The fortress night is quiet. The spirited shouts from daytime training, the metallic sounds from the blacksmith's workshop, the bustle of the dining hall—all fade away once the sun sets. Beyond the thin wooden walls of the Transferee Residential Building, only the sound of wind flowing from the distant Demon Forest could be heard. Satou Kenji was staring at the ceiling. Lying on his back, more than two hours had already passed. A forty-year-old man with dark shadows under his eyes from sleep deprivation still couldn't fall asleep. (Who was that figure?) He couldn't get the image out of his head—the light that had been burning on the top floor of the Akatsuki Tower last night, and the silhouette of a person with long silver hair. He felt like their eyes had met for just a moment, and then the light went out. It might have been his imagination. But the weight of that gaze had felt too real to dismiss as mere fancy. That wasn't all. The lingering sensation of Yoken—the gift that ha