The days at Sky Severing Academy passed with a deceptive calm.
Arata sat in the back row of Kaede Honjou's classroom, feigning mild confusion as she lectured about circuit layering. Other students struggled to balance sparks of fire or bursts of lightning along their meridians. Arata scratched at his notes lazily, his expression that of someone trying—and failing—to keep up.
"Remember," Kaede's voice rang out, warm yet edged with authority, "control is more important than output. A powerful blast with no restraint is useless in battle."
Around him, groans of frustration echoed. Arata gave a small sigh, as if to say same here, I'm just as hopeless.
Inside his head, however, his thoughts flowed like a sharpened stream.
Control? I could level the continent if I wanted. But no—today I'm Kurogane Arata. Harmless. Forgettable. The kind of student who fades into the crowd.
His lips twitched faintly as he watched the others sweat over their circuits.
But tonight… tonight, John Merciless walks.
The library became his second home. Beneath the surface of dusty tomes, Arata searched not for spells or history, but whispers.
Mentions of organizations. Factions. The underbelly of the continent.
One name appeared again and again—spoken in fear, in half-erased passages:
The Obsidian Fangs.
The most powerful villain organization on the continent. A network of assassins, warlords, and fallen magi, hidden in shadows yet feared openly. Their leader was said to have survived centuries, his name erased, his symbol etched into the nightmares of kings.
Arata's eyes glinted as he traced the ink on the page.
Perfect. If John Merciless wants to play villain, he'll need to walk among the worst. And when I stand among them, even monsters will bow.
He sat alone in his dorm room that evening, lights dim, the strange leather-bound book open before him. His imagination pulsed, weaving possibilities into reality.
"John needs more than a mask," he muttered. His voice shifted lower, more commanding, as if the persona itself answered. "He needs a weapon that makes the world tremble."
He closed his eyes, recalling something from Earth.
Nuclear pasta.
Theoretical physics had called it the densest material in the universe, formed in the crushing depths of neutron stars. A lattice of matter so strong, a spoonful outweighed mountains. Nothing in existence could cut through it.
A grin crept across his face.
If I can imagine circuits that hold such material in a manipulable form… then why not a sword?
The air around him shimmered, his circuits burning as his imagination bent reality. Shadows writhed at his feet, coalescing into a viscous black substance. It slithered upward, wrapping around his arm like a living organism.
Slowly, the slime stretched, hardened, and straightened. A blade took form—dark as void, edges rippling with a subtle shimmer, as though reality itself recoiled from its presence.
The sword pulsed once, like a heartbeat.
"…A black slime sword, made from nuclear pasta."
His voice, now fully John's, dripped with arrogance.
"Impossible to forge. Impossible to break. Regenerative—so long as a fragment remains, the weapon will reform. A parasite and a predator both."
The sword twitched in his hand, as if alive, hungry for use.
He gave it a test swing. The air screamed where the blade passed, a distortion ripple tearing through the silence.
Arata—no, John—laughed lowly.
"…Yes. This is fitting. A blade worthy of me."
He stood before the mirror, sliding the white mask over his face. Black markings danced across it, twisting his voice into something deeper, colder. He straightened the regenerating suit that clung perfectly to his frame, every detail designed to exude menace.
The transformation was not just physical. His posture changed—shoulders squared, chin raised, movements deliberate and predatory.
If Arata was a shadow blending into crowds, John Merciless was fire—demanding to be seen, felt, feared.
His voice, when he spoke aloud, rumbled with pride.
"Arata Kurogane is a ghost. But John Merciless…" He ran a gloved hand along the length of the black slime sword. "…is inevitability."
When the moon reached its zenith, he slipped out of the academy walls with ease, circuits humming silently to mask his presence.
His destination: the northern marshes, where the Obsidian Fangs were rumored to keep a stronghold. Few dared to travel there—fewer returned.
But John Merciless walked with purpose, each step confident, his aura impossible to ignore.
Within him, excitement simmered.
This world thinks it knows villains. It thinks it knows fear. I'll show them both… and I'll do it with style.
The blade pulsed again, eager. The night grew colder.
And in the distance, the marsh mist shifted, as though waiting for him to arrive.