As I left the library, carrying my thoughts along, a chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with the cold.
'Someone's spying on me?'
I stopped at the end of the hallway and looked back through the window. On the second floor, silhouetted against the light, a figure stood watching. A man, middle‑aged, with a stocky build and close‑cropped hair. He wore the standard PE instructor's uniform, a navy tracksuit with the Academy's crest stitched on the chest. His arms were crossed, his posture relaxed, but his eyes were fixed on the library window, on the corner where Mizore sat.
He did not move. He did not blink. He just stood there, his expression unreadable, like a predator waiting for the right moment to strike.
'Hmmm? Okuto Kotsubo?'
The name surfaced from the depths of my memory, a character from the anime that I had half forgotten since he was not my PE teacher per se. He was a minor antagonist whose role I had never really cared about until now.
In the original story, he was a PE teacher who had targeted Mizore, using his authority to corner her, to threaten her, to try and force himself on her. A classic netorare archetype, the kind of villain that existed only to be defeated and forgotten.
'Don't tell me I have reached some off‑screen part from the Rosario anime, and this is how things happened between him and Mizore.'
'This bastard gives me the vibes of another netorare‑type character with all those piercings, blonde hair, and that stupid hairstyle. The kind of guy who thinks he can take whatever he wants because he has a little bit of power and a lot of arrogance.'
I felt my jaw tighten. My fingers curled into fists at my sides. The thought of him laying a hand on Mizore, of using his position to hurt her, made my blood boil. She had already been through so much, had isolated herself for months because she was afraid of people like him. And now here he was, lurking in the shadows, waiting for his chance.
'Not on my watch.'
'Should I just kill him now? I do not have a justification, and there are still many eyes around the campus.'
'He is not a slouch either.'
[Name: Okuto Kotsubo]
[Threat Level: A (Kraken)]
[Status: Watchful / Predatory – Low immediate hostility, high potential for escalation.]
I made a mental note to ask Shizuka‑sensei about him, to find out what kind of person he really was, and whether the Academy knew about his tendencies. But before leaving, I took precautions.
From my shadow, two Vampire Ghosts emerged, their translucent forms shimmering in the dim light. They drifted toward the second floor, silent and invisible, their hollow eyes fixed on Okuto‑sensei. One of them, a tall specter with flowing robes, turned and bowed its head reverently to me, its voice a whisper that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
"You two have an easy job. Do not let that person escape from your watch."
"Blood King," it intoned, its hollow voice echoing in the empty hallway. "We shall shadow this one. He will not make a move without your knowledge."
The second ghost, smaller and more agile, echoed the gesture. "As you command, Majesty. His every breath will be counted."
I was used to the ways of my Vampire summons by now. They called me "Blood King" from the moment they first materialized, and no amount of correction had changed their minds. I had stopped trying.
They would follow him, watch him, and report back if he made any moves. They were the perfect stalkers, unable to be seen or heard, their whispers capable of sowing confusion and fear in the minds of the wicked.
At the same time, I sent two Vampire Familiars and two Vampire Retainers to linger near Mizore. The Familiars, small bats with crimson eyes, would perch on the library roof and the nearby trees, keeping watch from a distance. They chittered softly as they took flight, their tiny forms disappearing into the shadows of the eaves.
The Retainers, shadow‑wolves with silver‑and‑black fur, melted from my shadow without a sound. They crouched low, their crimson eyes gleaming, their ears swiveling toward the library. One of them glanced back at me, and I felt its loyalty through the bond, a quiet, unwavering devotion.
"Guard her," I thought at them. "If anyone threatens her, you know what to do."
The Retainer dipped its head and vanished into the darkness around the dormitory, its form blending into the night. The other followed, their padded footsteps silent on the cold stone.
With all those moves in place, I would be signaled the moment this teacher tried to get his hands on Mizore. I would know if he attempted to derail the plot and shove it back into the original, forcing her into the role of a victim rather than a survivor.
'Like hell I will let this happen. I will remove this bud from the roots before it stirs up. When it comes to those parasites that I can remove without stirring the hornet's nest, I should not be fearful. I also have the propaganda machine at my fingertips.'
'I can layer myself in multiple defenses if they try to impeach me and have me expelled.'
I turned and walked to class, my footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. Behind me, the ghosts drifted upward, silent and patient, their hollow eyes fixed on the man who did not yet know he was being hunted.
---
The afternoon passed in a blur of lectures and note‑taking. My mind was elsewhere, turning over the morning's events, the conversation with Mizore, the figure in the window. So far, no sudden development. But I did manage to gather some information during the break.
Okuto‑sensei, I learned from a few whispered conversations with classmates, had a reputation. Not a good one. He was known for being overly familiar with female students, for finding excuses to touch them, for lingering too long in the locker rooms. He had never been officially disciplined, but the rumors were persistent. Several girls had transferred out of his classes, citing discomfort.
And now, it seemed, he had set his sights on Mizore. An easy target, he probably thought. A girl who was always alone, who had no friends to protect her, who would be too scared to report him.
'He has no idea what he is walking into.'
Kurumu shot me a questioning look during history, her amethyst eyes narrow with suspicion. She had noticed my distraction, my clenched jaw, the way I kept glancing at the window. I waved her off, mouthing "later." She frowned but did not push.
Evening fell, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple.
I had barely reached the end of the corridor when a cold whisper brushed against my ear.
"Blood King."
I stopped. One of the Vampire Ghosts had returned, its translucent form hovering just above the floor. The other remained on watch, but this one had slipped away to report.
"Speak," I said, keeping my voice low.
The ghost bowed its head. "The one you marked, Okuto Kotsubo, lingered near the library for several minutes. He did not approach the girl. Instead, he stared at the window where she sat, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides."
I felt my jaw tighten. "What else?"
"He muttered something under his breath. 'That icy brat needs discipline.' Then he turned and walked toward the faculty office. Before he entered, he made a phone call. We could not hear the other end, but his words were… telling."
The ghost's hollow voice dropped even lower. "'Tomorrow. After her last class. I will handle it personally.'"
A cold rage settled in my chest. Tomorrow. He was planning to move tomorrow.
"Did he mention a location?"
"No, Majesty. But we will continue to watch. He will not act without our knowledge."
I nodded, forcing myself to stay calm. "Good. Keep shadowing him. If he so much as looks at her again, you tell me immediately."
"As you command." The ghost faded back into the shadows, leaving me alone in the empty hallway.
'Tomorrow,' I thought, my fingers curling into fists. 'You have no idea what is coming for you, you piece of trash.'
I walked back to the dormitory alone, my hands shoved into my pockets, my breath fogging in the cool air. The temperature had dropped again, sharper than before, and I could see frost forming on the grass at the edge of the path.
When I reached my room, I stopped.
A single snowflake rested on the windowsill. It was perfect, intricate, each branch of its crystal structure visible in the fading light. And it was not melting.
Before I could react, even my sour mood shifted as I smiled.
Next to the crystallized snowflake, there was a letter. A small envelope, pale blue, sealed with a drop of wax that had frozen into a delicate pattern. My name was written on the front in elegant, flowing script.
'Oh my. She actually wrote back. That takes a lot out of a socially anxious girl to do.'
I did not see her again that day. But the frost on my windowsill and the letter in my hand told me she was hooked, like a fish caught on my fishing line. Not in a predatory way, not in a manipulative way, but in the way that a lonely person finally finds someone who listens.
I touched the snowflake. It was cold, colder than it should have been, and it did not melt against my skin. Then I took the letter and opened it, my fingers careful not to tear the delicate paper.
The letter was a confession, raw and honest, written in the same elegant script. Mizore wrote that she had never felt her heart beat like this before. She had never met someone who she could say understood her the way I did. The way I spoke to her, the way I listened, the way I did not flinch from her cold or her power. It made her think that our hearts were connected, that perhaps we were meant to find each other.
'I am such a bad boy for pulling on the strings of yet another beauty.'
'No, this makes it sound so disingenuous. I was genuine with her the whole time, and did not think about charming her that much.'
Attached to the letter were a series of poems she had written. Haiku, mostly, but also a few longer verses, all of them about winter, about loneliness, about the fear of reaching out and the hope of being accepted. They were beautiful, haunting, filled with imagery that made me pause and read them twice.
'She has talent,' I thought. 'The kind that comes from feeling things deeply and not knowing how else to express them.'
'Maybe some strays did not need to be rescued. Maybe they just needed someone to show them that the door was open.'
I left the crystallized snowflake on my desk, a small monument to the day's events. Then I sat down and read her poems again, letting the words sink in.
I set the letter down, my fingers still tingling from the cold that clung to the paper. She had poured her heart into those words, into those poems. The least I could do was answer.
I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and a pen. The words came slowly at first, then faster, as if they had been waiting to be written.
Mizore‑san,
Thank you for your letter. And for the poems. They are beautiful, every one of them. You have a real gift. Even without sending these poems of yours to my chief-editor, I can be confident to say that they would make it into the next release of the Gazette.
I meant what I said in the library. The Gazette would be lucky to publish your work, whenever you are ready. No pressure. Just an open door that would always be open for you.
I wanted you to know, your gift brought a smile to my face, and surprisingly, it hasn't melted. I think that means something if you asked those gossiping folks at the Astrology club.
Take your time. I am not going anywhere.
– Your new pen friend, Aono Tsukune
I read it twice, then folded the paper and slipped it into a fresh envelope. I wrote her name on the front in careful letters, then pressed the wax seal closed with my thumb, not as elegant as her frozen drop, but on mine I had already crafted a seal of mine.
'Yeah, I am narcissistic much, so don't bother me. Any Vampire needs to have something unique to themselves apart from their Shinso Abilities.'
From my shadow, a Vampire Familiar emerged, its tiny red eyes blinking.
"Take this to Mizore Shirayuki's Room 106. Leave it on the windowsill. Do not let anyone see you, especially that old hag trying to skin me alive for not paying her repairs."
The bat squeaked softly, took the envelope in its claws, and fluttered out the window into the gathering dusk.
I watched it go, then turned back to the crystallized snowflake still resting on my desk. It glittered in the fading light, untouched by the warmth of the room.
'This is another step taken in the right direction. Slowly, one step at a time and you'll win the race,' I thought. 'That is all any of us can do.'
The night was quiet, and somewhere, in the girls' dormitory, Mizore was probably all nervous, wondering if she had made a mistake, if I would reject her, if she had revealed too much of herself too soon.
What I did not know was that my assumption was almost spot on.
[> ^ <][> ^ <][> ^ <]
(Mizore's POV)
In her small, cold room at the end of the girls' dormitory hallway, Mizore Shirayuki sat on the edge of her bed, her knees drawn up to her chest, her breath fogging in the air. She had not turned on the heater. She never did that as it would be senseless. The cold was her element, her comfort, her armor and company.
But tonight, even the cold could not settle the flutter in her chest.
Her fingers traced the ice sculpture on her nightstand. She had been carving figures for years, shaping ice into idealized forms, never quite satisfied. Lately, she had been refining one particular shape, revisiting the image of this person in her mind.
First the curve of a jaw, the fall of dark hair, the intensity of eyes that seemed to look right through her. She had never shown it to anyone, had never even admitted to herself that she had made it for any reason other than practice.
But tonight, she looked at it and saw his face.
'Tsukune.'
The name echoed in her mind, soft and unfamiliar, like a word in a language she was only beginning to learn. She had written it on the envelope, had traced the letters with her finger before sealing the wax. It had felt strange, intimate, like whispering a secret into the dark.
Her hand moved to the pendant at her collarbone, the yellow stone cold against her skin. She had worn it for years, a gift from her grandmother, a charm meant to ward off loneliness. It had never worked. But tonight, she felt something different, a warmth that had nothing to do with temperature.
'Did I say too much?' she wondered, her gaze drifting to the window. The glass was frosted, obscuring the view of the moon. 'Did I scare him away?'
She thought of the letter, of the poems she had included, of the way her heart had pounded as she left it on his windowsill. She had watched from the shadows, hidden by the frost, her breath held in her lungs, her fingers trembling.
He had picked up the envelope. He had opened it. She had seen the small smile tug at his lips, and for a moment, she had forgotten to breathe.
'He did not throw it away.'
The realization settled over her, fragile and tentative, like a snowflake on a warm windowpane. She did not know if it would melt or if it would stay. But for now, it was there.
She reached out and touched the sculpture again, her fingers tracing the line of the jaw she had carved so carefully. The ice was cold, but beneath it, she imagined warmth.
'Maybe… maybe he really does understand me and my loneliness.'
She had never believed in fate, in soulmates, in the idea that two people could be connected by something invisible. Her kind did not think that way. They were solitary, cautious, afraid of being hurt. But when he had sat across from her in the library, when he had listened to her without flinching, without pity, she had felt something crack inside her, something she had not known was there.
A wall. A wall she had built around her heart, brick by frozen brick, to keep the world out.
And he had reached through it, not with force, but with patience.
Her eyes drifted to the window again, to the frost that was slowly spreading across the glass. She did not stop it. She let it grow, let the patterns form, each one unique, each one a reflection of the chaos in her chest.
'I want to see him again. I want to talk to him. I want to hear his voice.'
The thought scared her. It was dangerous, wanting something so much. But it was also exhilarating, a rush of warmth in the perpetual cold of her existence.
She pulled her knees closer to her chest and rested her chin on them. The sculpture watched her with its frozen eyes, and she stared back, searching for answers in the ice.
'What am I doing?' she asked herself. 'He is a vampire. He has friends, a club, a life. What could he possibly want with someone like me?'
But even as the doubt crept in, she remembered the way he had looked at her. Not with pity, not with fear, but with understanding. As if he saw the girl beneath the frost, the one who wrote poems and carved sculptures and dreamed of being seen.
Her hand drifted to the pendant again, and she closed her eyes.
'I will wait,' she decided. 'I will wait and see if he writes back. If he does not… then I will know.'
'But if he does…'
She did not finish the thought. She could not. The hope was too fragile, too new, and she was afraid of breaking it.
For a long time, she sat there, her breath fogging in the cold, her fingers resting on the ice sculpture's cheek. She did not sleep. She rarely did. But for the first time in months, she did not feel alone.
The frost on the window grew thicker, forming patterns that looked almost like words, almost like poetry. And in the silence of her room, Mizore let herself hope. Just enough to keep the cold at bay.
Just a little hope wouldn't hurt anyone, right?