– A future threat.

Izuma stumbled out of the massive throne room

The echo of the council's final words still hanging in the air like ash.

The guards didn't escort him out—they hurled him.

His body hit the polished steps just beyond the threshold. Palms scraped. Knees buckled. For a moment, his face hovered inches above the black stone, breath shuddering from his chest.

Then he pushed himself up.

Dust clung to his hands. The velvet-lined hallway behind him was already sealed—those monstrous doors slamming shut with an eerie finality. He stood, slowly, the pressure still suffocating his ribs.

They knew.

They knew he had lied.

But how?

He had played the role. Stumbled and stammered just enough. Kept his answers vague, unsure, humble. He'd told them what they wanted to hear.

And yet…

They saw right through it....

His thoughts spiraled as he walked—no, staggered—through the corridor. The guards had already vanished, leaving him alone to retrace steps back toward a life that suddenly felt fragile.

Their eyes. All of them...

But not all of them spoke.

That was what haunted him now.

Four voices. Four personalities. But there were five on the thrones.

The last one… the one veiled in shadow. Set apart, almost beyond the circle. A mere outline.

Male.

Looks to be a little older than me, but not by much.

He never said a word.

He didn't need to.

That silence was worse than accusation. Worse than threats. It was as if the boy had been measuring him. Dissecting him.

Thinking.

Judging.

Even now, Izuma could feel that gaze in the back of his skull.

The memory tightened his jaw. His boots dragged a little heavier now, legs aching with every step down the long corridor until he finally saw light. Fresh air. A break in the madness.

He stepped outside.

No one was there to catch him when his knees gave out.

There were guards, but they didn't seem to care.

He collapsed onto the hard stone. Hands slamming down, breath catching.

The weight of it all crashed down like a landslide.

He was supposed to be careful. Quiet. Hidden.

But now the highest authority in the city not only knew he existed—they branded him an anomaly.

His fingers clenched the marble until his nails bit skin. Sweat fell, mixing with dirt and dust.

Then his voice came—low, hoarse, broken by grit.

"If those bastards in there are the source of this world's corruption… I'll stop them."

He pushed himself up slowly, the sky glaring down with cloudless blue indifference.

"They'll tell me how to get back."

His eyes sharpened. No fear now. Only purpose.

"But if they won't give it to me… if they refuse to help me…"

His lip curled.

"Then I'll shatter everything they stand for, one scream at a time."

The onlookers said nothing.

They had already turned away.

But Izuma knew the words weren't for them.

They were for himself.

His resolve.

---

The throne room remained still. The five council members did not move from their seats.

The silence had returned.

But it wasn't empty.

It was brewing.

"Why didn't any of you ask him how he defeated the scouts?"

The elderly voice cracked with restrained irritation.

"There was no need," The cold woman said, her tone unbending.

"If we had, and he answered wrong, it would have revealed our expectations."

"But we should know how," snapped the raspy man.

"Six guards. Armored. Blessed. Dead. And he walked away."

"An unknown factor is an asset," said the woman flatly. "One we now observe."

"You mean watch."

"No." Her eyes narrowed behind the veil.

"I mean track."

They fell into silence again.

A ripple of breath passed as the childlike voice spoke next.

"Do you believe him?"

The elder exhaled through his nose.

"Not about his origin. That was feigned. Too composed."

"The ability, though…" said the raspy one, rubbing his chin.

"That he was firm on. Too firm. Might actually be truth."

"But what if it isn't?"

No one answered.

That was when the fifth throne moved.

A subtle shift. Shoulders straightening.

Then the boy leaned forward.

His voice was soft.

Too soft.

Yet it carried the weight of the whole room.

"This kid might be a bigger threat than we realize."

The others turned to him instantly.

He continued.

"Even though he's just a rookie now… his thought process could rival that of a nation."

Stillness settled.

Then—

"Explain,"

the elder murmured.

The boy's eyes didn't blink.

"He lied. Not out of fear. But calculation."

The others leaned forward.

"He didn't overact. Didn't overdefend. He stammered once. Once. Just enough to appear uncertain. But the timing? Too perfect. That's not a scared kid....

A pause.

"That's a tactician."

The woman nodded slowly.

"You think he planned the lie in advance?"

"No," said the boy.

"I think he planned multiple lies—and chose that one because it was safest."

A hush fell.

The boy's gaze sharpened, glowing faintly under the dim candlelight.

"I know a future threat when I see one."

He leaned back.

"That boy is one of them."

The council remained quiet for a long time.

Then, one by one, they each turned toward the sealed doors.

---

Back outside,

The sky was dimming when Izuma pulled out the battered map Rinji had given him.

His fingers traced the creases.

The safe house was marked with a crude symbol: an eye drawn with a scratch of red.

He squinted, turning the map toward the sun, trying to align himself with the spires in the distance. The city was vast and unfamiliar. But the streets were starting to make sense.

"Okay…" he murmured, trying to steady his breath.

"Four lefts from the market... alley near the butcher… cross the drainage canal…"

He folded the map tightly and tucked it into his inner coat.

His legs hurt.

His heart more so.

But he moved.

Each step slow.

Deliberate.

In the distance, faintly behind him, an echo remained.

The boy's voice—quiet, methodical—reverberated like a whisper of prophecy.

"That boy is a future threat."

"And future threats don't stay hidden forever."

"His time to shine will come..."

"But only God knows how bright this future star will shine"