Inside Ashkara Castle, the heart of the Fiester Kingdom, silence reigned—not the peaceful kind of silence that comes with rest, but the heavy, grinding quiet that pressed against every corner of the room, the kind of quiet that reminded those within it of responsibility and consequence.

  The King of Fiester sat behind a massive oak desk, carved with ancient sigils of authority. Every inch of the surface was covered in parchment—reports stacked precariously against each other, ink smudged from long hours of deliberation, wax seals broken and forgotten in haste. The faint scent of aged paper mingled with the faint metallic tang of ink.

  He rubbed his temples, letting out a slow, measured breath. “How many left?” His voice, calm yet edged with fatigue, carried through the quiet office.

  A subordinate seated at a nearby table adjusted his glasses, the sound of hinges clicking faintly. “Six trade petitions. Twelve military reports. And… three diplomatic notices from Valenreach.”

  The king exhaled slowly, his gaze flickering toward the towering window that overlooked the bustling city below. “Set the Valenreach notices aside.”

  Another subordinate, a woman with neatly tied hair, glanced up from her own paperwork. “Your Majesty… Crestfall has sent a second inquiry regarding supply routes.”

  The king’s pen hovered over the parchment, hesitation in the air. “So,” he said quietly, almost to himself, “they’ve noticed.”

  Silence fell like a heavy curtain. He leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting to the intricate mosaics of the city streets below, the ordinary bustle oblivious to the weight resting in the room above.

  “If we continue supplying Valenreach,” he murmured, “we risk appearing complicit should conflict erupt. If we favor Crestfall, we anger Valenreach.”

  “And if we support both?” the first subordinate ventured, careful, almost too careful.

  The king shook his head slowly. “That only delays the inevitable.”

  He straightened, decision settling like stone in his chest. The air seemed to thrum with the weight of his resolve. “Draft an order,” he said firmly. “All supply transports to Valenreach and Crestfall are to be suspended indefinitely. Fiester will remain neutral. We will support neither.”

  The woman hesitated. “Your Majesty… this will strain relations.”

  The king met her gaze, eyes sharp and unwavering. “Better strained relations than blood on Fiester’s hands.”

  The pen struck parchment with a decisive tap. “Send the order.”

  Morning sunlight spilled across the marble hallways of Fiester Academy, illuminating students rushing to their classes, laughing, chattering, carrying scrolls, inked quills, and the occasional dueling mask.

  Kaoru walked through it all with her usual gentle composure, a calm presence amid the chaos. Students bowed, waved, and called greetings as she passed.

  “Good morning, Vice President!”

  “Kaoru-senpai!”

  She smiled warmly at each of them. “Good morning,” she repeated, voice soft, even, reassuring.

  Eventually, she turned down a quieter path leading toward the academy garden, away from the bustling courtyard.

  “I should check if the Gardening Club finished pruning the roses,” she murmured, her shoes crunching softly against the stone path.

  The iron gate creaked as she entered, revealing rows of vibrant flowers—lilies, irises, roses in careful bloom. The air smelled clean, tinged with dew and the faint earthy scent of soil. The morning sun reflected in droplets lingering on petals.

  But she wasn’t alone.

  An elderly woman stood near the central fountain, hands clasped behind her back, observing the flowers with sharp, discerning eyes.

  “Headmaster,” Kaoru said, surprised but pleased. “Good morning.”

  Itsuki Shiraishi turned, her expression softening at the sight of the young vice president. “Ah… Kaoru. I thought I sensed optimism approaching.”

  Kaoru laughed lightly, a sound that mixed relief and politeness. “May I ask why you’re here so early?”

  “I came to inspect the flowers,” Itsuki replied, her voice warm but carrying the weight of authority. “A garden reflects the state of an academy.”

  Kaoru nodded. “Then we’re here for the same reason.”

  Itsuki studied her carefully, eyes flicking over the composed stance, the subtle brightness of her smile, the calm energy Kaoru projected even when untested. “You’re always optimistic. Even now.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Kaoru smiled—a smile bright, practiced, unwavering. “If I’m not,” she said softly, “then I’d be a poor example as vice president. I have to smile. I have to serve as an image of a perfect student.”

  Itsuki’s gaze sharpened, piercing. “That mindset… you’ll need it for the next year’s entrance examination.”

  Kaoru blinked. “The next… entrance examination?”

  Itsuki turned away, stepping lightly toward the edge of the garden. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Headmaster?” Kaoru called, a hint of unease tugging at her calm exterior.

  Itsuki’s footsteps carried her out of sight, slow and deliberate, leaving Kaoru with the soft rustle of leaves and the faint fragrance of roses.

  “…That didn’t sound reassuring,” Kaoru murmured to herself.

  Later that morning, Kaoru stood before the Student Council Room. The polished wood reflected the morning sun. She raised her hand and knocked.

  “Come in,” a familiar voice called.

  Kaoru opened the door—and froze.

  Renji Kurogane lounged in the President’s chair, one leg crossed over the other, hands folded as if he owned the room.

  Airi Tachibana sat nearby, arms crossed, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

  Noa Fuyuki leaned against the window, expression unreadable, arms folded.

  And beside them, a tall boy with ash-brown hair and sharp green eyes calmly sipped tea, the picture of serene confidence.

  Kaoru blinked. “…Renji.”

  “Yes?” he replied, smugly.

  “Why,” she asked slowly, “are you sitting in the President’s chair?”

  Renji shrugged casually. “Didn’t see a sign saying it was hers.”

  Airi snapped, “Renji—”

  “And besides,” Renji continued, unfazed, “I’m sure the president wouldn’t mind if I warmed it up for her.”

  Kaoru sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “That’s not how chairs work.”

  Renji leaned forward, a grin tugging at his lips. “So, Vice President, what brings you here?”

  “I was looking for the Student Council President,” Kaoru replied, trying to maintain composure.

  Renji waved a hand dismissively. “She’s on break. But don’t worry—I can help you.”

  Noa’s eye twitched imperceptibly.

  Kaoru hesitated, then asked, “I wanted to ask about the Fourth Year Entrance Exam.”

  The room froze. Even the soft tick of the clock seemed to pause.

  Renji’s grin faltered slightly. Noa stiffened, arms tightening across his chest.

  “…Why,” Renji asked carefully, “would you ask about that?”

  “The headmaster mentioned it,” Kaoru said softly. “She said I’d need a positive mindset.”

  Noa exhaled slowly. “The Fourth Year Entrance Exam… is a death game.”

  Kaoru’s voice caught in her throat. “A… death game?”

  Noa’s gaze was steady, unflinching. “It’s designed to see whether students can surpass their limits. Mentally, physically… spiritually.”

  Kaoru trembled slightly. “What kind of game?”

  Renji shook his head. “No one knows. It changes every year, adapting to the students and circumstances.”

  “That’s…” Kaoru whispered, fear creeping into her voice. “Isn’t that too brutal?”

  Renji scratched the back of his head, casual as ever. “Technically, no real deaths are supposed to happen. Teachers monitor everything.”

  “But,” Airi added quietly, “accidents happen.”

  “…Some students die,” Noa finished, the weight of the statement filling the room like a stone.

  Silence descended, heavy, pressing. Kaoru clenched her hands tightly, nails biting into her palms. “That’s…”

  Renji suddenly sprang to his feet. “Welp! This conversation has reached its emotional quota!”

  “Renji,” Kaoru said sharply.

  “I just remembered!” he said quickly, eyes wide. “I left something extremely important somewhere extremely far away!”

  “Renji—” Noa began, but Renji was already at the door.

  “I’ll be back later!” he declared, pausing dramatically in the doorway. He turned back once, hand raised. “Stay optimistic, Vice President! You’ll need it!”

  And then he ran, leaving a faint echo of chaotic energy behind.

  “…He ran,” Airi said flatly.

  Kaoru stared at the closed door. “…He ran.”

  Noa exhaled, resigned. “Every year. Same reaction.”

  Kaoru inhaled deeply, forcing her smile back into place. Soft, calm, unshakable from the outside.

  “Then,” she said quietly, “I suppose I’ll prepare.”

  But beneath that practiced smile, fear had begun to bloom, a dark seed in her chest that would not be so easily ignored.