Footsteps echoed softly across the courtyard

It was a question even for Mikado Ryuugamine why he had come to school so early that morning, though he knew that probing the reason would bring him nothing but a hollow answer.

        Dawn still lingered in the air, the sun only beginning to climb above the distant rooftops. The school grounds lay hushed and empty, wrapped in a fragile calm as if the world itself had not yet fully awakened. Dew clung to the grass along the walkways, catching the pale light and shimmering faintly with each step he took.

        The familiar buildings stood in silent rows, their windows dark and unblinking, stripped of the noise and life that usually filled them. Even the wind seemed reluctant to intrude, stirring only enough to carry the scent of damp earth and old concrete.

        Mikado's footsteps echoed softly across the courtyard, unnaturally loud in the absence of voices and laughter. For a moment, the school felt less like a place of learning and more like a forgotten stage awaiting its actors, patient, unmoving, and quietly expectant.

        So…what am I supposed to do now? He had arrived far too early, and with the two hours before classes began, all he could do was stand there, uncertain, the stillness pressing gently but persistently against him.

        Mikado drifted into an aimless stroll across the school grounds, turning wherever a path presented itself. It was a routine he had grown accustomed to since his first days at this high school, one that no longer stirred any excitement within him. The familiar scenery passed by unnoticed, its novelty long since worn away.

        One step. Then another.

        The count continued in his head, quietly, unconsciously, three, four, five, until the numbers blurred together. By the time he reached ten, then eleven, then twelve, he could no longer remember why he had started counting at all. His feet moved on their own, carrying him forward while his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

        It wasn't until the scent of damp soil grew stronger that he realized where he was. Mikado slowed to a stop at the edge of the school garden, his thoughts finally settling back into place.

        "That's right… I'm on watering duty today," he muttered, as if confirming a fact to himself. The thought alone seemed to drain what little energy he had left; his eyebrows twitched in quiet irritation.

        But that wasn't why he had come so early.

        No, it was just a coincidence. His duty merely happened to fall on this day.

        Mikado let out a quiet sigh inwardly, his hand drifting to scratch the back of his head.

        "Well… at least I came early. That means I can finish my job early too," he muttered, forcing a note of optimism into his voice, as if trying to assign meaning to his premature arrival. 

        Watering the garden was one of the duties assigned to first-year students, part of the school's on "preserving tradition" or so the administration likes to call it. A practice that felt oddly out of place in a world like this.

        Having come to terms with it, Mikado headed toward the storage room. He turned on the water supply, pulled free a length of hose, and slung it over his shoulder. The equipment was old, its presence almost anachronistic enough to make one wonder why it still existed at all.

        The early morning breeze stirred, brushing his medium-length hair into his eyes. Mikado raised a hand to sweep it aside and that was when she noticed her.

        Beneath the old tree at the edge of the garden, someone was already there.

        A girl sat alone on one of the benches, wearing the Second Shibuya High School uniform, bathed in the pale light of dawn filtering through the leaves above. Sunlight slipped between the branches and settled softly in her hair, catching on each strand as the breeze stirred it.

        She wasn't doing anything in particular, just sitting there, hands folded in her lap, gaze lowered as if lost in thought. Yet the quiet of the morning seemed to gather around her, as though she belonged to it more than anyone else.

        Mikado hadn't meant to stare.

        But for a brief moment, he forgot about the hose in his hand, the duty waiting for him, and even the reason he’d come so early in the first place. 

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Mikado idly stared out the classroom window, watching the school grounds below steadily fill with life. Students poured in through the gates in their neat uniforms, laughter carrying on the morning air as they clustered with friends. Some walked briskly, others lingered near the shoe lockers, changing into their uwabaki before heading inside.

        From where he sat, he could almost map the rhythm of the school day unfolding, voices rising and overlapping, the slap of footsteps against the corridor floors, the sharp clang of lockers being shut. Whispers about this week's rumors drifted from desk to desk, half-hidden behind cupped hands, each one adding to the quiet undercurrent that defined school life.

        The chime of the morning bell echoed faintly through the building, signaling the last moments before class began. Mikado found it faintly amusing how this same courtyard, now overflowing with sound and motion, had been wrapped in near silence just an hour earlier, when only the wind and distant crows kept him company.

        "Sup, Mikado, my friend."  

        Mikado turned toward the voice to find Modara Kakeru standing beside his desk, wearing his usual carefree grin. What surprised him, however, was the next thing that came out of Kakeru's mouth.

        "Good morning."

        Coming from someone still smiling that widely this early in the day, the greeting felt strangely out of place.

        "So what's the grin about?" Mikado asked, leaning back in his chair and stretching his stiff shoulders.

        "Well, I just heard some gossip on my way here," Kakeru said, leaning in slightly. "They say you were talking with Senior Eto Morioka in the school garden early this morning."    

        "…So?" Mikado replied.   

        "So?" Kakeru echoed, his voice jumping an octave as if he'd just heard a wrong note. His brows shot up, his expression twisting in disbelief. "That's it? So? What the hell is that supposed to mean?!"      

        He jabbed a finger in the air for emphasis. "That's Senior Morioka we're talking about—the student council president. One of the only Level six mages in Second Shibuya. The Fire Empress, you know?!"

        Mikado shrugged.

        "So what if we talked?"     

        "Again, this is Eto Morioka we're talking about. And you, the same failure as me."

       Mikado let out a tired sigh.

        "What are you trying to imply? That there's something going on between us?" He scoffed. "Between that perfect student and me? Come on, Kakeru, do you really believe that?"

        He shook his head, a dry laugh escaping him.

        "That so-called Fire Empress, a level-six mage… and me? The guy whose only impressive trait is a name that sounds like it belongs in a legend."

        "Ryuugamine Mikado—'Emperor of the Dragons Peak.'"

        He gestured at himself.

        "Pretty grand name for someone this ordinary, don't you think?"

        "And to put it simply—everything that happened this morning was just her telling me I was doing my job diligently. No matter how you look at it, there wasn't a hint of romance in it. If anything, she sounded like a successful adult talking to a kid with a runny nose."

        "And I can already imagine the gossip you're talking about going like this, 'Hey, did you hear? That failure actually talked to Lady Morioka.' 'Seriously? That guy dared to talk to the Fire Empress?'"       

        "Yeah," Kakeru said flatly. "You nailed it."  

        Mikado stared at him in disbelief—almost disgusted. This guy… It felt less like Kakeru was clarifying things and more like he was baiting him, coaxing out every last self-deprecating thought.

        "Well, can you really blame me?" Kakeru continued. "I heard you showed up at school two hours early. You're not exactly what I'd call a diligent student, you know."     

        Mikado let out a second sigh.

        Almost on cue, the chime rang to signal the start of class, its clear note echoing through the hallway and drowning his sigh into nothingness.

        "Good morning, my two beloved failure students. Please sit down so we can start the class."

        A man in his thirties stepped into the classroom, heading straight for the teacher's desk before casually tossing the book he'd brought along onto its surface. He was their homeroom teacher, though he sorely lacked the decency one might expect from one—his necktie hung loose, his hair was a mess, and his choice of words did nothing to help his case.

        "Aahh… I can't believe I'm stuck here lecturing you two failures," he groaned, rubbing his temples. "It really makes you wonder how little the school values me."

        He wandered toward the blackboard, arms crossing as if even standing upright demanded effort.

        "You know," he continued, staring at the ceiling, "when I pictured my teaching career, this wasn't it. I was supposed to be assigned to upper-year classes. Talented students. Promising futures." He paused, then sighed again. "Preferably cute high school girls who actually listen."

        His eyes drifted toward Mikado and Kakeru, filled with open disappointment.

        "Instead," he said flatly, "I get you two."

        "But I bet you enjoy teaching us failures more than those excellent students," Mikado chimed in from his desk, watching the man carefully.

        A grin crept onto the corner of the teacher's lips.

        "You bet I do, Mikado," he replied. "Between you two and those so-called excellent students who feel the need to argue every single point I make?" He picked up a piece of chalk and twirled it lazily between his fingers. "I'll take you any day."

        He turned to the board, still smiling faintly.

        "At least you don't drain what little motivation I have left."

        "But sire, if it's cute girls you're looking for, I can pretend to be one for you."

        From his seat, Kakeru leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk and cupping his face in his hands as he tried to imitate what he clearly thought was a cute, seductive pose. No matter how generously one tried to interpret it, the result was nothing short of revolting.

        Aogire Manabu froze after hearing that. Slowly, he turned around and stared at Kakeru for several long seconds. Then, without a word, he raised his hand, chalk still pinched between his fingers, and pointed.

Shoot.

        The chalk tore through the air like a bullet fired from a pistol before smacking squarely into Kakeru's forehead. The impact sent him stumbling backward in his chair.