A month had passed since that fateful day—
Since the roaring cheers of the crowd turned into screams of horror.
Since the Grand D-City Tournament, the pride of the continent and cradle of rising legends, ended in catastrophe.
The arena—once a place of glory, youth, and power—had been sealed by direct order of the Queen.
No one entered.
No one spoke of it.
No one dared to clean it.
The dust remained, piled on top of broken stone and shattered pride.
And beyond that dust…
Beyond the quiet mourning, the silenced broadcasts, and the trembling city still holding its breath—
There were two names.
Satsuki Amagiri and Homura Kurogane.
The two beasts of the final match.
Both survived.
But not in the same way.
Satsuki, one of the heirs of the Amagiri clan, had pushed herself to the edge of collapse. Her use of the forbidden technique Stellar Beast shattered her body. A leg broken in multiple places. Internal damage from magical pressure. A fractured wrist that refused to heal properly.
Clara hadn’t left her side in weeks.
Fei Long had shattered a healer’s arm for handling her too roughly.
Akane cried beside her every single night.
And yet—
She wasn't the one who suffered the worst fate.
That was Homura.
Homura Kurogane, the girl of blazing eyes and a sharper tongue,
was still asleep.
The doctors called it magical coma.
Some called it spiritual collapse.
Others whispered rumors of a critical Overhead incident, caused by her use of the forbidden Shingan no Ketsuryū, combined with interference from a mysterious long-range shot fired in the arena during the final clash.
Her body was alive.
Her vitals were stable.
But her flame—
Her flame had gone out.
Ishiki Kurogane hadn’t spoken since that day.
He only left his sister’s room for food or bathroom breaks.
The boy who had once stood like steel, now sat like ashes.
Charlotte—Homura’s cousin—took turns with him in the vigil.
She slept beside Homura’s futon, hands always holding hers.
And so, under the weight of silence and quiet mourning… they arrived.
The Amagiri siblings.
Satsuki in a wheelchair, her body still wrapped in fresh bandages.
Seiji, limping on crutches.
Clara pushing the wheelchair gently, yet with the resolve of someone carrying more than just her sister.
Charlotte heard them first—the soft click of a cane, the quiet roll of wheels, and, for the first time in weeks, voices that carried no tension... only concern.
Clara was the first to speak, her voice warm but soft:
—“Excuse us… may we come in?”
Charlotte stood and nodded. Ishiki didn’t move. His eyes stayed locked on the heart monitor, as if sheer willpower could change its steady rhythm.
The Amagiris stepped inside.
And there, they saw her.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
Homura, fierce and untouchable in memory, now lay pale and still.
Her chest barely rose with each breath.
Charlotte had brushed and braided her hair every day, refusing to let her look like anything less than alive.
IV lines.
Magical monitors.
Feeding tubes.
It was like looking at a war hero turned porcelain doll.
Satsuki said nothing.
She just stared.
Then, Clara stepped forward.
—“We may have been opponents in the arena,” she said quietly, “but we aren’t enemies now. Ishiki. Charlotte. We’ve known you since we were kids. You matter to us. If there’s anything—anything at all—we can do to help… just say the word.”
Charlotte lowered her gaze.
Ishiki only nodded, slow and silent.
The room fell quiet again. Clara turned Satsuki’s wheelchair toward the door.
But just as they were about to leave—
—“Wait.”
The voice came from Satsuki. Low. Hoarse.
Everyone turned.
—“Can I… go to her?” she asked.
Charlotte looked to Ishiki.
He hesitated.
Then stepped aside.
Satsuki, with Clara’s help, eased herself down onto the tatami beside Homura’s futon.
Her legs trembled.
She placed a single hand on the blanket.
For a long moment, she said nothing.
Then she whispered:
—“Get up. What are you doing… lying there?”
Her voice cracked.
—“Get up, damn it.”
She gripped the blanket.
—“You can’t leave me like this. Not after everything.”
Her head lowered.
—“You’re the only one I can laugh with. The only one who sees me without all the pressure, the rules, the bloodlines.
The only one who can call me an idiot… and I’d smile anyway.”
She bit her lip.
—“So please… wake up, Homura.”
The monitor beeped.
Steady. Cold. Unchanged.
Satsuki said nothing more.
She pressed her forehead against Homura’s.
And there they stayed—
A broken warrior, holding onto the rival who became her only refuge.
No one said a word.
Because sometimes, silence hurts less than the truth.
While all eyes focused on the tournament’s main stage, another battle unfolded quietly behind the scenes.
Not of blades or spells—
But of minds.
The Magical Engineering Showcase, hosted in one of D-City’s auxiliary domes, gathered the sharpest young minds in artifact theory and technical combat design.
There were no explosions.
No flashy finishing moves.
But pride?
Pride bled everywhere.
Sayaka Amagiri sat in the third row, flanked by floating toolboxes and scattered blueprint scrolls. Her lab coat shimmered with rune embroidery, and her midnight-blue hair was tied back with a floating mana clip.
Despite her childlike height and oversized sleeves, her eyes burned with one goal:
Crush Tetsu Shiba.
Her eternal rival.
(Not that he knew.)
A soft chime echoed through the arena.
“Next participant: Tetsu Shiba, Ambrocity Technical Division.”
Sayaka scowled.
—“Tch. Of course he’s right before me.”
Tetsu stepped onstage, as infuriatingly calm as ever.
Slick hair. Crystalline lenses. Uniform pristine.
His aura wasn’t arrogant… but it was infuriatingly competent.
—“Thank you for your time,” he said, connecting a sleek module to the main console.
What followed made half the judges lean forward.
An autonomous mana feedback stabilizer.
A real-time system that could absorb combat strain from overcharged magic techniques and reroute it safely.
Sayaka’s jaw tensed.
—“Wait… he made a live adaptive loop? With zero delay? In battle!?”
The bastard finished to polite applause.
And then, as if to rub salt in the wound, paused beside her.
—“Good luck, Amagiri. I’m sure your project will be… unique.”
She narrowed her eyes.
—“Don’t talk to me before my victory.”
Then it was her turn.
The lights dimmed. A new display projected her name:
“Sayaka Amagiri, D-City Magical Artifacts Club.”
She stepped forward, raised her hand, and summoned a silver cylinder into the air—an artifact lined with rotating rings of crystal and soft, pulsing mana.
—“This is Athena,” she announced, voice sharp and clear.
—“It’s a psychic resonance converter. It translates residual neural patterns into usable mana pulses. In simpler terms: it turns unconscious emotional energy… into magic.”
A judge blinked.
—“You mean… ghost mana?”
Sayaka nodded.
—“Exactly. My theory is that overcharged techniques leave emotional residue in the spirit’s core. Athena listens to those echoes.”
She linked it to an inert crystal and activated the interface.
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Then the rings spun. Once.
A flicker of light.
And a voice.
Faint. Glitched. But unmistakably real.
“...I swear I’ll come ba—…”
Sayaka froze.
—“Wait… That’s not my voice.”
The artifact sparked. She cut the feed immediately.
One of the judges cleared their throat.
—“Was that… part of your presentation?”
—“N-no. That was a residual echo. Still needs calibration. Apologies.”
She didn’t win.
Tetsu took first place by a technicality.
But Sayaka earned a special commendation for “radical innovation.”
Still, as she packed up Athena, one thought refused to leave her mind:
“...I swear I’ll come ba—…”
A message caught in the ether.
A memory trapped in mana.
A promise not yet broken.
From someone strong.
From someone still sleeping.