NEXT! NEXT! NEXT!

  The voices echoed relentlessly through the halls as heroes were called in one by one. The tension was suffocating. Footsteps shuffled forward, nerves twisted in stomachs, and breaths were held. Mr. Haikito was in full drive, pointing left or right without hesitation. Right meant they remained heroes; left meant they were done—their life's work, their identity, their purpose, swept away with a simple gesture.

  Outside the examination room, the heroes waited in line, their bodies rigid with tension. The sound of a voice saying "next" followed by the opening and closing of a door created a merciless rhythm, each beat bringing them closer to judgment. Some heroes mumbled prayers under their breath; others ran through mental lists of their accomplishments as if preparing for an oral examination.

  "If we're all here," one of them murmured, voicing what many had been thinking, "who's keeping the villains at bay?"

  The question rippled through the crowd, the implications clear. A city without heroes was vulnerable, exposed. Whispers grew into concerned murmurs until a cadre member stepped forward, her uniform pressed to perfection.

  "The heads of the Academy enlisted the help of the clans and those who purchased their licenses," she explained, her voice practiced and even. "They're on a base salary for the day to keep order."

  The answer made sense, but it did little to ease the unease that permeated the air. The heroes who purchased their licenses—who obtained through wealth what others earned through blood and sacrifice—were now their stand-ins. It was a necessary practical arrangement that nonetheless left a bitter taste.

  The voice rang out again.

  NEXT!

  Shinjuu's turn.

  His stomach twisted into knots despite his steel exterior. He exhaled sharply before stepping inside the room, the door sealing behind him with a sound of finality. As it shut, his steel-coated fingers flexed on instinct. His eyes met Haikito's—the man was drenched in sweat, yet his aura remained unshaken, his presence as commanding as ever.

  Haikito sat in a simple chair that somehow resembled a throne in his occupation. His blue eyes—normally piercing—were dull with exertion, yet they sharpened when they locked onto Shinjuu. Dark circles had formed beneath them, and a fine tremor ran through his hands as he wiped his forehead. For a moment, he seemed to look through Shinjuu rather than at him, as if analyzing something only he could perceive.

  "Take a seat, Shinjuu. Let's talk," Haikito said, gesturing to the chair opposite him.

  Shinjuu hesitated but obeyed, slowly lowering himself into the chair. His muscles tensed beneath his steel exterior, prepared for conflict. The metal of his skin creaked softly as he settled.

  "Tell me," Haikito whispered, voice calm yet charged with something electric, "what was he like in battle?"

  Shinjuu swallowed, the sound unnaturally loud in the quiet room. "Swift, sir."

  Haikito's piercing blue eyes locked onto his, suddenly more intense. "My apologies—let me be more specific. When he closed Baku's mouth, what did you notice?"

  Shinjuu's breath hitched. That moment—the split second before disaster—had replayed in his mind countless times. The boy who seemed so ordinary, so unimpressive, transformed into something else entirely.

  "They changed," he murmured, more to himself than Haikito.

  "Go on," Haikito urged, eyes gleaming with excitement that seemed almost inappropriate for the formality of the retrial.

  Shinjuu squeezed his fists as the memory crystallized. "His dull, black eyes... they turned blue. And then—" he paused, reliving the moment, "—then he almost vanished. He was already on Baku before I could react."

  Haikito leaned forward, energy radiating from him despite his physical fatigue. "Yes! Keep going!"

  Shinjuu's pulse quickened, caught in Haikito's enthusiasm despite himself. "The air—no, the gravity around us—it tensed. Like something was pressing down but also pulling. And then his eyes turned black again!"

  Haikito let out a sharp laugh, a vein popping along his temple as he grinned maniacally. "Yes! That's exactly it!"

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Shinjuu stared at him, unnerved by this side of Haikito he'd never witnessed. The chairman's excitement was beyond professional interest—it was almost obsessive, as if Rei's abilities confirmed something he'd long suspected.

  Suddenly, the tension broke. Haikito leaned back in his chair, exhaling as if releasing the high of an adrenaline rush. His hand lifted—steady despite his exhaustion—and pointed right.

  Shinjuu had passed.

  He rose from the chair, uncertain whether to feel relief or more unsettled than before. Was this what all the ceremony had been for? Not to evaluate his worth as a hero but to extract information about Rei? The realization that he might have been nothing but a witness to something greater left a strange taste in his mouth.

  NEXT!

  The procession continued without pause, heroes entering with fear and leaving with either relief or confusion. Hours passed, the line slowly dwindling as the judgment continued.

  Inside the room, with each hero, Haikito's routine became more refined, more focused. He rarely asked questions now, instead staring intently at each person for a brief moment, as if overlaying their image with something only he could see. Occasionally, he would whisper questions about specific missions or encounters—seemingly random inquiries that left heroes puzzled. A master healer was asked about a child she had saved three years ago. A demolitions expert was questioned about a specific building collapse. A telekinetic was interrogated about the exact weight of objects he could move.

  Behind each question lay a pattern invisible to all but Haikito himself—a hidden calculus measuring each hero not just for their individual worth, but for their potential utility in some greater design.

  In the gathering hall afterward, heroes murmured among themselves, confusion evident in their faces. One of them, Dante, a swordsman hero with a sleek katana strapped to his back and a reputation for being untouchable in close combat, approached Shinjuu with a furrowed brow.

  "What the hell was that about?" Dante asked, voice low. "He asked me about a fight from two years ago—not even an important one. Just some minor villain with teleportation abilities I took down in minutes." He shook his head. "Then he just... stared at me, said nothing, and pointed right."

  Shinjuu nodded slowly. "He asked me about the Vessel kid."

  Around them, similar conversations bloomed, heroes comparing notes on Haikito's strange questions. A pattern began to emerge—he seemed particularly interested in heroes who had encountered unusual abilities, rare concepts, or demonstrated adaptability in unexpected situations.

  "It's like he's mapping something," a hero with analytical abilities murmured nearby. "Not testing us—cataloging us."

  Then, the announcer took the stage.

  Instantly, the room silenced. The heroes—even those who had earlier been rebellious—now stood at attention, the day's ordeal having reminded them of their place in the hierarchy.

  Internally, the announcer smirked. Mr. Haikito should scare them more often.

  "Congratulations," he said, voice firm. "Only twenty heroes failed their retrial. The overwhelming majority of you have earned your keep. By order of the officials, enjoy your day off—we have taken care of your districts' villain activity today."

  The crowd erupted into a buzz of confused murmurs rather than cheers. After all the ceremony, the fear, the tension—only twenty failed? Heroes exchanged baffled glances, some almost disappointed by the anticlimax. What had been the purpose of this elaborate exercise if not to cull their numbers significantly?

  Some began to speculate in hushed tones: "Was this just a power play?" "Maybe the real test was how we responded to the pressure..." "Something's not right. No one goes through this much trouble for so little change."

  The announcer raised his hand for silence, his expression grave.

  "Remember this day," he added, his tone sobering. "Remember what it means to be judged and found worthy. Tomorrow, you return to your duties with a renewed understanding of the responsibility you bear."

  The scene panned away, shifting back to the quiet of Haikito's room.

  He slumped in his chair, his breath shallow, sweat dripping down his temple in rivulets. His muscles locked with exhaustion, fingers gripping the armrests so tightly the wood creaked in protest. His perfect composure—the unflappable presence that had dominated the retrial—had vanished the moment the last hero left.

  On the table beside him lay a small notebook, its pages filled with meticulous notes in a cipher known only to him. Names were arranged in clusters, connected by lines and symbols that formed a complex web. At the center of this web, a single name stood out, circled multiple times: Rei.

  The cadre who had been inside the room throughout approached cautiously, concern evident in his expression. "Sir? Are you—"

  Haikito exhaled slowly, cutting him off with a slight wave. "I'm fine." With a subtle motion, he closed the notebook, sliding it into his inner jacket pocket.

  The cadre hesitated, unconvinced. Haikito's piercing blue eyes had dimmed to a darker hue, like a flame running low on fuel. He had used his concept continuously for hours—not just examining the heroes, but analyzing countless potential futures, countless variations, seeking the optimal configuration for some purpose known only to him.

  "Get me water," Haikito ordered softly. "And ensure I'm not disturbed for the next hour."

  As the cadre turned to leave, Haikito added, almost to himself, "He'll need guides. Teachers. Challenges." His fingers traced the outline of the notebook in his pocket. "The pieces are almost in place."

  The cadre paused, uncertain whether the words were meant for him. "Sir?"

  Haikito seemed to return from some distant thought, his gaze refocusing. "Nothing. Just planning ahead."

  The cadre nodded and hurried away, leaving Haikito alone with whatever burden he carried—a weight unseen but clearly immense.

  The trial was over.

  And Haikito had pushed himself further than anyone realized, sacrificing something personal to maintain the Academy's order—or perhaps, to reshape it according to a design centered around one seemingly unremarkable student. As he closed his eyes to rest, a single thought crossed his mind:

  It Begins