Rika's POV
The air reeked of blood
My classmates lay scattered like fallen leaves—faces pale, armor cracked, and three of them completely still.
Three names echo in my mind even now—Shin, Rin, Yuki.
I wanted to scream, but my voice was gone.
All I could hear was the wind and the sound of my own pulse hammering against my skull.
I thought we were ready.
We trained. We believed we could protect this world.
But I learned that day—belief means nothing to monsters like him.
Baruka towered over us, his claws drenched in crimson, eyes glowing with that calm, cruel intelligence. He didn't rush. He didn't roar. He simply looked at us—as if watching insects realize they can't fly high enough to escape.
And then I saw him—Arthur—sprawled on the ground, gasping, bones broken.
His sword lay beside him, cracked down the middle.
I remember trying to move, to reach him, but my knees wouldn't listen. Fear chained me there.
Then—darkness swirled.
A portal tore through the air, and hooded figures stepped through—silent, faceless, made of shadows. They seized us, pulling us through as the battlefield vanished behind their black shroud.
Baruka didn't chase. He only watched.
And as we escaped, I could swear—he smiled.
We arrived at our base. The floor was cold, the air suffocating.
Shiro's voice echoed through the chaos:
"Find the missing. Get Arthur to the infirmary. Now!"
And for once, even his usually calm tone trembled.
When I awoke, it was night.
I stumbled into the infirmary and froze at the sight before me—Arthur, motionless under white sheets, his chest rising weakly beneath the glow of healing runes. The room was too quiet; it felt like a coffin with light.
I pressed my hand against the glass between us and whispered,
"Arthur, we promised, remember?"
'We'll win together,' I said.
'I'll protect you too,' you said.
But look at us now.
The rest of us—Muichiro, Sayo, Kiyo, Lancaster—stood hollow-eyed, silent ghosts clinging to life.
We had won nothing.
Rena came later, walking with the cold authority of someone burdened by guilt. She spoke to King Longunard, then turned to us.
"We can't return until the expedition is complete. Reinforcements are coming."
I bit back my words, but they spilled out anyway.
"Why can't we go back to the palace?"
Shiro's answer was sharper than any blade.
"Because Rena wants you to understand. The outside world doesn't wait for the weak."
That night, I prayed. I didn't even know to who. Maybe to the world itself—to stop being cruel.
Days passed before Arthur woke.
He blinked through the fog and whispered, "Where am I?"
"The infirmary," the nurse said gently. "You're safe now."
But he didn't look relieved.
He just looked… empty.
When word spread, we ran to see him—only to find the bed abandoned, sheets still warm.
Panic rippled through us.
We found him outside, beneath the broken moonlight, swinging a wooden sword with trembling arms.
Each strike was clumsy, desperate, more a cry than a movement.
"Arthur, stop!" I rushed forward, grabbing his wrist. "You'll re-open your wounds!"
He turned slowly. Sweat and tears blurred together on his face.
"Leave us," he told the others quietly.
They obeyed. It was just us.
I saw his hands shaking.
"What's wrong?" I asked. "Talk to me."
He laughed—a fragile, broken sound.
"What's wrong? Everything. I'm weak, Rika. Baruka shattered more than my ribs. He broke… me.
I keep pretending to be strong, but all I see when I close my eyes are corpses.
Is there something wrong with that?"
I stepped closer, heart aching. "There's nothing wrong with being afraid. You—"
But before I could finish, he pushed me away.
His eyes were glassy, and the wind made his voice almost vanish.
"I get it, Rika. Just… leave me alone."
So I did.
Because I didn't know how to hold someone who was already breaking.
Later that night, I passed by his window.
Through the crack, I heard the sound of shattering glass—then silence.
And I realized something cruel:
Sometimes the strongest people are the ones the world breaks in silence.
Arthur's POV
It wasn't anger.
It was fear.
I smashed the vase, tore the sheets, knocked everything over—just to drown out the sound of my heartbeat, that reminder that I was still alive when others weren't.
I can still hear them.
Shin's last scream.
The sound of my sword cracking.
Baruka's breath against my ear when he whispered, "You're not worthy."
And he was right.
Ever since I was a child, people told me I was special.
Smart. Athletic. Handsome.
But being perfect was just another prison.
I remember that night—my parents arguing in the next room.
"He only aced his tests because you helped him," Father said.
"And your judo lessons? He still placed second."
"We created him to be exceptional. If he's not—what's the point?"
Then Mother's voice broke.
"Maybe we should just end this, since he failed us both."
Something shattered inside me before any vase ever did.
I ran in, crying, begging.
"Don't divorce. I'll do better. I'll win everything!"
They smiled—but I knew it wasn't love. It was satisfaction.
From then on, I became a machine built to earn affection.
Every medal, every trophy, every perfect score was a plea.
Please don't leave me.
And now, here in this world that promised freedom…
I see them again—in every defeat, every failure.
Their disappointment has become the monster that wears Baruka's face.
I pressed my forehead to the floor, whispering into the dark:
"I am weak. I am pathetic. And maybe that's all I ever was."
Shiro's POV
The data was wrong.
Or maybe the world simply changed the rules.
Every plan I set—flawless on paper—crumbled the moment Baruka appeared.
His aura alone bent the air. My insight ability failed me. The only reading I got was a whisper—
"Death. Death. Don't look further."
Even the world itself warned me not to look.
I had built networks, traps, contingencies—an entire invisible web.
But Baruka walked through it as if it never existed.
For the first time, I felt fear as an analyst.
Not fear of dying, but fear of losing control.
And I had promised control.
I told Rena I'd protect them.
I told the team they were safe under my watch.
And yet three students are now names carved in stone.
I stared into my mirror that night and whispered, "If I don't evolve, they'll all die next."
The reflection didn't answer.
Only the darkness did.
Yuta's POV
The abyss was silent, endless.
My breath echoed off unseen walls.
"Luna," I murmured.
No answer. Just the soft hum of her dormant blade.
I stared at the cracked stone above me, at the faint reflection of myself on the edge of my sword.
Was this peace—or punishment?
I tried to check my status plate. Nothing. It flickered, dead.
I laughed bitterly. "Figures. Even this world's tired of me."
Then, a voice—familiar and calm—spoke:
"Yes. It is."
I sat up sharply. "Who's there?"
A shape stepped from the shadows—me.
Same face. Same scar. But colder. Older.
"I came to talk," he said.
My body went still. "Why?"
"Because you're lying to yourself," he said. "You think this revenge will save you. But tell me—when you leave this dungeon and face people, not monsters—what then? What if your enemy is a child? A mother?"
I clenched my fists. "Shut up."
But he only tilted his head.
"You're not built for this. You're kind, Yuta. Too kind."
A second voice emerged—darker, venomous.
"Don't listen. Mercy is a chain. Revenge is clarity."
The two versions of me faced off—the idealist and the executioner.
And in between them stood… me.
"I'm done listening," I said finally. "My life is mine. I'll choose my own ruin."
They both stared. Then, slowly, both smiled.
"Then remember," they said in unison, fading into mist,
"Every choice carves the person you become. And every scar remembers."
When dawn broke, Luna's voice returned, soft as a whisper.
"Yuta… let's go."
I gripped her hilt and nodded.
"Yeah. Let's."