They entered the compound.
The air was still. No voices. No footsteps. No movement but their own.
Everything inside was old—weathered stone, rusted hinges, wooden beams darkened by time. Vines curled along the walls, and dust clung thick in the corners. The buildings towered around them, long-abandoned giants watching from above.
As they walked, Kuro noted the scale. The facility was massive—larger than he'd expected, larger than it looked outside. The halls stretched out far, winding between structures too tall to see the tops of from the ground.
Now and then, they passed someone in uniform. Though none paid them any attention. Eyes forward. Expressions empty. As if Kuro and Hida were no more than air.
Eventually, Hida stopped in front of a small building—its entrance narrow, frame warped with age. A faded wooden plaque hung over the door, the word "Registration" barely visible through layers of grime.
Hida glanced at Kuro.
"Wait here."
Then he stepped inside.
Kuro stood alone.
Time passed slowly.
At last, Hida stepped out again—but this time, he didn't stop.
Without a word, he moved past Kuro and walked down the path, one hand lifting slightly as he went—a gesture to go inside.
Kuro obeyed.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the thick scent of incense hit him—sharp, smoky, almost bitter. It coated his tongue, settled in his lungs.
Inside sat a man.
Old. In a way that felt deeper than just age. His skin hung thin over his bones, eyes sunken, almost closed. His hair was long and grey, tied back loosely, and his hands rested over a thick, bound register covered in dark stains.
Kuro took a step forward and spoke clearly.
"Kuro Yamihana."
The old man didn't open his eyes. But he spoke.
"Before completing the registration, you must listen carefully."
His voice was dry, cracked, but carried weight.
"There will be a week-long test beginning two days from now. You will be present when the work cycle bell chimes. Do not be late and don't carry any weapons .If you are, you will be disqualified."
A pause.
"And if you are disqualified… you will serve the clan as a menial for the rest of your life."
Said the old man with a sly smile.
"You are expected to learn, or to die. The consequences of your actions belong to you alone."
"Infighting is permitted. Encouraged, even. But it must be witnessed by a proctor. No assassinations. No ambushes without record. Also no killing"
Another pause.
"From the moment you entered that carriage, you became clan property. You now belong to the will of the Dark Lord. You will be shaped, used, or discarded as he sees fit."
Then, without looking, he reached beneath the desk and drew out a small wooden plaque. On it, a number was carved—7 and his registration details .
He extended it toward Kuro.
"You'll be staying in the building just next door." His hand shifted slightly, pointing through a slit in the wall toward a low, slate-roofed structure. "Room Seven."
Kuro took the plaque.
The old man said nothing more.
Dismissed, Kuro turned and stepped back into the quiet.
His clothes clung to him, soaked with sweat.
He cursed under his breath.
With the plaque in hand, he approached the building that the old man had pointed to. The path was cracked, stone eaten by weeds. The wind moved slowly through the compound—quiet, heavy. Not a soul in sight.
When he reached the door, he knocked.
No response.
He called out.
Still nothing.
So he tried the handle. It creaked loudly, resisting for a moment before giving way with a dry groan. The sound echoed down the empty corridor inside.
It looked untouched. Abandoned.
Dust clung to the walls. Cobwebs stretched between beams and corners. The air was thick with the scent of age—old wood, stone, and something like mildew.
The place hadn't seen light or footsteps in decades.
He walked the length of the corridor. Doors lined both sides, most slightly ajar. Nothing stirred. No voices. No presence.
Room 7 was near the far end.
When he opened the door, he paused.
The room was small—but it opened up to what looked like a courtyard. Overgrown, yes, but once tended. Stone tiles, patches of moss, a few crooked lanterns left rusting along the path. Faint traces of effort. Someone, long ago, had cared.
He stepped inside, shut the door behind him, and dropped the bag they'd given him earlier.
The room itself, strangely, was clean.
No dust. No stains. Everything in place—simple bedding, a small desk, and a folded set of dark clothes on a stool. There was even a washroom tucked into the corner—stone sink, a barrel-fed wash basin, and a drain carved into the floor.
He used it.
The water was cold, but he didn't care. He scrubbed the grime from his face, arms, and neck, letting the chill clear his head.
He dried off with the old but clean cloth left nearby, then changed into plain clothes. They were coarse, a little stiff, but they fit well enough.
He sat down on the bedding, damp hair clinging to his neck.
Everything was too quiet.
After some time passed, a knock came.
When he opened the door, no one was there.
Only a tray on the ground. Covered. Still warm.
He brought it in, ate without a word.
And so, the first day passed.
On the second day, the same thing happened—a knock, no voice, food left on the ground. But this time, the tray came with a folded black uniform placed neatly on top.
He inspected it. The fabric was heavier, reinforced. A tighter fit. Straps and clasps that suggested movement, durability—training gear.
He said nothing, but he understood.
And so, the second day passed.
Then the third morning came.
He got up, dressed in the black uniform. It fit snugly, perfectly almost. Which was odd. No one had taken his measurements.
He stepped outside.
The path to the registration building was as empty as before.