The inn stretched endlessly, its halls weaving through the towering structure like a maze. Built to house all one thousand competitors, it was designed for function, not comfort. Each fighter was assigned a room with nothing but a bed and a flickering lantern—essentials, nothing more.
Mono adjusted his bag as he walked through the packed corridors, glancing at the names and numbers printed on the walls. The place had an energy to it—subtle but heavy. Fighters passed each other with quiet nods, some sizing up potential opponents, others lost in thought. Nobody was here to relax.
Raiba skimmed the board near the entrance, rubbing his fingers over the numbered placements. "We're spread apart," he muttered. "Guess it's every man for himself now."
Josei gave a slight shrug. "We didn't come here to stay close."
Mono checked his slip again—room 723. He had been placed far into one of the upper sections, well away from the others. Tokira was in the lower numbers at 102, Raiba at 267, and Josei at 489. They wouldn't see each other again until the tournament officially started.
Tokira folded his slip and slid it into his pocket. "See you."
And with that, they all went their separate ways.
Mono walked down the long halls, passing fighters settled into their spaces. Some adjusted their uniforms, stretching before resting. Others sat near their lanterns, watching the flame dance as if it held the answers to tomorrow. Outside his window, he could see a small store across the courtyard, its doors still open, selling last-minute supplies. He wondered briefly if Renji would be here. The tournament had gathered fighters from everywhere—was it possible they'd cross paths? The thought lingered at the back of his mind, unanswered.
He reached his door—723—pressed his palm against the wood for a moment, then pushed it open.
The room was bare. A single bed, a lantern, and a window facing the street below. Nothing else.
Mono dropped his pack onto the bed, rubbing his fingers against the coarse fabric. 'Soon, everything starts.'
---
Across the building, Raiba threw his bag onto the bed, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "Room 267," he muttered. "Not exactly impressive."
Josei adjusted her lantern, watching the flame flicker before sitting down, her posture easy but focused.
Tokira had already shut his door, disappearing into the quiet.
Then there was Hito.
His door—number 1—was positioned at the front of the highest-ranking wing, standing out not just because of its placement, but because of the number itself. He ran his fingers across the painted digit before stepping inside, smirking. "They already know what everyone's about to learn," he muttered to himself.
---
The noon sunlight spilled into the halls, streaming through the high windows and casting long shadows across the stone floors of the second floor. Fighters moved throughout the building, some heading toward the store outside, others gathering near common areas, talking in sharp murmurs. The tension hadn't faded, but it had settled—until the commotion started.
Not a fight. Not even an outright argument. But it was sharp—voices carrying enough weight to make heads turn.
Down the eastern wing, a small group had formed near a doorway, the air buzzing with quiet intensity. At the center stood Tokira, still as ever, facing off against a fighter from a high-ranked dojo—a broad-shouldered competitor wearing a distinct sash, his stance carrying the unmistakable sharpness of someone trained under strict discipline.
The fighter spoke loudly enough for the people lingering in the halls to hear. "Your dojo has no rank, no status, nothing that puts it anywhere close to the top. You really think you're going to last?"
Tokira didn't react immediately. He tilted his head slightly, as if deciding whether it was worth responding at all.
Then, calmly, he said, "That's a lot of confidence for someone who looks like they just picked a fight with their reflection in the mirror."
A few chuckles passed through the nearby fighters.
The competitor straightened slightly, shifting his weight. "You think skill alone carries you through a tournament like this?"
Tokira exhaled softly. "I think your coach put more effort into teaching you to say that than teaching you how to win."
Some watching fighters exchanged glances. A quiet hum of amusement spread through them.
The fighter folded his arms, keeping his posture tight, his jaw clenching slightly. "You even understand how much reputation matters here?"
Tokira met his gaze, unshaken. "You keep talking about reputation like it'll save you from needing actual talent."
The murmurs started—low at first, but growing. Someone leaned toward another competitor, whispering something that made them smirk.
The fighter let out a slow breath, irritated. "You'll see how fast reality catches up to you."
Tokira barely shifted. "I'll see how long it takes you to stop running from it."
The surrounding fighters let out muffled laughs. The tension was shifting from confrontation to pure entertainment.
Then, Tokira exhaled, paused just long enough before finishing with—
"And if all that doesn't work, you can just keep switching topics until someone believes you."
Silence.
Then—
"WOOOOOAAAAHHHHH!!!"
The entire group exploded, some clapping, others doubling over with laughter. The fighter's face twitched—his jaw tightening, his fingers briefly curling into fists before he forced himself to relax. He glanced sideways, trying to act indifferent, but the heat rising in his ears betrayed him.
His arms unfolded stiffly, his weight shifting awkwardly, like he wanted to leave but didn't want it to seem like retreat. He exhaled, rolling his shoulders with forced ease, before turning away. "We'll see."
Tokira didn't say anything else. He just walked toward his room.
One voice—low at first, then growing—started chanting. "Silent Slayer! Silent Slayer!"
Others picked up on it immediately, grinning as they joined in. "Silent Slayer! Silent Slayer!"
Tokira barely reacted, walking calmly toward his door. The chants followed him, fighters laughing as they kept repeating the nickname.
He reached his door, pushed it open, and let the noise fade behind him.