The hallway lights buzzed overhead in a lazy rhythm. Kouji moved through the quiet, hands in his pockets, thoughts heavier than usual.
He hadn't slept well again.
The dreams were getting stranger.
No blood, no screams. Just... corridors that bent wrong, reflections that didn't reflect, and that constant feeling like he was being watched — from just outside his vision.
He'd been in the Association for what — two weeks now? Maybe less.
And yet... It already felt like years.
Ryo was waiting for him near the training ground's back entrance, one foot resting against the wall. His coat was as wrinkled as always, his gaze unreadable.
"You look like hell," he said by way of greeting.
"Didn't sleep."
"Good. Maybe your instincts will be sharper."
Kouji gave him a flat look. "Is that a training philosophy or just sarcasm?"
"Whichever one you deserve," Ryo said, already turning. "Come on."
The training field was empty this early — sun barely over the edge of the buildings, casting long shadows over the gravel and scorched patches of earth.
"Why me?" Kouji asked, walking beside him.
"Because I've been thinking."
"About?"
"Your ability."
Ryo stopped and turned to face him. "Show me. That thing you did during the Humare incident. Try it again — on anything."
Kouji hesitated, then knelt beside a rusted bench. His hand touched the leg. The material came into focus in his mind — composition, structure, weight.
Then, with a slow pull of concentration, he extended his other hand, pointing toward a metal plate a few meters away.
The bench leg bent, shimmered — and a small rod of curved steel pulled itself out of it, stretching like taffy, snaking through the air and reshaping into a sharpened, improvised weapon.
Kouji caught it midair.
Ryo raised a brow.
"You're not just analyzing."
Kouji wiped sweat from his forehead. "What do you mean?"
"You're extracting and shaping. You're taking material and making something else with it. I've seen this kind of reaction before. This isn't a pure Plus."
Kouji frowned. "It's my Blessing. It always worked like this."
"Sure it did," Ryo said dryly. "Until it didn't."
Kouji looked at the rod in his hands. "Then what is it?"
Ryo didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he walked over to the weapon, inspected it, then looked at the bench again. A visible dent was left where the material had been drawn.
"If it were your Plus," Ryo said, "you'd be emulating behavior — copying function, not stealing mass."
Kouji said nothing.
"But it's not a Minus either, that's for sure. But you might not know what you really have yet. And in this world," Ryo added, "not knowing yourself is the fastest way to die."
Kouji glanced up. "What's your ability?"
Ryo's smile was thin.
"You don't ask people that, rookie."
"Why not?"
"Because information is currency. And power's a secret for a reason. The more people know about your skill, the easier it is to kill you."
Kouji was silent, but Ryo stepped forward and continued, voice flat:
"There are two types of Blessings," he said. "Plus and Minus."
Kouji looked at him.
"Plus Blessings are born from skill, instinct, growth. Controlled and efficient."
"And Minus?"
"Minus comes from breaking. From trauma, rage, fear. They're unstable — strong, but harder to master. Sometimes they kill the user before the enemy gets the chance."
"Mine's a Plus," Kouji said. "I'm sure."
Ryo stared at him.
And said nothing.
He tossed a wooden staff toward Kouji, who caught it reflexively.
"Let's see how sure you are. Spar me."
Kouji blinked. "Wait, what—"
"No aura boosts, no Blessings. Just instinct."
He dropped into stance — no weapon in hand. None needed.
Kouji braced. "You're going to hold back, right?"
Ryo cracked his neck.
"No."
The first strike came like a whisper.
Kouji's staff flew from his hands before he even processed the motion. He rolled, picked it up, and barely dodged a knee to the ribs.
"Faster than I thought," Ryo murmured. "Good."
Kouji didn't respond. He was too focused.
He started reading spacing, angles — predicting Ryo's body weight, rotation, subtle pivots. His mind raced through every movement like a blueprint unfolding.
He attacked.
Missed.
Again.
Blocked.
But by the fourth exchange, something clicked — Kouji landed a glancing blow across Ryo's shoulder.
Ryo stepped back. Smiled, faintly.
"He's adapting mid-fight. He's evolving too fast."
He didn't say it aloud. But the thought stayed.
After fifteen minutes, Kouji collapsed to one knee, drenched in sweat.
Ryo stood calmly, barely breathing hard.
"Better," he said. "Next time, don't think. Just move."
Kouji nodded, exhausted. "You're impossible."
"I'm your practice," Ryo corrected. "The impossible's still ahead of you."
As Ryo walked off, Kouji sat on the ground for a moment longer, eyes unfocused.
His thoughts returned to the dreams.
To the feeling of being observed.