Chapter 9 – Plans and Pressure
Xavier woke to birdsong that didn't sound quite right—too slow, almost muffled, like the air itself was thick. He sat up on the narrow dorm mattress and felt the springs complain beneath him. Morning light bled in through half-open blinds, cutting the small room into gold and shadow.
He swung his legs over the edge. The floorboards were cool, but warmth followed wherever his bare feet settled; dew that should have lingered on the wood evaporated in a faint hiss. Out in the corridor, students were already gathering—voices low, footsteps quick. No one knocked on his door. He hadn't decided whether that was a blessing or a warning.
He dressed slowly: dark shirt, plain trousers a size too big from the loan closet, worn sneakers someone had left outside his room. When he rolled the sleeve over his right arm, the ink beneath his skin tingled—like petals shifting in unseen wind. He ignored it and stepped into the hall.
People noticed. They always did. Conversations thinned as he passed. A first-year bowed halfway, half out of fear, half out of habit; a pair of seniors whispered, eyes flicking from his tattoo to each other's wary smiles. Xavier kept moving, fists tucked into his jacket, counting heartbeats until the courtyard swallowed him whole.
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### The sparring ring
The training ring sat at the center of the campus grounds—smooth dirt, chalked boundaries, wooden posts leaning at odd angles from decades of impact. Gojo waited there as though he'd been born in that exact spot: blindfold on, sleeves rolled, lazy grin.
"Morning, California," he called. "Ready to dance?"
Xavier approached, brows drawn. "You sure about this?"
Gojo shrugged. "Nothing builds trust like a little public humiliation. Relax—nobody dies in lesson one."
Around the ring, a semicircle of students had already formed. Second‑years mostly, plus a few brave first‑years who pretended not to shiver. Xavier's stomach twisted; their eyes felt like weights on his skin.
Gojo tossed him a short wooden staff. "Move how you feel. Don't think too hard—thinking ruins rhythm."
Xavier gripped the staff. It felt foreign, but balanced. He took a stance he'd seen in movies and tried to breathe around the knot in his chest.
"Alright, who's first?" Gojo asked, turning to the crowd. "Friendly spar. No curses bigger than a golf ball."
A tall second‑year with close‑cropped hair and a smirk stepped forward. "I'll play." He twirled a practice spear like it was weightless. "Name's Suda. Try not to scream."
Xavier swallowed. Gojo clapped once. "Begin!"
Suda lunged. Xavier parried on instinct, wooden shafts cracking together. The vibration numbed his arms. He tried to remember any footwork from old clips. Suda pressed, grin widening, spear feinting up then snapping low. Xavier blocked but lost his footing; the staff scraped dirt, his knee buckled—and panic bloomed.
Something inside him uncoiled. It wasn't heat or light—more like a silent exhale that pushed outward from every bone at once. The air compressed. Dust swirled. The practice posts groaned as if gravity had hiccupped.
Suda flew two meters and hit the dirt on his back, weapon clattering away. A ripple swept the ring—students stumbled, chalk lines blurred, pebbles skittered to the edge like iron filings flung from a magnet.
Silence followed.
Xavier stared at his hands. The staff lay snapped in two. His breath came sharp, pupils dilated, heart galloping.
Gojo whistled, slow and impressed. "That's one way to end a round."
A teacher rushed in—short, stern, clipboard half‑raised. "This is why he shouldn't be unsupervised!"
Gojo waved him off. "Relax, Ito‑sensei. Kid's got reflexes. No bones broken." He glanced at Suda, who was groaning but conscious. "Maybe a little pride damage. We'll ice that later."
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### Rumors and recoil
By midday the campus buzzed louder than cicadas. Xavier walked shaded paths alone, feeling eyes on him even when no one stood nearby. Benches sprouted fresh shoots, and a rusted lantern gleamed like new bronze.
Near the infirmary porch, Keiko leaned against a post. "So," she called, "I hear you're excellent at making friends."
"Depends on your definition," Xavier muttered.
She tossed him a chilled melon soda. "Sugar helps with guilt."
He cracked it open, hiss echoing. "People are scared now."
"True," she said, then offered a crooked grin. "Some of us are just curious."
A breeze scattered white petals across the porch. They vanished before touching ground. Keiko's eyes tracked them but she said nothing.
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### Mirrors remember
Late afternoon, Xavier passed an old corridor mirror. The glass fogged from the inside, forming a silhouette crowned with petals. No face—just light where features should be. He blinked, and it was gone, leaving only his weary reflection.
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### Staff‑room storm
Evening found instructors arguing behind sliding doors. Ito‑sensei called Xavier a liability; an archivist called him a breakthrough. Gojo listened, spinning chalk between his fingers.
"Control him?" someone asked.
Gojo's grin faded. "Convince him to control himself. That's the only way this ends well."
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### Stars and breathing
Night draped the dorm in ink. Xavier stood on his balcony, city lights below pulsing like a distant heartbeat. Inside, a single white flower bloomed on his sill, petals trembling as if listening for him.
He didn't turn. He knew it was there.
And somewhere in the hush, something knew *he* was there too.
The storm had already begun.