The air in the "Tenran" director's office was thick as always—not from the age of scrolls, but from the weight of decisions made here. Keiden Fujibayashi sat behind a massive dark wood desk, his fingers slowly tracing the edge of a scroll bearing the crests of the great clans. Before him, slouched in a chair with the air of someone who came not to ask but to state a fact, sat Reiden Kagetori.
"I want to teach," said Reiden, his golden eyes gleaming in the semi-darkness of the room. "First class."
The director looked up. The wrinkles on his face, each seeming engraved by history, deepened slightly.
"Teach? You?" his voice was dry but without mockery. "The one who last entered a classroom three years ago to break up a duel between two sophomores, threatening to 'take them apart for parts if they didn't shut up'?"
Reiden smirked, making a careless gesture with his hand.
"Well, I was young and hot-headed then. Now I'm... mature and hot-headed. But with a pedagogical slant."
Fujibayashi set aside his pen. He looked at Kagetori for a long time, seeing not the arrogant young god, but the shadow of fatigue in his eyes. A shadow that appeared after the Colony, after the death of that mercenary, after the words spoken by the dying man.
"Legacy," the director said quietly, not as a question but as understanding. "You're not seeking power. You're seeking what remains after you."
Reiden stopped smiling. His face became serious, almost vulnerable for a moment.
"After everything I've seen... after Magoro... power isn't enough. I need people. Those who can understand what a real threat is. And meet it not with pride, but with wisdom."
The director slowly nodded. He had known Kagetori since he was a brash prodigy. He knew him as a cynic, a tyrant, a lone warrior. But this... this was new.
"Alright," said Fujibayashi. "But on one condition. You head the 'Special Research Class.' Officially—under the Council's auspices. Goal: study of anomalous Kokurō phenomena and preparation of elite reserves. Unofficially..." he looked straight into the golden eyes, "...prepare them for war. For the one that's already happening, they just don't see it yet."
Reiden nodded, once, sharply.
"Deal."
The director opened the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a small lacquered case. Inside, on black velvet, lay a hairpin. Not an ordinary one—an elegant hairpin forged in the shape of a lightning bolt, its tips covered in the finest gold inlay. It sparkled with a dull light even in the gloom.
"The badge of a first-class instructor at 'Tenran'," Fujibayashi said, handing it over. "Wear it with dignity. Or at least don't lose it in the first fight."
Reiden took the hairpin, twirled it in his fingers. A smile returned to his face, but now it held something firm, not mischief.
"I'll try."
Forming the Class
Forming the class took less than an hour. Reiden didn't send out orders—he came in person.
He found Akira in the inner garden, where he stood, as always, motionless, watching the carp.
"Listen up, void," Reiden said, approaching from behind so quietly even Akira flinched slightly. "I'm assembling a special class. You'll be my trump card against all sorts of filth that eats Scars. Interested?"
Akira turned. His empty eyes met the golden ones.
"Yes," he answered simply.
He found Kaede in the library, immersed in studying a scroll of paradoxical techniques.
"Himeji," he called, and she looked up, her sharp gaze instantly assessing the situation. "Need a tactical genius. A class for the chosen. Ready to break your head over things that don't exist yet?"
Kaede didn't smile, but a spark of excitement flashed in her eyes.
"Will there be data?"
"First-rate."
"Then I'm in."
Ryūnosuke was training in the hall, his blows against dummies thundering like landslides.
"Hey, heir!" Reiden shouted from the doorway. "Drop your toys and move up to the major leagues. With me."
Ryūnosuke stopped, wiped sweat from his brow.
"Are we guinea pigs?"
"Guinea pigs?" Reiden laughed, slapping him on the shoulder amicably. "What are you talking about! You'll be my favorite puzzles! I'll assemble you, take you apart, and if you break—I'll fix you. Well, almost always."
Shiori sat in the archive, her fingers carefully turning the pages of an ancient folio.
"Shiori-chan," Reiden called, and she flinched, dropping her pen. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I need a keeper of memory. One who knows where the roots of our problems lie. Will you come?"
She looked at him, then at the scrolls around.
"I... I'm not strong in battle."
"Who asked you to be?" Reiden smiled, and his smile held no mockery. "You'll be our compass in the past. Without you, we'll all get lost."
Tokyo
Tokyo greeted him with smog, car horns, and a sense of eternal haste. The "Dawn" orphanage turned out to be a three-story concrete box in the back alleys of a district that had long forgotten greenery. Bars on the windows, peeling paint, the smell of disinfectant and despair.
The caretaker, a man in his fifties with the extinguished gaze of a former third-class Majutsushi, didn't even raise an eyebrow when Reiden presented his documents.
"Fujisaki Seiya? In the yard. Training, as usual. Just don't make noise, he doesn't like being disturbed."
The yard was a square of trampled earth surrounded by a rusty fence. And there, under a gloomy sky, a boy practiced strikes with a wooden katana.
Reiden froze.
Tall for his thirteen years, slender, almost gaunt. Dark hair, cut short, but one strand constantly fell onto his forehead. Face—sharp, not fully formed features, a straight nose, a stubborn chin. And the eyes—when he raised them, distracted from his exercises, Reiden felt something tighten inside him. Green. Vivid as young foliage after rain. Exactly like Kaito's. Exactly.
The boy wore a simple dark kimono, already a bit short in the sleeves. On his back, in worn but meticulously cleaned scabbards, hung a katana—not a toy, but a real one, with a simple guard, yet cared for like a sole treasure.
His movements were precise, economical, without excess. Stance, weight transfer, lunge angle—Reiden had seen all this before. In the Colony. In the last fight.
He silently took the worn photograph from his pocket. The boy in the picture smiled uncertainly, but the green eyes looked straight ahead. The same gaze that now looked at him with wariness and a weary pain a child shouldn't know.
"Who are you?" Seiya's voice was quiet but not timid. More... cautious.
Reiden put away the photo, took a step forward, putting on the friendliest, slightly roguish smile he could muster.
"Reiden Kagetori. A friend of your dad's. A very old friend," he winked. "Kaito said if anything happened to him, I should look after you. Teach you a thing or two. You know how dads are—just in case."
Seiya didn't relax. His fingers tightened slightly on the wooden sword's hilt.
"Father... he hasn't visited in a while. Said work."
"His work was complicated," Reiden's voice kept its lightness, but inside everything froze. "Frequent business trips. But he always thought of you. So, he entrusted you to me. What do you say? Want to learn something they don't teach in Tokyo? Saw your movements—you've got potential. But potential without schooling is like a sword without an edge."
He saw the struggle flicker in the green eyes. Trust versus survival instinct. Loneliness versus fear of a stranger.
And it was at that moment the orphanage door banged open.
A group of five people in strict gray uniforms with the emblem of the Tokyo Academy of Magical Arts—a stylized sun pierced by a quill—pushed into the yard. Leading them was a man around forty with slicked-back hair and a face sharp as a blade. Professor Higashi. His eyes, cold and appraising, immediately found Seiya, then moved to Reiden.
"Fujisaki Seiya," Higashi pronounced, his voice even but with steel in every syllable. "And... a guest from Kyoto. Kagetori Reiden, if I'm not mistaken. What a surprise."
Reiden turned to them, not losing his smile, but now it had sharp edges.
"Ah, colleagues from TAMA! What brings you to such a... cozy place?"
"Don't pretend," Higashi cut him off. "You're here for the same reason we are. The boy is the property of the Tokyo Academy of Magical Arts. His anomalous readings are the subject of our years of research. We've been hiding him from outsiders for a reason. His Kokurō... is unstable. Dangerous. You have no right to take him."
"Oh dear, oh dear," Reiden shook his head, pretending to be upset. "Property? Sounds a bit... slave-owning. Whereas I," he casually took his new gold lightning hairpin from his inner pocket and pinned it to his jacket lapel, where it sparkled under the dim light, "am a first-class instructor at the 'Tenran' academy. And according to Article 7 of the Inter-Academic Agreement, a higher-class instructor has the right to emergency student recruitment with guardian consent."
He handed Higashi that very photograph. On the back, under Seiya's childhood smile, in clear, angular handwriting was written: "If anything—give Seiya to Kagetori. Kaito."
Higashi glanced at the inscription, and his face contorted with a grimace of rage he barely contained.
"This... has no legal force without notarial..."
"It does," Reiden interrupted, his voice suddenly losing all friendliness and becoming flat as a blade. "Under conditions of martial law or threat to the ward's life. And I, as a representative of 'Tenran', consider keeping a promising young Majutsushi in such an institution, especially under your... supervision," he cast a contemptuous glance at the gray walls, "a direct threat to his development and safety. So, sorry, I'm taking what's mine."
One of Higashi's assistants, a young technician, stepped forward with a small device in his hands—a portable Kokurō sensor.
"Professor, we must document the leakage level before..."
"Yes, yes, measure away," Reiden waved a hand, smiling again. "Just don't overload your toys."
The technician pointed the sensor at Seiya. The boy, feeling the attention and hostility, involuntarily took a step back. His green eyes darted from Reiden to the strangers in uniforms.
The sensor beeped. Numbers on the screen began to climb at a frantic pace.
100 Kei... 500... 1000... 2000...
The technician's face paled. Higashi leaned in, his eyes widening.
3000... 4000...
The device began to smoke. A quiet hissing sound.
4500... 4800...
The screen filled with static, then went dark. The last numbers that flashed before the device died were: ~5000 Kei.
In the ensuing silence, only the hum of the city beyond the fence was audible. Even Higashi was speechless. His gaze on Seiya was no longer cold but almost supernatural—a mix of greed, horror, and disbelief.
"Five... thousand..." one of his entourage whispered. "That's... the level of legendary demons... Archangel guardians..."
"You see," Reiden said cheerfully, as if they'd just discussed the weather. "Such talent wasted here! A downright crime. Well then, Seiya, pack your things. Let's go where they'll teach you to handle this stuff, not gawk at you like a freak."
Higashi regained his composure. His face turned to stone.
"This isn't over, Kagetori. 'Tenran' will pay for this interference. We have connections. In the Council. We will demand..."
"Demand away," Reiden was already turning to Seiya, who was watching the whole scene with growing confusion. "We'll be going now. We have a tight schedule, you know."
He put a hand on the boy's shoulder—carefully but firmly—and led him towards the exit, not looking back at the Tokyoites white with impotent rage.
The last thing he heard, already passing through the gates, was Higashi's choked voice giving an order over the phone:
"Contact the Rector immediately! Prepare an official request for joint exercises with 'Tenran'! We will get back what's ours..."
First Lecture
One of the training classrooms at "Tenran" was empty and quiet when Reiden brought Seiya. The team was already waiting—Akira stood by the wall, Kaede sat on a bench studying a tablet, Ryūnosuke was stretching his shoulders, and Shiori nervously fidgeted with a scroll.
"Well then," Reiden said, stopping at the door. He felt Seiya freeze behind him. "Don't be afraid. They're only scary on the outside. Well, except him," he nodded at Ryūnosuke. "He's scary inside too."
Seiya took an uncertain step forward. And everything broke.
He didn't mean to. He didn't even understand it was happening. But a wave of fear, uncertainty, alien attention—all of it hit his fragile, never-trained control.
The air thickened. It became hard to breathe.
The lamps under the ceiling crackled and went out for a second as their filaments couldn't withstand the energy surge.
Then the windows—all four large classroom windows—cracked with a sound like a gunshot, covered in a web of fractures.
Shiori screamed and fell to her knees, clutching her head.
"It's... an ocean..." her voice was full of horror. "Scars... thousands of them... they're all screaming... crying... I can't..."
Ryūnosuke drew his sword, his face twisted with rage and instinctive fear.
"What did you bring us, Kagetori?! What kind of monster is this?!"
Akira didn't move. He stood, as always, calm, his empty eyes fixed on Seiya. And he saw not a threat. He saw pain. A boy frightened by what was erupting from him. He saw Seiya's green eyes full of panic, his fingers trembling violently.
Reiden raised his hand. Not to attack. A gesture for silence.
"Everyone calm down." His voice, usually so light, cracked like a whip through the chaos. He turned to Seiya, and his gaze became unexpectedly soft. "Hey, Seiya. Breathe. Deeply. And imagine you're turning off a faucet. The noisiest faucet in the world."
Seiya, gasping, tried to obey. The pressure subsided a fraction, but Ryūnosuke wouldn't let go.
"Kagetori, did you hear what Shiori said? An ocean of Scars! What does that mean?!"
"It means," Reiden looked at them all, "his name is Seiya Fujisaki. And his Kei is roughly 5000." He paused, letting the number hang in the air like a verdict. "He can't control even a tenth of it. But if he learns..." Reiden's golden eyes flashed, "...he'll become stronger than me. Your job is to help him not burn up in his own flame. And not accidentally blow up half the academy."
Ryūnosuke snorted, still not sheathing his sword.
"So we're nursemaids for a monster now?"
Seiya flinched as if struck. His aura, just beginning to subside, coiled again into a tight, painful knot ready to burst.
And then the unexpected happened.
Akira stepped forward. He walked past Ryūnosuke, approached Seiya, and without a word, simply put a hand on his shoulder.
The effect was instantaneous.
The pressure vanished. The air became light again. The cracks in the glass didn't disappear, but the trembling in the air stilled. Seiya's aura, meeting the absolute "void" of Akira's, simply... ceased to matter. It had nothing to latch onto, nothing to press against.
Seiya looked up at the tall, silent youth with empty eyes. And for the first time that day, his green eyes held something besides fear and pain. Amazement. Then... relief.
"He's not a monster," Akira said quietly, addressing Ryūnosuke but looking at Seiya. "He's alone."
Ryūnosuke froze, his fists unclenching. Kaede rose from her knees, wiping blood from her lip (she'd bitten it trying to stabilize her mind), and her analytical gaze shifted from Seiya to Akira, then to Reiden. She was calculating something quickly in her head.
Shiori, still pale, raised her head.
"Five... thousand?" she whispered. "But how... his brain... it should have..."
"Should have burned out?" Reiden finished for her. "But it didn't. And that—is our first topic of study."
The Lecture
A few days later, after Seiya had somewhat settled in (he was given a room near the classroom, under Akira's unspoken watch, who seemed the only one who could be near him long-term without consequences), the first official lecture took place.
Kagetori stood before the small group in the same training hall (the windows had been replaced). He wasn't wearing his usual black-and-gold jacket, but a dark haori instructor's robe, to the lapel of which that lightning bolt hairpin was pinned. He looked uncharacteristically responsible.
"So, kids," he began, and the familiar mischievous note returned to his voice, but now tempered with steel. "Welcome to the course of the young but very loud Majutsushi. Today's topic: 'The Nature of Kokurō: Scar Generation and the Magical Threshold.'"
He turned to the board and drew a diagram—a stylized brain image with a bright point in the forehead area.
"Here it is—the Kokurō-core. Not an anatomical organ, but a metaphysical one. A factory for producing Scars. For some, it's a cottage workshop," he nodded at Ryūnosuke, who scowled. "For some—a high-precision assembly line," a glance at Kaede. "And for some..." he turned to Seiya, who sat on the edge trying to be as small as possible, "...it's a thermonuclear reactor working without a cooling system."
He returned to the diagram.
"Generation intensity is measured in Kei. It determines three things:
— Magical capacity—how many Scars you can hold.
— Regeneration speed—how quickly they recover.
— Technique complexity—which floors of the Kokurō library are accessible to you."
He began writing numbers on the board:
"Average student: 50–100 Kei. Enough to light balls and scare mice.
— Talented graduate, future master: 200–300 Kei. Like some here." He smirked.
— First-class instructor, genius, living legend..." he tapped his chest, "around 1000 Kei.
— And now..." he made a dramatic pause and wrote in huge numbers: 5000 Kei. "The level of natural disasters, ancient spirits, the *King of Majutsushi. And, as we see, thirteen-year-old boys who don't know what to do with their talent."
*King of Majutsushi - a title given to Akatsuki Magoro hundreds of years ago.
A tense, quiet silence hung in the classroom. All eyes were fixed on Seiya, who blushed and lowered his head.
"An important nuance," Reiden continued, his voice growing more serious. "High generation without control leads to 'aura leakage'—unconscious, sometimes conscious pressure on others. Imagine your brain is a factory. Some produce matches. Others—plasma cutters. Difference in scale. But!" he struck his fist into his palm. "If the factory runs at full capacity without exhaust systems, without filters... it starts poisoning everyone around. Smoke, soot, noise. That's 'aura pressure.' And know this: it's not a sign of strength. It's a sign of lack of control. A true master doesn't press. He radiates. Subtly. Precisely. Without noise or dust."
He looked straight at Seiya.
"Your task, Seiya, is not to become stronger. You already have strength, in spades. Your task is to learn not to press. To find the 'silent mode' button on your reactor. And you," he looked at the others, "will be his cooling system. And his first... critics. Because if he ever directs all his uncontrolled power at you—you'll be gone. So you'll have to grow too. Fast."
He set aside the chalk, brushed dust from his hands.
"That's all for today. Homework: think about how you'd build an exhaust system for a 5000 Kei plant. Next lecture in two days. Topic: 'How the Tokyo Academy of Magical Arts Just Declared Cold War on Us, and What We're Going to Do About It.' It'll be fun."
He turned and left, leaving behind a classroom in a state of shock, reflection, and, for some (especially Kaede), burning curiosity.
Seiya sat, looking at his hands. On the board, the huge numbers "5000" seemed like a sentence to him. But then he felt a light nudge on his shoulder. He looked up. Akira stood beside him, silently offering a bottle of water. And across the row, Kaede nodded at him, her gaze saying: "Interesting problem."
Only Ryūnosuke still frowned, but no longer with hatred, but with heavy, reluctant understanding.
Ahead lay not just studies. It was a race. A race between Seiya's growth and his team's ability to contain him. And a race with Tokyo, whose shadows already stretched towards Kyoto, promising "joint exercises" that would more resemble the first salvos of a real war.