Ibiki stepped forward, his eyes scanning the remaining participants, as if reading each of them—sizing up who would break and who would endure. Xero met that gaze head-on, his expression no longer unsure. He didn't have all the answers. He might fail the question. But at least he wouldn't fail *himself*.
The room was still unnervingly quiet, but this time, Xero barely noticed it. The storm inside him had finally settled. He adjusted his grip on the pencil, leaned forward slightly, and waited.
*Let's see what you've got.*>
---
Tick... tick... tick.
Reika, however, couldn't help but glance at Kuro. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, and in that instant, everything else in the room seemed to fade. It was as though the world stopped spinning, and all she could see was the calm, unwavering certainty in his gaze. It was a simple look, but it carried so much weight—an unspoken message, louder than any words could be: Stay calm. Trust me.
Her breath caught for just a heartbeat. His eyes didn't shift, didn't even blink. They simply held hers, steady and assuring, as if to say that no matter what was happening in the room, everything would be okay.
The chaos around her softened, like a distant storm growing faint.
In contrast, Reika's mind raced, each minute a maze of uncertainty, but Kuro's unwavering composure anchored her. His presence was a stabilizing force, a silent reminder that the storm around them, no matter how chaotic, would eventually pass. She glanced back down at her paper, letting her pencil dance across the surface as her mind drifted away from the mounting pressure. Kuro had a way of making everything seem almost effortless, his calmness seeping into her own veins, slowing the frantic beat of her heart.
The clock seemed to pause for just a moment, its hands frozen in time.
She didn't understand how he did it, but she didn't need to. There was an unspoken bond between them, forged not by words but by experience. They'd been through enough together to know that in times like these, the best course of action was to remain still, to let the noise around them fade into a distant hum.
The air in the room seemed to settle, as if the very space around them had come to a stop.
And so, they sat in quiet unity, two forces orbiting each other in their own silent, steady rhythm. As the exam continued to unfold around them, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate, as if Kuro's calm had a magnetic effect, pulling the chaos into a semblance of order. Reika's breath evened out as she allowed herself to slip into a strange kind of calm, her hand moving naturally now, as if the pencil had a mind of its own.
Each stroke felt deliberate, as if the pencil were the one guiding her thoughts now.
"Whatever happens next... I can handle it," she murmured softly to herself. It was a quiet affirmation, but it was enough. She trusted Kuro. She would trust the process, the rhythm, and the quiet assurance that no matter what the outcome, they would face it together. The world around her might spin out of control, but she knew, deep down, that Kuro would always be there—steady, unshaken, and infinitely reliable.
And in that quiet moment, the room felt smaller, less intimidating, and somehow... more manageable.
As the final minutes of the exam ticked away, Reika felt her mind slow, her body at ease, ready for whatever challenge came next. The storm had passed, and all that was left was the aftermath.
---
The seconds stretched into minutes, each one feeling like an eternity. The room was almost half empty now, with many competitors succumbing to the psychological pressure of Ibiki's ultimatum. Their faces were a mixture of fear, frustration, and exhaustion. Some had left without a fight, while others had been forced to make a hasty decision, their spirits broken under the weight of Ibiki's unyielding gaze. The air felt thick, heavy with the tension of those who remained.
In the back of the room, Kuro sat as still as ever, his eyes half-lidded, not a hint of concern or unease passing over his features. His presence was like a calm eye in the storm, untouched by the chaos unfolding around him. Every other competitor seemed to be on the verge of breaking, their hearts racing, their palms sweating. But Kuro's mind was like an unmoving lake—undisturbed by the ripples around him. He had already made his peace with whatever would come next.
The silence that had enveloped the room was deafening, as if every breath was measured and every movement calculated. Even the overhead lights, which normally hummed with life, seemed to fade into the background, leaving the space under its dim glow cold and distant. Reika, still seated beside him, couldn't help but glance at him again.
His gaze met hers, briefly. A silent exchange that grounded her. He didn't have to say anything. She knew. He wasn't worried, and that reassurance settled in her chest like a weight lifting from her shoulders.
Then, at the front of the room, Ibiki Morino stood motionless, his piercing eyes scanning the remaining participants. His presence was oppressive, his very posture daring anyone to challenge him. Every glance from him felt like a weight on the shoulders, as though his mere presence demanded respect, obedience, and endurance.
For a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
Finally, the proctor took a step forward, the sound of his boots echoing in the silent room. It was a deliberate sound—powerful and controlled—each step amplifying the anticipation in the air. He didn't need to shout or raise his voice; his mere proximity commanded attention. The faintest glint of amusement flickered in his dark eyes as he took in the remaining competitors, each one still seated in their chairs, tense and waiting for the inevitable judgment.
"Those of you who are still here..." he began, his voice sharp and commanding, as if every word had been carefully chosen to slice through the tension, "...pass."
For a moment, the words hung in the air, almost incomprehensible. The gravity of them didn't quite settle at first. It was as if the room couldn't quite grasp what had just been said. The seconds stretched into longer stretches of disbelief, the silence growing thicker.