible predator. This… this was the answer. The answer was that the tiger was just a pet. A stray cat. And its creators were things that lived in the spaces between stars, whose very geometry was a mockery of life.
Sensei's voice never rose, but it seemed to drop even further, becoming a whisper that scraped against the inside of the skull.
"We understood… that we had become strangers to ourselves, that our own past was a myth and our future a terrifying joke played upon us by forces we could not comprehend."
He finally paused. The absence of his voice was like a physical shock.
The room felt colder. The fluorescent lights seemed too bright, too artificial, illuminating a world that had just been proven to be a flimsy set piece.
He opened his eyes.
They weren't distant anymore.
They focused on them, sweeping across the room, measuring the damage. He saw the pale faces, the wide eyes, the utter stillness. He saw the collective psyche of his class, shattered on the rocks of cosmic indifference.
He didn't look pleased. He didn't look smug. He looked… resigned. As if he'd known exactly what this would do to them and had done it anyway because it was, simply, the truth.
"Lovecraft's central thesis" He said, his tone shifting back to that of a lecturer, though the subject matter made it a grotesque parody of one. "Is not that monsters exist. It is that knowledge itself is the monster. The realization that our understanding of the universe is not merely incomplete, but wrong. That our reality is a thin, fragile skin over an abyss of chaos and madness. To learn is to go mad. To see is to despair"
He picked up the chalk, the sound unnaturally loud. He underlined the word 'madness' on the board.
"The 'Mountain of Madness' is not a place you enter. It is a realization you reach. A peak of understanding from which there is no return to the flat, comfortable plains of ignorance. You can only fall into the chasms on the other side."
His gaze landed on Hachiman for a fraction of a second. It felt less like he was looking at him and more like he was confirming a diagnosis. 'Yes. You understand. You have always understood this. I am just giving it a name'
He placed the chalk down with a final, soft click.
"The universe is not only stranger than we imagine," he quoted, his voice flat and final. "It is stranger than we can imagine. To believe otherwise is the only true madness"
The bell rang.
The sound was like a slap. It jerked them back into their bodies, into the classroom, into a world that now felt terrifyingly temporary.
No one moved. No one spoke. No one reached for their bag.
They just sat there, stranded on the shore of a normal school day, trying to process the ocean of cosmic horror they had just been drowned in.
Yoshioka-sensei gathered his papers. He didn't say "class dismissed." He simply turned and walked out, leaving the terrifying words on the board and twenty-odd shattered worldviews in his wake.
The silence he left behind was the loudest thing Hachiman had ever heard
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(Third Person POV)
The door to the classroom clicked shut behind him, sealing away the profound, ringing silence he had cultivated.
Yoshioka Akira stood in the hallway for a moment, the distant, muffled chatter from other classes sounding like the chirping of insects after the deep, cosmic dread of Lovecraft's prose.
A faint, almost imperceptible flicker of something crossed his features. Not a smile. It was something colder, more analytical.
Amusement, perhaps, but of a kind so detached it was nearly clinical. It was the look of a master strategist who had watched his pieces move exactly as predicted.
'Such simple, malleable clay' the thought drifted through his mind, quiet and observational. 'A few well-placed words, the right key turned in the lock of their perception, and their entire reality shudders. They chatter about idols and test scores, building their little worlds of sand. It takes so little to show them the tide'
He walked through the halls, a solitary figure moving with silent purpose.
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The staff room was a bubble of mundane reality, smelling of old coffee, photocopier toner, and the faint, sweet scent of a forgotten pastry. He navigated the cluttered space to his desk, an island of stark order amidst the gentle chaos. He sat, the chair not making a sound, and pulled a stack of tests from another class toward him.
His crimson eyes scanned the papers, his pen moving in precise, minimal ticks to mark errors. It was mechanical, effortless. The problems of basic algebra and grammar were child's play, simple patterns to be recognized and corrected.
A peaceful, almost meditative silence settled around him, a stark contrast to the emotional tempest he had just orchestrated.
This peace was interrupted by the hesitant approach of Dogura-sensei, the teacher for the third-year classes. The man looked equal parts confused and impressed, clutching a few test papers of his own
"Yoshioka-sensei," Kawasaki began, adjusting his glasses. "I have to ask… how did you do it?"
Akira's pen stilled. He looked up, his expression one of pure, neutral inquiry. The question made no sense to him. "Do what, Dogura-sensei?"
"This." The man laid two papers on Akira's desk. One was a literature test from Ogata, the notoriously lazy genius. The other was a math test from Furuhashi, the literature-obsessed girl who could barely add. Both bore scores that were, for the first time, solidly passable. Not exceptional, but a clear, undeniable improvement from their usual abysmal or wildly lopsided performances.
"Ogata actually wrote a full essay analysis on Ishiguro Kazuo-sensei" Dogura said, pointing at the surprisingly coherent paragraphs. "And Furuhashi… she showed her work. She got through the quadratic equations. I've never seen her focus long enough to finish a problem set before."
Akira looked from one paper to the other. His impassive face gave nothing away. Inside, the observation was filed away.
He looked back at Dogura's expectant face. The man was waiting for a secret, a pedagogical trick he could write down.
Akira's lips quirked in the faintest, driest imitation of a smile. It didn't reach his eyes.
"Max Level Teaching Skill" He said, his voice flat.
Dogura blinked. "I… beg your pardon?"
"It's an inside joke," Akira replied, the words a clear and final dismissal. He returned his gaze to his own stack of papers, effectively ending the conversation. Dogura stood there for a moment longer, baffled, before mumbling something and retreating to his own desk, none the wiser.
The quiet had just begun to reassert itself when another presence arrived. This one he felt before he saw it, a different weight in the air, a sharper focus.
Mafuyu stopped beside his desk, her arms crossed. Her gaze was not on him, but on the two tests Dogura had left behind. She picked up Furuhashi's math paper, her sharp eyes scanning the equations.
She was silent for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she let out a soft, thoughtful breath.
"I'll admit it" She said, her voice low, meant for his ears only. She finally looked at him, her gaze assessing, stripping away the layers of his neutral facade. "I had my doubts. My methods are… structured. Predictable. Yours are…" She glanced toward the hallway, toward the classroom he'd just left, "…something else entirely."
She placed the test back on his desk with a quiet finality.
"But it seems your way, as unorthodox as it is… might have truly worked. They're engaging. Not just the high-fliers. Everyone. Even the ones who have always fallen through the cracks." There was a note of genuine, grudging respect in her tone. She wasn't one to give praise lightly, and she wasn't now. It was a statement of observed fact.
Akira met her gaze, his own still a pool of undisturbed calm. He gave a single, slight nod of acknowledgment. No triumph. No validation. Just acceptance of her conclusion.
Mafuyu held his look for a second longer, as if trying to decipher the code behind his eyes, then turned and walked away, leaving him once more with his silence and the faint, lingering proof that his calculated chaos had, indeed, yielded a most interesting result.
The quiet of the staff room settled back over Akira's desk, but it was a different quiet now.
It was charged, thin, stretched taut by the unspoken thing that had just passed between him and his senior.
Mafuyu did not walk away immediately.
She paused a few steps from his desk, her back to him, her posture as rigid and impeccable as ever. The faint scent of her perfume, something clean and sharp, lingered in the air. For a long moment, she simply stood there, a statue of authority and contained intensity.
Then, slowly, she turned her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder. Her gaze was a laser, precise and utterly devoid of its usual academic detachment, and made a more proper and personal expression
Her voice, when she spoke, was so low it was almost a vibration, meant for him and him alone. It was a tone that bypassed the persona of the English teacher and spoke directly to whatever lay beneath.
"Yoshioka-san" she began, her words measured, each one chosen with surgical care. "A question, if you will." She didn't wait for his assent. She simply asked. "You haven't… told anyone. About… you know what."
Akira's reaction was non-existent. He didn't stiffen. His breath didn't hitch. He didn't even look up from the test paper he was still holding. His finger, resting on a misapplied algebraic formula, didn't so much as twitch.
The silence stretched. It was his answer. A silence of confirmation. A silence of understanding.
Finally, he lifted his gaze from the paper. His crimson eyes met hers, and there was nothing in them. Just a flat, endless pool of acknowledgment.
"Tell anyone about what, Kirisu-sensei?" he said, his voice as calm and neutral as it had been when discussing quadratic equations. It was the perfect, placid lie of omission.
She gave a single, sharp nod. It was all that was needed. The conversation was over.
"See that it remains that way" She said, her voice returning to its normal, authoritative clip. The moment of intense, personal scrutiny was gone, replaced by the professional distance of a principal addressing her staff. "Your results are… noteworthy. Continue as you are."
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her heels clicking a firm, decisive rhythm on the linoleum floor until she disappeared into her office, the door closing with a soft but definitive click.
Akira watched her go, his expression unchanging. He slowly lowered his gaze back to Furuhashi's math test.
He looked at the shaky but complete equations, the passing grade.
He picked up his red pen.
There was work to do.
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The final bell's echo faded into the familiar after-school sounds of shuffling papers and closing lockers.
For Akira, the day's tasks were complete. His schedule had been efficiently executed, his lessons delivered with precise, unnerving clarity.
With no additional tutoring obligations for Ogata and Furuhashi today, a block of time had been cleared. The most logical action was to return to his residence.
He was placing the last stack of graded papers into his leather satchel when he sensed a presence approaching his desk.
The rhythm of the footsteps, measured, quiet, identified the visitor before she spoke.
Mafuyu stopped beside his desk, her expression its usual blend of professional detachment and mild fatigue from the day's work. In her hand, she held a small, glossy slip of paper.
"Yoshioka-san" she said, her tone neutral.
Akira straightened up, his crimson eyes meeting hers with placid neutrality. He offered a slight, respectful nod. "Kirisu-sensei"
"A new gym opened recently in the neighbourhood. Silverman Gym" She extended the slip of paper toward him. It was a promotional coupon for a one-month membership. "It's close to your apartment building."
She paused, her gaze shifting to the window.
"Since you've taken over tutoring Ogata and Furuhashi" She continued, her voice even, but cracking a little as she seemingly blushes from the kind gesture "I thought it might be useful to you. The discount is quite high"
Akira's gaze lowered to the coupon.
He reached out and took it, his movements economical and silent.
"Thank you, Kirisu-sensei" he said, his voice a calm, flat acceptance. He slid the coupon into the inner pocket of his jacket without looking at it again. "I will consider it"
Mafuyu gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. Her goal was complete "It's no trouble. Good evening, sensei."
With that, she turned and walked away, her departure as quiet and efficient as her arrival. Though if one looked closely, and Akira did, there was the faintest hint of lightness in her step, a barely-there skip she seemed unaware of herself.
Akira closed his satchel. He picked it up; the weight perfectly balanced in his hand. His internal calculations were already running high, including all the information he knew
'Silverman Gym
Kengan
Isshou Senkin'
He walked out of the staff room and into the afternoon sun, the coupon in his pocket a small, inert weight.
'Might as well' He thought, the ghost of something colder shifting behind his eyes
It seems this world was even more interesting than he expected
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(?'s POV)
Another day, another stack of ungraded papers.
Tachibana Satomi sighed.
Life at Koyo Girl's Academy was… pleasant. Predictable. Safe.
Sometimes, a little too much of all three. The most exciting part of her day was usually debating whether to have curry bread or a melon pan from the bakery on the way home.
Being single at her age wasn't a tragedy (In her mind, totally not coping) but it had a certain… loneliness to it.
A routine of one. She loved her students, she loved her friends, but sometimes she wondered if her life would ever have a soundtrack more thrilling than the gentle hum of the photocopier.
She was pulled from her thoughts by the sound of Machio's booming, friendly voice cutting through the familiar clang and grunt of Silverman Gym.
"Everyone, listen up! We have a new member joining us today!" Machio announced, his perpetual smile wider than usual.
Satomi perked up, exchanging a glance with her friends and students, Hibiki Sakura and Souryuin Akemi. New members were always a source of gossip and speculation.
'Ooh, I hope it's another girl!' Sakura mouthed, her eyes sparkling.
'Maybe it's a super macho guy, even bigger than Machio-san!' Akemi whispered back, fanning herself dramatically. Already imagining the figure of another Muscle-freak
Satomi just smiled, expecting another fitness enthusiast of the usual variety. Or perhaps a college student or a new office worker trying to shed some stress.
Then he walked into view.
And for Tachibana Satomi, the world seemed to click into slow motion.
It wasn't another muscle-bound titan. It wasn't a shy girl. It was… him.
He was wearing simple, dark sports shorts and a grey athletic shirt, nothing flashy. But the clothes did nothing to hide the powerful build underneath. His arms and forearms were corded with defined, functional muscle, not bulky but enough to make his look bigger. His legs were toned and strong, suggesting a foundation of quiet power. His tall stature, taller than most of this place (Even Machio in his "Normal" form) made his build even more prominent. And his face…
Platinum hair, sharp features, and eyes the colour of deep tulips.
He was, without exaggeration, the most devastatingly handsome man she had ever seen in her life.
He didn't swagger.
He moved with an unnerving economy of motion, each step precise and silent.
His crimson eyes swept over the gym with a detached, analytical calm, as if he were assessing its structural integrity rather than its equipment.
Then, those eyes landed on their little group. He gave a slight, polite nod.
"Good afternoon" Hsaid. His voice was a low, calm baritone that seemed to absorb the noise around it rather than add to it. "I am Yoshika Akira, nice to meet you"
The trio stared, utterly speechless. He held the nod for a fraction of a second longer, then turned to follow Machio for a tour.
The moment he was out of earshot, they erupted into hushed, frantic whispers.
"Did you see that?!" Sakura squealed, barely containing her volume.
"Did you see his muscles? They are… perfect," Akemi breathed, her usual confident, analytical demeanour replaced by pure, unadulterated awe. Her sharp eyes, usually focused on symmetry and peak physical form, were wide. "Not bulky. Not for show. It's pure, efficient, functional architecture. It's… beautiful"
Satomi could only nod, her own heart doing a frantic tap dance against her ribs. "He's… my age!" She blurted out, the words escaping before she could think. "I mean, he looks like he is. Or he could be younger. Or older!"
They tried to pretend to focus on their exercises, but all three were now intently watching the new member's every move from the corners of their eyes.
Machio, beaming with pride, was explaining the leg press machine. Akira listened, his expression one of polite neutrality. He asked a short, quiet question. Machio's eyes widened slightly before he answered with renewed enthusiasm.
Then, Akira sat down at the machine.
He loaded it with a weight that made Akemi gasp.
Without any visible effort, without a single grunt or strained expression, he began his reps. His movements were fluid, powerful, and utterly controlled.
Each extension and contraction were identical to the last, a perfect, mechanical rhythm.
He finished the set, stood up, and nodded once to a stunned Machio. There was no heavy breathing. No sweat beaded on his forehead. It was as if he'd just taken a casual stroll.
He moved to the cable machine next, performing a set of lateral pulldowns with the same impossible ease, the heavy stack of weights moving as if it were weightless under his command.
"He's not even sweating," Sakura whispered, her voice filled with a mixture of horror and admiration. "How is he not sweating? That's… not human."
Akemi was silent, her brow furrowed in intense study. She wasn't watching him with attraction anymore, but with the rapt focus of a scientist who has just discovered a fascinating new law of physics. "His form… it's flawless. There's no energy wasted. No tremors. It's like watching a muscle machine programmed for perfect efficiency"
Satomi finally found her voice, a soft, dazed murmur. "And his voice is quiet something, like a Seiyuu"
The three women fell into a stunned silence, watching as the enigmatic new member continued his workout, dismantling every piece of equipment in the gym with an ease that was both mesmerizing and slightly terrifying.
The predictable routine of Silverman Gym had been shattered, replaced by the captivating mystery of Yoshioka Akira.
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The clang of weights had faded into a comfortable post-workout hum. The four of them found themselves clustered at the gym's bar, where they mostly served protein and energy drinks.
It was an unlikely grouping: the impossibly handsome new member, the two energetic high schoolers, and their slightly flustered teacher.
A comfortable silence had settled, punctuated by the soft clink of glasses. It was Akemi who broke it, her tone one of genuine, analytical curiosity.
"Your technique was remarkable, Yoshioka-san. It's rare to see such efficient form. If you don't mind me asking, what do you do for a living?"
Akira took a slow sip of his water. His movementscarried a deliberate, graceful poise.
"I am a teacher" he replied, his voice a calm, measured baritone that carried a refined, educated weight. "I teach at Soubu High"
The revelation sent a jolt through the group.
"Get out! A teacher?!" Hibiki blurted out, before shrinking back slightly. "I mean, wow! That's so cool! Soubu's right near us!"
Akemi's eyes lit up with interest. "A teacher. That explains the air of authority. We're from Koyo Girl's Academy. I'm Souryuin Akemi, this is Sakura Hibiki" She gave a confident, friendly smile. "It's nice to have you here."
Satomi saw her chance, her heart doing a little flip. "Looks like we're in the same boat, Yoshioka-san" she said, offering a warm, slightly nervous smile. "Tachibana Satomi. I teach at Koyo" She let out a soft, flustered laugh. ""And, well… single. You know. Just… putting that out there. In case it matters."
The moment the words left her mouth, she wanted to vanish into her shake. Hibiki choked on a laugh, quickly turning it into a cough, while Akemi's eyebrows rose a fraction, a look of mild, amused approval on her face.
This time, the admission felt more like a shared joke between colleagues.
Akira's lips curved into a faint, acknowledging smile. It was a small expression, but on his features, it was devastating.
"The path of a teacher is often a solitary one," he said, his tone carrying a noble, almost poetic gravity. "It is a weight we choose to bear for the sake of the future."
Emboldened, Hibiki practically vibrated with excitement. "Yoshioka-sensei! Since we're going to be coming to the same gym and everything… could we maybe get your number? You know! In case we have questions about… homework! Or… joint training!"
Akemi looked for a second and then nodded, playing along "A good idea. It would be useful to have a contact. info
Satomi held her breath. 'Thank you Sakura-san, I will make sure to give you a good grade in your next test'
Akira considered them for a moment, his crimson gaze thoughtful. The request seemed to mildly amuse him.
"A reasonable proposition," he conceded, his voice like smooth, dark velvet. He retrieved his phone with an elegant motion. "It would be improper to decline such earnest request."
A flurry of activity followed as phones were pulled out. Numbers were exchanged amidst beeps and giggles.
Akira input each contact with a deliberate tap.
With the exchange complete, he rose. His movement was fluid and unhurried.
"I must take my leave. The evening awaits." He offered a final, slight nod, a gesture that was both impeccably polite and strangely captivating. "It was a genuine pleasure meeting all of you"
He turned and left, his exit as quiet and striking as his entrance.
The moment the door closed, Hibiki grabbed Satomi's arm. "Sensei! Oh my god! He's like, crazy handsome! And he talks like that!"
Akemi fanned herself with a hand, a real smile on her face. "Yeah. He's something else. The whole package is kind of unreal."
But Satomi wasn't listening to their teasing.
She was looking down at her phone, at the new contact listed simply as Akira. A slow, dazed, and utterly thrilled smile spread across her face.
The girls had asked. The girls had gotten his number.
And he had given it with a grace and eloquence that made her head spin.
The walk home felt magical.
The evening air was sweet, and the familiar streets seemed to glow.
For the first time in ages, her life didn't feel quiet, it felt full of dazzling, incredible possibility. She had the number of a man who looked like a god and spoke like a king.
The rhythm of her life had just gotten a major upgrade
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(Next Day – Evening)
(?'s POV)
The gala was a beautiful, glittering aquarium, and she was the shark gliding through its warm, predictable currents.
From her position near a towering ice sculpture, she observed the ballroom with a languid, analytical gaze. The air thrummed with the sound of clinking champagne flutes, forced laughter, and the quiet rustle of silk and ambition.
'So many little fish' She mused, her lips curving into a faint, private smile. 'All swimming in their carefully defined schools. So sure of their importance'
Her sharp blue eyes catalogued them with effortless ease.
A politician from a nationalist party, his smile too wide, his handshake too firm, a man drowning in debt and desperate for a Shinomiya-backed lifeline.
The CEO of a rival electronics firm, boasting loudly to a captive audience, a company whose stock the Momobami clan was quietly preparing to short.
A celebrated violinist performing near the entrance, a rising star whose entire career was secretly funded by a Momobami subsidiary in exchange for certain future favors.
Each person was a ledger of assets and liabilities, strengths and vulnerabilities.
She saw not people, but pieces on a board. The entire evening was a game, and she was already three moves ahead of everyone in the room.
Her informants had whispered of a particular intrigue tonight. Shinomiya Gan'an himself had allegedly sent a personal, hand-calligraphed invitation to a mystery guest.
A VVIP from outside their usual circles. The speculation had been delicious. A foreign dignitary? A reclusive tech genius? The prospect of a truly new piece on the board, an unknown variable, had been the only reason she'd bothered to attend this otherwise tedious display of Shinomiya wealth.
Yet, she had seen no one of note. No unfamiliar face radiated the kind of power that would warrant Gan'an's personal attention.
Perhaps the mystery guest had declined. Or perhaps it was all a clever ruse by the old fox to keep everyone guessing. A flicker of disappointment cooled her amusement. How dull.
The music shifted. A hush fell over the crowd as Gan'an himself ascended the small dais at the head of the room.
Then, his daughter, Shinomiya Kaguya, descended the grand staircase. She was a vision in an exquisitely detailed, prohibitively expensive yukata, her expression a perfect mask of demure grace.
Her smile didn't falter. 'A show of power' She thought. 'Parading his most prized asset. A reminder to every man here with a son that the ultimate corporate merger is a marital one' It was a classic, almost quaint, move.
Gan'an welcomed the guests, his voice a low, commanding rumble that required no microphone.
He thanked them for honouring his daughter. But her sharp eyes caught what others missed. As he spoke, his gaze was not on his daughter or his guests. It was scanning the periphery of the room, his eyes sharp and searching. He was looking for someone.
His subtle frown indicated he hadn't found them. She saw him lean ever so slightly toward his head secretary and right hand, Hayasaka Masato, and mutter a terse question. The man gave a slight, almost imperceptible shake of his head.
'So' She thought, her interest rekindled. 'The guest of honour is missing. How very intriguing'
And then, the main doors to the ballroom opened.
They did not swing open with a servant's hurried push. They seemed to open of their own accord, a silent, grand invitation.
And he entered.
The ambient chatter didn't die down so much as it was sliced in half.
The atmosphere in the room changed instantly, the light itself seeming to bend toward the new arrival.
He wore a yukata of deep, storm-grey silk, impeccable in its simplicity. But over it, worn like a general's dress uniform, was a haori the colour of a tempestuous sky, a shade that seemed to shift between deep indigo and silver depending on the light.
The material was unlike anything she had ever seen, it seemed to drink the light rather than reflect it, woven with a subtlety that made Kaguya's expensive silks look garish by comparison.
It flowed behind him not like mere fabric, but like a living shadow, a cape of gathering clouds.
His hands were tucked into his sleeves, his posture not just straight but utterly regal, as if the weight of the garment was a familiar and negligible burden.
His hair, the colour of moonlight, was perfectly styled, and his features were so sharply handsome they seemed carved from marble.
But it was his eyes that truly commanded the silence.
They were a deep, unsettling crimson, and they swept across the ballroom with an impassive, chilling superiority.
He did not look at the assembled elite of Japan; he looked over them, as one might glance dispassionately at a collection of mildly interesting insects.
There was no curiosity in his gaze, no awe, no desire to impress. Only a calm, deeo, and absolute certainty of his own place in the universe, which was evidently far above this one.
A wave of pure, unadulterated aura washed over the room, the aura of true, innate royalty. It wasn't the purchased power of the conglomerate heads or the borrowed authority of the politicians. This was something else entirely. Something older. Something absolute.
She felt her own carefully constructed amusement evaporate. Her languid posture straightened almost imperceptibly. The half-formed strategies and manipulations she'd been crafting for the other guests vanished from her mind, wiped clean.
Her heart gave a single, hard, and very unfamiliar thump against her ribs.
This was no mere VVIP.
This was the variable.
The man's crimson eyes continued their slow, measuring sweep of the room… and then they stopped. They landed directly on her.
For a single, breathtaking second, Momobami Kirari, the master of every game she ever played, felt herself be truly seen. Not as an asset, a rival, or an heir. But as a whole entity, comprehended and categorized in an instant by that terrifyingly calm gaze.
A slow, genuine, and utterly fascinated smile spread across her lips.
'So this is you' she thought, her mind already racing, discarding her old plans and weaving new, far more dangerous ones. 'The ghost Gan'an was trying to trap'
She watched as Gan'an himself finally spotted the newcomer. The old man's face, for a split second, was a mask of pure, unvarnished shock before his infamous control slammed back into place.
The ghost had not only arrived.
He had just announced himself as the apex predator in a room full of sharks. And Kirari had never wanted to play a game more in her entire life.
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(Thousands of Years Ago)
(?'s POV)
The halls of the Keep of the Pale Edge were a place of silent, chilling power. The stones were not the rough-hewn rock of Dragonstone or the warm brick of Meereen, but a smooth, polished white marble that seemed to drink the torchlight, reflecting it in cold, dim shards. There were no banners boasting sigils of beasts or flowers.
Only the stark, minimalist symbol of a single, vertical white blade, etched into the walls at intervals.
This was the castle of House Yerges, the most enigmatic and feared power to emerge in Westeros in a generation. The Lord of the White Blade.
Daenerys Targaryen, the Breaker of Chains, Mother of Dragons, walked with a regal grace she did not entirely feel. Her heart was a drum against her ribs, but her face was the calm mask of a queen. Ser Jorah and Missandei flanked her, their own unease a palpable force in the unnatural quiet
Her mind raced with the tales.
'House Yerges. Founded not on ancient lineage, but on a single, terrifying discovery: a white metal, lighter than steel but harder than Valyrian steel. A metal they alone could forge.
Their rise was not a conquest of armies, but a quiet, surgical dismantling of rivals. A hostile house would find its grain stores turned to ash overnight, its lord found dead in his bedchamber with no mark upon him, its mines flooded with a strange, black water that rendered them useless for a generation. There were never witnesses. Only the stark symbol of the white blade left behind.
It was said their weapons could pierce a dragon's hide. It was said their lord could see the threads of fate itself'
He was the key.
The great doors to the main hall swung open without a sound.
The room within was vast and nearly empty. And at the far end, seated on a throne carved from a single, immense piece of the same white marble, was Lord Yerges.
Daenerys's breath caught in her throat.
He was not some grizzled warlord or fat lordling.
He was… beautiful. In a way that was cold, sharp, and utterly primal.
His hair was the colour of winter moonlight, tied back from a face so perfectly sculpted it seemed more a work of art than a man. His eyes, the colour of old wine, were half-lidded, fixed on some point in the middle distance.
But it was his attire that spoke of a power far removed from the polished knights of the south.
Over a simple, dark tunic and breeches, he wore the pelt of a monstrous bear, its head resting on his left shoulder, the dead, glassy eyes staring out across the hall. The claws, each longer than a man's finger, were crossed over his chest.
And by the side of his throne, lying with its head on its massive paws, was a lion, but its fur was pure, blinding white, and its eyes were the same unsettling crimson as the lord's.
It watched them enter, a low, silent rumble vibrating in its chest, but it did not move.
Flanking him were a dozen retainers. They stood as still as statues, each holding a different weapon, a spear, a sword, a glaive. All forged from the blinding white metal.
The air grew heavy. The silence was absolute.
This was not a lord to be bargained with. This was a force of nature to be petitioned.
Daenerys walked the length of the hall, the click of her heels the only sound, until she stood before the dais. The white lion's crimson eyes tracked her every step.
And then, the Mother of Dragons knelt.
"Lord Aaden Yerges," she said, her voice clear and strong. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen. I have come to ask for your aid in reclaiming the Iron Throne, my birthright."
The man on the throne did not move. His crimson eyes slowly drifted down to focus on her. There was no surprise. No curiosity. Only a deep weariness.
"The world you seek to rule is a noisy, tedious place," he said. His voice was low, calm, and devoid of any emotion. It was the sound of a winter gale over a frozen plain. "Full of fleeting ambitions and predictable conflicts"
Daenerys pressed on, her offer laid bare. "I have dragons. I have armies. I have the rightful claim. But with your house's power… with your White Blades… victory would be certain. In return, I offer you a place at the very top. I offer you… myself. My hand in marriage. Rule the Seven Kingdoms with me as your queen"
She waited, her heart thundering. She had offered everything.
Lord Yerges was silent for a long moment. He looked at her not as a man looks at a woman, but as a hunter looks at a strange bird that has flown into his camp.
Finally, he spoke
"Your offer is… noted," he said, the words flat. "The institution of monarchy is an inefficient method of governance. The 'Iron Throne' is a chair of little strategic value. And a marriage…" A flicker of something that might have been dry amusement touched his lips. It did not reach his eyes. "…is a particularly annoying form of political entanglement."
He shifted slightly, the great bear's head on his shoulder seeming to shift its dead gaze.
"I have no interest in your chair, Daenerys Targaryen. I have even less interest in your hand. My house does not involve itself in the squabbles of lesser houses. We observe. The fate of Westeros is a story that will play out with or without my intervention. It is, ultimately, irrelevant"
He gave a minute wave of his hand, a gesture of dismissal so absolute it was more devastating than any shout.
The white lion at his side lifted its head, its crimson eyes locking onto hers for a terrifying second before it settled back down.
"You may go"
Daenerys knelt there, frozen, the cold from the marble floor seeping into her very bones. She had offered her birthright, her dragons, her very self, and he had called it… tedious
She had never felt so utterly powerless.
She had come to recruit a powerful ally and had instead found a presence who found her entire existence beneath his notice.
Slowly, shakily, she rose.
She did not thank him.
She did not curse him.
She simply turned and walked away, the weight of his disinterest a heavier crown than any she had ever worn.
The game of thrones had just introduced a player who did not even deign to play