Tensura X HOTD by IP_Education

Chapter 1

The transition from a cramped, dimly lit college apartment to a bedroom the size of a small cathedral was disorienting. Aron sat upright in a bed draped in silk, his heart hammering against his ribs. The last thing he remembered was the smell of ozone—the sharp, electric scent of a short-circuiting power supply—and the blue light of his monitor reflecting off his glasses as he watched the opening credits of Highschool of the Dead.

Now, the air smelled of expensive sandalwood and floor wax.

"Where...?"

The voice was not external. It vibrated within his consciousness, a serene, melodic tone that carried an weight of absolute authority. It was a voice he recognized from the lore of another world.

'Raphael?' Aron thought, his breath hitching.

Aron scrambled out of the bed, his bare feet sinking into a thick Persian rug. He ran to a floor-to-ceiling mirror. A stranger looked back—yet the features were his own, just younger, sharper, and framed by the messy black hair of a teenager who had clearly spent too much time mourning his late parents. This was the body of Aron Minami, the sole heir to the Minami Global conglomerate. In this world, his parents had been billionaires who died in a private jet crash only three months prior.

He was alone. He was rich. And, according to the calendar on the mahogany desk, he had exactly six months before the world ended.

"Raphael," Aron said, his voice cracking slightly. "I need a full status report on my assets. Everything. Cash, stocks, real estate, and legal standing."

A holographic-like interface shimmered in Aron's mind's eye, projected directly onto his retina by the skill.

Aron let out a cold, sharp laugh. "They want the company? Let them have the paperwork. We need to liquidate everything that won't be useful when the currency becomes worthless paper. Raphael, begin selling the Tokyo properties and the shipyard quietly. I want the cash moved into offshore accounts that I can access for 'research and development' equipment."

"I know," Aron said, clenching his fists. They were soft. Weak. "In six months, a bullet will be worth more than a billion dollars. But a sword in the hands of a master will be worth even more. Raphael, I want a training regimen. No—I want the 'Absolute Combat Logic' integrated into my daily life. Start with Kendo. If I'm going to survive, I need to be able to stand next to Saeko Busujima without being a burden."

Aron moved through the silent mansion, a ghost in a palace of gold. He didn't care about the art on the walls or the luxury of his surroundings. To him, this mansion was just a pile of raw materials.

As he entered the gym, the sun began to rise over Tokonosu City. It was a beautiful, peaceful morning. Somewhere out there, Shizuka Marikawa was probably sleeping in, and Saeko was practicing her morning katas. They had no idea the world was rotting from the inside out.

"Let's get to work," Aron whispered.

He picked up a heavy wooden bokken from the rack. As his fingers closed around the grip, Raphael's voice surged.

Aron swung. The air whistled. It was the first strike of a billion.

Aron gritted his teeth, his eyes burning with a new, singular purpose. He wasn't just a college student anymore. He was the architect of his own survival.

The first week was a descent into a refined kind of hell. Under Raphael's guidance, Aron didn't follow a "normal" workout routine. While a human trainer would have suggested rest days and gradual increases in weight, Raphael treated Aron's body like a machine to be calibrated.

"Again," Aron gasped, his lungs burning. He was in the middle of a high-intensity interval circuit that would have killed a professional athlete.

Aron obeyed. He had no choice. Raphael wasn't just a voice; it was an internal governor. When his muscles screamed for him to stop, the skill simply bypassed the neural pathways of fatigue. It was agonizing, but the results were visible within days. The soft layer of "college life" fat began to melt away, replaced by the hard, corded muscle of a sprinter.

Between sets, Aron sat at a terminal, his fingers flying across the keys—though half the time, he just sat still while Raphael used his nervous system to interface with the web at speeds no human could track.

"How's the 'Aegis' plan coming, Raphael?"

"Good. What about the materials?"

"And the armory?" Aron asked, his voice dropping. Japan had some of the strictest gun laws in the world. Even with billions of dollars, buying a rifle wasn't as simple as walking into a store.

"Crossbows and blades," Aron nodded. "I want the best. Have the R&D department of our metallurgical wing—before we sell it off—develop a high-frequency vibration alloy for a katana. Use the data you've gathered on Saeko's family style. If I can't be a master in six months naturally, I'll use technology to bridge the gap."

By the end of the first month, Aron was a different person. He had lost ten pounds of fat and gained fifteen pounds of lean, functional muscle. His skin had a healthy glow, and his eyes, once dull and tired, now possessed a predatory sharpness.

It was time to re-enter the world. He couldn't stay hidden forever; he needed to establish his "normal" life at Fujimi High to ensure he was in the right place when the outbreak began.

"Raphael, what's my schedule for tomorrow?"

"Rich and distant. I can do that," Aron said, looking at a suit of expensive school clothes laid out on his bed. "But first, I want to see how I stack up. Scan the local kendo dojos. I want to know exactly where Saeko Busujima trains."

Aron smirked, grabbing a towel. "Twelve percent? In a month, I'll have those odds at fifty. By the time the zombies arrive, I'll be the only one she can't beat."

"Both, Raphael. Both."

The next morning, the gates of Fujimi High swung open. A sleek, black luxury sedan pulled up to the entrance—a rare sight in a school of middle-class students. The driver, a somber man in a suit hired by Raphael's front company, opened the door.

Aron stepped out. He wore the standard uniform, but he wore it with a tailored precision that made him stand out instantly. He didn't look like a grieving orphan. He looked like a king returning to a kingdom he hadn't yet claimed.

As he walked down the hallway, the whispers started.

"Is that... Minami? The rich kid?"

"I thought he was dropping out after his parents died."

"Look at his eyes... he looks totally different."

Aron ignored them. His internal HUD was busy. Raphael was scanning every face, cross-referencing them with the "cast" of the world he remembered.

Aron didn't look up. He kept walking, his steps rhythmic and silent. He wasn't here to play house. He was here to scout.

He spent his first few classes in a trance-like state. To the teachers, he appeared to be taking notes. In reality, Raphael was downloading the entire school curriculum into his long-term memory in seconds, freeing his mind to focus on more important things—like the structural weaknesses of the school's perimeter fence.

During lunch, he didn't go to the cafeteria. He headed toward the infirmary.

Aron reached the door and pushed it open. The smell of antiseptic hit him—a smell that, in six months, would be replaced by the stench of rot.

"Oh! Ow, ow, ow!"

A blonde woman was currently tangled in a lab coat, her foot caught in a drawer she had somehow managed to pull out too far. Shizuka Marikawa looked up, her blue eyes wide and watery.

"Oh, hello! Are you a student? Could you... maybe... give me a hand? I think I've made a bit of a mess!"

Aron looked at her. She was every bit as chaotic and beautiful as the anime had portrayed, but in person, the "human" element was clearer. She wasn't just a caricature; she was a woman who was completely unprepared for the horror coming her way.

"I'm Aron Minami," he said, stepping forward. He didn't just help her; he moved with a deliberate, calm grace that made her stop struggling. He reached down, his hands firm as he realigned the drawer and freed her foot. "You should be more careful, Sensei. The world is a dangerous place."

Shizuka blinked, her face flushing as she smoothed down her coat. "Oh, thank you! You're so polite! Most boys just stare and giggle. Minami-kun... wait, are you the boy who's been away on leave?"

"I am. I was just coming by to introduce myself. I have a feeling I'll be seeing a lot of you."

"Oh? Do you get sick often?" she asked, tilting her head.

Aron smiled, a small, enigmatic curve of his lips. "No. But I like to know where the safest room in the building is. And right now, it's wherever you are."

Shizuka giggled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "My, what a charmer! You're very mature for a second-year."

Aron nodded and turned to leave. He had planted the seed.

As he walked back toward the main building, he passed the kendo dojo. The rhythmic thwack of bamboo against armor echoed through the air. He stopped, looking through the open door.

There she was. Saeko Busujima.

She was moving through a series of strikes against a practice dummy. Her movements were beautiful—a lethal dance of geometry and intent. Every strike was perfect. Every breath was controlled.

She stopped, sensing his gaze. She turned, her purple hair swaying as she lowered her shinai. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the world seemed to narrow down to just the two of them.

She didn't see a rich kid. She saw something else. She saw the way he stood—the way his weight was distributed, the way his hand rested near his pocket as if it were a hilt.

"You have the eyes of a swordsman," Saeko said, her voice carrying across the dojo. "But you aren't carrying a blade."

"Not yet," Aron replied. "I'm still learning how to hold one."

Saeko's eyes narrowed. "I don't recognize you. Are you new?"

"I'm Aron. And I'll be joining you soon, Busujima-senpai. I just need to finish my preparations."

"Preparations for what?"

Aron looked at the sky, where a lone bird was circling. "For the storm."

He turned and walked away before she could ask another question.

'One month down, Raphael,' Aron thought as he walked toward his waiting car. 'Five to go. How is the procurement of the heavy machinery for the bunker?'

"Good," Aron said, stepping into the car. "Tonight, we start the firearms training simulations. I want to be able to hit a moving target at 500 meters by the time I wake up."

As the car drove away from the school, Aron looked back at the building. In his mind, he could already see the blood on the windows. He could hear the screams. But as he touched the cold leather of the seat, he felt no fear. He had the Wisdom Lord in his head and billions in the bank.

The apocalypse wasn't a tragedy. To Aron Minami, it was an opportunity.

The second month was defined by the "Shadow War."

While Aron spent his days at school maintaining his persona, his nights were spent as a digital warlord. The board of directors at Minami Global had finally made their move. They had filed an injunction to freeze his accounts, claiming he was being "extorted" by unknown entities due to the massive outflows of cash toward the Aegis Initiative.

Aron sat in his dark study, the only light coming from the glowing HUD in his vision.

"They're getting greedy, Raphael. They think they can bully a seventeen-year-old."

"Neutralization? You mean kill him?"

Aron leaned back, a cold smile on his face. "Do it. I want him ruined by morning. If he's fighting for his life in court, he won't have time to look at my construction permits."

By 8:00 AM the next day, Chairman Ogawa was being led out of his office in handcuffs. The stock price of Minami Global plummeted, which was exactly what Aron wanted. Using a series of shell companies managed by Raphael, Aron "bought the dip," effectively seizing absolute voting control of his own company for cents on the dollar.

"Now I own the board," Aron muttered, sipping an espresso. "Raphael, send a directive to the logistics wing. I want all 'emergency relief supplies'—food, fuel, and medicine—diverted to the Tokonosu warehouse 'Research Site B.' If anyone asks, tell them we're prepping for a corporate charity event."

With the corporate threat handled, Aron turned his attention back to his physical training. He was no longer just doing drills; he was practicing "Real-World Application."

He hired a group of elite private military contractors from overseas under the guise of "Executive Protection." He flew them to his estate, but he didn't want them to protect him. He wanted them to fight him.

In the massive, underground training hall of his mansion, Aron stood alone against three former Spetsnaz operators. They were armed with padded batons and wore full riot gear. Aron held only a wooden training sword.

"Don't hold back," Aron said, his voice echoing in the chamber. "If you can't hit me, you don't get paid your bonus."

The men didn't need to be told twice. They moved with professional coordination, flanking him from three sides.

Aron moved. To the mercenaries, he seemed to disappear. He didn't block their strikes; he flowed around them like water. He used a combination of Aikido's redirection and the brutal efficiency of Krav Maga.

With a sickening crack, he brought the wooden sword down on the lead man's wrist, disarming him instantly. Before the other two could react, Aron spun, his elbow connecting with the second man's temple. The third man lunged, but Aron caught his arm, twisted it, and used the man's own momentum to slam him into the floor.

The fight lasted exactly twelve seconds.

The mercenaries groaned on the floor, clutching their bruised limbs. Their leader, a scarred man named Volkov, looked up in pure disbelief.

"What are you, kid? You move like you know what we're going to do before we do it."

Aron didn't answer. He just lowered his wooden sword. "Again. This time, use the stun batons. I want to feel the consequence of a mistake."

'Not enough, Raphael. I need to be better. I need to be able to fight 'Them' in a hallway without a scratch. If I get bitten once, it's over.'

For the rest of the second month, Aron lived in a cycle of blood and data. He barely slept, Raphael managing his REM cycles to ensure he got four hours of hyper-efficient rest that felt like eight.

At school, he was becoming a legend. He was the "Ghost of Fujimi." He never ate in the cafeteria, never played sports, and never spoke unless spoken to. But whenever he walked past, people felt a strange pressure—an aura of absolute confidence.

He had also started his "acquisition" of the other key players.

He found Kohta Hirano, the school's resident gun otaku, being bullied behind the gymnasium. Kohta was a pudgy, glasses-wearing boy who was currently being pushed around by three members of the football team.

Aron stepped into the alley. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, his shadow falling over the bullies.

"Hey! What are you looking at, Minami?" the lead bully snarled. "This doesn't concern you."

Aron didn't blink. He just looked at the bully's hand, which was gripping Kohta's shirt. "You're interfering with my path. Move."

"Oh? And if we don't?"

Aron moved so fast the bullies didn't even see him reach out. He grabbed the leader's thumb and twisted it just enough to cause blinding pain without breaking the bone. The boy dropped to his knees, screaming.

"I said move," Aron repeated, his voice devoid of emotion.

The other two bullies fled in terror. Aron let go of the leader, who scrambled away, clutching his hand.

Kohta sat on the ground, breathing heavily. He looked up at Aron with a mixture of fear and awe. "Wh-why did you do that?"

Aron reached down and picked up a tactical magazine Kohta had dropped—a niche publication about firearms. He handed it back to the boy.

"Because I hate wasted potential," Aron said. "You know more about ballistics than anyone in this city, Hirano. Keep studying. One day soon, those skills will be the only thing keeping you alive."

Kohta blinked. "What do you mean?"

"Come to the industrial district on the weekends," Aron said, tossing him a small, black card with an address on it. "I have a private range. If you can prove you're as good as the magazines say, I might have a job for you."

Aron walked away, leaving a stunned Kohta behind.

'Three down, Raphael. Shizuka, Saeko, and now Kohta. We're building a team.'

Aron stopped in his tracks, looking at the vibrant, green trees of the school courtyard.

"The clock is ticking faster, isn't it?"

Aron's eyes hardened. "Then we stop playing around. Raphael, initiate Phase 2 of the Aegis construction. I want the bunker sealed and the automated defenses online by the end of the month. And get me that sword. I'm tired of training with wood."

Aron walked toward his next class, his mind already calculating the calories, ammunition, and lives he would need to manage. He was no longer just a boy. He was a commander of a war that hadn't even started yet.

The third month brought the first "Black Swan" events.

The news was still reporting on mundane things—politics, celebrity scandals, the economy—but beneath the surface, the world was screaming. Raphael was filtering thousands of police scanners and hospital databases every hour.

"Raphael, show me the 'Hot Zone' map."

A holographic globe appeared in the center of Aron's study. It was covered in tiny, flickering red dots. Most were in major transit hubs: New York, London, Paris, Tokyo.

"How long until the blackout hits Japan?"

Aron stood up and headed to the basement lab. On a pedestal of white marble lay a weapon that shouldn't exist in the 21st century. It was a katana, but the blade was a matte, obsidian black. It was forged from a tungsten-carbide-ceramic composite, designed by Raphael to be virtually indestructible and sharp enough to split a hair falling through the air.

The hilt was wrapped in high-friction synthetic silk, and the guard was a simple, elegant circle of darkened steel.

Aron picked it up. The weight was perfect—it felt like an extension of his own arm.

"The 'Black Lily,'" Aron whispered, naming the blade.

Aron unsheathed it. The sound was a low, hungry hiss. He stepped toward a block of ballistic gelatin topped with a replica of a human skull made of reinforced resin.

He didn't swing with his full strength. He simply let the blade fall in a diagonal cut.

The 'Black Lily' passed through the resin and the gelatin as if they were smoke. There was no resistance. No sound of impact. The two halves of the target slid apart, the surfaces so smooth they looked polished.

"Beautiful," Aron murmured.

"I'm not an idiot, Raphael. I'm just enjoying the craftsmanship."

Aron spent the rest of the month finalizing the "Recruitment." He didn't just want fighters; he wanted specialists. Through Raphael, he identified a disgraced former JSDF engineer who was living in a small apartment in Tokonosu. The man had been fired for "whistleblowing" about the lack of disaster preparedness in the city.

Aron visited him personally. He didn't offer him money. He offered him a purpose.

"The city is going to burn," Aron said, standing in the man's cramped living room. "I have a facility that needs someone who knows how to keep the lights on when the grid goes dark. Come with me, and you'll have a seat at the table when the world ends."

The engineer looked at Aron's eyes—the eyes of a boy who spoke with the certainty of a prophet. He packed his bags that night.