"This should be the last one."
Seijuro Matsuda stood in the middle of a dimly lit alley, his expression blank as his eyes locked onto the creature before him. The Nephom—a twisted, malformed being much like the first one he'd fought—writhed in its near-death state. Its dark skin glistened in the faint light, a stark contrast to the deep crimson of its wounds. It looked feeble, its movements erratic, yet a low, guttural squeal escaped its throat as it prepared for one final attack.
"Keeee!" The Nephom lunged, its body springing off the alley walls with unnatural agility, rebounding with increasing momentum.
Seijuro didn't flinch. His hands remained firmly in his pockets, his stance relaxed. He had seen this pattern too many times before. As the creature rocketed toward him, its trajectory locked, Seijuro's leg shot out in a fluid motion. The kick landed squarely, meeting the Nephom mid-air. Unable to halt its velocity, the creature collided violently with his foot and was launched backward.
The Nephom's body slammed into the wall behind it with a sickening crunch before crumbling into ash.
Seijuro stared at the fading remains with disinterest. The rush of his first battle had long since dissipated, replaced by a growing monotony. He exhaled, the sound heavy with irritation.
"Damn it, this is frustrating," he muttered under his breath.
The first Nephom had been a challenge—an exhilarating test of his wits and reflexes. But every fight since had been painfully repetitive. "After that first one, it's like they just copied and pasted the rest, slapped on a new skin tone, and called it a day. Pathetic."
Seijuro glanced at his watch, its glowing interface displaying his accumulated points: 250. Five Nephoms defeated, each worth fifty points. He reflected briefly on the variety he'd encountered so far, though "variety" felt like a stretch.
The first Nephom had been gray, its movements erratic and flexible, almost like a rabbit. It had small control over the surrounding fog, making it elusive and difficult to pin down. But once Seijuro had cracked its rhythm, it wasn't so bad.
The second, a deep purple, had relied on brute strength. It used its claws to anchor itself to the ground, pouncing like a cheetah. Fast, but stupid. It had charged headlong without a hint of strategy, and Seijuro dispatched it with ease.
The third was black, skulking in filth and lurking in decrepit, garbage-strewn corners. It relied on speed, its attacks blurring in quick, linear strikes. But its flaw was glaring: it couldn't alter its trajectory mid-charge. Once Seijuro recognized the pattern, it was a simple matter of exploiting its single-minded movements.
Unfortunately, he'd encountered that black variant three more times.
Seijuro clenched his fists, his annoyance mounting. "How many more of these predictable fights am I supposed to endure?"
The faint sound of voices shattered his thoughts.
"Why are you doing this?!"
"Just stay still brat!"
Seijuro's ears perked up. His body tensed instinctively as he turned toward the source. "Other students" The thought immediately piqued his curiosity. He hadn't encountered a single person since being transported into Kyokugai, and while it might've been nice to confirm he wasn't alone, he knew better than to approach carelessly.
"The rules of this place... Students can turn on each other. Steal points. It'd be smarter to avoid contact, especially if they're in teams," Seijuro thought, his sharp gaze peering around the corner.
Carefully, he inched forward until the scene unfolded before him. Five figures stood in the alley ahead.
The first two were huddled together. A boy, short and thin, his uniform torn and his face battered, stood protectively in front of a girl. His small frame trembled, but there was a fierce determination in his stance. Behind him, the girl, likely his sister, clutched his arm. She had her hair tied in a simple ponytail, her large, round eyes glaring at their aggressors with unyielding defiance.
"Let my sister go! You can take my points if you want—just leave her alone!" the boy pleaded, his voice cracking with desperation.
Across from them, two older boys loomed. One was a towering brute with spiked hair held back by a band, his muscular frame imposing in the alley's narrow confines. He sneered.
"I'm afraid it doesn't work like that, brat," the larger boy growled. "Both of your points belong to us now."
The boy with his sister tried again, his voice shaking. "But you don't even know how to steal points! What if... what if you have to kill us to do it?!"
Seijuro watched silently from the shadows, his expression unreadable. "So that's how it is. They're trying to rob them. Typical. I figured something like this would happen eventually."
Then, the fifth figure stepped forward, and Seijuro felt his breath catch. This boy was different. His features were sharp yet delicate, almost unnaturally striking. His ocean-blue eyes glinted coldly, strands of his dark hair falling gracefully across his face. A few dyed streaks of blue gave him an even icier aura.
Seijuro's eyes narrowed. He knew this person. "Ichiro Tsukiyama," he thought. The name carried weight—infamous weight. "The son of the Tsukiyama family. A legacy of martial warriors. Of course, he's here. But this... I didn't think a public figure like him would such a dark side."
The alley fell silent, saved for the muffled gasps of a boy clutched mercilessly in Ichiro's iron grip. The air grew heavy, a suffocating tension thickening with every passing second. lchiro's hand encased the boy's throat like a vice, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. His cold, calculating eyes held no trace of emotion—just a chilling void.
"You heard the rules, didn't you?" lchiro murmured, his voice devoid of empathy, a monotone that seemed to echo through the alley like a death knell. "Kill or be killed. It's as simple as that."
The boy squealed, his feeble hands clawing at lchiro's grip, his breath escaping in broken, desperate gasps. His legs kicked weakly, a futile attempt to escape the inevitable. His sister, trembling behind him, took a step forward, her fists clenched tightly.
The boy managed to lift a shaking hand, signaling her to stop. "No... Run," he croaked, his voice a mere whisper against the suffocating grip on his throat. "Run. while you can... please."
"I can't just leave you here!" she screamed, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear. "We both tried so hard to enroll in the Academy. If you get eliminated, there will be no point!"
Tears streaked her face, her wide eyes darting between her bother and Ichiro. Her trembling knees buckled, yet she remained rooted in place, unable to leave him behind.
lchiro glanced at his cmpanion."Ren," lchiro commanded with chilling calmness. "The girl."
"So his name is Ren eh?" Seijuro noted, still peeking from the corner.
The sister's heart sank, her breath hitching as she stumbled backward. Ren, a stocky figure with unruly spikes of hair and a predatory presence, stepped forward. His knuckles crackled with an ominous flame—like energy that swirled around his fist before condensing into a pure iron metal that covered his arm.
Shindō (震道) - Quaking Paths. Shindō is one of the three gifts given by god and is the most vital for a martial artist. With it, one is able to use supernatural martial art styles so that they can fully master there Reitō.
Each Shindō has a unique Kiryū (気流, Energy Flow) that determines how energy moves through the body and into the world.
This was Ren's Shindō: Kurogane Retsu (黒鉄烈, Iron Gale): Using Kiryū, he can turn any physical part of his body into solid Iron. A brutal, metallic style focused on shattering defenses with raw strength.
"Don't take it personally," Ren sneered, drawing his fist back. "The strong trample over the weak. It's just how this world works."
The girl's eyes widened in shock as Ren's punch tore through the air like a cannonball, the force rippling outward in a deafening
whoosh.
She braced for the impact, her screams caught in her throat—but it never came. Ren's fist stopped cold, caught mid-swing.
"Who the hell-?" Ren's growl trailed off as he stared at the figure who had stepped between them. Seijuro Matsuda stood calmly, his hand firmly gripping Ren's fist. The impact had been enough to crack the concrete beneath their feet, yet Seijuro hadn't so much as flinched. His sharp, narrowed eyes gleamed with quiet menace as his gaze shifted lazily toward
"Who am I?" Seijuro repeated, his tone light and mocking. "Just a guy passing through. Relax, Spikehead. No need to throw a tantrum."
Ren's face contorted in rage, veins bulging along his neck. "Hey now, who do think you're calling Spikehead?!" he bellowed, his
voice stern and strong. "This isn't your fight, so why don't you leave or else you're next. "
Seijuro chuckled softly, a low, sardonic laugh that seemed to echo unnaturally in the confined space. "I'm sorry, but I can't take you seriously." His grip on Ren's fist tightened, squeezing the iron covered his first. Sei leaned in closer, his voice laced with mockery.
"Do you really think you can beat me with this loser piece of shit Shindō?"
Before Ren could respond, Ichiro intervened. His hand shot out, pressing against Ren's chest to halt him, knowing he was about to burst out in anger. "Stop," Ichiro commanded, his tone as cold and unyielding as ever.
Ren turned to him, confusion and anger warring on his face. "Why are you stopping me, Ichiro?Let me teach this arrogant bastard a lesson!"
lchiro's gaze never left Seijuro. His piercing blue eyes narrowed as he studied the stranger, his expression darkening with recognition. "This guy..." lchiro finally spoke, his voice low and measured. "He's stronger than you."
The weight of lchiro's words hung heavy in the air, silencing Ren's protests.
"Not only did he catch a full force punch from you, but he did it in the blink of an eye."
The battered boy on the ground coughed violently, clutching his throat, his eyes flickering with faint hope as he gazed at the stranger. His sister, still trembling, stared wide-eyed at her unexpected saviour.