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Chapter Text

Phantom Thieves of Thors (Persona 5/Sen no Kiseki)

Prologue

[~][~]

The air in the twisted realm felt like a theatrical spotlight, hot and humid, pressing in from all sides. A grand opera was playing out, its stage a militaristic academy warped into a symbol of pride and vengeance. Its buildings were a stark, brutalist architecture, towering over cobblestone courtyards that now seemed to bleed a faint, sickly green. The sky above was a bruised purple, reflecting a malice that permeated the very stone.

From his vantage point on a secluded ledge, the figure clad in a long black trench coat and a birdlike, black and white domino mask surveyed the scene. He could hear them, the voices of his allies, a stream of sound only he could perceive.

"Everyone remember the plan?" a sharp, tactical voice asked, a low murmur of a general surveying the battlefield.

"Just like we practiced," another voice, full of confidence and bravado, replied with a hint of a cocky grin.

A quiet, thoughtful voice added, "Don't get cocky. We've only got one shot at this."

"That's enough chatter. Let's do this," another voice, firm and commanding, said, cutting through the murmurs.

The air went still, a silent pause before the storm. The Phantom Thieves were in position.

In his earpiece, the guide's voice, calm and precise, spoke. "Follow the pre-planned route. I'll get you there."

He took a step, a quiet whisper of motion, and began his descent. His boots landed silently on the crumbling stone as he navigated the academy's twisted hallways. He moved past figures frozen in place, like actors waiting for their cue. A porcelain doll stood rigidly at attention, its unblinking eyes staring straight ahead. A towering automaton of brass and steam sat hunched over a desk, its gears whirring but never moving. In the distance, he saw a veiled statue of a winged warrior, its face hidden, its form bound by ethereal chains that shimmered in the oppressive air. The Phantom Thief didn't pause to study them. His eyes were fixed on the goal: the main stage.

"You're almost there," the guide's voice said. "Just a little further."

The stage was a vortex of chaos. He could hear the clamor of the Palace master's army, their voices a chorus of a hundred distorted voices. He was a pawn in a larger game, a lone figure meant to draw all the attention of this Palace's master. He was the first piece on the chessboard, and his role was to draw out the king.

He took a final step, his boots hitting the ground with a soft thud. He was in the courtyard now, the stage set before him.

"You're on the stage," the guide's voice said. "The rest is up to you. Keep him occupied."

He raised his hand, and the ground beneath his feet began to shake. The courtyard was a battlefield now, and he was ready to fight.

"Come on out," he said, his voice a challenge. "Let's end this farce once and for all."

The courtyard, a moment ago a desolate stage, began to fill with motion. The porcelain dolls and automatons that had been frozen in place came to life, their gears whining and their joints clanking as they moved toward him. The "opera" had begun. This was the first act, and the Phantom Thief found himself facing the Palace master’s army.

But they were not a legion of soldiers. Instead, they were sleek, polished robots, their bodies a metallic gleam of obsidian and chrome. They glided across the cobblestones with eerie silence, their movements methodical and precise. They were the Shadows of Faceless Scholars, their forms mirroring the students he had passed moments before. One of them, its face a blank, polished screen, swung a gilded ruler that elongated into a sharp, whipping blade. Another, clutching a textbook that now glowed with a sickly green light, sent out a volley of blinding symbols.

Joker moved with a dancer's grace, his movements a blur of action and light. He parried a blade with his knife, a flash of steel against chrome, and then a quick jab to the automaton's torso. The automaton clanked and whirred, its gears grinding to a halt before it collapsed into a pile of broken metal and torn paper. He didn't stop to admire his work. He moved on, a ghost in the melee, a phantom in the grand opera.

He drew his Orbal Handgun, its frame humming softly with a faint blue glow. It felt like an extension of his own physical strength, its power channeled directly from his spirit. With a smooth motion, he fired, not a bang, but a sharp thwump as a bolt of concentrated orbal energy shot from the barrel. It slammed into one of the charging Shadows, sending a wave of chaotic energy through its circuits and causing it to seize up before it disintegrated. He fired again, a rapid series of shots, their sound a percussive rhythm against the wailing of the opera.

"It's working," the guide's voice said in his earpiece, a note of triumph in her voice. "He's reacting to your presence. The Palace's defenses are shifting their focus to you. Keep it up."

"What's the status on the rest of the team?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

"They're halfway there," she replied. "Just keep this act going a little longer."

He smirked, a grim smile hidden beneath his mask. "Sounds like a plan."

A wave of black energy rippled through the courtyard, and the Shadows retreated, their forms dissolving into a dark mist. A new song began to play, its melody a tense, aggressive march. The ground beneath his feet began to change, the cobblestones dissolving into a grand, historical tapestry. The second act of the opera was about to begin.

The courtyard, once a place of mundane stone, was now a vast auditorium. The air, heavy with the scent of old dust and dry rot, was filled with the mournful strains of a haunting elegy. The walls were lined with grim, historical tapestries depicting the annexation of Jurai. On a distant stage, a massive marionette with the face of Chancellor Osborne hung limply, a grim symbol of the coming showdown.

Ren's heart hammered in his chest, a drumbeat to the somber music. From the shadows, they came. No longer the hollow, polished automatons from the last act, these were armored figures, their forms a mess of rusted plates and cracked steel. They moved with a reckless fury, their weapons—swords and poleaxes—swung with a wild, destructive abandon. These were the Shadows of Vengeful Knights, the living embodiment of the Palace master's rage.

"Here we go," he muttered, drawing his knife.

A knight charged, its blade aimed for his head. He dodged, a blur of motion, and countered with a powerful sweep of his knife, a Craft honed from years of training. The blade struck the enemy's breastplate with a harsh clang, but the Shadow barely flinched. The fight was going to be longer than he expected.

He needed to hit them where it hurts. He closed his eyes, centering himself. From within, he felt a surge of energy, dark and chaotic, a familiar power from his Master Quartz. He channeled it, letting the energy seep into his hands. His palms glowed with a sinister black and red tinged light. "Eiha," he said, and a bolt of black energy shot forth, a vicious tendril of darkness that slammed into the knight's chest.

The Shadow screamed, a sound like tearing metal, and stumbled back, its armor smoking. The attack had a visible effect, a physical blow to its form and a psychic one to its core. The other knights, seeing his attack, charged forward in a frenzy.

"He's using the arts! Check him out," a confident female voice said in his earpiece, a note of impressed amusement in her tone.

"Bet Skull couldn't do that," another voice, full of bravado, added.

"Hey! Give me a break! I'm carrying a whole team of nerds on my back!" the first voice, now sounding annoyed, shot back.

Ren grinned, a grim smile hidden beneath his mask. He dodged another wild swing from a knight, its blade narrowly missing his head. He fired his Orbal Handgun, a series of quick, precise shots that landed in the knight's joints, making it stumble. He moved in and with a powerful thrust of his knife, a final, lethal jab that finished the job. The knight's form dissolved into a dark mist, leaving behind a faint, shimmering memory of a forgotten battle.

"Alright, that's one down," he said into his earpiece, his voice a low growl.

"You're making him mad. I can feel the energy in here getting chaotic," the guide's voice said, a note of triumph in her voice. "The Palace defenses are becoming less structured. Just a little more."

"You got it," he replied, already moving toward the next group of knights. The opera was reaching its crescendo, and he was ready for the final act.

The air grew thin as the scenery shifted once more. The grand auditorium was gone, replaced by a maze of shattered glass and broken wood—the remnants of a dorm room, scattered and twisted into a bizarre, surreal obstacle course. The silence that had filled the air was now a chorus of whispers. They were the Shadows of the Forgotten Self, shimmering, ethereal ghosts of regrets and guilts. They didn't attack with steel or fire, but with venomous words that sought to paralyze Ren with doubt.

"You're a fake… a coward hiding behind a mask…" one whispered, its voice like the rustling of dry leaves.

"You're just a boy playing a fool's game…" hissed another, its form an indistinct haze of gray smoke.

Ren knew he couldn't fight these enemies with his blade or his gun. They weren't a physical threat, but a psychic one. He had to end this quickly, or the venom of their words would paralyze him, just as they had broken Crow. He steeled himself, his resolve firm, and touched the mask on his face.

"Get ready, guys. I'm going all out," he said, his voice a quiet command.

In his earpiece, he heard a sharp gasp. "Wait… you're going to…?"

He didn't reply. With a single, fluid motion, he ripped the mask from his face. It was a violent act, a declaration of his true self. A burst of black and crimson energy erupted from his face, and from it, a blue fire began to burn followed by demonic laughter, coalescing into the form of his Persona.

The figure was a vision of old-school thievery and dark fantasy. It had a towering top hat and a long-horned mask for a face, its red suit and white ruffle tie giving it the look of a gentleman thief. Large, feathery black wings extended from its back like a cape. Its name, he knew, was Arsène.

"What is that?!" a voice, full of shock and wonder, cried out in his earpiece.

"Unbelievable… he's summoning his Persona!" another voice, full of excitement, said.

"They're going to get a front-row seat to the main event!" the bravado-filled voice said with a mix of awe and a hint of jealousy.

"Get them! Arsène!" Ren commanded.

Arsène's hand crackled with dark, shadowy energy. A swirling, shadowy vortex of negative energy erupted from its palm, a low, menacing sound accompanying its release. With a sweeping motion, Arsène unleashed the dark energy toward the enemies. The area flashed with a burst of black and crimson.

The vortex expanded, a chaotic explosion that enveloped all the ethereal Shadows on the stage. The sound of shattering glass and a guttural, forceful sound filled the air, emphasizing the raw, destructive power of the heavy Curse damage. The Shadows of the Forgotten Self screamed as they were consumed by the darkness, their forms dissolving into a final, anguished wisp of smoke.

Ren stood in the wreckage, his mask back on his face, the blue flames flickering around him before vanishing. The silence was deafening. He had shattered the illusion, destroyed the final layer of the Palace master's self-deception. He had brought the "opera" to an end.

The final act was complete, and the stage was set for the last confrontation.

A low, guttural growl echoed through the shattered ruins. From the smoke and the shadows, the "audience" of the grand opera began to stir. These were not the docile puppets from before, but the human-like Shadows who had been watching in silent, unblinking judgment. As one, they raised their voices in a twisted applause, a sound like rocks grinding together. They were cheering not for Ren, but for the master of the stage. The "show" had reached its climax, and the star was ready for his bow.

A figure emerged from the remnants of the broken furniture, his form shrouded in a long, black cape that seemed to drink the very light from the air. His armor was a sleek, matte black, but with jagged, sharp edges like a broken crown. A helmet with glowing red visor and horns covered his head, giving him the appearance of a knight of vengeance. He held a large, ornate sword in one hand, the blade glinting with a dark, sinister energy. This was no knight, but the main antagonist, the man known as "C".

"I must say," C's voice boomed, his tone a mix of theatricality and disdain, "I'm impressed. I didn't think anyone would be so bold as to step onto my stage without an invitation."

He walked towards Ren, a smirk on his face, as if he was enjoying the show. With a wave of his hand, three new Shadows appeared from the debris. They were not just Shadows, but a warped reflection of the people he had passed moments before.

"Are you going to look at this?" Ren asked, his voice filled with venom. "Are these really what you see your friends as?"

The porcelain doll was now a grim, soulless marionette. It held an Orbal Arts Gun, a weapon meant for magical attacks, but it was now an empty, lifeless thing, its barrel pointed at nothing in particular. It was a tool, not a weapon.

The automaton was now a towering golem of brass and steam, its gears whirring with a mechanical rhythm. Its hands were now massive fists, meant for close-quarters combat, but its movements were jerky and robotic, as if a puppet master was pulling its strings.

The veiled statue was now a winged specter, its form still bound by ethereal chains. Her eyes were lifeless, and she held a single, shimmering Gauntlet in her hand, its form a mockery of a knight’s armor.

"They're just part of my show," C said, his voice cold and devoid of emotion. "They are the actors in my grand opera of vengeance, and I am the director. You've seen the first three acts. Are you ready for the grand finale?"

Joker tightened his grip on his knife. "A finale? This isn't a finale. This is an intervention."

C’s smirk widened. "An intervention? How quaint. You're a fool to think you can save me, and you're even more foolish to think you can understand my pain." He raised his sword, its dark energy crackling to life. "But I suppose you'll learn your lesson when your body is broken. In the end, the only thing that matters is the final curtain."

With a roar, C charged forward, his sword raised, a storm of dark energy gathering around him. Joker, his eyes narrowed, ripped off his mask once more, a single phrase on his lips. "Let's end this farce once and for all."

[~][~]

Chapter Text

Phantom Thieves of Thors (Persona 5/Sen no Kiseki)

Chapter 1: The Red Uniform and the White Lie

[~][~]

Heimdallr, Erebonian Empire

S.1204, 3.30 Tuesday

The Vermillion Capital at night was a breathtaking canvas of light and shadow, a testament to an imperial power that never truly slept.

From the central heights, the cityscape spread out in a massive, breathtaking display. The Valflame Palace was the luminous heart of it all, brilliantly illuminated against the dark backdrop of the mountains, its intricate stonework casting dramatic, shifting shadows that spoke of ages of history. Everywhere, the vermillion glow of the red-tiled roofs and brick buildings was softened by the darkness, creating a warm, steady, pulsing heartbeat of orbal energy that defined the city’s life. The wide avenues, like the Vermillion Road, reflected the light from grand clock towers, whose occasional, deep golden chimes were the only sounds to break the serene silence of the noble districts.

Yet, this majestic facade was not the whole city. Down near the industrial quarters, the light became harsher, the air thicker. Here, the opulent glow gave way to the underbelly where harsh, sputtering white orbal lamps cast long, broken shadows from pipes and heavy machinery near the port. The damp air was heavy with the smell of sea salt, oily machinery, and city smog. Even in the silence of the late hours, the rhythmic, metallic clatter of a railway switch or the distant rumble of the subway was a constant, jarring reminder of the capital's ceaseless industry, a grim, mechanical pulse beneath the elegance. Heimdallr was a city of magnificent light, yet its own infrastructure—the cold, omnipresent glow of its modern systems—felt like an endless, watchful presence, ensuring that no shadow went truly unseen.

But not every movement was captured by the city's meticulous gaze.

A figure launched from the edge of a nobleman's townhouse, a brief, sharp exhale of effort the only sound. They caught the crest of the next vermillion roof with an effortless, fingertip grip, the high-polished tiles barely registering beneath their weight. The city’s grandeur was now a complex obstacle course, a maze of sharp peaks and yawning gaps.

Moving across the rooftops of the Leica district, the figure became a fluid streak of black against the warm glow cast by the orbal lamps below. They didn't run so much as flow, using the very architecture of the capital against itself. An ornamental chimney became a momentary pivot point, transitioning a full-speed run into a clean, horizontal leap across a wide alleyway. They landed lightly on a red-tiled slope, instantly dropping their center of gravity and accelerating into a sprint before the small scattering of gravel could even echo.

Below them, the rhythmic, distant chime of the central clock was a slow, steady metronome, timing their rapid movements. They traversed the city's spine with a disciplined grace, their focus a singular point ahead, slipping through the boundaries of light and darkness like a phantom only the wind could feel.

The sprint culminated in a final, sweeping vault. The figure sailed over a narrow residential street and landed silently on the slate of a larger, institutional building. They crouched low, letting the shadow of an ornate clock face fully envelop them.

Below, through the gaps between the rooftops, the city's meticulous grid gave way to the block that housed the Heimdallr Military Police Headquarters. It was a study in cold, unwavering authority. The building itself was a massive block of red brick and polished stone, distinct from the commercial sprawl, situated with deliberate prominence. Its facade was lined with imposing, arched windows that were dark at this hour, yet felt as though they still held countless watchful eyes. A large, ornate crest—the Imperial seal—was prominently displayed above the massive, disciplined entrance, illuminated from below by ground-level lamps.

The surrounding area was quieter than the main avenues, yet unnervingly bright. The orbal streetlights here were maintained with absolute precision, casting uniform circles of sterile light onto the perfectly swept cobblestones. The atmosphere wasn't hostile, but one of clinical, absolute control; the headquarters projected a certainty that nothing in the capital could move without its knowledge. It was a fortress of bureaucracy, stability, and surveillance, and the figure on the rooftop fixed their gaze on it, taking a final, deep breath of the cold night air.

The figure studied the headquarters block for a long moment, the meticulous order of the place providing the ultimate challenge.

Then, it moved.

It didn't descend toward the overly bright front entrance. Instead, it vaulted silently from its concealed position, landing with practiced ease on the roof of a much lower maintenance shed adjacent to the headquarters' western wall. The shift in perspective placed the massive building directly above, its upper floors disappearing into the night.

The obstacle was not the height, but the lack of handholds and the relentless light. The figure pressed against the cool, rough brick, their fingers searching, until they found the small, almost imperceptible gap where a drainage pipe met the outer facade—a flaw ignored by the Empire's engineers, but a clear highway for one seeking entry.

With a powerful, silent flex of their legs, the figure launched toward the pipe, catching the slick metal with one hand. Their body arced out from the wall before a foot found a tiny ledge on a window frame. For a few tense seconds, they were suspended there, a silhouette against the diffused glow bouncing off the courtyard stones below.

The ascent became a near-impossible dance between the light and the shadows created by the building's neoclassical ornamentation. The figure exploited every minute irregularity—a protruding stone ledger, the rim of an unlit window, the joint of a ventilation grate. Each movement was precise, demanding a fierce focus that shut out the cold, watchful indifference of the capital around them. With a final heave, they pulled themselves up and over the stone balustrade of a second-floor service balcony, disappearing instantly into the deep shadow of an arched recess. The infiltration had begun.

The figure vanished completely within the shadow of the balcony's recess. They quickly located a small, steel-framed service door—unobtrusive and positioned directly over an internal stairwell, judging by the schematics memorized hours ago. The door was heavy, designed to deter, but not to defy.

With practiced efficiency, the figure produced a set of slender tools. The tip of a tension wrench slipped into the keyhole, followed by a delicate, curved pick. They ignored the distant, majestic chimes of the city, focusing solely on the quiet, meticulous resistance of the lock mechanism.

A soft click... then the quiet scrape of steel on steel... and a final, distinct thunk. The tumbler assembly surrendered. There was no need for force; the lock was simply disarmed. The figure slowly eased the heavy door inward just enough to slide through the narrow gap, their body never breaking the clean line of shadow cast by the frame. The door closed behind them, muffling the hum of the city lights outside.

The Heimdallr Military Police Headquarters was now silent, ordered, and dark around them.

The figure vanished completely within the shadow of the balcony's recess. They quickly located a small, steel-framed service door—unobtrusive and positioned directly over an internal stairwell, judging by the schematics memorized hours ago. The door was heavy, designed to deter, but not to defy.

With practiced efficiency, the figure produced a set of slender tools. The tip of a tension wrench slipped into the keyhole, followed by a delicate, curved pick. They ignored the distant, majestic chimes of the city, focusing solely on the quiet, meticulous resistance of the lock mechanism.

A soft click... then the quiet scrape of steel on steel... and a final, distinct thunk. The tumbler assembly surrendered. There was no need for force; the lock was simply disarmed. The figure slowly eased the heavy door inward just enough to slide through the narrow gap, their body never breaking the clean line of shadow cast by the frame. The door closed behind them, muffling the hum of the city lights outside.

The inside of the Heimdallr Military Police Headquarters was a jarring contrast to the open, light-filled grandness of the exterior. It was a space designed for function, and at this hour, it was defined by a deep, systematic silence.

The air within was cool, smelling faintly of cleaning solvent, old paper, and a clinical, metallic tang that spoke of weaponry. Though the building was cloaked in darkness—only faint emergency lamps near stairwells and the blue-white glow bleeding from beneath a few office doors gave any illumination—the figure moved with an impossible certainty. They were an extension of the darkness, their footsteps absorbed completely by the gleaming, highly polished stone floors.

They passed through a central corridor lined with heavy, solid doors. The architecture here projected its purpose: imposing walls designed to contain. They continued, hearing the subtle, persistent thrumming of unseen orbal machinery running deep within the walls, the sound that powered the building's infrastructure. Ahead, a faint, hypnotic blue light beckoned—the unmistakable sign of a communications hub, a necessary nerve center that the capital's security could never afford to turn off. The figure angled toward it, slipping past a darkened reception window where a stoic-looking blue uniform might have sat hours earlier. The headquarters was not empty, but the few souls on duty were elsewhere, tending to the distant, sleepless pulse of the vast capital.

The figure began to move purposefully along the dark corridor. The faint, clinical hum of the building's orbal systems was their only constant guide.

Commander Brighton, as the head of the HMP, would occupy the most secure and prestigious space. This office would typically be located on an upper floor, often near executive administration or the secure records division.

The figure reached a darkened internal stairwell, pausing to press their ear against the heavy steel door. They heard the subtle, rhythmic creak of leather—a human patrol slowly ascending or descending the flights. They let the sound pass, their hand already on the latch.

Instead of ascending immediately, the figure turned toward the building's maintenance core. They needed to bypass the stairwell checkpoints and the predictable patrol routes. They slipped into a utility access hatch, entering the cramped, shadow-choked space between the walls where the building’s large ventilation ducts ran.

Using the metallic framework as a ladder, they began a steady, silent climb. The ducts amplified the distant thrumming of the city, but here, in the building's mechanical lungs, they were effectively invisible to patrols. After navigating several vertical sections, they emerged onto a pristine, carpeted executive floor, close to where the most sensitive administrative secrets were kept.

They flattened against the wall. The corridor here was richer, paneled in dark wood, and lined with official portraits. At the end of the hall, behind a massive, double-leaved mahogany door that looked more like a bank vault than an office, lay the destination. A nameplate—polished brass reflecting no light—identified the Commander's Office.

The space was dead quiet, but the light spilling from a crack beneath an adjacent door indicated a nearby occupied office—a major threat. The figure was exposed on the polished floor and had to make their next move quickly, navigating the final stretch toward the Commander's door.

The figure knelt at the massive, double-leaved mahogany door of the Commander's Office. The lock was a complex, multi-tumbler mechanism—a bespoke piece of Erebonian security designed not just to keep people out, but to alert if tampered with.

The figure produced the tools once more, the polished steel glinting only faintly in the residual light. Their focus narrowed instantly, shutting out the scent of old wood and the distant hum of the capital. They worked with a surgical rhythm, the tension wrench applying the perfect, agonizing pressure while the pick danced inside the warding, feeling for the minuscule catches. A silent click. Then another. Slowly, methodically, they were aligning the intricate series of pins.

But as the third tumbler fell into place, a sound broke the silence of the executive floor: the distinct clack of leather dress shoes striking the polished stone floor of the corridor just around the corner. A patrol.

A jolt of adrenaline cut through the figure's concentration. The sound was growing rapidly louder, the officer's gait heavy and methodical. The figure's body tensed, fingers digging into the lock with urgent speed. Click, click. Two more tumblers—only one left. The footsteps were now approaching the far end of the hall, the sound echoing off the high ceiling.

The final pin was stubborn, resisting the pick. The shadow of the approaching officer's cap and broad shoulders began to stretch around the corner of the hallway leading to the office.

With a final, desperate shove of the pick, the figure heard the unmistakable, satisfying thud of the final tumbler engaging. The lock was open.

They didn't waste a millisecond. With a sharp, silent twist of the doorknob, the figure threw their shoulder against the heavy wood, slipping through the gap as the door swung inward. They pulled it shut just as the patrol officer's rhythmic steps reached the entrance to the hall. The latch clicked softly, concealing the intruder by a sheer fraction of a second. The figure was now inside the Commander's Office, enveloped in a safe, absolute blackness.

Inside the Commander’s office, the figure held their breath, pressed flat against the heavy mahogany door.

Just outside, the officer halted. There was a faint, almost inaudible click of a boot shifting weight, then a low, gruff voice breaking the silence of the executive floor.

"All quiet on this sector. Moving on to the East Wing."

The report was brief, impersonal, and tinny with professional detachment. The heavy, rhythmic footsteps resumed, fading slowly down the hallway and around the distant corner.

The figure waited, counting a slow minute to ensure the patrol was well out of range. The office was pitch black, a deep, velvety dark that protected them. They exhaled, the brief tension draining away, and began to move.

They didn't need light. They crossed the plush carpet with silent, assured steps, immediately locating the Commander’s massive, ornate desk. Their hands moved quickly and methodically across the polished wood, searching the drawers. The movement was a blur of efficiency: Top drawer, locked, picked in under ten seconds—yielding only regulation orbal pens and stationery. Bottom drawer, files on local incidents, and a secure storage box—the box was heavy, but contained only medals and service documents.

They moved to the filing cabinets lining the wall, feeling for the secure locking mechanisms. The locks proved more complicated, but were bypassed swiftly. Inside, the heavy manila folders were arranged with military precision, organized by year and case number: Traffic violations, personnel reviews, budget forecasts, and public incident reports. These were the meticulous records of the Military Police's day-to-day operations, but nothing of high, immediate value.

With a growing knot of frustration, the figure scanned the empty, darkened room one last time. Every accessible filing space, every drawer, was now open and accounted for. The highly sensitive materials they were looking for—the secrets that would never be included in routine documentation—were not here. Brighton’s office was either a dead end, or the Commander was too clever to keep those records on his person. They had wasted too much precious time on a bust.

The figure backed away from the Commander's desk, ready to retreat through the service door and find the next target. This entire sector was a bust, and the clock was ticking toward the next patrol sweep.

They reached the door, their hand hovering over the latch, when something snagged their attention. It wasn't sound or light; it was a subtle disruption of symmetry. The framed map of Heimdallr on the western wall was slightly off-kilter. The massive frame, heavy and ornately carved, sat too perfectly with the carpet lines, yet the dark wooden paneling beneath it looked newer than the rest of the wall.

Intrigued, the figure placed their fingers along the seam of the wood paneling, tracing the line until they found a nearly invisible pressure point—an orbal lock release, triggered only by a specific touch sequence. A faint thwick sounded in the wood, and the framed map, along with the section of paneling, swung inward like a cupboard door, revealing a steel-vault safe, built deep into the brick of the building.

The frustration immediately gave way to tense focus. This was the place.

The safe was robust, but the locking mechanism, while complex, yielded to the figure’s expertise. After a minute of focused work, the wheel spun free, and the heavy door eased open. Inside, tucked beneath several bundles of encrypted communication logs, lay a thick manila folder marked with a discreet, handwritten military code.

They pulled the file out. A swift flip through the contents—a collection of detailed reports, transcribed notes, and operational summaries—confirmed their immediate disappointment: the specific information they had risked everything for was not there. Yet, the folder held a recent, detailed intelligence summary that instantly redefined their objective. It wasn't the final answer, but a new, crucial lead—a fresh thread that pointed directly toward where the ultimate secrets were likely kept. It was a disappointment, but a necessary salvage, rerouting their entire mission.

They had to document it—and they had to leave zero residual presence. Leaving a file, even a single page, missing would immediately alert the HMP that a secret had been compromised.

The figure reached into their inner coat and withdrew a small, sleek camera. They knew the risk was immense; a flash in this absolute darkness would be a beacon. But photographing the multiple pages was the only way to preserve the intelligence without leaving a trace.

Taking a deep, final breath, they made their choice. They aimed the lens at the open file, covering the camera with the hem of their clothing to minimize the spill.

A single, momentary, blinding flash of white light erupted from the office, bathing the top page of the file in sharp relief for a split second. Then, a second, and a third, as the figure quickly flipped through the essential documents. The smell of ozone lingered in the air.

The figure immediately slid the entire thick folder back into its exact location, closed and spun the safe lock, and carefully swung the map-panel back into place, ensuring the symmetry was restored. The faint, persistent scent of ozone from the flash hung heavy in the air.

And then, it happened.

The sharp, momentary white light—even muffled by the figure's clothing—had been an undeniable beacon in the pervasive darkness. From somewhere down the corridor, the faint but distinct sound of an orbal chime suddenly echoed, followed by the rapid, rhythmic thump of boots running on the polished stone. An alarm had been triggered, or a guard had seen the flash and was heading straight for the office.

There was no time to use the exit door and risk a head-on collision. The figure darted away from the wall and sprinted toward the back of the room, leaping lightly over the large Commander's desk. They plunged into the shadows behind the towering wardrobe and a heavy velvet curtain, pressing their body against the cold wall. They held the camera tight, muscles coiled, relying on the sheer size of the furniture to conceal them as the running footsteps grew deafeningly loud, accelerating toward the office door.

The running footsteps outside the door ceased abruptly, replaced by a swift, sharp turn and the loud click-clack of a key being hastily inserted into the lock. The officer had not been fooled by the initial sight of the locked door; the flash had been too definitive.

The door burst open, and a harsh, focused beam of a flashlight sliced through the darkness.

"Sector 4-B! Intrusion suspected! Officer down—" the officer shouted, their voice strained. The figure behind the curtain instantly realized the officer's initial report was a calculated lie, designed to draw assistance faster.

The beam swept wildly across the room.

"Clear the main floor. Focus on the desk and windows!" the officer barked, moving quickly. A second set of footsteps arrived, heavier and more deliberate.

"What is it, Kaden?" the new voice asked, lower but laced with authority.

"Sir, an intense light pulse was detected coming from the Commander's Office. Looks like someone bypassed the lock. Check the balcony—I think they went out the window."

The figure stayed motionless, breathing only in the slow, shallow rhythm of a meditation exercise. The light beam hit the edge of the velvet curtain, searing through the material, but the darkness behind the thick wardrobe held. The two men moved efficiently, their voices now hushed as they began their search.

"The desk drawers are secure," the second officer noted. "The filing cabinets, too. Kaden, check that ventilation grating on the ceiling—and then we clear out and sweep the adjacent offices. This place is too dark to search properly."

The officers spent an agonizing minute sweeping every corner, their flashlights illuminating the open file cabinet drawers and the Commander's desk. The figure listened to the specific, tense reports about the lack of any sign of entry or exit, realizing their lock-picking prowess was saving them.

"Nothing here, sir. I'm telling you, they went out the window or used the vents."

"Fine. Secure the Commander's property. We're locking this door down and initiating a floor-wide sweep in thirty seconds. Move it!"

The door slammed shut, the lock grinding home with unnecessary force. The footsteps retreated quickly, running to begin the wider search.

The figure waited ten more seconds, then fifteen, before slowly, silently easing out from behind the curtain. The ozone scent was almost gone. The immediate danger had passed, but the Military Police were now on high alert. They had minutes, not hours, to reach their new destination.

With the intelligence secured and the officers sweeping the floor, the figure—moving now with a cold, desperate haste—slid back toward the secret access door they had used to enter. They knew the stairwells and main corridors would be blocked and monitored within a minute. Their only exit was through the high window or back down the mechanical ducts.

They chose the latter. Easing the utility access panel open, they slipped back into the cramped, metal-lined darkness of the ventilation shaft. The space was suddenly no longer a path to safety but a tight, echoing trap. Below, the orbal machinery hummed louder, the sound resonating through the metal walls, masking their movement but also amplifying the smallest scrape of their shoe against a duct.

They began the vertical descent. The metal framework was oily and cold, the drop long. They moved like water, pressing their body against the wall to control the friction; the camera was secured safely inside their coat. Every movement was a choice between speed and absolute silence, and they chose silence, knowing one loud clang could summon the entire night shift.

Near the ground floor, they reached the lateral junction of the ductwork—the worst possible place to be. They heard voices below, muffled but sharp, followed by the distinctive rattling of weapons being checked. The HMP was setting up a checkpoint at the interior stairwell exit, exactly where their duct terminated.

Trapped, the figure located a narrow, circular maintenance hatch on the bottom of the duct, positioned directly over the ceiling tiles of a ground-floor office. It was a tight squeeze, but their only option.

They pressed down on the hatch, and with a soft click of the latch, the panel gave way. The figure let themselves drop, their body a dead weight aimed precisely at the least supported section of the ceiling. Instead of crashing, they used the friction of their leather gloves against the metal duct opening, transforming the fall into a controlled, silent descent. They emerged, feet first, onto the Commander's secretary’s desk—a dark mahogany surface covered in heavy orbal communication equipment.

Silence. The office was empty, but the door was solid, heavy oak. The faint, steady pulse of a red standby light on the secretary's orbal phone was the only illumination.

They crossed the office and picked the door lock swiftly, emerging into a service hall near the holding cells—a much rougher, less-maintained part of the headquarters. The floor was linoleum, the walls painted a sterile, off-white.

From the end of the corridor, near the main lock-up, a single blue uniform stood guard. The officer was facing the opposite way, leaning against the cold wall.

The figure needed to move past a length of sixty feet, with only a series of deep shadows from recessed archways for cover. They began to move along the wall, sticking close to the shadows, using the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of an ancient pipe leak near the ceiling to mask their soft footfalls.

They reached the halfway point. The officer’s voice was a low murmur, confirming his post, adding a fresh layer of tension to the silence.

The figure used the moment of distraction to break for the last archway, transforming the low walk into a silent, desperate sprint. They pressed themselves into the cool plaster just as the officer turned his head slightly, scanning the empty hall one last time.

The officer remained still for five heart-stopping seconds, seemingly staring directly at the archway. The air thickened with unspoken danger.

Finally, the guard yawned, checked the time on his wrist, and turned his back once more.

It was the opening the figure needed. They exploded forward, covering the last twenty feet in two fluid, silent strides. They didn’t aim for the main doors, but for a small, unmarked side door meant for delivery personnel.

The lock was simpler, designed for convenience over maximum security. It turned with a quick click of the pick. They eased the heavy door open, letting in a draft of cool, salty night air that smelled of the nearby docks—a promise of the city beyond the walls.

They slipped out, pulling the door shut behind them and hearing the lock engage perfectly. They were now in a brightly lit service alley that ran along the headquarters’ exterior. The walls were high, but the roof was low.

In one final burst of effortless acrobatics, the figure ran straight up a stack of metal freight crates, reached the lip of the wall, and vaulted onto the low, flat roof. One last glance back showed a sudden, frantic burst of light and activity in the upper windows—the high-alert sweep had begun. The Vermillion Cage had been fully locked down.

The figure turned and melted into the complex, welcoming shadows of the adjacent industrial buildings, leaving the panicked Military Police Headquarters behind, having escaped with a new, dangerous lead and not a single trace left in their wake.

[~]

Heimdallr, Erebonian Empire

S.1204, 3.31 Wednesday

The air in Ren Amamiya's small, rented apartment in Heimdallr felt heavy, thick with the silence that precedes the capital's daily roar. His eyes blinked open to a world of deep, pre-dawn gray, the darkness lingering outside the window like a stubborn stain.

He lay still for a moment, waiting for the lingering tension to dissolve from his muscles. The old mattress offered little comfort, and the stiffness in his shoulders was a testament to the night's physical cost. A low, persistent hum, a sound he had grown to associate with the start of another long day.

The apartment itself was a stark contrast to the Vermillion Capital's opulence. It was functional, clean, but utterly anonymous. A cheap, functional orbal alarm clock glowed a faint green near his head, informing him it was shortly after four in the morning. He was bone-tired, the kind of exhaustion that settled deep into the bones and made the thought of moving feel monumental.

Ren pushed himself up, the cheap springs of the bed groaning a brief, audible protest against the early morning quiet. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. The day had already begun, long before the sun had bothered to rise.

The low, insistent hum of the capital gave way to a sound that was, to Ren, more intimately familiar: the quiet whirring of his own mind, tracing the paths of two lives merged into one.

It had been twelve years since his soul had decided that the bustling, orbal-powered metropolis of Heimdallr, capital of the Erebonian Empire, was his next destination. For the first five, he'd been an ordinary child. Then, the dam broke.

He remembered the acute, bewildering sadness that had accompanied the rush of those first memories—the smell of Leblanc's coffee, the sight of Shibuya crossing, the sound of a certain velvet voice, and the irreplaceable feeling of being surrounded by the Phantom Thieves of Hearts. A profound, lingering grief still clung to the edges of his consciousness, a wistful sorrow for a life and a love he'd lost to some cosmic reboot.

He accepted the strange reality, however, of his second chance. This world, Zemuria, was different—no Shibuya, no Palaces, but a land of orbal technology, rigid class structures, and latent political tension. He had adjusted quickly; the adaptability he’d honed as a Thief served him well in this new reality.

The exhaustion of the night before—a necessary expenditure in his pursuit of truth in this new life—was already being mentally filed away. Today marked a genuine start, a total break from the probation, the expulsion, the reputation that had defined his last teenage years.

Ren sat up fully, swinging his legs to the cold floor. No expulsion. No probation. Just a commoner heading to the prestigious Thors Military Academy. A school, of all things. The irony wasn't lost on him, but the thrill of a clean slate was potent. He didn't have to fight the system just to attend class; here, he was merely following the rules. A world of potential new power—one built on different rules—was about to open up. He had died, and in dying, he had finally gotten the right to choose his own beginning.

He stood, pulling on the crisp, unfamiliar uniform trousers. He had a train to catch to Trista.

Ren stood before the full-length mirror, adjusting the knot of his necktie with practiced precision. The exhaustion of the night was masked beneath a smooth, outward presentation.

A faint, almost wry smile touched his lips as he took in his reflection. It was, quite humorously, the exact same face he’d worn in his past life: the familiar grey eyes, the high cheekbones, the stubbornly unruly black hair. Even the pair of fake glasses, worn out of habit more than necessity, was the same style. It was a strange confirmation of identity, a small nod from the universe that he was still him.

But the clothing told a different story. Gone was the familiar, restrictive black uniform of Shujin Academy. In its place, he wore the military-style attire of Thors: a neat jacket trimmed with gold braid, buttoned high over a vest. The uniform’s defining characteristic, however, was its color: a deep, practical hunter green. It was the unmistakable, low-key color that announced his status as a commoner.

He gave the reflection a final, sardonic look. Same look, different cage.

With the uniform securely donned, Ren turned his attention to the sparse contents of his apartment. His packing was efficient, the movements of someone accustomed to travel and temporary living. He slid several changes of plain clothes, basic toiletries, and a small, leather-bound notebook into his duffel bag.

The final items were the most critical. He carefully placed the slim, hard-covered Student Handbook into an interior pocket of his duffel bag. More than just a list of rules, the heavy tome served as his official student ID—the single piece of documentation that legitimized his presence within the rigid walls of the prestigious academy.

He paused, glancing at the clock. The capital’s rush was about to begin. He shouldered the duffel bag, the weight a grounding presence, and crossed the threshold of the anonymous apartment. His new life in Erebonia was starting, not with a rebellious shout, but with a ticket to Trista and the quiet determination of a man attending school with a clean record.

Ren shouldered the weight of his duffel bag, the simple act marking the true start of his journey. He stepped out of the anonymous apartment complex, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him. The cool, pre-dawn air of Heimdallr immediately hit his face, crisp and smelling faintly of industrial activity and distant sea salt.

He didn't head straight for the train station. Instead, he took a familiar, quick detour through the hushed side streets. His steps led him, without conscious direction, to a place that served as a strange anchor in this new world: Café Leblanc.

The café was a small, unassuming structure tucked between a laundromat and a tailor. It wasn't the iconic Tokyo hideaway, but the familiarity of the name and the faint, comforting scent of brewing coffee that perpetually drifted from its vents had made it a sanctuary. The windows were still dark, but a single, soft yellow light glowed within, a signal of the preparation before the morning rush.

Ren paused, placing his bag at his feet. The place was a quiet echo of a past life, a spot where he could momentarily reconcile the two realities. He felt a wave of genuine nostalgia—a mix of sorrow for what was lost and appreciation for the quiet solace he'd found here. It was a proper, stable place in a city that often felt too grand and temporary.

He inhaled deeply, savoring the coffee aroma one last time before pushing off the wall to leave.

Just as he bent to retrieve his duffel bag, the café’s service door—a worn, dark-painted slab of wood set into the side alley—swung open with a quiet, almost oiled smoothness.

Standing in the low light of the opening, wiping his hands on a pristine white apron, was Maurice Leblanc.

Maurice was a man whose presence filled the doorway, not through massive size, but through sheer density and quiet confidence. He had a solid, stocky build and a demeanor that was perpetually calm, like deep water. His hair was a thick, salt-and-pepper gray, kept neatly cropped, and his face was etched with the fine lines of experience, giving him an expression that was both weary and keenly alert. His eyes, however, were the most arresting feature: a striking, warm amber that seemed to miss nothing. He wore a simple white collared shirt beneath his apron, his forearms thick and strong. He looked exactly like what he was: a man who had seen much of the world, but whose current concern was the perfect roast of a coffee bean.

Maurice stopped, his head cocked slightly, his gaze falling directly on the figure in the green Thors uniform.

"Leaving so soon, Ren?" Maurice asked, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that perfectly matched the early morning quiet.

Ren straightened, offering the barest nod in greeting. "I have a train to Trista, Maurice. If I don't catch the express, I'll be stuck waiting in a train station for half the day."

Maurice pushed the door fully open and stepped out, the cool air making him pull his hands into the folds of his apron. His keen amber eyes swept over Ren's green uniform and the duffel bag at his feet. "Thors, then. I suppose that means the city just lost its best apprentice taste-tester."

A genuine, albeit brief, smile crossed Ren's face. "The capital’s curry standards will suffer greatly, I'm sure. I trust you haven’t tried messing with the spice blend again, have you?"

Maurice let out a soft, dry chuckle. "Hardly. I learned my lesson. It took me three months and half the imperial reserves of Zest Pepper to get the balance right after that last 'experimental' suggestion of yours. This Erebonian ginger is a menace." He paused, his expression softening slightly. "It’s good, though. Really captures the depth of... sweet and robust."

"It should," Ren murmured, the hint of nostalgia heavy in his tone. "That particular recipe needs the right kind of bite to cut through the richness. Make sure you don't skimp on the final simmer time."

"Never," Maurice promised. "I've been preparing it since you arrived this morning. It's the only way to get the aroma to settle just right." He looked past Ren, toward the direction of the Grand Station. "You’ve got a long trip. Are you stocked up on coffee beans?"

Ren tapped the side of his duffel bag. "The emergency rations are secured. I'll survive the academy's swill, but barely."

"Good." Maurice nodded, satisfied. He extended one of his large, strong hands, giving Ren's shoulder a brief, firm squeeze. "The place will be quieter without you stirring things up. But you've got things to do. Go and do them."

"I will," Ren confirmed, meeting the older man's steady gaze. He picked up his duffel bag, the weight feeling lighter now. "Keep the coffee strong, Maurice."

"Wait, Ren."

Maurice stepped fully out again, this time holding a surprisingly heavy, neatly wrapped package secured with thick twine and sealed with wax.

"A small insurance policy," he said, handing the bundle to Ren. "I can't have my favorite student wasting away on academy rations. You'll need to keep your strength up."

Ren accepted the weight of the package, immediately recognizing the subtle, mingled scent of roasted spices and rich coffee beans, perfectly protected from the open air. "Maurice, this is... the whole blend?"

"The core of it, yes," Maurice confirmed, a hint of his dry humor returning. "It contains enough of the special ingredients for the curry, and a generous supply of the best coffee beans. Enough to last you for a good long while—or perhaps long enough to bribe a few new acquaintances." He paused, his amber eyes holding a flicker of amusement. "You’ll have to source the mundane things like pots, pans, and the common vegetables in Trista. But the essence of Café Leblanc is now in your hands. Use it wisely. Or at least, use it to make some decent food."

Ren tucked the package securely into the top of his duffel bag, the new, familiar weight a strange comfort. "Thank you, Maurice. I'll make sure the reputation remains intact, even in Erebonia."

"I expect nothing less," Maurice replied. He extended one of his large, strong hands, giving Ren's shoulder a brief, firm squeeze. "The place will be quieter without you stirring things up. But you've got things to do. Go and do them."

"I will," Ren confirmed, meeting the older man's steady gaze. "Keep the coffee strong, Maurice."

"Always," Maurice replied, stepping back into the shadow of the doorway.

With a final, silent farewell, Ren turned and headed toward the main avenues of the city, leaving the comforting aroma of Café Leblanc and the mysterious man behind the counter to the quiet solitude of the early morning. The next chapter of his life was already underway.

[~]

Ren found a window seat on the express orbal train bound for Trista. The Heimdallr Central Station was a dizzying rush of morning commuters—officers in sharp blue uniforms, businessmen in dark coats, and commoners hurrying to factory shifts. The train itself, sleek and silent, pulled away from the platform with a smooth, almost futuristic glide, instantly separating Ren from the city he had just left.

He settled his duffel bag, the comforting weight of Maurice's package resting against his leg, and gazed out the window. The train quickly left the dense, red-brick sprawl of the capital, entering the open country. His journey would be brief—barely twenty minutes, thanks to the massive infrastructure of the Transcontinental Railroad.

The Empire passing by the window was a spectacle of history and industry, a sight Ren had spent years studying. His thoughts drifted, less to the exhaustion of the night and more to the land that now claimed his new life.

The Erebonian Empire was a paradox of deep tradition and radical modernization. It was a nation whose foundational myth lay in the ancient, powerful Four Great Houses of the Nobility, lords who ruled vast territories and maintained their own private armies—a feudal system that should have been ancient history, yet persisted with formidable strength. The nobles saw themselves as the guardians of the Empire's identity and were constantly resistant to change.

However, over the last fifty years, the Empire had been utterly transformed by the Orbal Revolution. This surge in technology—fueled by a mysterious energy source called orbments—had allowed for rapid, aggressive industrial expansion. The Empire was now crisscrossed by an unprecedented railway network and possessed military machines that dwarfed anything else on the continent.

As the train began to slow, the sprawling industrial landscape gave way to gentle, rolling hills and the picturesque, rural atmosphere of a small town. The spires of Trista—and the massive, commanding main building of Thors Military Academy—began to dominate the horizon.

Ren took a final, steadying breath. In a minute, he'd be off the train. The era of silent observation was over; the era of participation was about to begin.

The smooth deceleration of the orbal train pulled Ren from the geopolitical tensions of the Empire and back to the present moment. Outside the window, the scenery was a sudden burst of color, a stark contrast to the subdued tones of Heimdallr. Spring was in full bloom around Trista, painting the rolling hills in vibrant, hopeful greens, punctuated by splashes of yellow and white from flowering trees.

Then, his gaze caught the station platform ahead, and a flicker of recognition—and curiosity—took hold. Waiting there, or moving toward the train doors, were others his age, dressed in the exact same deep hunter green uniforms as his own.

Seeing them brought a familiar, aching wave of nostalgia. He thought of his previous life, of his own Class 2-D, and the incredible, chaotic circle of friends he had built. He remembered the specific, undeniable catalyst that had brought them together: his period of probation and his forced attendance at Shujin Academy. Without that initial disaster, that public shame, he never would have met them, never would have changed the world.

What happened to them? The question, always lurking, surfaced with renewed force. Did their souls follow the same mysterious path as his? Was it possible that the cynical genius, the fiercely loyal artist, the energetic athlete, or the quiet, focused hacker were now walking the streets of Heimdallr or, more strangely, waiting on a platform in Trista? The universe had given him a new life, a new chance, but the lingering hope remained: Would they meet again?

His ruminations were cut short by the clear, automated announcement that resonated throughout the carriage.

"The Ministry of Railways wishes to thank all passengers for their patronage. This train is bound for Bareahard via Celdic. The next stop is... Trista. Trista. We will be stopped at Trista for one minute. When disembarking, please ensure no belongings are left behind."

The train hissed to a halt. Ren grabbed his duffel bag, the weight of the coffee and curry package a firm reminder of the mission ahead. The platform was waiting.

The train jolted, then came to a final, gentle stop. Ren followed the stream of passengers out onto the platform. The air in Trista was immediately different from the capital's smog—clean, fresh, and carrying the crisp scent of spring foliage.

He quickly made his way out of the station building. Stepping onto the wide, cobbled square, Ren paused, taking in the picturesque scene that greeted him.

The Trista Station itself was directly behind him, a dark, handsome building set slightly elevated from the street, accessible by a neat set of stairs. The architecture, though robust, was scaled down from the intimidating grandeur of Heimdallr, lending the area an immediate sense of peaceful provincial calm.

Before him lay the town's welcoming heart: a charming, open plaza. The ground was paved with a warm, uneven cobblestone, which gave the area a rustic, historical feel. The plaza was broken up by several elevated planters and low stone retaining walls, all carefully maintained.

The central feature, however, was the scattering of flowering trees. Their dense canopies were covered in a cloud of white and pale green blossoms. Ren's gaze lingered on them, and a faint, wistful ache tugged at his memory. The delicate, abundant blooms reminded him poignantly of the cherry blossoms he had loved in his previous life—a sweet, fleeting symbol of new beginnings and fond goodbyes. He knew they were called Lino Flowers here, but the nostalgic feeling was identical.

The rest of the square was bordered by small, two-story buildings, their roofs capped with warm red tiles that stood out against the deep blue or gray siding. A few lampposts, typical of Erebonian orbal street lighting, lined the sidewalks, ready for the evening. Off to the left, he could see a few figures, one in a uniform, already making their way along the quiet street.

This was Trista. It was pretty, serene, and almost entirely lacking the oppressive metallic energy of the capital. It was a perfect, peaceful setting for a military academy—or for a new mission.

Ren shouldered his duffel bag, the weight of the coffee and the camera a grounding presence. He paused for a beat, his gaze sweeping the peaceful plaza not with a student's pure excitement, but with an intense, quiet absorption.

Instead of following the other students who were clearly heading up the main thoroughfare toward the Academy campus, Ren took a deliberate detour. He moved along the quiet side street to the left of the station, letting the low, red-tiled buildings screen his path.

His walk was silent and quick. He took note of the town's geography with the effortless habit of someone who never missed a detail. His eyes tracked the gentle curves of the streets, observed the placement of the taller structures that might offer a higher vantage point, and mentally cataloged the quiet residential lanes. He paid particular attention to the flow of traffic and pedestrians, gauging the town's rhythms: where the activity began and where the deep silence settled. Trista was peaceful, but a military town requires absolute awareness.

He spent only a few minutes on his survey, ensuring he knew the nearest pathways to the open countryside and the quickest way to return to the bustling hub of the station.

Now fully oriented and the town's layout committed to memory, Ren crossed back toward the main street, blending in easily with the occasional early-morning pedestrian.

Ren Amamiya shouldered his duffel bag, the new weight—the heavy uniform, the camera, and Maurice's tightly bound package of spices and beans—a grounding pressure. His quick detour had committed the layout of Trista to memory: the narrow escape routes, the lack of centralized electronic surveillance, and the sleepy rhythms of a small, provincial town. At once, he began making his way to Thors, not wanting to be late for the entrance ceremony.

He walked past the solemn, stone edifice of the Septian Church, its tall steeple piercing the morning sky. A flicker of skepticism crossed his mind. The Church, ostensibly devoted to Aidios, the Goddess of the Sky, commanded immense power, both spiritual and temporal, across Zemuria. Its influence wasn't merely charitable; it was an unseen pillar of authority, far more intricate than simple faith. To Ren, who had lived a life where reality was shaped by the collective unconscious, such a widespread, powerful organization felt less like a belief structure and more like a continent-spanning operation—one that, by necessity, would have its own deeply guarded secrets. He classified it instantly as an entity to be respected, and, more importantly, understood. The order it imposed on society was a useful shield, but any organization that large was bound to have shadows.

He thought again of the past. It had been twelve years since he’d blinked into this new life, the memories of his previous life—the friends, the love, the thrill of the Phantom Thieves of Hearts—surging back when he was five. That life had ended in tragedy, but this one offered a fresh, unblemished beginning. No expulsion. No probation. He had died, and in dying, he had earned the right to choose his own path, free from the baggage of a criminal record.

He straightened his back, the thought of his absent friends giving him a renewed sense of purpose. If fate had brought him here, perhaps it had brought them too.

The final stretch of road ended at the massive iron gates of Thors Military Academy. The structure loomed before him, an impressive testament to Imperial architecture, surrounded by meticulously manicured lawns. This was his new stage. He adjusted his glasses—fake, just as they always were—and walked through the gates to begin the next chapter of his life.

The road leveled out, bringing Ren to a halt before the main campus. The view was instantly, overwhelmingly impressive.

Before him stretched the imposing, ivory-colored façade of the Main Academy Building . It was a monumental structure that perfectly encapsulated the history and might of the Erebonian Empire: a seamless blend of classic, robust architecture and modern, centralized power.

The building's height and symmetry immediately commanded attention. The central feature was a towering, gothic-style clock tower, its dark slate roof contrasting sharply with the pale walls. The tower dominated the campus, a precise and stern symbol of military time and order. Ornate windows, framed in dark wood, lined the multiple stories of the central block and the wings extending out on either side.

To the right, the structure swelled into a larger administrative or academic wing, its roof capped with dark tiling. To the left, a more modern addition of similar height suggested the necessity of expansion. The entire complex was surrounded by a decorative but clearly sturdy black wrought-iron fence, set between heavy stone pillars. The grounds inside were perfectly maintained, with meticulously trimmed evergreen hedges and shrubs framing the pathways.

This wasn't just a school; it was a fortress of privilege and power, designed to cultivate the Empire's future leaders. It was the antithesis of the cramped, run-down atmosphere of his previous school, Shujin Academy. Here, everything was grand, regulated, and absolutely on display.

Ren stood still for a moment, taking in the full measure of the building. The air was silent save for the occasional distant shout of a student or the faint rustle of the morning wind through the trees. This is where it begins, he thought. He tightened his grip on the strap of his duffel bag and advanced toward the entrance, ready to begin another school life.

Ren passed through the wrought-iron gates, stepping onto the school grounds. The air inside was warmer, carrying the scent of grass and spring. He can already see that he wasn’t the only student to arrive.

As he scanned the crowd for directions to the Entrance ceremony, two figures detached themselves from a nearby cluster of students and approached him.

The first was a petite young woman with a bright, earnest expression. Her long brown hair was pulled back into a neat ponytail, accented with a blue ribbon. She wore the same green commoner’s uniform as Ren, but hers was distinguished by a white horizontal stripe across the blazer when buttoned, and a student council armband prominently displayed on her left arm. She radiated an aura of remarkable diligence and a gentle, welcoming kindness.

Beside her stood a larger young man, whose broad frame was emphasized by his practical yellow overalls and working boots. His messy brown hair fell over a pair of goggles perched on his forehead, and his pronounced nose gave his face a friendly, intelligent cast. He had a cheerful, helpful demeanor.

"Welcome to Thors Military Academy!" the young woman said, her voice clear and exceptionally polite despite her small stature. "Are you a new student? You look a little lost. The Entrance ceremony is just about to begin in the auditorium. Let me show you the way!" She gestured enthusiastically with a small, gloved hand.

Before Ren could respond, the larger young man stepped forward, his friendly eyes falling on Ren's duffel bag. "Looks like you've got quite the load there. No need to carry that all the way to the auditorium. I can take it up to the dorms for you after the ceremony. It's what I do for all new students!"

Ren's hand instinctively tightened around the strap of his bag. The offer, while seemingly kind, immediately put him on alert. On his way through Heimdallr and even on the train, he had seen plenty of noble students attended by personal servants—staff whose explicit job was to handle their masters' luggage and needs. For a commoner like himself to receive such an offer from another student felt... off. He was used to carrying his own weight, literally and figuratively. The very idea of someone else handling his things was alien and unsettling.

"No, that's quite alright," Ren said, his voice level. "I've got it. It's not heavy." He offered a small, polite smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But thank you for the offer."

The larger young man looked slightly surprised but quickly recovered with a warm smile. "No problem at all! Just wanted to help out. Well, then, if you're ready, the ceremony won't wait!"

The petite young woman nodded, her blue ribbon bobbing. "Right this way, then! Just follow us!" She turned, her small frame already leading the way toward a grand staircase, a beacon of efficiency and kindness in the bustling hall. Ren, his senses still on high alert, followed, his duffel bag remaining firmly in his grasp.

[~]

"...Now, if I may, I'd like to say a few words in closing about this academy's illustrious history."

In the auditorium, the visual impact of the assembled students was immediate and jarring. The vast space was dominated by a distinct color line that sliced the student body in two.

In the front sections, close to the podium and the faculty seating, was a dazzling block of White Uniforms. These were the students of the aristocracy, the nobles, seated with an air of inherited confidence and entitlement.

In stark contrast, the back rows, where Ren settled, were a sea of Green Uniforms. This was the section reserved for the commoners, huddled together in an almost palpable display of social segregation, the physical manifestation of the Empire’s deep-seated class structure. Ren felt the collective, quiet tension of his peers—a mixture of defiance, uncertainty, and guarded hope.

As he scanned the crowd, Ren's sharp eye, trained to spot the anomalous detail, picked out an unsettling third color. Scattered among the students, looking noticeably out of place even amongst the nobles, were a few students wearing a distinctive Red Uniform.

Some seemed uncomfortable, some fiddling with their fingers or avoiding eye contact. Ren frowned slightly. He had poured over the Student Handbook, noting the commoner green and the noble white, but the Red Uniform was absent from any official documentation. He dismissed the anomaly for the moment, filing it away as a detail for later. A specialty course, perhaps. A pilot program not detailed in the general guide. The thought was unsatisfying, but the conclusion of the ceremony demanded his attention.

A tall, stiff figure in a faculty uniform, presumably the Academy Commandant, stepped up to the podium. His voice boomed, deep and resonant, cutting through the hall's low murmur.

The deep voice that cut through the hall belonged to Principal Vandyck. He stood ramrod straight behind the podium onstage, a towering figure that immediately commanded the silent attention of every student.

Even from his distance in the green section, Ren could appreciate the man’s imposing physical presence. Vandyck was a very well-built elderly man, his wide shoulders and thick torso filling out the elaborate detailing of his uniform, the clear evidence of his powerful muscles defying his advanced age. His hair and neatly trimmed beard were stark white, contrasting sharply with his intelligent brown eyes.

His attire was as commanding as his bearing: a black suit befitting his rank, adorned with golden tassels on the shoulders and intricate silver and gold trim woven into the fabric. A red tie cord, inlaid with a turquoise gem, completed the ceremonial look. This was clearly not just an educator, but a former Imperial General, his very posture reflecting decades of military command and hard-earned wisdom.

Vandyck rested his large hands on the podium, his gaze sweeping over the segregated hall—white in front, green in the back, and the unsettling splash of red interspersed between them. His expression was serious yet forthcoming, holding the dedication of a mentor and the keen observation of a seasoned leader.

“Thors Military Academy was founded almost 220 years ago,” Vandyck continued. “Its founder, as I’m sure you’re all aware, was none other than the great Emperor Dreicels…”

There was a brief pause, no doubt to allow his words to sink in. Ren is pretty sure that anyone in the Empire is aware of Dreichels the Lionheart. Speaking for himself, he did his research well under Maurice’s care.

“The very same emperor who ended the War of the Lions and returned prosperity to the Erebonian Empire. Thirty years after becoming emperor, in the later years of his life, he opened the doors of this institution. It was to be a place where people like yourselves could learn the art of war. But with the mechanization of the military, many of our graduates now pursue careers outside the army. Our mission, however, remains the same: to prepare our students to fulfill Emperor Dreichels’ famous mandate…”

Principal Vandyck's deep voice resonated across the auditorium, declaring the school's solemn mandate: "Arise, O youth, and become the foundation of the world." Ren processed the grand phrase with the inherent skepticism of a former Phantom Thief. He immediately recognized it as sophisticated Imperial propaganda—a calculated command meant to convince the assembled youth, especially the commoners in the green uniforms, that their purpose was to sacrifice their identity to support a system built on noble privilege. Yet, he mentally twisted the slogan into his own philosophy: it wasn't a call to serve the existing foundation, but a call to self-determination and radical change. For Ren, the true meaning of the mandate was to arise from ignorance, reject the control of the corrupt establishment, and become the bedrock upon which a better world would be built. The irony of the message—preaching unity while enforcing separation between the white and green uniforms—was not lost on him; he intended to use the tools of this flawed foundation to find its weaknesses.

“Though much has happened these past two and a quarter centuries, the world is still the domain of the young. Yet still the question remains: what qualities must one possess to become a part of its foundation? I hope this credo will serve as a guide and an inspiration to you during your two years at this academy. Go forth, my students. The world awaits the great things you will one day accomplish.”

The grand opening ceremony finally drew to a close. The principal’s powerful address was followed by a more typical, administrative voice echoing across the auditorium.

A noble-looking man stepped to the podium, his voice crisp and slightly detached. "... And that brings us to the close of Thors' two-hundred and fifteenth entrance ceremony. Next, please proceed to the class designated in your guidebook. There, you will go over the school rules, as well as your class curriculum. That is all. Dismissed!"

The announcement acted like a trigger, and the vast assembly of students erupted into motion.

The divide was immediate and stark. The mass of White Uniforms from the front sections surged toward the main exits with an air of assured purpose, heading toward the specialized, prestigious Classes I and II. Simultaneously, the students in Green Uniforms from the rear shuffled out more cautiously, peeling off toward the various designated commoner sections: Classes III, IV, and V. Ren knew he was assigned to Class III.

As the hall rapidly emptied, Ren started to move, keeping a watchful eye on the chaos. His gaze inevitably swept back over the remaining seats, and his eyes fell once more on the small, isolated group wearing the mysterious Red Uniforms. They were still seated, looking visibly confused, glancing at each other and then hesitantly toward the stage, clearly unsure of where they were meant to go.

Ren paused for a fraction of a second. Still no mention of them, he noted, recalling the absence of the red uniform in his detailed study of the Student Handbook. He dismissed the concern, classifying it as a minor organizational glitch. The faculty will sort out the 'Red Class.'

Focusing back on his own task, Ren quickly navigated the thinning crowd, his objective clear: find his assigned class, Class III, and begin the quiet work of settling into his new life. Little did he know that the answers to his questions about the red uniforms, the school's true purpose, and the unsettling tension in the air would not come from a faculty member or a handbook, but would be revealed in a sudden, dramatic incident that was just minutes away.

[~]

The early days at Thors settled into a rigid routine. Classes were rigorous, the lectures dense with military history and orbal theory, a stark contrast to the dynamic challenges of his past. Ren, in his green uniform, absorbed it all, playing the part of the diligent, quiet commoner student.

The incident happened during school hours, amidst the bustling passing period. Ren had just finished a particularly dry lecture on Erebonian history and was making his way from the Student Union Building, a simple meal in hand, toward his next class in mathematics. The school grounds, usually a scene of orderly transition, were momentarily animated with students moving between buildings.

As he cut across a patch of manicured lawn, his attention was drawn by a raised voice, sharp and dismissive.

Underneath the shade of one of the Lino trees, a scene was unfolding that felt eerily familiar. A noble student, easily identifiable by his pristine white blazer with purple and gold accents and neatly kept blonde hair, stood over a much smaller figure. He was flanked by two other noble students, their white uniforms forming a subtly intimidating wall.

The target of their attention was a female commoner student, her green uniform looking even more subdued against the bright white of her harassers. She was visibly shrinking, her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, clearly intimidated by the verbal assault. Her hand clutched a stack of textbooks, as if they offered a fragile shield.

The blonde-haired noble's voice dripped with condescension. "You honestly think you belong here, commoner? Taking up space meant for proper students? Don’t think that just because you’re able to attend doesn't mean you get to forget your place." His companions smirked, their casual disdain reinforcing his words. "You should just drop out now and spare everyone the embarrassment. Go back to whatever slum you crawled out of."

The commoner student flinched, her grip on her books tightening, her face flushing with humiliation. She didn't respond, merely tried to make herself smaller, her fear and anger palpable even from a distance. The scene was a stark, ugly visual representation of the class system at play, disrupting the otherwise serene academic grounds.

The sight unfolding beneath the Lino tree was a terrifying echo of Ren’s past. The noble student’s casual cruelty, the female commoner's palpable fear, and the surrounding students keeping their heads deliberately down—all combined into a chilling, instant recreation of the night his life was ruined.

Ren’s mind flashed back to that night: the blinding lights, that woman begging for help, the arrogant face of a drunk Masayoshi Shido, and the deafening silence of those who had chosen to ignore the truth. That night, his attempt to help had resulted in a false charge, expulsion, and a life of probation. The very sight of the nobleman’s raised hand and the shrinking victim triggered a powerful, near-debilitating traumatic flashback. A sharp, cold wave of fear—the memory of catastrophic consequences—threatened to paralyze him.

He knew exactly what would happen if he stepped in: his clean slate, his hard-won second chance, would likely be destroyed by the same corrosive power of privilege he’d battled before.

But despite the paralyzing fear, despite the memory of the catastrophic fall, Ren could not stand by. His body moved before his exhaustion-laden mind could fully protest.

He dropped his duffel bag onto the manicured grass, the sound muffled by the noise of the passing period, and walked forward. He approached the group, his presence quiet but his intent undeniable, the green uniform a stark contrast to the white wall of arrogance.

"That's enough," Ren said, his voice quiet, carrying an undeniable edge that cut through the noble's rant. "Back off."

The blonde noble, interrupted mid-threat, swung around, his face twisting into an enraged snarl of offense. "Who the hell do you think you are, greenie? Do you know who you're talking to?" He took a threatening step toward Ren, his eyes blazing with fury. "Get out of my sight before I make you regret walking onto this campus!"

The noble raised his hand to shove Ren back. Instantly, Ren’s instincts—honed by years of combat and evasion in his past life—took over. It wasn't a fight; it was an ingrained defensive maneuver. Ren merely took a single, controlled side-step, allowing the noble’s momentum to carry him past the intended target. Deprived of his point of contact, the nobleman lost his balance completely.

He stumbled, arms flailing, and his pristine white uniform became a blur as he went down hard, his head striking the ground with a sickening thud. The campus fell silent. The fallen noble lay still for a frightening instant, mirroring Shido’s infamous fall beneath the streetlights, before he let out a loud, pathetic groan of pain and shock. Ren stood motionless, his heart hammering against his ribs, his clean slate shattered.

The campus fell silent. The fallen noble lay still for a terrifying instant before letting out a loud, pathetic groan of pain and shock. Ren stood motionless, his heart hammering against his ribs, his clean slate shattered.

The noble, his face contorted with rage and humiliation, scrambled onto an elbow. Recognizing that witnesses were now watching, he immediately escalated the threat.

"You—you piece of slum filth!" the noble screamed, his voice strained and high-pitched. "I'll have your entire life demolished! My family will see to it you're expelled, imprisoned, and blacklisted from every corner of this Empire! You'll never work! You hear me? You are finished!"

The words were an unbearable echo of Shido's threats, the language of a society where privilege served as a weapon against the powerless. Ren’s traumatic memories reached their peak, the sickening sensation of déjà vu paralyzing him. He saw the onlookers—a cluster of commoners and even a few timid nobles—all keeping their heads down, desperately looking away. There would be no help. There would be no one to vouch for the truth.

A terrible, cold clarity settled over Ren. He realized with chilling certainty that the consequence was fixed: whether he apologized, ran, or pleaded, this noble would use his influence to ruin Ren’s life. If he was going to suffer the consequences of expulsion and social blacklisting, it would be for something he actually chose to do, for defending a principle, for standing up for himself.

His eyes, now burning with cold resolve, locked onto the nobleman struggling to sit up.

Ren made his decision. He closed the distance in two quick, deliberate steps. He didn't engage in a brawl; he delivered a single, controlled, punishing strike—a hard right punch to the noble’s jaw. The blow was clinical and sharp, designed to stun and silence.

"I'll do the crime," Ren said, his voice flat and cold, the words a resigned epitaph for his second chance. "If I'm paying the time."

The noble crumpled back onto the ground, momentarily speechless, clutching his face.

It was at that exact, terrible moment that the original commotion finally drew the attention of the school's highest authorities.

Two figures emerged quickly around the corner of the main building. One was the Principal, Vandyck, his massive, imposing figure now moving with the swiftness of a seasoned general. His face was a mask of stern, professional seriousness.

Beside him walked a tall, distinguished man with flowing blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. He wore an elegant red coat with golden epaulets and a white ascot—the unmistakable attire of Imperial royalty. This man’s violet eyes widening slightly as he took in the scene: the weeping commoner, the two shocked noble students, the crumpled figure of their privileged leader, and Ren standing over him in his green uniform, his hand still slightly curled from the blow, his face a picture of cold, weary defiance.

The noble students, seeing the red coat and the recognizable Imperial figure beside the Principal, instantly blanched, their prior shock turning to absolute terror. They knew they were caught. The campus was locked in stunned silence, all eyes fixed on the figure in the red coat and the crumpled nobleman on the ground.

The two noble students flanking the victim, their initial terror now mixed with dawning recognition, gasped. "P-Prince Olivert!" one stammered, his voice cracking. "Your Highness!"

The name, uttered with such panic and reverence, sliced through Ren's exhaustion and the residual fog of his trauma. Olivert.

The name triggered a cascade of memories—not from his past life, but from the relentless, targeted education he’d undergone in the twelve years prior. He hadn't just studied for Thors; he had studied Erebonia.

Ren instantly processed the man's identity. Olivert Reise Arnor. The flamboyant Crown Prince, eldest son of Emperor Eugent III, and a celebrated public figure. Ren knew his family lineage, his eccentric public persona, and, most crucially, his political position. He wasn't just a royal; he was the Chairman of the Thors Military Academy Board of Directors. Ren had just committed an act of physical violence against a noble student directly in front of the one person who could either shield him or utterly crush him.

The Prince, ignoring the terrified cries of the other nobles, simply adjusted the cuff of his elaborate red coat, his violet eyes still focused intently on Ren. The expression was not one of outrage, but a mixture of surprise and deep curiosity.

Principal Vandyck, however, was all military discipline. His white hair seemed to bristle with the severity of the situation. He strode forward, his massive frame eclipsing the noble students. He knelt briefly beside the groaning victim, assessing the damage with a practiced eye before rising.

"This is an unacceptable display on Academy grounds," Vandyck's voice boomed, quieter now, but laced with granite authority. "We have a severe breach of conduct, witnessed by the student body and the Chairman of our Board."

He looked directly at Ren, who met the general's unwavering gaze with cold resolve. The commoner uniform felt heavy, the brand of his status confirmed by the events.

Vandyck addressed the two witnesses. "You two will assist your classmate to the infirmary immediately. Report this incident to Instructor Beatrix—no one else. Understood?"

"Y-yes, sir!" they stammered, scrambling to hoist their victim.

Once the injured party was being hauled away, Vandyck turned back to Ren. The Principal did not shout; he simply stated the undeniable reality.

"As for you," Vandyck addressed with sharp accuracy. "You will leave your bag here." He gestured to the Prince. "The Chairman and I need to have a serious conversation with you. Come to my office."

The Prince offered a small, almost theatrical smile, a silent invitation to the high-stakes interrogation. Ren knew the game was on. He looked at his duffel bag one last time, mentally checking the location, then nodded once, accepting the summons. He turned, following the two towering figures—the imposing General Vandyck and the elegantly dangerous Prince Olivert—out of the sunlight and into the somber, hushed silence of the main building's interior. The gravity of the situation was absolute, and Ren walked with the cold certainty of a man who knew the inevitable script.

[~]

The Principal’s office was a room of intimidating power: dark wood, polished silver, and maps of the Empire covering the walls. Vandyck settled behind a massive desk, his posture unyielding. Prince Olivert leaned casually against a nearby filing cabinet, a picture of dramatic, silent observation, his violet eyes never leaving Ren.

Ren stood before the desk, his hands clasped loosely in front of him, the memory of Shido's threats and the subsequent collapse of his former life still raw. Part of him wondered what Maurice would say when he came back from Thors on expulsion. But he didn't wait for the accusations. He cut straight to the resolution he had already resigned himself to.

"I know how this goes," Ren said, his voice quiet but steady, laced with a weary resignation that spoke of prior trauma. "You're going to expel the commoner to appease the noble family. It’s the easiest path for the Academy." He met the Principal's stern gaze without flinching. "I won't apologize. I saw a student being harassed, and I'd do it again."

The air in the room thickened, waiting for the expected declaration of punishment.

Principal Vandyck remained quiet for a long moment, studying the young man in the green uniform. The former General didn't move a muscle, but his brown eyes held a complex mix of sternness and something akin to respect. When he finally spoke, his voice was measured and deep.

"You are correct, Mr. Amamiya, that you committed an egregious violation of Academy rules. Assaulting a fellow student is a grave offense." Vandyck paused, his gaze intensifying. "However, I did not see an act of senseless violence. I saw a conviction that refused to tolerate injustice. I saw spirit."

He leaned forward slightly, subverting every expectation Ren held. "Expulsion, Mr. Amamiya, is reserved for acts of destruction, for those who prove a menace to the security of the Empire and its future. It is not, in my assessment, the appropriate recourse for demonstrating courage."

Prince Olivert gave a silent, almost appreciative sigh, straightening slightly from the filing cabinet, a knowing smile playing on his lips. The script had just been violently torn up.

Ren was stunned. The unexpected declaration hit him with the force of a physical blow, cutting through the weary resignation that had been his shield. He had mentally prepared for the script of his past life—the immediate condemnation, the capitulation to power, the public shaming. Vandyck’s words ripped that script to shreds. The refusal to immediately prioritize the noble's grievance was completely outside his frame of reference for an institution of this caliber.

Before entering the office, as Vandyck’s imposing figure led the way, Ren had already made a cold, immediate assessment, bracing for the worst. He had instinctively compared the former General to Principal Kobayakawa from Shujin Academy. Both men were figures of authority; both presided over rigid institutions. But while Kobayakawa was a fatally weak and compromised bureaucrat who caved instantly to political pressure, Vandyck projected an entirely different kind of power. Vandyck was a man of stone and conviction, a figure who commanded loyalty and, crucially, seemed to possess an internal code. Ren had expected Vandyck to be Kobayakawa's Imperial equivalent—a polished cog in the noble machine—but the General was already proving to be something far more dangerous and unpredictable.

"You speak of courage, sir," Ren finally managed, his voice regaining its composure, though the shock still lingered in his eyes. "But the student I struck will report the incident to his family. They will demand my immediate expulsion."

Prince Olivert pushed off the cabinet, his elaborate red coat rustling slightly as he stepped forward, a playful, dramatic glint in his violet eyes. "Ah, but the charming dilemma! That is precisely what makes your case so exquisitely complex, Mr. Amamiya."

Vandyck ignored the Prince, his gaze holding Ren's steady. "The Academy will handle the Hyarms family, Mr. Amamiya. What concerns me is what we do with you. You are a commoner who broke a school rule, yes. But you also possess a drive and a conviction we cannot simply discard." He tapped a large finger on the desk. "You were assigned to Class III. That designation is now insufficient. The question is, where exactly do we put a student who so boldly refuses to accept the Empire's foundation?"

Despite his eyes widening at the mention of the Hyarms family, Ren seized the moment, needing to clarify the calculated nature of his final action. "Sir, I didn't instigate the violence. I stepped in, and the noble fell on his own when he tried to push me. But the moment he was on the ground, he started screaming threats—expulsion, blacklisting, everything. I know where that path leads. I know exactly what he would lie about." Ren’s eyes were cold now, reflecting a painful history. "If I was going to be expelled and ruined, it would be for something I actually did, not for a lie he would fabricate about a simple fall. I struck him because the crime had already been decided."

Principal Vandyck considered the chilling logic—the cold, preemptive calculation—of the commoner student. The General’s expression remained unreadable, but a flicker of something profound crossed his features.

Olivert clapped his hands together once, softly. "The answer, my dear Principal, is obvious. You put him where we put all the exceptional problems." He gestured grandly toward Ren. "Mr. Amamiya, welcome to Class VII."

Ren’s expression shifted from cold resolve to pure confusion. The name Class VII meant absolutely nothing to him; it hadn't appeared in the Student Handbook or any of the detailed academic records he'd studied.

"Class VII?" Ren repeated, the name tasting foreign on his tongue. "Sir, with all respect, my assignment was Class III. What exactly is Class VII?"

Principal Vandyck leaned back in his chair, a shadow of a smile touching his lips—a rare thing for the stern general. Prince Olivert took over the explanation, gliding across the room with a dramatic flourish of his red coat.

"Ah, Mr. Amamiya, you see before you the very reason we convene this little academy board meeting," the Prince announced, his violet eyes twinkling. "You're asking about the grandest experiment ever conducted by this institution, one I personally championed."

"Classes I and II are the Nobles," Vandyck stated succinctly, reclaiming the pragmatic core of the explanation. "Classes III, IV, and V are for the Commoners, organized strictly by performance and family background. They are the foundation, as the motto states."

Olivert continued, his voice dropping slightly as he approached the essence of the matter. "Class VII, however, is neither. It is a newly established, unique course designed to circumvent the rigid hierarchy that is currently tearing this Empire apart."

"It is a special class comprised of students from both the highest-ranking noble houses and the most capable commoner families," Vandyck elaborated. "They are housed together, study together, and train together—an act that flies directly in the face of centuries of Erebonian tradition. The goal is simple: to create a new generation of leaders who understand one another, bridging the chasm between the elite and the masses."

Ren absorbed the information quickly, his mind cataloging the political maneuverings disguised as education. He noted the irony: they were trying to solve a class problem by creating a new elite class. But one detail snagged his analytical mind.

"If the classes go from I to V," Ren interjected, his voice firm, "you've skipped a number. What happened to Class VI?"

The question hung in the air, bringing the dramatic Prince to a complete, momentary halt. Even Principal Vandyck seemed to suppress a brief, knowing sigh.

Olivert recovered with a wave of his hand, adopting a tone of theatrical dismissal. "Ah, Class VI! A mere bureaucratic hiccup, Mr. Amamiya! You see, the paperwork for this grand social experiment was... substantial. To avoid confusing the Imperial Ministry of Education and, more importantly, the Noble Factions, we simply chose a designation far enough removed from the established Commoner Classes—III, IV, and V—to minimize immediate political backlash. Class VII sounded grand; Class VI sounded like it was too close to the regular commoner designation. We wanted to signal that this class is truly apart."

Vandyck offered the pragmatic truth beneath the Prince's flair: "It was simpler to create a gap than fight the Ministry over a sequential number."

The explanation was ridiculous, yet completely believable in the context of bureaucratic Erebonian politics. Ren nodded slowly, filing away the absurd detail. The class was not just an experiment; it was a political statement, hidden in plain sight.

"And I assume," Ren stated, his gaze meeting Vandyck's, "that the students I saw in the red uniforms are the rest of Class VII?"

"Precisely," Vandyck confirmed. "You, Mr. Amamiya, are the last addition."

Ren, having absorbed the political absurdity of the skipped number, focused on the immediate, vital matter of his agency. He straightened, his confusion morphing into a familiar, cautious wariness.

"With respect, sirs," Ren stated, his voice now entirely level, "I was assigned to Class III. I haven't agreed to this... Class VII experiment. I haven't agreed to anything."

Prince Olivert laughed, a light, musical sound that utterly failed to convey the seriousness of the topic. He swept his hand toward the Principal's desk. "Ah, the matter of consent! A fair question from a commoner thrust into the gilded cage of Imperial education!"

Principal Vandyck, ever the pragmatist, cut through the Prince's dramatics. "You are correct, Mr. Amamiya. We cannot assign you without your approval. However, you must understand the current political reality."

Vandyck rested his gaze heavily on Ren. "The student you struck, Hyarms, is already at the infirmary. His family is influential. Their demand for your immediate, public expulsion is already being formalized."

Olivert leaned in conspiratorially, his expression losing a touch of its theatrics. "Your actions, Mr. Amamiya, were not performed in a vacuum. You defied the established order. If we merely ignore the incident, the Hyarms family will demand sanctions against the Academy itself, claiming we are unable to control, in their words, the commoner riff-raff."

"Therefore," Vandyck finished, his voice final, "remaining in Class III is no longer an option. If you stay there, you will be expelled by the end of the week. Joining Class VII, however, is not simply an alternative to expulsion; it is a declaration."

Olivert stepped forward, his violet eyes alight with genuine conviction. "Joining Class VII, however, is not simply an alternative to expulsion; it is a declaration." He gestured grandly. "It sends a message to every disgruntled noble and every opposing faction: This student is valuable. This student is now under the direct protection and observation of the Academy's Chairman. More importantly, Class VII is the living proof that a person's worth is not determined by their family crest or the color of their uniform. It proves that potential is a universal currency. Your courage, your defiance, and your eventual success in Class VII will be leveraged as a statement regarding the potential of people, regardless of their background."

"Accept," Vandyck concluded, "and you may keep your freedom, your clean record, and your future. Decline, and you will receive the expulsion you expected."

The choice, Ren realized, was no choice at all. It was an ultimatum wrapped in a political pardon and a destiny he couldn't refuse.

Ren looked from the flamboyant Prince to the granite-faced General. The ultimatum was clear, yet the underlying intention of Class VII was the real point of contention. His mind worked furiously, calculating the risks of the two options. The choice was between certain professional death (expulsion from Class III) and a high-risk, high-reward life under the Imperial spotlight (Class VII).

He was innately cynical about the Prince's grand pronouncements. Olivert spoke of equality and potential, but Ren recognized the class as a political tool—a shiny counter-argument the Prince could wave at the Nobles. It wasn't pure reform; it was a chess move. They were leveraging Ren's act of defiance to prove their own thesis: see, even the commoners can be exceptional if we give them the chance.

Despite the heavy political baggage, Ren saw the hidden advantage: protection and access. Class VII, being under the direct patronage of the Prince and Vandyck, offered the best defense against the Hyarms family. His expulsion would be seen as a victory for the entrenched nobles; his assignment to the special class was a declaration of war against them. Class VII's mandate to mix commoners and high nobles meant Ren would gain insight into both sides of the Empire’s internal conflict—knowledge that would be invaluable for his own mission. He wouldn't just be studying the Empire; he'd be living the conflict.

Ultimately, Ren viewed Class VII not as a genuine tool for immediate reformation, but as a necessary stepping stone. It provided the camouflage and the power structure needed to operate freely within a hostile environment. If the price for his continued education and freedom was being a pawn in the Prince's game of social engineering, Ren was prepared to pay it. After all, his mission required infiltrating the highest levels of power.

He met the Prince's enthusiastic gaze and Vandyck's penetrating stare.

"I understand the implications," Ren said, his voice dropping the defensiveness and adopting a sharp clarity. "I accept the transfer to Class VII."

Prince Olivert clapped his hands together once, softly, his face radiating satisfaction. "Excellent, Mr. Amamiya! A most sensible choice! You have traded one challenge for a far more interesting one."

Principal Vandyck allowed a rare, thin smile to cross his features. "An astute decision. The Academy appreciates your cooperation, Mr. Amamiya. You have proven yourself worthy of this experimental course."

Olivert immediately turned to the Principal. "Now, General, the details! Our newest member must be properly outfitted! We cannot have him arriving in the esteemed Class VII looking like a misplaced commoner. He requires the proper colors!"

Vandyck nodded. "It will be handled immediately. The main class is already engaged in their orienteering exercise at the Old Schoolhouse, so we must be quick." He spoke briefly into the phone, giving brisk instructions. "I’ve already instructed the Student Council to get you sorted. She’ll be waiting for you outside my office. You will be issued a Red Uniform—the designation of Class VII. As well as other things. Understood, Mr. Amamiya?”

Ren nodded. "Yes, sir."

Olivert beamed, sweeping his hand dramatically toward the door. "There you have it! The final piece of our puzzle falls perfectly into place! Go, Mr. Amamiya. Go and meet your new, utterly bewildering classmates!"

Just as Ren was about to turn and leave the office, the weight of the moment—and the profound subversion of his expectations—prompted one final query. He paused by the door, turning back to face the two men who had just unilaterally changed his future.

"Principal Vandyck, sir," Ren asked, his voice calm. "Before I report for duty, I have one request regarding the ceremony."

Vandyck, still wearing his serious, contemplative expression, inclined his head slightly. "Speak, Mr. Amamiya."

"The school's mandate," Ren continued, meeting the Principal's steady gaze. "The words you spoke: 'Arise, O youth, and become the foundation of the world.' I believe my interpretation of those words differs from the standard reading. Since you've decided to transfer me to a class meant to change the Empire, I believe that interpretation is relevant."

Principal Vandyck observed the commoner student, seeing not a request for permission, but a demand for intellectual respect. Olivert, sensing a moment of dramatic tension, leaned forward, his violet eyes sparkling.

Vandyck gave a single, firm nod. "Very well. You've already demonstrated your resolve through action. Let us see if your mind possesses the same courage. What is your interpretation, Mr. Amamiya?"

Ren met the Principal’s gaze, ignoring the Prince’s theatrically expectant posture. He spoke plainly, his voice devoid of the usual commoner deference, delivering his analysis like a cold, calculated truth.

"The mandate is a beautiful lie," Ren stated simply. "It says: 'Arise, O youth, and become the foundation of the world.'"

"The Empire's foundation is the class system—White in the front, Green in the back," Ren continued, gesturing subtly to the empty auditorium beyond the office. "The mandate isn't a call to unity; it's a command to obey. It tells us to become the bricks of the current foundation, to stabilize the status quo so the privileged can remain on top."

He paused, letting the implication settle. "But a foundation can be a starting point for something new, or it can be a prison holding up a rotten building. I believe the true meaning of 'Arise' is not to stand up and serve the Empire as it is, but to awaken to the systemic lie that holds us down."

Ren's final words were the core of his philosophy. "To 'become the foundation' means to become the bedrock upon which the next world is built—one that isn't defined by the crests on our uniforms. If we are the foundation, then we must be the ones to break the ground and determine the new structure."

The air in the office grew intensely still. Ren’s words were a quiet, surgical indictment of the entire Erebonian political structure—the very system Vandyck had fought for and Olivert was struggling to reform.

Vandyck’s reaction was one of profound, quiet satisfaction mixed with professional caution. The General didn't move, but his stern eyes showed a flash of grim approval.

"You speak of dangerous ideals, Mr. Amamiya," Vandyck stated, his voice low. "Slogans like that are meant to unify, not to incite revolution." Yet, his subsequent tone was approving. "However, you have articulated the essential dilemma of the Empire: a call to unity that rings hollow under the current reality. To recognize the hypocrisy in a mandate and still choose to operate within the system... that demonstrates a valuable kind of courage. A mind that refuses to be constrained by simple loyalty."

Prince Olivert was visibly delighted. He clapped his hands together once, softly, a look of pure, theatrical glee on his face.

"Magnifique! Simply magnificent!" Olivert exclaimed, sweeping toward Ren with a flourish of his red coat. "General, did you hear that? He is not just a brave brawler; he is a poet of rebellion! You have just articulated the entire secret purpose of Class VII itself! We aren't looking for simple loyalty, Mr. Amamiya; we are looking for the kind of mind that sees the flaws in the foundation and has the audacity to plan the next building!"

He placed a hand lightly on Ren’s shoulder, a gesture of Imperial patronage. "A simple commoner would have seen expulsion and fled. A true leader sees the lie and uses the system to enact a new truth. Welcome, Mr. Amamiya. You are precisely the kind of revolutionary we need to keep a very close eye on."

Vandyck then interrupted, his tone snapping back to military command. "Enough philosophy, Your Highness. Mr. Amamiya, your duty calls."

He repeated his instructions with finality. "Find Towa Herschel. She will arrange your Red Uniform and direct you to the Old Schoolhouse. Class VII is expecting you. Dismissed."

[~][~]

Chapter Text

Phantom Thieves of Thors (Persona 5/Sen no Kiseki)

Chapter 2: Iglute Garmr and the Combat Link

[~][~]

Thors Military Academy, Erebonian Empire

S.11204, 3.31 Wednesday

The bright, saturated crimson of the Class VII uniform was a slap in the face. It was impossibly loud, a jarring contrast to the Green uniform he’d worn just this morning—the dull, forgettable fabric that marked him as a commoner, destined for Classes III, IV, or V.

Ren Amamiya stood before the mirror in the small room. The blazer-style jacket was sharp, military-inspired, and tailored, its main fabric a vibrant, almost shocking red. He adjusted the high collar. He wore the required black trousers and a dark undershirt beneath the jacket. The whole ensemble was designed, by Prince Olivert’s own decree, to be conspicuous—a symbol of the academy’s radical experiment.

Conspicuous. That was the one thing Ren had desperately sought to avoid in this second chance at life.

His new uniform felt less like a fresh start and more like a target painted on his back. He was the commoner who had dared to strike a noble—a student who should have been expelled, now wearing the very colors meant to mark him as special. Just minutes ago, he’d worn Green, denoting his station. Now, he wore Crimson, denoting his defiance.

He had intervened when that Noble student began harassing a female commoner, realizing with a cold dread that his past with Shido was repeating itself. He knew the threat was real; his life was ruined. The decision to sock the Noble in the face had been a final, cathartic act of self-sabotage, a moment of deciding to go out with a bang.

The Prince had seen his transgression as an asset, not a liability.

Ren finished tying his black cravat, a formal accessory that only added to the uniform’s oppressive formality. He settled for neatness, buttoning the jacket in the center.

He reached up to touch the faint outline of his glasses, a ghostly habit. His reflection, encased in the bold crimson, looked like a figure stepping out of the shadows and directly into the spotlight. He was supposed to be a criminal, an outcast. Now, he was an official anomaly within the Empire's most esteemed military academy.

A deep sigh escaped him. The bell for the first class rang, its tone clear and formal across the grounds.

He straightened himself once more and pulled the door open, the bright red jacket suddenly feeling less like a punishment and more like a new, dangerous challenge. If they wanted him to stand out, he would. He would meet this new, chaotic fate head-on.

Let's see who else is wearing red, he thought, stepping out.

The moment Ren Amamiya pulled the door shut behind him, the stiff crimson of the new uniform already beginning to feel heavy, a cheerful voice cut through the silence of the hallway.

"Ah, there you are, Ren!"

A petite young woman, dressed in the Green uniform of a commoner, rushed toward him, a clipboard held tightly to her chest. It took a moment for Ren’s mind to process the familiar face; it was the same girl who had greeted him at the Academy gates just two days prior, the one who directed him to the entrance ceremony. He recalled her gentle smile and precise instructions, though he hadn't retained her name at the time. That problem was fixed when Vandyck sent him to Towa Herschel to get his new uniform.

"The uniform fits perfectly! We’re so glad we found the right size for you," she said, her warm smile unwavering as she looked him over.

Ren was stunned. It wasn’t just her reappearance, but the easy confidence with which she spoke, already managing the logistics of his unusual transfer. Even more surprising was the sturdy young man in yellow overalls standing next to her, who grinned widely and gave Ren a hearty thumbs-up.

"Lookin' sharp, man! Class VII uniforms always got that extra kick, don't they? Name's George Nome, the tech guy around here. Happy to help you with any gear adjustments you might need."

The petite girl chuckled softly while Ren stared at her. A Second Year. The President. Ren felt a familiar wave of confusion. She looked so young, almost younger than him in this life, yet she spoke with the assured authority of a seasoned administrator. His past experiences told him that positions of power usually went to the high-and-mighty.

Towa’s smile softened, and her voice dropped to a more confidential, empathetic tone. "I've heard a little bit about what happened. It was very brave of you to intervene, Ren, even if the situation did get a little... messy."

Ren’s internal defenses immediately flared.

"Brave?" he thought, a flicker of surprise immediately buried under cynicism. In his last life, standing up for someone had been deemed "disturbing the peace" and led to his branding as a criminal. He wasn't expecting an authority figure to use a word like that. Don't get your hopes up. This is just the script.

He kept his expression neutral, his focus hardening on the second word.

"Messy." Yes, that was the accurate term. It cost him his clean slate, just like last time. He might be in a different world, but the system still seemed rigged—the noble brat was protected, and he was reassigned to the political playground of Class VII. Towa’s just the friendly face they use to onboard people. Stay guarded, Ren. This is probably just another game.

Towa continued, unaware of the turmoil behind his dark eyes. "That crimson color means you're in Class VII. It's a new program this year, and you're in good company. Your new classmates are waiting for you in the old schoolhouse. They're likely in the middle of their orienteering exercise right now. George here can show you the way, can't you, George?"

"You bet! Follow me," George said cheerfully, already turning to lead the way down the hall. "We can chat about battle orbments on the way! Gotta make sure you know how to link up with your crew."

Ren gave Towa a slight nod—acknowledging her position, not her undeserved praise—and fell in beside George, the crimson jacket feeling like a heavy, official uniform of suspicion. He wasn't brave. He was simply the new pawn.

The pair fell into step, George's heavy, booted stride providing a loud, thudding rhythm against the academy path while Ren walked with his usual silent, almost gliding grace. The engineer chuckled good-naturedly, his enthusiasm a welcome, if slightly overbearing, burst of brightness.

"So, about that reassignment," George began, pushing his signature goggles up onto his forehead. "Don't sweat it too much, Ren. Class VII is… well, it’s special. A bit out of the ordinary. A lot of interesting folks end up there. It’s a good crew."

Ren offered a noncommittal nod, his mind still cycling through Towa's strange mix of praise and dismissal. "If you say so."

"Speaking of special," George said, stopping briefly near a large, ornate building that Ren assumed housed the academy’s engineering department. He reached into one of the deep pockets of his overalls and pulled out a small, metallic object, roughly the size of a pocket watch, encased in polished silver.

It was a sleek, sturdy device with a crimson faceplate accented by silver plating, a prominent Thors Military Academy crest (a roaring unicorn) centered on the cover, and a complex gauge visible near the bottom left.

"Everyone in Class VII gets one of these," George explained, his eyes shining with professional pride as he handed the device to Ren. "It's the newest model orbment: the ARCUS. Short for All-Round Communication & Unison System."

Ren took the device, feeling its cool, solid metal weight in his palm. It felt familiar in an abstract way—a blend of modern technology and arcane power that reminded him, vaguely, of the tools required for navigating the Metaverse.

"It’s more than just a fancy communication tool," George continued, eager to share his knowledge. "It’s a newly-made fifth-generation battle orbment... each unit also has built-in communications functionality."

Ren flipped the cover open. Instead of a simple watch face, he saw an incredibly complex internal mechanism. The core was dominated by a dark blue-and-gray hexagonal plate containing a central, slightly larger slot surrounded by eight smaller, interconnected quartz slots. A delicate mechanical dial, like a tiny clockwork piece, sat near the top right, while another gauge matched the one on the cover.

His gaze immediately fell upon the central, glowing crystal pulsing with a soft, warm light—the Master Quartz slot.

"You're lucky we had a spare lying around," George said with a wink. "I took the liberty of slotting in a basic Master Quartz for you. Every ARCUS needs one to run properly. It’s what evolves as you fight and gives you access to a unique set of arts."

Ren gently touched the surface of the quartz. He instantly recognized the soft, blue light emanating from the crystal. It was a Water-type Master Quartz. Ren quickly ran through the primary Quartz Elements in his mind: Earth, Water, Fire, Wind, Time, Space, and Mirage.

A Water Quartz, Ren thought, a subtle, private smirk touching his lips. They want a wildcard, they get a wildcard.

"Thanks," Ren said aloud, pocketing the device. "I appreciate the setup."

"Anytime!" George beamed. "That's what I'm here for. Now come on, the Old Schoolhouse isn't going to find itself."

They resumed their walk, Ren turning the possibilities of the new device over in his mind. The weight of the ARCUS, this strange new tool for a strange new life, was a solid, undeniable reality in his world. It was time to meet the rest of the crew.

[~]

"There it is," George announced after he led Ren away from the main academy, gesturing ahead with a casual sweep of his arm. "The Old Schoolhouse. It’s where Class VII holds its core operations, mostly because we're the only ones crazy enough to use it."

Ren stopped, his gaze fixed on the building. It was completely unlike the grand, functional elegance of the main academy buildings. This structure was made of heavy, weathered stone, its architecture distinctly antique, featuring high, arched windows and a prominent, imposing tower rising from the center. It looked like something that had been lifted from the Middle Ages and simply dropped onto the academy grounds, lending it a solitary, slightly ominous presence.

"Looks... abandoned," Ren observed, the word feeling apt for the quiet, dusty aura surrounding the old building. It felt less like a classroom and more like the entrance to a forgotten ruin—or perhaps, a Palace waiting to be explored.

"Well, it practically is," George chuckled, adjusting the strap of his overalls. "It’s currently reserved for our Class VII and their instructor. Although I should say: your new instructor.”

They approached the entrance—a heavy, arched doorway that seemed to sigh with age. The front steps were worn smooth by centuries of weather, not foot traffic.

"I imagine they're all inside now," George continued, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Today's their first Orienteering Exercise—a little test to see how they handle teamwork under pressure. You just happened to miss the starting bell." He flashed Ren another wide, reassuring grin. "Don't worry, being fashionably late and wearing red will make an impression all by itself."

Ren gave a curt nod. The thought of walking in late, in the gaudiest uniform on campus, to meet a group of students already engaged in a task designed to test them, felt entirely too much like fate. He adjusted the collar of his crimson jacket, the ARCUS a cool weight in his pocket.

As they approached the Old Schoolhouse—a solitary, weathered stone building that looked more like an ancient fortress keep than a school facility—George slowed his pace and turned to Ren, a casual grin on his face.

"Oh, by the way," George mentioned, adjusting his heavy goggles. "Towa and I set you up with the basics. I was about to find you a standard-issue weapon, but it looks like the Academy was ahead of me. Your weapon is waiting for you inside."

Ren stopped, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, though the mention of his weapon made a cold knot form in his stomach. The specialized device he carried was anything but standard issue.

"My weapon?" Ren asked, his tone flat and even, betraying none of his internal alarm.

"Yeah! I had to grab your bag from where you left it earlier to move it to your new room," George explained with an easy shrug, completely oblivious to the gravity of what he'd just revealed. "When I moved it, your sidearm kinda... fell out. Don't sweat it, though. I just put it in a safe spot for you."

Ren managed a faint, barely-there nod, his mind racing to formulate a cover story. The device he used was an incredibly advanced piece of gear that utilized technology completely alien to the common "orbal" mechanics of this world. To someone without true technical expertise, however, it could easily pass for a unique, custom-made Orbal Gun.

George, a self-proclaimed tech guru, noticed the device’s distinct look immediately.

"It's a pretty sweet-looking piece, man," George continued, his eyes lighting up slightly with mechanical interest. "Looks custom-made, actually. The design is unique—totally different from the standard models we issue. You must have an 'in' with one of the big manufacturers, or something?"

Ren allowed himself a small, controlled exhale of relief. George's assumption was exactly what he needed to build his alibi.

"Something like that," Ren replied smoothly, choosing his words with careful precision. "It's heavily modified, but functions similarly to a standard orbment handgun."

"Nice," George nodded enthusiastically, completely accepting the vague explanation. "Makes sense. I heard from the instructors that you have an aptitude for handguns, so I didn't think twice. Anyway, it's inside.”

Ren seized the opportunity to change the subject, moving the conversation away from his concealed device. "You mentioned an orienteering exercise? Is that the orientation for the class?"

"It's about getting everyone out on the same page, so to speak," George began, gesturing vaguely towards the ominous building. "You'll be working in teams to find your way through a little obstacle course. Standard orientation stuff, really."

He adjusted the goggles on his head, the metal glinting in the late afternoon sun. "Don't worry too much about it. You've got an ARCUS now, and your teammates are all waiting inside. Just... be ready for anything. Class VII is full of surprises, and so are our exercises."

"Good luck," George said with a reassuring grin before heading back down the path, his attention already seeming to be focused on his next engineering project. "I'll be in the Engineering Building if you need me! And Ren, seriously, don't keep Instructor Sara waiting."

Ren offered a final nod of thanks as George walked away. His gaze turned back to the Old Schoolhouse. The ARCUS in his pocket felt cool against his leg, a subtle weight and a reminder of his new, peculiar circumstances. He took a deep breath, pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the Old Schoolhouse, stepping out of the bright sunlight and into a large, dimly lit entrance hall. Dust motes danced in the few shafts of light that pierced the gloom. The air smelled of old stone and disuse, an atmosphere more akin to an ancient dungeon than a military academy.

His attention immediately zeroed in on a single figure standing on a raised platform a few feet away from where he was. Experience made him instantly aware of anyone else in a room, and this person radiated a relaxed, casual power that demanded respect. This had to be the instructor George had told him about.

The woman was strikingly beautiful, her long, cerise hair pulled up behind her head, complementing her slender, athletic build. She wore a distinctive uniform that seemed entirely non-regulation: a yellow and black minidress paired with high brown thigh boots, accented by a loose, open steel-blue overcoat. Her posture was casual as she leaned against the stone railing, but her amber eyes, conveying both intelligence and a hint of perpetual amusement, locked onto Ren's face with unnerving precision.

She pushed off the stone pillar she leaned against, the faint click of her high heels echoing slightly in the large, quiet room.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in," she said, her voice a smooth alto. "About time you showed up, new guy. I was starting to wonder if you got cold feet after that little display of 'chivalry' this morning."

Ren met her gaze, his expression neutral. He knew better than to offer excuses.

A casual smile spread across her face, professional and slightly mocking. She took a slow step towards the edge of the platform. "Let me introduce myself. I'm Sara Valestein. I'm your instructor."

She paused, her gaze assessing the stiff, crimson uniform Ren wore. "Principal Vandyck and Prince Olivert filled me in on the details. Punching a noble brat because he tripped over his own two feet? Bold move. You've certainly made an impression before you even started class."

Ren registered the lack of judgment in her voice, replacing it instead with sheer amusement. It was a strange kind of validation; she respected the action even if she found the political fallout funny.

"Your new classmates are waiting below. The Orienteering Exercise is already underway. We'll chat details later, but for now, you're already behind."

She tossed a grin that held genuine warmth mixed with a challenge. "Welcome to Class VII, Ren. Try not to die on your first day."

Ren paused, his analytical mind catching on that final, flippant remark. His calm façade, typically iron-clad, flickered just slightly.

"Die?" Ren echoed, his tone cool and inquisitive, despite the absurdity of the word being used in an academic setting. "It's an orientation exercise, isn't it?"

Sara paused at the stone pillar she had been approaching, turning back to him. Her eyes narrowed just a fraction, assessing his calm, collected demeanor. She mistook his quiet nature for the classic "strong, silent type"—the kind of student who had hidden abilities and something to prove.

A playful, almost predatory grin spread across her face. "Let's just say the Thors curriculum goes a little beyond a nature walk, 'new guy'."

She shrugged, keeping the details intentionally vague. "It's all perfectly safe, officially speaking. Vandyck guarantees it. The goal is teamwork and familiarization with 'unique combat environments.' You'll figure it out."

Then there was a mischievous glint in her blue eyes.

"Oh, and Ren?" she said, a wicked little smile playing on her lips. "I wouldn't stand right there if I were you."

Ren barely had time to register her warning before the floor beneath him gave way.

There was a loud click followed by the sharp groan of old, well-maintained machinery. A trapdoor opened instantly under his feet, dropping him into the darkness below. His mind processed the betrayal an instant before gravity took hold, and instinct took over. His hands instinctively reached for the edges of the opening, but the momentum was too strong.

"See you on the other side!" Sara called down into the dark abyss, a hearty laugh echoing in the hall as Ren plummeted into the first, very literal, challenge of Class VII.

[~]

Ren completed his rotation and landed soundlessly on the glossy octagonal floor, knees bending slightly to absorb the kinetic energy. His balance was perfect, a testament to years of rigorous training. He straightened up after a few moments, taking in the sterile, unadorned room around him, a small bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

A trap door? Crude, but effective for a surprise ambush, Ren thought, his mind already shifting from shock to analysis. No visible injuries, my landing was clean. Now, where am I, and what's the exit strategy?

He noted the damp, musty smell—a signature of a subterranean structure. He was in an octagonal room, perhaps twenty feet across, with polished, dark stone walls. Aligned with each wall, he counted nine pedestals in total.

His gaze snapped to one of the pedestals. Resting atop it was a sleek, black case he instantly recognized. It contained his sidearm—the customized device that George had mistaken for an Orbal Handgun. His muscles relaxed infinitesimally. His gear was safe.

Just then, the ARCUS in his pocket chirped—a clear, musical chime that sliced through the quiet gloom. He pulled out the device and flipped it open. A distinct, feminine voice—Instructor Sara’s—spoke directly into the room from the ARCUS speaker.

"Ah, there you are, Ren," she said, her voice clear and carrying a faint hint of static, though the underlying tone remained infuriatingly cheerful. "Enjoy the little express ride? I figured since you were running late, you could use a shortcut."

Ren resisted the urge to reply with a cutting remark. "It was... efficient, Instructor," he said into the ARCUS's built-in mic, his voice cool and level.

"Good. Now that you've had your personalized welcome, let's get you caught up," Sara instructed. Her tone instantly snapped into a crisp, military professionalism.

"Listen up, new guy. Your classmates are already deep into the exercise. As you can see, the room you landed in has a few things you're going to need. The first part of your task is simple: Retrieve your assigned weapon from the pedestal."

Ren glanced at the black case, confirming the obvious.

"Our dear friend, George, already informed me that you’ve got a Master Quartz inserted into your ARCUS. That’s good, because I honestly wasn’t expecting another student. If I did, I would’ve made sure to bring another Quartz for you. Lucky for you, George had one. We want you to familiarize yourself with the system immediately."

"Once you are equipped," Sara continued, her voice gaining an edge of challenge, "your goal is to make it through the underground labyrinth of the Old Schoolhouse. This is your special orienteering exercise. You must navigate your way to the surface."

"This is your introduction to Class VII, Ren. You're going to face obstacles, and you're going to face combat. Don't worry about being alone—your classmates are operating in teams of two, but I've already messaged all nine of them on their ARCUS units to let them know they have a late arrival. Get moving, Mr. Amamiya. And remember, try not to disappoint me."

The communication clicked off, leaving the room silent again. Ren slipped the ARCUS back into his pocket. He was behind, alone, and tasked with navigating a combat scenario in an unknown dungeon to find seven strangers who were depending on him.

A surprise dungeon dive for orientation, Ren analyzed, pushing off the floor and walking toward his case. This isn't an academy. This is a mess.

Ren moved swiftly toward the nearest pedestal. He reached the black case, flipping the latch with a practiced thumb. Inside, nestled in a velvet lining, was his weapon.

It wasn't the bulky, mass-produced handgun common among military units in Erebonia. This was a piece of compact, esoteric technology, engineered for a different purpose entirely. The body was a sleek matte black, contrasting sharply with subtle, glowing crimson accents traced along the barrel and grip, reminiscent of the color scheme he had claimed in his past life. When unholstered, the device rested perfectly in his palm, feeling less like a conventional firearm and more like a carefully crafted extension of his will. The grip itself had a stylized, almost elegant etching—too subtle to draw George's eye, but deeply significant to Ren.

He slid the device out. The familiar cool weight of the weapon settled his nerves instantly. It was a lifeline. In his new life, his family and the friends of his family stress its importance.

A weapon is a weapon, regardless of the technology powering it, he reflected, holstering the device securely on his belt where it retracted slightly into a more compact form, ready for instant use. They think it's a modified orbment pistol. Let them think that.

The immediate panic had evaporated, replaced by the calm focus of a seasoned infiltrator.

It smells damp and musty... A subterranean structure, possibly a natural cavern system modified into a dungeon. Ren looked around the octagonal chamber one last time. There was no visible exit, but the trapdoor that dropped him here and the opening that no doubt led out of this room.

As he moved toward the opening, an idea sparked in his mind. Sara had mentioned seven other students, all ahead of him. Ren took off his glasses and put them away in his blazer's pocket. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, then opened them.

His Third Eye is activated.

The world around him subtly shifted. The vibrant red of his uniform seemed to dim, the dusty room momentarily draining of overt color, sharpening the outlines of everything important. Streaks of residual energy, invisible to the normal eye, now glowed faintly.

On the glossy octagonal floor, Ren could clearly make out nine distinct sets of footprints, each leading away from a pedestal. They weren't just dust marks; they were faint energetic imprints, like echoes of movement. Those nine sets converged and headed for the shadowed open archway that led into the deeper gloom of the Old Schoolhouse. The tenth set, however, was clearly his own, leading from where he had landed to his weapon pedestal.

Nine sets of footprints, each approaching one of the pedestals. He smirked faintly. No doubt, my classmates have collected their weapons. Instructor Sara is telling the truth: the last thing you'd want in a dungeon filled with monsters is to be unarmed.

Deactivating his Third Eye, the world's colors snapped back to normal. Ren now had a clear path. He knew where his classmates had gone, and he was ready to follow.

This wasn't a school exercise; it was a shakedown. Ren adjusted the collar of his crimson uniform and stepped through the open archway, plunging into the shadows of the Old Schoolhouse labyrinth.

The dark archway led into a narrow, winding corridor of roughly hewn stone. The air was colder here, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something acrid, almost metallic. Ren adjusted his hold on the strap of his bag, the crimson of his uniform swallowed almost entirely by the gloom.

This isn't an academy. This is a mess, he thought, moving with the quiet grace of a predator. He couldn't help but compare the subterranean environment to his past. This reminds me of the first Palace we infiltrated... Kamoshida's castle. The security was a joke compared to some of the later ones, just like the security here.

He rounded a corner and immediately encountered the challenge.

Three creatures hovered in the corridor ahead. They were small, purple-furred felines with long, pointed ears and disproportionately large, leather-like wings, their yellow eyes gleaming malevolently in the dim light. They were Flying Felines—the kind of low-grade monster often encountered near powerful septium veins.

Ren recalled the entry he'd read in a generic monster guide: Relentlessly pursues its prey, attacking with kicks from above. Highly vulnerable to Fire Orbal Arts.

Fire is the weakness, Ren analyzed instantly, drawing his device. The handgun felt cool and natural in his hand. But I only have Water Arts equipped right now. That just leaves the sidearm.

The Flying Felines shrieked and darted forward, their claws extended. They were fast, but their approach was predictable, lacking any hint of cunning or strategy.

"Joker, you'd think this was a child's game," Ren muttered, aiming the weapon. They have no strategy, no cunning. It's just brute force and numbers.

He channeled a small portion of his internal energy into the handgun. It didn't recoil or make the sharp, cracking noise of a gunpowder pistol. Instead, the crimson accents on the device flared momentarily, and a series of low-cost energy projectiles shot out.

The first two shots caught a Feline mid-flight. The energy struck its wing and torso, making it shriek and fall heavily to the floor, where its physical form remained motionless. The third Feline dodged the initial burst, swooping low to attack.

Ren didn't hesitate. Fighting these... 'monsters' in the real world feels so much more real than the Metaverse. The stakes are higher, the consequences are tangible. There are no safe rooms to retreat to.

He side-stepped the attack, the creature's claws missing his leg by inches, and fired again at point-blank range. The energy bolt hit the creature's chest. It let out a final, pained cry before collapsing.

As the second Feline fell motionless, a flash of light erupted where the creatures had been defeated. Not from their bodies, but from the air around them. Small, glittering fragments—Sepith—showered onto the stone floor, catching the ambient light before settling into the cracks.

Ren approached the fallen creatures, his focus solely on the sparkling fragments. He knelt and quickly began gathering the Sepith.

Still, the core principle remains the same: find the weakness, exploit the numbers, and get to the core of the problem.

The Sepith—the raw mineral fragments that fueled the Orbal Revolution—were essential. They were used for everything from making the currency of this world to, more importantly for Ren, refining the powerful quartz that powered the ARCUS. He collected them meticulously, noting their potential both for standard academic requirements and for his own personal, unique projects.

He stood up, reholstering his weapon. He had dispatched the threats, collected the resources, and reinforced his sense of competence. The dungeon was a new challenge, but one his past life as Joker had more than prepared him for.

Back then, it was about changing hearts. Now, it's about survival and completing the mission for Instructor Valestein. The stakes are different, but the fight is the same.

He activated his Third Eye again, confirming the faint energetic trail of his classmates continued deeper into the labyrinth.

[~]

Ren pushed deeper into the labyrinth, the stone corridor opening into a slightly wider, damp cavern. The air was colder here, heavy with the scent of damp earth and something acrid.

Standing ahead were three creatures that looked like spongy, unsettling mollusks. Their bodies were mostly blue-green, rising to a single long antenna topped by a swirling, hypnotic yellow-green eye. They were rooted to a low, mossy base, their forms pulsing slightly with internal energy—three Grass Dromes.

High humidity environment... spongy mollusks... utilizes Wind Arts, Ren's memory supplied instantly from the monster guide. He noted their composition and remembered a key tactical detail. In Futaba's lingo: high Physical Defense, but critically low Arts Defense.

The Dromes immediately confirmed his knowledge, the air shimmering around them as they focused their internal orbal energy.

"Incoming," Ren muttered.

One of the Dromes lashed out with a focused blast of compressed air—the Wind Art known as Air Strike. Ren sidestepped the projectile, which cracked against the stone wall behind him.

Fire is the weakness, but my weapon is enough, Ren thought, drawing his device. He didn't need a powerful spell for the first strike; he just needed to exploit their Arts vulnerability. The basic projectiles from his handgun were not physical bullets; they were energy constructs—pure Arts damage, scaling with his hidden magical potential.

He channeled a small portion of his internal energy into the handgun. The crimson accents on the device flared momentarily, and a series of low-cost energy bolts—his basic Arts attack—shot out. The quick bursts staggered the lead Drome, draining its energy immediately due to its weak Arts defense.

He followed up with a spell. He drew the ARCUS, flipping the cover open, and focused on the Water Master Quartz. He wanted to maximize the damage against their low ADF.

“ARCUS Activate! Aqua Bleed!”

A heavy mass of concentrated, pressurized water erupted from the orbment, surging forward. It struck the lead Grass Drome instantly. The creature shrieked, its spongy exterior visibly collapsing under the sheer pressure and cold of the Water Art. It was defeated instantly, dissolving into a flash of Sepith.

The two remaining Dromes were slow to react. Ren repeated the action, firing a second Aqua Bleed. The second Drome vanished, and the third Grass Drome followed moments later.

The cavern was silent again, and Ren quickly collected the fragments, recognizing their dual use for Orbal technology and his own specific projects.

He stood up, reholstering his weapon. Low Arts Defense saves the day. Now if only I could acquire that Fire element...

Given the clear pattern of monsters being vulnerable to fire, a Molotov Cocktail would be handy to have right about now. Simple, effective, cheap to make. Ren shook his head slightly. No workbench, no easy access to chemicals, and no Morgana to complain about the fumes. Guess I'll have to rely on the Orbal Arts for now.

The cavern was quiet, the only sounds the slow drip of water and the faint fizzing of the last Grass Drome as it dissolved, releasing its final shower of Sepith fragments. Ren efficiently collected the scattered bits of green and blue ore, using his Third Eye for a momentary flash to ensure he missed none of the valuable resources.

He stood, dusting off his trousers, the ARCUS a silent, ready presence. His focus was entirely on the energetic trail of his classmates, leading into an even darker passage ahead.

Then, the calm was shattered.

A cold prickle ran down his spine. It wasn’t the hostile, raw aura of a monster, but a blind spot, a sudden lack of ambient noise and energy where there should have been some. A gut feeling screamed stealth.

Ren reacted instantly. He didn't turn his body; he let his arm move first. The weapon snapped out of its compact state on his belt and into the familiar, matte-black handgun form, rising and locking onto the source of the hidden presence behind him.

Standing there, perfectly framed in the dim, moist light of the cavern, was a girl who looked far too relaxed to be in a monster-infested ruin. She was petite, with striking white hair and lime-green eyes, wearing the crimson uniform of Class VII, the blazer open over her clothes. She looked, Ren assessed clinically, maybe fourteen or fifteen—a child with the composure of a veteran operative. “Missed one?” the girl said, her voice a lazy, almost bored drawl. She raised both hands in a non-threatening gesture, her bright, intelligent eyes fixed squarely on the barrel of his unique weapon. "Careful there, you might hurt someone."

Ren’s internal assessment was immediate, swift, and brutal: Not a civilian or a lost student. A combatant. A professional. Her spirit energy was tightly controlled, and the fact that he had only just caught her presence meant she was a master of stealth. She moves with absolute silence. She probably could have killed me before I even saw her if she were hostile.

He noted the stark contrast between her youthful appearance and her evident, dangerous skill. A child wearing a military academy uniform, yet possessing the skills of a veteran operative. This changes my assessment of the local situation.

He lowered his handgun slightly, the subtle look of surprise quickly reverting to his usual stoicism.

"You're not a Drome," Ren stated simply, reholstering the device.

The girl chuckled, a dry, amused sound. "And you're not one of the new fish I was sent to babysit. Name's Fie Claussell." She gave him a curious look, her eyes lingering on his crimson uniform. "And yours? You must be the late arrival Instructor Sara sent the alert about."

"Ren Amamiya," he supplied, meeting her gaze steadily.

"Welcome to the funhouse, Ren," Fie said, pushing off the damp wall she’d been leaning against. "You've got some catching up to do."

Fie's eyes narrowed just a fraction, the half-lidded boredom vanishing as her analytical gaze locked onto the device now resting securely on his hip. She made no move to draw her own weapons—twin gunswords Ren now spotted strapped to her back—but her attention was fixed on the weapon.

"Nice piece of equipment you got there," Fie said, gesturing with a lazy nod toward the sidearm. "Not standard issue for Thors, I assume?"

She noticed the difference immediately, Ren realized. She's dissecting it in her head. She's far sharper than George.

"It's a personal item," Ren replied stoically.

Fie’s lip curled into a slight, knowing smile. "Must be. I can't place the make. No visible orbment slots, and the material isn't standard Reinford production. The way it transformed..." She trailed off, then offered a pointed question: "No visible ammo feed either. Runs on internal energy reserves, I take it?"

Ren allowed himself a tiny, controlled exhale. That was close. She'd jumped right to the correct conclusion about its power source.

"Something like that," Ren replied smoothly. "It’s heavily modified."

"Modified is an understatement," Fie murmured, her eyes holding genuine intrigue. "That's high-tier engineering. Good to know you came prepared."

Fie started to move down the corridor, gliding with unnatural silence. "Well, Ren, the team's split up. We're operating in different groups. I was just scouting ahead and dealing with the riffraff, but you should stick to the main route."

She glanced over her shoulder. "The others are up ahead. Two of them are arguing, probably. You're taking the right path to the exit, though. Just keep going—you can't miss it."

Then, with a casual wave, she executed a maneuver that made Ren’s internal alarm bells ring again. She didn't walk; she moved like smoke. She ascended a jagged section of the wall with impossible ease and silence, seeming to defy gravity itself before vanishing onto another floor high above. It was a brief, flawless display of inhuman agility and vertical mobility.

She didn’t use an orbment or a physical boost, Ren calculated, his mind reeling. Pure skill. She’s built for infiltration and assassination. Her speed is frightening. He had only ever seen that level of seamless, non-human movement in combat specialists and his own Personas.

The dungeon was full of monsters, but the most dangerous presence he’d encountered so far was the sleepy, young girl named Fie Claussell.

[~]

Ren rounded another corner, the narrow stone passage opening into a larger, echoing chamber. He was making good progress, having followed the subtle energetic trails of his classmates for several minutes, but the journey was not without resistance.

I am definitely going to make Molotov Cocktails when I get out of here, Ren thought, the mental declaration now a firm resolve, born of tactical necessity.

Clustered ahead, swarming a patch of luminous moss on the floor, were his latest opponents: a large cluster of Coin Beetles. These creatures resembled golden-hued rhinoceros beetles, their carapaces shining with an unnatural, metallic luster. They were low-to-the-ground, slow, and numerous.

Ren instantly recalled the weakness. Like the Flying Felines and the Grass Dromes, these beetles were highly susceptible to Fire. More critically, their natural defense—the hard carapace that resembled a coin—meant that physical attacks would be largely ineffective.

High Physical Defense, but vulnerable to Arts damage. Standard dungeon trash, Ren analyzed, drawing his handgun and activating his Third Eye to confirm the density of the swarm and their slow movement pattern.

He channeled his energy but held back on the Aqua Bleed. While water Arts were effective due to the beetles' low Arts Defense, they consumed too much energy for crowd control. He needed a sustained, low-cost assault.

Ren began to fire his weapon. The energy bolts from his handgun—pure Arts damage—ripped into the swarm. The golden carapaces, impervious to bullets, fizzled and cracked under the focused magical energy. The beetles didn't die instantly, but their physical shields were useless against the Arts-based assault.

The air filled with the sharp sound of energy impact and the clicking, frustrated scuttle of the beetles as they tried to close the distance. Ren maintained a steady retreat, prioritizing accuracy over speed, ensuring every shot found a target.

An Orbal fire bomb would clear this entire room in two seconds, Ren mused, channeling another powerful burst into the handgun. He discharged a rapid volley, shattering the shell of the largest beetle. The sheer inefficiency of this is maddening. I need a source of Fire Quartz, or I need to find a way to replicate the element using local materials.

Finally, after exhausting a significant portion of his internal reserves, the last of the Coin Beetles was defeated, dissolving into piles of shimmering red and green Sepith. Ren moved quickly, scooping up the fragments.

He was standing over the dissipating forms of the beetles, smoothly holstering his handgun as it shifted back into its compact, innocuous form, when he heard hurried footsteps approaching from the junction ahead.

Three figures burst into the chamber, all wearing the crimson Class VII uniforms. They stopped short, finding Ren alone, perfectly composed, and the enemies gone.

The first was a tall, strikingly composed young woman with long, dark indigo hair and fierce amber eyes. She carried a massive greatsword, giving her the aura of a confident, vigilant knight.

Beside her was a quiet, polite-looking girl with a long plum-colored braid, large, round glasses, and a discreet staff held loosely in her hand.

The third was an assertive young woman with long blonde hair tied back with violet decorations and sharp scarlet eyes. She held an elaborate bow, ready to fire, her expression a mix of immediate relief and sharp scrutiny.

"You must be the transfer student," the indigo-haired girl stated, her voice possessing a natural air of dignity. "You handled those monsters efficiently. We are operating differently for this exercise, but we are also making sure everyone gets out."

Ren nodded. "I'm Ren Amamiya. It seems I missed the starting bell."

She placed a gloved hand on the hilt of her Greatsword. "I am Laura S. Arseid."

Ren's internal processing stalled for a fraction of a second. Arseid. His research on Erebonian institutions, undertaken with the obsessive focus of a seasoned operative, returned an immediate file. The Arseid Family was not simply noble. They’re renowned across the Empire for their military lineage and proprietorship of the ancient Arseid School of Swordsmanship. The style, focused on the Greatsword as its foundation, was famous for its heavy-hitting, offensive approach, tracing its origins back to the Eisenritter knights who served Emperor Dreichels during the War of the Lions.

The daughter of the 'Radiant Blademaster' and Viscount of Legram, Ren realized. A pure warrior, heir to one of the Empire's strongest martial traditions.

The plum-braided girl stepped forward next. "I am Emma Millstein. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Amamiya."

Finally, the blonde-haired girl spoke. "And I'm Alisa R." She clipped off her last name, her stance remaining resolute.

Ren nodded, accepting the introductions. "It's a pleasure to finally meet some of my new classmates. I appreciate you coming to check on the noise."

His mind, however, was already racing ahead, driven by the pattern he'd noticed. Flying Felines (vulnerable to Fire), Grass Dromes (vulnerable to Fire), Coin Beetles (vulnerable to Fire). It was an obvious setup.

An idea occurred to him.

"If you don't mind a tactical question," Ren began, his tone serious and professional. "I've noticed the monsters here all share a similar weakness. It would be far more efficient if we could utilize that."

He looked directly at the three girls. "Does anyone here have access to Fire Orbal Arts?"

The girls exchanged a glance, impressed by his immediate shift to strategy. Emma was the first to answer, her polite demeanor never wavering.

"I have a Mirage-type Master Quartz," Emma explained, holding up her ARCUS.

Alisa spoke next, her brusque nature softening slightly as she spoke about her gear. "I have a Space-type Master Quartz."

All eyes turned to Laura. The noble girl, who favored a massive physical weapon, confirmed Ren's hopes with a simple, proud nod.

"My Master Quartz is Fire-type," Laura stated. "I have access to basic Fire Arts, though my focus remains on swordsmanship."

Ren felt a surge of genuine relief. That single detail changed the entire landscape of his solo run.

"Excellent," Ren said, allowing a slight smile to cross his lips. "Then I'd like to stick with your team, if you'll have me."

He looked at them, letting his reasoning sink in. "At this rate, I wouldn't be surprised if the next enemy we encounter is also highly vulnerable to fire. Given my current master quartz, which is Water, but I lack that key offensive element."

He paused, a flicker of genuine introspection passing over him. He thought of his friends: Ryuji, Morgana, Ann, Yusuke, Makoto, Futaba, Haru, Sumire, and even Akechi—the ones who had always been at his back in the darkest Palaces.

"There's only so much one can accomplish alone," he finished, the phrase weighted by his past. "In a dungeon environment, synergy is essential."

Laura, Emma, and Alisa immediately responded positively.

Laura nodded decisively. "A sound tactical assessment, Mr. Amamiya. We need to maximize our damage potential."

Emma offered her warm, supportive smile. "We welcome the help, Amamiya. And we are meant to work as a team, after all."

Alisa, ever the pragmatist, gave him a curt nod. "Fine. It's better than trying to carry all the luggage ourselves. Let's go find the others."

"Then it's settled," Laura declared, adjusting the Greatsword on her back. "Welcome to the team, Ren."

"Then it's settled," Laura declared, adjusting the Greatsword on her back. "Welcome to the team, Ren. We should move quickly, as the others are far ahead. Emma, Alisa—ready to proceed?"

"Wait," Alisa interjected, catching herself before stepping into the dark passage. She looked at Ren and then at the others. "Before we run off, maybe we should quickly go over our equipment. Ren's gun is clearly custom, and we should know what everyone can actually do before we get surprised. It’ll help us get used to each other’s fighting styles."

"A sound suggestion," Laura agreed.

Ren, however, didn't move from his position. He casually assessed each member of the party, his expression calm and focused—the intense focus of a phantom thief who has analyzed countless opponents and environments.

"Before we trade details," Ren said, his gaze sharp and direct, "let me try an assessment first."

Laura paused, intrigued by his directness. "Go on."

Ren turned to the Greatsword heir first. "Laura, your greatsword has remarkable weight distribution. The edge is sharp enough to cleave through armor, but its size suggests a focus on wide, powerful attacks. That gives you incredible coverage in the front, but likely a vulnerability to fast attacks from the flank or rear."

Laura's amber eyes widened slightly, impressed by his immediate, accurate read on her entire fighting philosophy. "That is... quite accurate. I have dedicated myself to minimizing those openings."

Ren shifted his gaze to Alisa, noting the complex mechanics of her weapon. "Alisa, your device is an Orbal Bow. It's designed for versatility—an integrated firing mechanism for ranged arts, but the solid frame and sharp grip suggest it's robust enough for physical defense in close quarters."

Alisa blinked in astonishment, checking her bow subconsciously. "You can tell all that just by looking at it? We barely started."

Finally, Ren turned his attention to Emma, his eyes lingering on the staff she held. He relied on his past knowledge of creating highly complex devices—from Thieves' Tools to specialized weapons—to decipher its nature.

"And Emma," Ren began. "That staff is unique. I can't place the engineering—it looks far more complex than a standard device—but the crystalline core and the way the metal is forged suggest it's a highly efficient energy conduit. It's not just a weapon; it's a powerful focusing tool."

Emma looked genuinely impressed, adjusting her glasses with a graceful hand. "Oh my! Your powers of observation are incredible, Ren. To discern that nature at a glance is remarkable."

She confirmed his analysis with polite earnestness. "It is what's known as an Orbal Staff. They are quite rare. Unlike a standard ARCUS unit, which requires channeling energy through several steps, my staff has a unique configuration that allows for near-instant activation of complex arts by drawing upon ambient energy."

"It makes her a powerhouse!" Alisa interjected excitedly. "She can cast Arts way faster than any of us!"

"In simple terms, Ren," Emma concluded, "my staff allows me to focus purely on the art itself, making my casting speed much faster than the others."

"Understood," Ren said, satisfied. The brief assessment gave him everything he needed: a powerhouse tank (Laura), a rapid-fire caster (Emma), a flexible ranged support (Alisa), and now himself—the specialized Arts damage and tactical leader.

Alisa, still staring at Ren’s hip where his device sat in its compact form, spoke up. "Okay, fair enough. But before we rush into a fight, your turn, Ren. That weapon of yours is clearly custom-made. Reinford doesn't make anything like that."

Ren gave a very subtle, tight smile. "You're right. It is custom."

He reached for the compact, matte-black device on his belt. With a quiet, almost imperceptible click, the small casing expanded into the full-sized handgun form.

The girls watched the seamless transition. Laura studied the form of the pistol, noting its minimalist lines. "It has a minimalist elegance to it. An interesting design."

Ren held the handgun out, the device cool and charged in his grip. "It's versatile. But before we move, I've noted a slight tactical imbalance in our current formation." He looked at the group—Alisa, Emma, and himself as a ranged Art user, and Laura as the sole front-liner. "We have three ranged fighters and only one dedicated melee front-liner. That leaves our vanguard, Laura, with too much ground to cover alone."

Alisa blinked, processing the tactical analysis. "He's right. I can provide covering fire, but I'm no front-line fighter."

Ren nodded, then added, "I also prefer knives in close combat."

The girls looked confused, searching his uniform for a sheath. They were not prepared for what happened next.

Ren smoothly activated the hidden mechanism of his device. With a near-silent click-whir of advanced mechanics, the weapon began its final transformation. The outer casing retracted inward, the barrel slid back into the frame, and a gleaming, dark-metal blade—a high-tech tactical knife—snapped out, locking into place with a definitive snick. The faint crimson lines that had glowed on the handgun now pulsed along the new hilt and the spine of the blade.

The girls were momentarily speechless.

Alisa was the first to react, her jaw dropping slightly as she forgot all professionalism. "What kind of weapon is that? A transforming Orbal device? The sheer engineering for that kind of durability and fluidity... how?!"

Laura's expression was one of genuine admiration, her eyes focused on the blade's quick movement and Ren's practiced grip. "Incredible agility. The weight shift must be complex, yet you handle it as if it were a single, fixed blade."

Emma simply adjusted her glasses, a subtle gasp escaping her lips. "Remarkable. Truly remarkable."

Ren slipped the knife into a low, combat-ready stance—a shift that instantly radiated a completely different, closer-range aura than his ranged posture.

"This way, I can support Laura on the front line," Ren said with a single, confident nod. "Let's move."

He fell into formation alongside Laura, becoming her immediate flanking partner. The girls, still slightly stunned by the advanced, otherworldly technology they had just witnessed, quickly snapped out of their daze and followed his lead, their impression of the quiet, analytical new student growing rapidly with every passing second.

The newly formed quartet moved quickly down the dark passage, Ren and Laura leading the vanguard, their crimson uniforms barely visible in the gloom. The faint sounds of bickering grew louder up ahead, confirming Fie's assessment.

Ren, armed with his transformed knife, was focused on maintaining the formation. As they walked, he felt the sustained, quiet scrutiny of his teammates.

Alisa, still trying to reconcile the weapon's engineering with her knowledge base, spoke first. "I'm sorry, Ren, but I can't stop thinking about that mechanism. The sheer engineering required to make that weapon transform from a compact casing to a handgun, and then into a knife... Reinford has nothing that efficient. You have to tell us who designed it."

"Alisa is right," Emma chimed in, her mint-blue eyes fixed on the knife in Ren's hand. "It's an incredibly powerful device, and unique. You must tell us its origin."

Ren gave them a minimal, practiced smile. He knew the truth was impossible to share. He needed to shut down the inquiry with definitive vagueness.

"It's a highly specialized commission," Ren replied smoothly, his tone calm and noncommittal. "The design is not from Erebonia, and the craftsman who built it is retired. I'm afraid I can't offer specifics, as the patents are complex and private."

"Not from Erebonia?" Alisa repeated, sounding skeptical but intrigued by the hint of foreign technology. "That explains why the alloy is unrecognizable. Still, the complexity..."

"In any case," Laura declared, sensing Ren's reserve and bringing the conversation back to the task. She took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing as she focused on the passage ahead. "Never mind the mechanics for now. I hear more movement up ahead. We have three targets—two Coin Beetles and a Grass Drome—they sound like they are blocking the exit of this chamber."

Ren immediately snapped back into action. "They're vulnerable to Arts damage, particularly Fire."

"Perfect," Laura confirmed, hefting her Greatsword slightly. "We engage together. Ren, you and I will handle the front line. Emma, Alisa—provide cover and support Arts. Ready?"

The four of them moved in a flash, bursting out of the narrow passage and onto a wide, circular platform. The three monsters—a Grass Drome and two slow-moving Coin Beetles—were clustered near the only visible exit, a dark archway in the far wall.

The newly formed quartet didn't hesitate.

Laura was the first to strike. She immediately focused her energy on her Fire Master Quartz. A blazing orb of fire shot from her palm, streaking across the chamber. It slammed directly into the Grass Drome. The mollusk shrieked as the flame, hitting its elemental weakness, caused it to instantly seize up and begin dissolving, releasing a wave of red Sepith.

Meanwhile, Ren utilized the opening created by the Fire Art. He moved with the blurring speed of a specialist, flashing toward the nearest Coin Beetle’s flank. His knife was an extension of his will. He struck with surgical precision, not attempting a cleaving strike, but aiming for the vulnerable joints where the shell met the body. With two quick, heavy thrusts, he found the seams of the golden carapace and drove the blade in, channeling a spark of concentrated energy into the wounds. The Coin Beetle instantly collapsed, its thick shell unable to protect its interior.

While Ren was engaged, the last Coin Beetle turned its attention to the front. Emma and Alisa immediately provided cover. Alisa, using her Orbal Bow, fired a rapid succession of arrows that peppered the beetle's thick armor, staggering it and forcing it to hesitate. Simultaneously, Emma, her Orbal Staff already charged, cast a simple Mirage Art that unleashes a beam of lunar light.

Laura took advantage of the setup. With a powerful roar, she brought her Greatsword down in a massive, sweeping arc. The sheer force of the blow shattered the already weakened carapace, turning the final Coin Beetle into a cascade of metallic fragments and Sepith.

The fight had lasted less than ten seconds. Ren, his knife still extended, returned to his defensive posture beside Laura, his breathing even. The platform was silent again, save for the faint sounds of dripping water.

"Incredible synchronization," Laura said, retracting her Greatsword and giving Ren a nod of sincere respect. "You anticipate the threat with unnatural speed, Ren."

"It's just training," Ren replied, smoothly returning his weapon to its compact form. "We should collect the Sepith and keep moving. The exit is right there."

The team collected their spoils, the combat serving as an intense, effective baptism for their new formation. The four of them moved toward the exit archway, Ren and Laura still leading the way.

Laura walked beside Ren, her grip firm on the hilt of her Greatsword. The combat had clearly impressed her, not just because of the elemental synergy, but because of Ren's raw proficiency.

"Your speed and precision with that blade were exceptional, Ren," Laura stated, her tone one of genuine professional interest. She spoke not as a noble, but as a dedicated martial artist. "The knife is a difficult weapon to master; it demands focus on internal energy, not external force. Your movements suggested a specific discipline, one that I can't quite place."

Ren knew he couldn't simply dismiss the question. Laura was too perceptive, and her respect was based on the truth of his skill. He had to give her enough detail to satisfy her curiosity while obscuring the origins of his style.

"It is a combat style focused on agility and exploiting openings," Ren replied, choosing his words carefully. "It's not a formal school like the Arseid style. It was developed to compensate for the limitations of my primary weapon."

"The limitations of your primary weapon?" Laura pressed. "The handgun form of your device is a fine ranged weapon. What limitation does it impose?"

"A gun only solves part of the problem," Ren explained, giving a vague answer that alluded to the Metaverse's ruleset without mentioning it. "It's effective at a distance, but in a chaotic engagement like this, you need a method for quick, silent resolution in close quarters. My style emphasizes striking the critical points—joints, seams in armor, and vulnerable pressure areas—in the enemy. The knife is merely the tool that allows for that precision."

Laura absorbed this, a thoughtful crease forming on her brow. "A highly pragmatic approach. Self-taught, then?"

"Taught by necessity," Ren confirmed with a slight shrug. "When you rely on specialized equipment, you must develop a specialized martial art to support it. It's about being versatile and minimizing downtime in the transition between ranged and close combat."

His answer satisfied her. It confirmed his deep tactical training and the logic behind his trick weapon, appealing directly to her warrior's code of pragmatism and strength.

"I see," Laura murmured, a spark of respect visible in her amber eyes. "A powerful approach indeed."

They stepped through the exit archway, and the dungeon opened into a new area. They were closer now; the sounds of voices—and an inexplicable crashing noise—were unmistakable just beyond the next turn.

Ren, Laura, Emma, and Alisa moved through the exit archway, and the dungeon opened into a vast, grand hall. Overhead, sunlight streamed through, illuminating a set of stone stairs leading to a final doorway.

But the light was overpowered by the spectacle in the center of the room.

Four figures in Class VII uniforms were locked in a desperate defensive circle against a horrifying opponent. The monster was a massive, grotesque stone gargoyle with skeletal wings, large curved horns, and a bird-like, menacing beak. Its stony skin was cracked and ancient, and it moved with a malevolent, unnatural speed, repelling its attackers with powerful gusts of wind.

Iglute Garmr, Ren's memory whispered, pulling the knowledge not from the academy's official monster guide, but from his deep research into old Erebonian legends. A stone gargoyle spoken of in the Dark Ages. Repels intruders with powerful gusts of wind.

Ren's Third Eye activated automatically, a crimson filter washing over the scene. The monster pulsed with a deep, malevolent red aura—a genuine, ancient evil that was far more dangerous than any Coin Beetle or Grass Drome.

"What is that thing?" Alisa cried, already raising her Orbal Bow.

"A stone gargoyle," Ren supplied instantly, his voice low and serious. "Iglute Garmr, if the legends are accurate. I can't confirm its weakness, but it's very dangerous. We help them now!"

The four of them surged into the fray.

Alisa immediately let loose a volley of Orbal arrows, forcing the Iglute Garmr to momentarily shield its head. Emma conjured a cluster of purple orbs—fast-casting utility Arts from her Orbal Staff—to disrupt the gargoyle's movement. Laura, with a war cry, engaged the creature in a frontal clash, her Greatsword singing as she delivered a massive overhead slash that chipped its shoulder, demonstrating terrifying physical might. Ren transitioned his knife back to handgun form and fired several focused Arts shots, targeting the seams where its ancient armor met its grotesque wings.

The sudden, professional intervention broke the monster's defense. The four embattled students immediately recognized the assistance.

"Y-You made it!" shouted a young man with bright orange hair and a short Orbal Staff, clearly relieved.

"You've certainly got some good timing!" added a tall, sturdy young man with a cross spear and tan skin.

Alisa, joining the formation, called out, "Whew...seems like you're all okay at least!"

Emma offered a quick, breathless apology. "I-I'm sorry we took so long."

The center of the embattled group was held by a modest young man with dark, unkempt hair and a tachi. He nodded firmly. "You're here, and that's what counts."

The tachi-wielder—clearly the impromptu leader—looked past the girls, his eyes settling on Ren. The four boys' eyes fixed on the late addition, the strange knife-wielder in the crimson uniform.

Ren gave a curt, professional nod, not lowering his guard. "I'm the late arrival. Now is not the time to talk."

Laura stepped forward, her Greatsword resting easily in her powerful grip. "So, a gargoyle, is it? I didn't expect the Dark Ages to be alive and well down here. It doesn't seem like it'll go down easily."

The young man with the dark blue-green hair and glasses spoke quickly. "We gave it everything we had, but as you can see, it's rallying at an alarming rate."

The tachi-wielder pressed his advantage. "But with this many of us, if we can just find an opening..."

Suddenly, a new voice cut through the tense air, echoing from the shadowed perimeter. Fie appeared, twin gunswords already drawn, flanked by another young man with icy blonde hair and the distinct bearing of a noble.

"...Fine. I guess I'll help out," Fie drawled, moving with her characteristic low, silent glide.

The blonde-haired noble surveyed the scene, his expression one of composed distaste. "Hmph. So it's all come down to me, then."

The young man in the glasses uniform bristled. "Y-You!"

Ignoring the rivalry, the noble focused his energy. "ARCUS, activate. Chew on this. Air Strike!"

A mass of compressed air shot from his orbment, striking the Iglute Garmr on the flank, momentarily rocking the massive monster. Taking advantage of the staggered state, Fie leaped with impossible agility, clearing the gargoyle's wide back and slashing her gunswords down at the junction of its powerful hind legs.

All ten members of the Special Class VII were finally united, surrounding the ancient monster. The combined assault, bolstered by Fie's incredible agility and Jusis's unexpected Air Strike, had pushed the Iglute Garmr to its limits. Its stony carapace was chipped and cracked, the malevolent red aura flickering erratically.

"An opening!" the spear-wielder roared, seeing the monster falter.

"Go!" the boy with the taichi commanded.

Class VII surged forward. Ren found himself moving in perfect lockstep with Laura, the Greatsword swinging with devastating force. As they attacked, Ren noticed something profound. Around each of his classmates—a faint, almost imperceptible light pulsed, subtly connecting them.

It felt like a sudden, sharp clarity. A line of pure, invisible energy snapping into place. He wasn't just seeing them fight; he felt a subtle current of information flow between them. It was a silent understanding, a shared rhythm in their movements. When Laura swung her greatsword, he could sense Fie already anticipating the opening, a faint echo of intent. The system was activating. The Combat Link.

This is it, Ren thought, feeling the raw, unified power of the group. They're giving it their all. So should I.

He mentally reached out, a familiar presence stirring within him. Arsène. What do you think?

A deep, resonating evil laugh echoed in his mind, sharp and exhilarating. Go for it, Trickster. Show them what true power is.

Ren nodded, a grim smile touching his lips. He saw his chance.

The Iglute Garmr, reeling from a coordinated attack from the tachi-wielder and the staff-wielder, momentarily dipped its head, trying to stabilize itself. It was a fraction of a second, an impossible window that only Ren's sharpened senses could exploit.

With a powerful surge of his own hidden power, Ren launched himself forward, leaping off the massive head of Laura's Greatsword mid-swing. The maneuver was reckless, but executed with breathtaking precision. He landed squarely on the gargoyle's broad, stony back, scrambling up its rough surface like a phantom, heading straight for its head.

He pressed his handgun firmly against the gargoyle's ancient, horned temple. This device was no mere orbal handgun, nor just a transforming knife. It was a COMP, a personal artifact designed to channel the raw power of his Persona, Arsène, into the physical world.

Detest the enemy before you! Change that animosity into power and unleash it! Arsene's words, the very command that had first awakened his power in his previous life, burned in Ren's mind. His own animosity, his desire to end this threat decisively, flowed into the COMP.

He pulled the trigger.

Instead of a typical energy bolt, a concentrated burst of dark energy erupted from the barrel. It was a skill known as Eiha, a damage-dealing Dark Art. The output was a chilling reflection of Ren's cold, focused animosity—not a massive explosion that would draw too much attention, but a precise, internal implosion of pure malevolence directly into the monster's core.

The Iglute Garmr let out a silent, guttural shriek, its red aura vanishing completely. Its stony body began to crack and crumble from within, dissolving into a torrent of Sepith and dark particles.

Ren, already anticipating the monster's demise, pushed off the crumbling gargoyle, executing a perfect backward flip and landing softly just as Laura surged past him. With a final, thunderous strike, her Greatsword cleaved through the remaining stone, cleanly lopping off the already dead gargoyle's head.

The ancient monster collapsed, dissolving into nothingness.

Silence. Class VII stood, panting, surrounding the lingering dust and shimmering Sepith, all eyes now wide with a mix of shock and awe. Silence returned to the hall, heavy with the dust of shattered stone and spent orbal energy. All ten members of Class VII stood catching their breath, the adrenaline draining away. The faint sound of the wind, now unimpeded by the monster, whistled through the high doorway.

Alisa was the first to cheer, raising her Orbal Bow. "Yes! We actually took it down! That was terrifying!"

Elliot, the orange-haired young man, looked pale but relieved. "I—I can't believe we managed that! That thing was resisting everything."

"It was the elemental synergy and the sheer number of us," Gaius observed, resting his cross spear on the ground. "But it was a spectacular effort from everyone."

Laura, her chest rising and falling as she controlled her breathing, sheathed her Greatsword. She looked directly at Ren, her expression serious. "Alisa, Gaius—we may have collectively finished it, but that thing was crumbling before my final blow even landed. The core damage came from Ren's specialized Art at close range." She gave Ren a look that held both intense curiosity and high respect. "An impressive execution, Ren. You dealt the decisive strike."

Ren simply gave a small, noncommittal nod, holstering his COMP as it smoothly transformed back into its compact, innocuous casing. He knew its true nature and his Persona's power could not be revealed, but he accepted the credit professionally.

Now that the combat was over, the awkwardness of meeting in the middle of a battle needed to be rectified.

"Since we are all still in one piece," Ren said, his voice calm, cutting through the general relief, "I suppose introductions are in order. I'm Ren Amamiya, the late transfer student."

The three young men he had just fought beside immediately stepped forward.

The leader, who wielded the tachi, gave a warm, easygoing smile. "I'm Rean Schwarzer. It's great to finally meet you, Amamiya. That was incredible work with the knife."

The tall, steady young man followed. "I am Gaius Worzel. I appreciate your assistance, Ren."

The young man with the Orbal Staff stepped up last, fiddling nervously with his sleeves. "I'm Elliot Craig. Wh-what kind of weapon was that Art shot from, Ren?"

Ren offered a vague answer: "A highly customized one, Elliot. We can discuss it later."

The remaining two members stepped forward, immediately injecting tension into the unified atmosphere. Earlier, the young man in glasses was arguing with a blonde-haired noble.

The bespectacled young man approached first. He still looked slightly flustered, but his inherent formality took over.

"I am Machias Regnitz," he stated with stiff correctness.

Ren's internal files instantly flashed the data: The son of Imperial Governor Carl Regnitz. The first commoner to become the governor of Heimdallr. A major figure in the Reformist faction. A rival to the Noble Alliance. Ren's memory provided the necessary background on the powerful political position Machias's father held in the Empire.

Before Ren could acknowledge the name, the blonde-haired noble stepped forward, his posture radiating effortless arrogance. He didn't offer his hand, merely a stiff, formal nod.

"I am Jusis Albarea."

This name hit Ren with even greater force. The son of Duke Helmut Albarea. As Ren had learned that, the Albarea family was one of the Four Great Houses—the backbone of the conservative nobility. This meant Jusis was a direct counterpart to Laura's lineage, representing one of the most significant power centers in the Empire.

The silent tension between Machias and Jusis, even in the aftermath of a major battle, confirmed the academy's strange political structure.

Ren simply met Jusis's gaze with equal measure, his expression unreadable, acknowledging both powerful names without flinching. "Understood. It seems the whole class is finally present."

He looked at the stairs leading to the sunlit door. "Now that the monster is dealt with, perhaps we should complete the objective.”

Elliot spoke up. "Did... did anyone else feel that? Right at the end of the battle?"

Ren looked up, realizing he wasn't alone in noticing the strange phenomenon.

Alisa nodded rapidly, lowering her Orbal Bow. "Now that Elliot mentions it, didn't it seem like there was some faint light around all of us while we were fighting? And I felt like I knew where everyone was going."

Laura sheathed her Greatsword fully, a thoughtful crease on her brow. "Yes. It felt like I could see everyone's movements in precise detail, almost before they happened. It wasn't just instinct."

Rean ran a hand through his dark hair, looking genuinely mystified. "It felt like everyone was connected somehow, maybe that was..."

"...The biggest selling point of the almighty ARCUS? Give this man a prize!"

All nine students immediately snapped their heads toward the stone stairs leading to the sunlit doorway.

"INSTRUCTOR SARA!" Class VII yelled in unison, their voices echoing off the walls.

Sara Valestein clapped her hands together with a dramatic flair as she casually made her way down the steps, her coat swaying. "Well done, Class VII! It looks like friendship and teamwork save the day again."

She paused, taking in the scene—the defeated gargoyle dust, the scattered Sepith, the exhausted students—and continued with a cheerful tone. "Right, that about finishes up today's special orienteering... exercise...why are you all looking at me like that?"

Sara trailed off, noticing the universal, deadpan stares aimed her way.

Yes, she said, 'special orienteering exercise,' Ren thought, a distinct feeling settling over him. Given that his own entry into this underground dungeon had begun with a sudden drop through a trapdoor, he was certain they had all suffered the same rude, undignified beginning way before he arrived.

After a moment of tense silence, Jusis decided to take a stab at the fundamental issue.

"Instructor," Jusis said, his tone clipped and cold. "What is the purpose behind this Class VII?"

Laura followed up, correcting herself quickly after glancing at Ren. "And why the nine of us—no, ten—were chosen in particular."

Sara shrugged, completely unbothered. "Well, there's no one particular reason any of you were chosen—that's what makes this Class so special, after all! But... I'd say that the biggest one would be those ARCUS orbments you've got there."

Elliot brought up his wrist. "The ARCUS?"

"Exactly," Sara confirmed. "The orbment itself is a Reinford triumph, but its crowning feature is what's known as Combat Linking—the phenomenon you've all experienced now."

Elliot admitted, "It did feel like we were all connected somehow..."

"Exactly!" Sara exclaimed. "You can sense each other's movements and act in perfect sync, even in the most chaotic situations. You saw it: when one of you staggered the enemy, the other was already moving to exploit the opening. It doesn't take a genius to see how that'd be a great help on a battlefield!"

Gaius stroked his chin thoughtfully. "That does sound rather..."

Fie finished his sentence, her tone characteristically dry. "...Idealistic."

Ren focused intensely on Sara's explanation, his mind racing. A system that synchronizes movement and intent, enabling pre-emptive coordination.

The system reduces response time to almost zero, turning ten individuals into a single, cohesive fighting unit. Ren thought. It eliminates the need for verbal communication and complex strategy in the heat of the moment. This "Combat Link" is an extraordinary tactical advantage—it turns raw skill into perfect synergy.

Sara continued, her gaze sweeping over the assembled students. "Out of this year's freshmen, nine of you—" she paused, glancing back at Ren, who was standing beside Laura. She gave a slight wave. "—Actually, ten of you turned out to have the highest aptitude."

She tapped her chin thoughtfully. "Although we weren't entirely sure about your aptitude until we dug up your entrance exam, Ren." Sara then offered a playful smirk. "Then again, if you're standing here, having survived that little monster party, I guess you, too, have the highest aptitude, just like your classmates."

Ren felt a flicker of annoyance, quickly masked by his stoic expression. My aptitude was never the question; it was the method of my enrollment. The fact that his entry was considered an uncertain exception, needing a review of an exam he had taken days before the school year, highlighted the bizarre, rushed nature of his transfer. He felt like an asterisk beside a neatly typed report—a necessary anomaly.

Sara clapped her hands again, bringing the focus back. "But since aptitude trumps background in Class VII... well... here we are."

The declaration—that raw skill was the primary selection criterion—hung in the air, creating a brief, charged silence.

Jusis was the first to speak, his aristocratic composure returning, though his voice held a note of careful calculation. "I see." The implication was clear: even a noble of the Great Houses was subject to this strange metric.

Machias immediately bristled. "Why? It seems so... random! High aptitude is subjective. If it were simply about raw scores, why would this class feature such a bizarre mix of... of..."

Sara smiled widely, her gaze sweeping over the students. "So, now that you know why the ten of you were chosen—high aptitude, that is—we come to the important part. As promised, if any of you have objections to being in the class, speak now or forever hold your peace."

She grew serious, though her tone remained light. "This program isn't cheap to run, so we're not about to force anyone into it if they don't want to be here. And just as a fair warning, Class VII's curriculum will be tougher than any other class's coursework."

A heavy moment of silence descended upon the group as the nine students silently deliberated. Ren watched them, his gaze sharp. He could easily read the body language of Jusis and Machias—the rigid posture and stiff back of the noble, the clenched fists and tight jaw of the commoner—confirming their profound hostility toward each other, even as they stood united by the battle.

They all have a choice, Ren mused. For me, it didn't exactly come with the option of a standard transfer. Then again, if I let myself get expelled, that would be giving the system a win, so I really did have a choice back then.

The silence was broken when Rean stepped forward, his eyes earnest and resolute. "I'll do it. Whatever Class VII throws at me, I'm game."

The simplicity of his assent surprised everyone. Elliot voiced it out: "Just like that?"

Rean offered a small, self-deprecating smile. "I feel like I've put my family out, sending me to this school. If this gives me more to show for my time here, I'll do it."

"How noble of you," Sara commented, her tone laced with amusement.

Laura was next, her Greatsword tapping lightly against her back. "Count me in as well. The greater the challenge, the more I can push myself to excel."

Gaius nodded firmly. "Me too. Considering how far I came to attend here, it'd be silly to back down before I even started."

Emma offered a gentle, determined look. "I was able to come here because of the school's generosity, so I want to help how I can."

Elliot wrung his hands, then smiled. "It feels like fate, y'know? And you all seem easy to get along with."

Alisa crossed her arms. "I'm joining too. It bothers me that they're using these ARCUS units that are clearly still in development, but I want to be here to see what happens next."

Fie gave a casual wave. "Whatever. I'm in too."

The air crackled as Jusis stepped forward, meeting Machias's glare head-on. "I, too, shall claim my place as a member of Class VII. At least here I won't have fools flitting about every day trying to win my favor."

In immediate response, Machias declared hotly, "I'm in too! Don't you go thinking some outmoded class system is going to be handing you trophies anymore!"

Sara clapped once. "That makes nine out of ten!" She then turned her attention fully to Ren. "Your turn, transfer student."

Ren felt all eyes on him, realizing they were waiting for him to complete the team. He met Sara's expectant gaze.

"Didn't you already hear my answer from the Chairman and Principal?" Ren asked wryly.

Sara grinned, enjoying the theater. "I did. But this is your last chance to back out. I still need to hear it from you."

Ren gave a dry, knowing smirk. "Do I really have a choice, Instructor? Considering the alternative is expulsion for punching a noble student on the first day of school."

The rest of the class reacted instantly. Alisa gasped. Elliot’s eyes became wide as dinner plates. Machias' glasses nearly fell off. Laura looked at Ren with a mixture of shock, realizing the true nature of his arrival. Even the perpetually composed Jusis looked momentarily thrown.

Sara threw her head back and laughed—a loud, clear sound that echoed through the hall. "Ha! You know what, Amamiya? You're absolutely right. It's the most pragmatic choice you'll make all day. Welcome to Class VII."

[~][~]