The evening air outside the Academy walls was thick with the rich, mouth-watering scent of roasted street food, carrying heavily on the humid, salty breeze blowing off the docks.
It was a sharp, profoundly welcoming contrast to the suffocating, sterile pressure of the Grand Hall.
Ayashi led the way, shuffling down the vibrant cobblestone street with his hands shoved hopelessly deep into the pockets of his baggy pants.
With his slouched shoulders, half-lidded eyes, and messy, windblown hair, he looked far less like a legendary, world-class Elemental Swordsman and entirely more like a guy who had just rolled out of bed with a terrible hangover.
"Keep up, kids," Ayashi called over his shoulder, stretching his neck and stifling a massive, jaw-cracking yawn. "Ramen Sensei closes his doors at exactly eight o'clock, and I'll be absolutely damned if I miss the braised pork belly tonight. It's the only thing keeping me sane."
"Same here," I replied, my stomach letting out a traitorous rumble. "I don't want to miss Ramen Sensei's food either. I feel like I could eat a whole boar."
Ging scurried right on my heels, struggling to keep pace. The heavy steel of his new training sword awkwardly banged against his kneecap with every single frantic step he took, completely throwing off his balance.
Saki walked beside us in total, absolute silence. Her glowing red eyes scanned the densely packed crowd of merchants and Academy students analytically, constantly calculating threats and exits.
And trailing exactly ten paces behind us—walking as if the very air we breathed was fundamentally diseased—was Tsume. He had his arms crossed tightly over his pristine, custom-tailored uniform, a deeply annoyed scowl etched onto his aristocratic face. I could feel his cold, pale eye burning literal holes into the back of my neck.
Despite the relaxed atmosphere, I kept my hand resting lightly on the cold steel pommel of my newly forged sword. I didn't trust the streets, and I certainly didn't trust the director's son walking behind me.
We continued navigating the bustling thoroughfare until we suddenly veered off the main road.
We came across a much narrower street, where the modern cobblestone abruptly gave way to meticulously raked white gravel and worn, ancient wooden pathways.
Looming massively above us, a towering, weathered wooden torii gate marked a distinct boundary line, its vibrant red paint chipping and peeling from centuries of salty sea wind.
"Welcome to Nihon Village," Ayashi announced, gesturing lazily with his chin toward the winding, shadowy streets ahead.
Crossing under that gate felt like we had just stepped hundreds of years backward in time. The towering, modern Academy architecture vanished, replaced by traditional machiya townhouses with delicate sliding paper doors and elegantly curved clay-tile roofs lining the tight, labyrinthine alleys.
The harsh, magical glare of the Academy's elemental floodlights was entirely replaced by the warm, flickering, amber glow of red chochin paper lanterns strung haphazardly above our heads.
The sharp scent of the ocean shifted, completely overpowered by the earthy, grounding aroma of burning temple incense, sweet plum wine, and sizzling charcoal-grilled yakitori.
"No way," Ging whispered, his jaw dropping open as a group of elderly locals walked past us. The rhythmic clack-clack of their wooden geta sandals echoed softly against the raked gravel. "I didn't even know this was on Runivia Island."
"Most people don't," Ayashi said, his tone casual, his hands still buried deep in his pockets as he navigated the winding path purely by memory. "There are way more things on this island than just the Swordsman Academy. Many hidden villages and secluded cultures reside on Runivia."
He paused, glancing up at a lantern. "Nihon Village actually predates the Academy by a few centuries. When the school was first built, the founding swordsmen agreed to leave these localized villages completely untouched. It's a haven for the old bloodlines. They strictly follow their own traditional customs here—tea ceremonies, ancestral worship, and completely ancient Boru techniques that the Academy deems 'too outdated' to teach."
Tsume scoffed loudly. He had seemingly caught up to the squad to hear the history lesson, though he still kept a deliberate, sanitized distance from Ging and me.
"It's a slum," Tsume sneered, his voice dripping with aristocratic disgust. "A filthy slum for those too stubborn to adapt to the modern era, and for those who simply can't afford anything else."
Ayashi stopped walking. He cast a dangerously sharp, sideways glance over his shoulder. The lazy aura vanished for a fraction of a second. "Be very mindful about what you say around these village-folk, Harasayuki.
They do not care who your father is, and they certainly don't care what you are. They follow their own laws in these alleys, not the Academy's. Specifically... the many clans."
I gripped the hilt of my newly forged steel sword a little tighter, my knuckles turning white. "Clans?"
"Yeah. Different Elemental Swordsman groups or independent families who operate entirely outside of the continent's direct jurisdiction," Ayashi nodded, his voice dropping an octave. "They keep to themselves mostly, guarding their Boru secrets with their lives, but—"
Saki abruptly stopped dead in her tracks.
Ging, who was too busy looking at a passing street vendor, walked right into her back. He stumbled, his glasses knocking askew.
"Ow! Saki, what the hell?" Ging whined, quickly fumbling to fix his crooked frames.
"Be quiet, Ging," she hissed. It was barely a whisper, but the pure, venomous intensity in her voice made the hairs on my arms stand straight up.
Her glowing red eyes were entirely locked onto a narrow, shadow-draped alleyway nestled tightly between a bustling tea house and a closed silk shop.
Three men crouched in the oppressive dark, passing a smoking bamboo pipe between them. They wore loose, dark yukatas that hung lazily off their frames. As one of the men shifted his weight to exhale a thick, toxic-smelling cloud of gray smoke, the silk fabric slipped off his broad shoulder.
Carved deeply into his pale skin was a massive, incredibly intricate tattoo of a black, multi-headed serpent. Its inky scales wrapped tightly around his collarbone, the terrifying heads creeping up the side of his neck like living shadows.
Saki has a tattoo just like that, I thought, my heart skipping a beat as my eyes darted to her. But the designs are different.
Saki's usually flawless posture went completely, unnaturally rigid. The calculated, analytical calm that always lived in her eyes flickered, entirely consumed by a sharp, panicked alarm that I had never, ever seen from her before.
"Sensei," Saki murmured, her deadpan voice dropping to an urgent, frantic whisper that barely carried over the noise of the street. "The ramen shop. Exactly how far is it?"
"Just around the next corner," Ayashi replied. He instantly noted her sudden shift in demeanor. His lazy slouch evaporated completely.
His shoulders squared, his hands slowly sliding out of his pockets as his dark eyes darted toward the alleyway. "Why?"
"We need to walk faster," Saki commanded. She immediately picked up her pace, subtly but purposefully maneuvering her body to physically position herself between Ging, myself, and the dark alley. "Right now. Do not look to your left, and do not stop moving."
Ging's breath hitched, his eyes darting wildly behind his fogged glasses. "Wait, why? Saki, what is it?! What's in the alley?!"
"Just walk," Saki ordered coldly, keeping her eyes fixed dead ahead. "We are in the wrong part of the village."
But it was too late.
As we tried to hurry past the gap between the buildings, the thick cloud of bamboo smoke in the alleyway suddenly parted.
The man with the serpent tattoo stood up, his massive frame completely blocking the dim light of the street lantern. He casually tossed the bamboo pipe aside, his hand dropping to the worn hilt of a katana holstered at his waist.
"Well, well, well," a raspy, gravelly voice echoed from the shadows, cutting through the ambient noise of the village like a serrated blade. "Look what the cat dragged in."
The man stepped out of the alley, planting himself directly in the center of the cobblestone path, cutting off our route to the ramen shop. The two other men fanned out behind him, their hands resting on their weapons.
The tattooed man didn't look at Ayashi. He didn't look at Tsume. He didn't look at Ging. He didn't even look at me!
His eyes locked entirely onto Saki, a wicked, bloodthirsty grin splitting his scarred face.
"Running away again, Little Yoribuchi?" he mocked, noticing her tattoo and slowly drawing an inch of his dark steel blade.
"The Yamata doesn't take kindly to deserters walking on our streets."