Ibiki stepped forward, his eyes sing the remaining partits, as if reading each of them—sizing up who would break and who would endure. Xero met that gaze head-on, his expression no longer unsure. He didn’t have all the answers. He might fail the question. But at least he wouldn’t fail *himself*.

  The room was still unnervingly quiet, but this time, Xero barely noticed it. The storm inside him had finally settled. He adjusted his grip on the pencil, leaned forward slightly, and waited.

  *Let’s see what you’ve got.*>

  ---

  Tick... tick... tick.

  Reika, however, couldn’t help but g Kuro. Her eyes met his for a brief moment, and in that instant, everything else in the room seemed to fade. It was as though the world stopped spinning, and all she could see was the calm, unwaveriainty in his gaze. It was a simple look, but it carried so much weight—an unspoken message, louder than any words could be: Stay calm. Trust me.

  Her breath caught for just a heartbeat. His eyes didn’t shift, didn’t even blink. They simply held hers, steady and assuring, as if to say that no matter what was happening in the room, everything would be okay.

  The chaos around her softened, like a distant strowing faint.

  In trast, Reika’s mind raced, each minute a maze of uainty, but Kuro’s unwavering posure anchored her. His presence was a stabilizing force, a silent remihat the storm around them, no matter how chaotic, would eventually pass. She gnced back down at her paper, letting her pencil dance across the surface as her mind drifted away from the mounting pressure. Kuro had a way of making everything seem almost effortless, his ess seeping into her own veins, slowing the frantic beat of her heart.

  The clock seemed to pause for just a moment, its hands frozen in time.

  She didn’t uand how he did it, but she didn’t o. There was an unspoken boween them, fed not by words but by experiehey’d been through enough together to know that in times like these, the best course of a was to remain still, to let the noise around them fade into a distant hum.

  The air in the room seemed to settle, as if the very space around them had e to a stop.

  And so, they sat in quiet unity, two forces orbiting each other in their own silent, steady rhythm. As the exam tio unfold around them, the tension in the room seemed to dissipate, as if Kuro’s calm had a magic effect, pulling the chaos into a sembnce of order. Reika’s breath evened out as she allowed herself to slip into a strange kind of calm, her hand moving naturally now, as if the pencil had a mind of its own.

  Each stroke felt deliberate, as if the pencil were the one guidihoughts now.

  “Whatever happe... I ha,” she murmured softly to herself. It was a quiet affirmation, but it was enough. She trusted Kuro. She would trust the process, the rhythm, and the quiet assurahat no matter what the oute, they would face it together. The world around her might spin out of trol, but she knew, deep down, that Kuro would always be there—steady, unshaken, and infinitely reliable.

  And in that quiet moment, the room felt smaller, less intimidating, and somehow... more manageable.

  As the final minutes of the exam ticked away, Reika felt her mind slow, her body at ease, ready for whatever challenge came . The storm had passed, and all that was left was the aftermath.

  ---The seds stretched into minutes, eae feeling like ay. The room was almost half empty now, with many petitors succumbing to the psychological pressure of Ibiki’s ultimatum. Their faces were a mixture of fear, frustration, and exhaustion. Some had left without a fight, while others had been forced to make a hasty decision, their spirits broken uhe weight of Ibiki’s unyielding gaze. The air felt thick, heavy with the tension of those who remained.

  In the back of the room, Kuro sat as still as ever, his eyes half-lidded, not a hint of or unease passing over his features. His presence was like a calm eye iorm, untouched by the chaos unfolding around him. Every other petitor seemed to be on the verge of breaking, their hearts rag, their palms sweating. But Kuro’s mind was like an unmoving ke—undisturbed by the ripples around him. He had already made his peace with whatever would e .

  The silehat had enveloped the room was deafening, as if every breath was measured and every movement calcuted. Even the overhead lights, whially hummed with life, seemed to fade into the background, leaving the spader its dim glow cold and distant. Reika, still seated beside him, couldn’t help but g him again.

  His gaze met hers, briefly. A silent exge that grounded her. He didn’t have to say anything. She knew. He wasn’t worried, and that reassuratled in her chest like a weight lifting from her shoulders.

  Then, at the front of the room, Ibiki Morino stood motionless, his pierg eyes sing the remaining partits. His presence pressive, his very posture daring ao challenge him. Every gnce from him felt like a weight on the shoulders, as though his mere presence demanded respect, obedience, and endurance.

  For a moment, the entire room seemed to hold its breath.

  Finally, the proctor took a step forward, the sound of his boots eg in the silent room. It was a deliberate sound—powerful and trolled—each step amplifying the anticipation in the air. He didn’t o shout or raise his voice; his mere proximity atention. The fai glint of amusement flickered in his dark eyes as he took in the remaining petitors, eae still seated in their chairs, tense and waiting for the iable judgment.

  “Those of you who are still here...” he began, his voice sharp and anding, as if every word had been carefully chosen to slice through the tension, “...pass.”

  For a moment, the words hung in the air, almost inprehensible. The gravity of them didn’t quite settle at first. It was as if the room couldn’t quite grasp what had just been said. The seds stretched into loretches of disbelief, the silence growing thicker.