The dorms buzzed with post-fight energy.
Laughter echoed down the halls, food wrappers flew like shuriken, and victory poses were struck in mirrors. The first day of the G.O.D. Tournament had left hearts pounding and egos bruised—but for most, tonight was for joy.
---
In the courtyard gym, under moonlight filtered through a translucent canopy, Xao Min and Asumi Maoshinara trained barefoot on polished tatami. The air snapped with tension as Xao Min launched a whirlwind kick.
"Phoenix Feather!" she shouted, spinning low.
Asumi ducked and countered with a shoulder drop.
"Red Thunder Counter."
They clashed, sweat flying. No cameras. No crowd. Just breath and body.
"Again," Asumi said, already resetting.
Xao grinned. "No mercy?"
"Not for Maoshinara blood."
---
Nearby, in the library-turned-training lab, Blaze sat cross-legged while Kazuya Maoshinara scribbled notes across a spread of old scrolls and digital martial records.
"Your stance is too wide when channeling inner chi. It leaves your lower guard open."
Blaze huffed. "I fight with soul fire, not rules."
Kazuya looked up, stern. "Soul or not, the blade doesn't care. Precision keeps you alive."
Blaze nodded, tapping the hilt of his fire-forged wakizashi. "I'll make precision burn."
---
Outside the main dorm building, Genji wandered the dark paths between training halls, his thoughts haunted by Kurosawa's display. He didn't know why, but the cracked oni mask stayed with him like a ghost.
Then, from the shadows—
"You walk too loud."
He spun around, hand near his waist.
Juliet Carls.
Black leather. Tight braid. Calm eyes. And a stance so casual it was dangerous.
"You following me?" Genji asked.
Juliet tilted her head. "Assassin's habit. You looked distracted. That's how people die."
"Tch… I'm just thinking," he said, narrowing his eyes. "About Shin Mishima."
That name shifted her mood. Her voice turned razor-thin.
"You want to know about him?"
Genji nodded.
Juliet stepped beside him, staring up at the dorm's rooftop.
"Shin Mishima was the champion of the G.O.D Tournament… back when it was run by his father, Jin Mishima. A cold tyrant. Ran the arena like a kingdom."
She crossed her arms.
"Shin won. Defeated every freak and legend thrown at him. But after the tournament, Jin demanded one last match—against his own son."
Genji blinked. "What?"
"No cameras. No witnesses. Just screams."
A pause.
"They say Shin killed him. Every tape, every record, deleted. The Mishima bloodline is cursed. Fathers and sons trying to kill each other… every generation."
Genji looked away.
Juliet stared at him with a knowing smile.
"You seem... interested in the Mishima bloodline."
He shook his head. "Not really my thing."
She leaned closer, whispering.
"You're really my type."
He smirked. "Girl who breaks hands first time meeting? You're not my type."
She laughed—a sound like a dagger sliding back into a sheath. "Shame."
---
Meanwhile, in the dorm lounge, fighters gathered around a cracked TV watching replays of Kurosawa's match.
Someone whistled. "He didn't just win… he executed."
Another said, "I ain't stepping in that ring if he's still in."
A third fighter shook their head. "There's no ring. Not with him. Just a grave."
---
As the night stretched on, fighters wound down.
Some shadowboxed in silence. Others polished their weapons or whispered prayers to their ancestors.
In one corner, Genji snored with a mouth full of chips. Xao Min threw a blanket over him, muttering "idiot" with a fond smile.
Above them, a screen buzzed softly with tomorrow's matchups.
The crowd's favorites.
The dark horses.
And at the top, a single name still pulsed like a silent curse:
Inoue Shidō (Kurosawa)
The Demon waits.
Tomorrow... the blood dance continues.
---
To be continued