The late afternoon sunlight filtered through cracked windows, casting long shadows across the dorm common room. The distant sounds of training faded into silence, leaving only the uneven breaths of three boys gathering after the sparring match.
Andre swaggered in, Caliburnus strapped to his back, his grin wide and unshakable. His every move screamed triumph as if the crowd had truly cheered for him.
"I told you I was fine," Andre said, voice loud, defiant. "There's no wish. I never met any gods. I don't have some magical contract or curse or whatever." He slammed a fist lightly against the wall, shaking off the pain in his bruised ribs.
Amari leaned back against the table, arms crossed, eyebrows raised. "You seriously don't remember? The gods? The whole wish thing? You're acting like it's just a fairy tale."
Andre laughed, a sharp, hollow sound. "I'm just me. Andre Cruz. No gods, no wishes. I just fight."
Hari watched quietly from his seat, eyes narrowing. "But the crowd… the illusions… they only show up for you. You can't explain that away."
Andre shook his head fiercely. The people simply love the show I put on. I don't have a wish. I might not even want one."
Amari scoffed. "You don't want one? Doesn't look like it. You're hooked on the attention, even if you don't realize it."
Andre's grin twisted, a flicker of frustration flashing behind his eyes. "I'm not hooked. I'm not some puppet. If I had a wish, I'd know it. Because I never met the gods to make one."
Hari rose, stepping closer, voice low but firm. "Sometimes the wish hides from us. Or the past forgets itself to protect us. You're not alone in this, Andre."
Andre's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he stared at his hands, then lifted his head and said, "Maybe you're right. But until I meet those gods I'm not accepting any wish."
Amari gave a slow nod. "Fine. But don't ignore what's happening, or it might ignore you back."
The three stood in silence as the sun dipped lower, shadows stretching across the worn floor a quiet storm brewing beneath the surface.
The fading sun cast long amber strokes across the training hall's walls, like a half-finished painting waiting for its final layer. Footsteps echoed softly as Anya Love emerged from a corridor, her towering paintbrush balanced across one shoulder like a lazy sword. Ink stained the hem of her robe elegant, but worn from years of crafting beauty in chaos.
She stopped several paces from the trio, letting her eyes linger on Andre.
"You're still stuck in your sketch phase," she said gently, tilting her head. "All outline. No shading."
Andre blinked, confused. "What does that mean?"
"It means," she said, stepping closer, "you're pretending the lines you see are the only ones on the page. But the canvas disagrees."
Amari snorted behind him. "That's her way of saying you're delusional."
Anya smiled faintly. "Not delusional. Just… working from an incomplete reference."
Andre crossed his arms. "There's no wish. I didn't meet any gods. I'm not one of those chosen ones. I just fight."
Anya circled him slowly, brush trailing behind her like a comet's tail. "Yet the world responds to your every flourish like an audience watching a masterpiece unfold. That isn't a coincidence. That's the intent. Design. A divine artist hidden in the strokes."
Andre looked away. "If someone painted this, I wasn't holding the brush."
"No," she agreed. "But sometimes, the canvas paints itself when the artist forgets the original vision."
Hari stepped forward, his voice low. "You think his wish is real… but hidden?"
Anya nodded once. "Wishes can stain reality in ways the wisher doesn't see. Sometimes the gods seal the memory behind layers gesso over the truth. To protect. Or punish."
Andre's hands curled into fists. "That doesn't make sense. Why would I wish for… that?"
"Because you needed it," she said softly. "Or maybe, because the part of you you've buried needed to be seen."
She raised her brush and made a slow gesture in the air. Dust followed its path, forming a circle that shimmered briefly, then scattered like unfinished pigment in wind.
"There's power in denial," she said. "It keeps the painting safe from overworking… but it also keeps it from ever being complete."
Andre stared at the spot where the dust had vanished.
"You're saying I'm not finished."
"I'm saying," she replied, "you're still pretending you're the painter, when all this time… you've been the portrait."
The silence that followed was thick, like wet paint refusing to dry.
Amari broke it, voice soft. "If that's true, what happens when the real Andre finally steps forward?"
Anya turned, the echo of her smile lingering like a signature in the corner of a canvas. "Then we see what masterpiece the gods had in mind."
And with that, she walked away each step like a brushstroke fading into the distance, leaving only questions and the smell of old ink behind.
The training arena was empty.
Evening light cut harsh angles across the stone floor, turning shadows into sharp edges. Hyuk stood alone in the center, her breath measured, movements precise. A chalk-drawn target stood at the far end, already peppered with punctures dead center, every shot.
She nocked another arrow.
Not because she missed.
But because she hated how close he got.
Thunk.
The arrow struck the center again.
Her fingers were already reaching for the next.
Andre Cruz.
She hadn't said his name since the match, not even in thought. But it lingered in her muscles like soreness, that punch, that grin, the illusion of the crowd echoing like theater instead of combat. The very idea of it itched at her spine.
She fired again.
Thunk.
It wasn't just his theatrics. It was the effect they had. The illusion was too clean, too reactive. The cheering wasn't his delusion, it followed his rhythm. It bent to him.
She spun, drew a sequence of glyphs in the air, and launched a pressure arrow that blew the training dummy apart.
Still not enough.
She breathed through her nose. In. Out.
One mistake. That's what it was. Her spacing had been wrong. Her tempo was just a beat off. She let him drag her into his tempo, his "scene." She wouldn't make that mistake again.
But something still pulled at her. Something raw and unresolved.
Hyuk set her bow down and sat cross-legged on the floor. Sweat clung to her skin. She closed her eyes.
And for a brief moment… she remembered the crowd.
Not the real one.
The other one.
She had felt them. Not just seen or heard, felt. Like pressure behind her ribs. Like expectation pressing in. Not from the students in the stands. From something deeper.
Wishes didn't work like that.
Or at least, they weren't supposed to.
"Cheater," she muttered to the empty room, but her voice held no anger. Only curiosity.
Then, quietly, she added:
"Let's see how your encore ends."
And with that, she stood, raised her bow, and fired again this time not at a target, but through a shadow in the wall.
It split the stone.
The academy grounds shimmered in the final breath of twilight, golden streaks melting into the shadows. Far above the highest tower, hidden from view and Nous detection alike, a quiet ripple stirred the air and then vanished.
Makoto was already there.
Smoke drifted from the cigarette between his fingers, a glowing ember in the dark. He stood on the narrow iron frame of an old scaffold not part of the academy's official design, but an architectural oversight long forgotten. To him, it was the perfect gallery seat.
Below, through reinforced windows and angled walls, he watched Hari, Amari, and especially Andre Cruz.
"Still raw," he murmured. "But something's waking up in him."
Makoto didn't move much. He didn't need to. Every breath, every shift of muscle was intentional. His artifact, Ruyi, leaned across his back like a metal whisper ancient, dangerous, and reverently silent. Sparks arced faintly at its tip before vanishing like dust on the wind.
A voice crackled softly in his ear not over tech, but Nous-channel comms, tuned to a narrow frequency only Pandora used.
"We've got movement near the ridge. Miras' people hit another enclave. Dozens dead. They're not discriminating anymore."
Makoto exhaled, long and slow, smoke curling from his lips.
"Expected. He's accelerating."
The voice paused.
"And the boy?"
Makoto didn't answer immediately. He crouched, observing Andre now through a distant reflection a warped window pane that showed only flickers of the dorm. The boy was laughing again. Loud. Unapologetically alive. And completely unaware of the world sharpening its blade against him.
Makoto's eyes narrowed.
"He's a ripple. Not a storm. Not yet."
"Do you think he's the answer?"
"No," Makoto said, flicking the cigarette into the wind. "I think he's the question."
A pause.
"And if he refuses to ask it?"
Makoto turned slightly, one hand resting on the hilt of Ruyi, the weapon once held by the original Nouson-human hybrid. The one who had begged the world for peace during the dark ages and had been torn apart for it.
Now another hybrid was rising. Miras. Same blood. Different will.
"The last time Ruyi was swung," Makoto murmured, "it carved a path toward peace."
He tapped the handle once, letting the metal hum.
"If Miras gets his hands on the world first… it'll carve graves instead."
Below, the dorm light flickered as the boys moved inside.
Makoto turned from the edge. And just as the silence reclaimed the scaffold
Skip.
A flicker. A breath. And he was gone.