Ayase and Koharu stood before them, their gazes foreign yet unreadable.
“You were raised on a lie.”
Ayase’s voice carried through the air, calm but firm.
“The world has called him a hero. But Ancient was never a hero. He was a warrior. The mightiest of us all.”
The weight of his words settled over the group, lingering in the charged air of the Chūkan Yūrei.
Ren’s brow furrowed, his arms crossing tightly over his chest.
“That’s ridiculous. He was the greatest among us, the reason we fight at all. The reason I fight at all.”
Koharu scoffed, shaking her head.
“That’s where you’re wrong. A warrior fights for strength. A hero fights for ideals. Ancient didn’t waste his time with ideals.”
Watari blinked, raising a hand.
“Okay, hold on. So, what? The dude was just a badass with no morals? That’s what you’re telling me?”
Ayase gave a small smirk.
“Not quite. He had conviction. But what you fail to understand is that his power—his Tamashkii—was never something borrowed. He never relied on a core. He never had reason to, and yet that filthy creation was how he met his demise.”
Silence fell.
The statement dug deep, unsettling the foundations of what they believed about Tamashkii.
The Chūkan warriors stood tall, untouched by the artificial power the rest of the world had come to rely on.
“You all think you need those cores to access your forms.”
Koharu’s voice was ced with disgust.
“But that’s a weakness. Your reliance on cores is proof of that. If Ancient could ascend without one, why should you accept less for yourselves? A true warrior doesn’t borrow power. They become it.”
Ayase took a step forward, his eyes scanning the group.
“That’s why you’re here. To finally unlearn the weakness you’ve built your strength on.”
Ren clenched his fists.
Yumi remained quiet, processing every word.
Akira’s sharp gaze flickered between the two Chūkan warriors, his usual smirk absent.
Koharu folded her arms.
“Every Tamashkii user resonates with a spirit entity. That’s the essence of your power. Your core is nothing but a crutch that forces the connection. But with your Reibaku—” she gestured toward their weapons, ”—that resonance happens naturally. Your bond is absolute. That’s why these weapons feel different.”
Watari eyed the katana strapped at his side.
He reached for it, fingers brushing against the hilt.
A familiar hum vibrated through his palm—alive, responsive, one with him.
Unlike the artificial surge of a core, this felt right.
Ayase smirked.
“You’re finally starting to get it.”
Koharu tilted her head.
“And now, it’s time for you to prove it.”
At that moment, the massive doors to the training hall groaned open.
Six figures stepped forward.
“Division assigned to safeguard its interests. We are the ones entrusted with the Tenth. The Jūmonban. I am the Lieutenant of this squad.”
Koharu nodded, gesturing toward their uniforms.
The insignias on their clothing shimmered faintly in the ethereal light, the kanji for ten (十) woven into their sleeves.
“Our orders are to ensure that those who stand here are worthy of the Chūkan. That includes all of you. As commander of the Jūmonban, I always see my orders through.”
The air grew heavy.
Akira’s fingers twitched at his side.
“Their energy… it’s suffocating.”
Ryuko cracked his knuckles, grinning.
“Yeah. I like it.”
Ayase tilted his head slightly before gncing at one of the warriors standing in the back.
“Hitomi, you sit this one out.”
The silent warrior didn’t move at first, then, with a slight nod, took a step back, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall.
Ayase turned back to the group, his gaze sweeping over them.
“It’s a simple exercise. Five-on-five. You don’t need to win. You don’t need to knock them out. All you have to do…”
He paused, his lips curving slightly.
“Is touch one of them.”
Silence.
Then, Koharu’s smirk widened.
“Whenever you’re ready. Your failures will prove to us just how useless those cores are.”
Cut to bck.
