The skies above Sarutobi Academy glowed golden with the dawn of a new generation. Students who passed the written exams were gathered for their final induction—where they would receive their Warden licenses and step into their new lives as protectors of the Five Nations of Eidolon.
Among the new initiates stood Xzavier Shishiroma, now sixteen.
Something felt… off.
The air was still, as if time held its breath. Xzavier scanned the bustling crowd of new graduates—cheering, excited, full of youthful energy. But there was an emptiness he couldn't explain.
Yagumi. Hageshi.
Where were they?
They weren't on the lists. Weren't in the crowds. Weren't at the academy. But still, deep in his chest, something told him they should be here. Like echoes from another life, he couldn't remember—yet felt in his soul.
Still, this timeline was different. In this version of events, Xzavier passed his written exam with the highest score in his class and wasn't required to take the practical portion. A small victory, though the feeling of incompleteness lingered like a shadow.
At least he wasn't alone.
Princess Zadie Tengu, regal and composed with lightning in her veins. She did not wield a legendary blade but her uncle, Sensei Gara wielded the Galaxy blade.
Kineta Terra—aka Shoei Kazamura, his code name—calculated and fierce, with eyes that missed nothing. He wielded his clan's Earth blade.
Kaze Wind-Fang, cocky, loyal, and fast as the gales he commanded. He wielded his clan's wind blade.
They were his friends now—tighter than steel, formed in this timeline as the bonds of destiny twisted anew.
The Welcoming Parade was grand, echoing through the courtyard with roaring drums and waving banners. Crowds watched as the new Wardens marched to receive their licenses and uniforms.
The uniform, by Sarutobi tradition, was simple yet dignified—black shirt embroidered with the Sarutobi crest, pants, boots, and a robe of any color the student chose.
But Xzavier—he had no interest in conformity.
He stepped forward in a long, crimson coat flapping behind him like the banner of a forgotten rebellion. No shirt—just his bare, scarred chest, toned and defiant. A white scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His black pants were baggy and tucked into rugged, brown, knee-high boots. A black belt cinched around his waist, holding his license and sheathed training blade.
The crowd gasped. Girls whispered. The elders frowned. But he didn't care.
Most of the Senseis exchanged disapproving glances—this wasn't tradition, this wasn't respectful. But at the edge of the platform stood Sensei Gara, arms folded, hair flowing in the breeze, his eyes showing amusement and his black Balaclava covering his mouth and nose.
He smiled.
"This one…" he muttered, "...was born to break fate."
And so the new chapter began—not of the boy who was meant to die, but of the boy who was rewritten to win. The legend of Xzavier Shishiroma—now reborn—was just getting started.