Muren suddenly halted his movement, standing upright. His breath came in rough, heavy gasps, his chest heaving, muscles quivering faintly beneath a thin sheen of sweat. Yet his eyes gleamed like tempered blades—unnaturally clear and sharp.


    This was the inevitable toll of power; he had long known the searing pain would course through his bones.


    In that moment, his senses unraveled into countless silver threads, weaving through the air. Every minuscule tremor within a hundred feet converged into the core of his awareness, and even the trajectories of sunlight sharpened into crystalline clarity.


    “Weakness attracts shadows. Protect the prey. The one you defended. Keep him… safe. Until the bell tolls thrice tomorrow.”


    The spirit’s command was clear, concise, and unexpectedly… specific. Protect Kenji. For a defined duration. A bodyguard duty. A test of a different kind. Not just brute force, not just combat prowess, but… protection. A martial virtue.


    Muren felt a flicker of… something. Not reluctance, not exactly, but… calculation. Protecting Kenji wasn’t directly beneficial to him. It wasn’t about enhancing his own power, wasn’t about immediate self-preservation. It was… service to another. An unexpected curveball in the jungle’s brutal game.


    But a pact was a pact. And the War Spirit’s demands were not suggestions. He had accepted the price. Now, he had to pay. And protecting Kenji… in Sakuragoka… that was a service that might prove more challenging, and more revealing, than any direct confrontation. The jungle was about to test him in ways he hadn''t anticipated. And the shadows were already lengthening.


    --


    Muren descended from the rooftop, the War Spirit’s command echoing – Protect the prey. Kenji. Until the bell tolls thrice tomorrow. A precise timeframe. A defined objective. He calculated the implications with cold efficiency. Bodyguard duty. For someone else. An unfamiliar variable in his self-serving equation.


    He wasn''t a protector. He was a survivor. He prioritized self-preservation, strategic advancement, the relentless pursuit of power for himself.


    Altruism was a vulnerability, a weakness to be exploited in the jungle. Yet, a pact was a pact. And defiance of a War Spirit was… unwise. Pragmatism, even in this unexpected task, dictated compliance.


    First, locate the prey. Kenji.


    Kenji''s newborn timidity lingered in memory—the mirror of innocence had shattered, yet the haze of fear remained, discernible even in its fading. Sakuragoka was a realm of brutality, but the law of predator and prey held its own order. Weakness could always be predicted, and prey tended to gather where it pooled.


    He patrolled the freshman corridors now, pacing with measured scrutiny. His mind, sharpened by familiarity with the school''s undercurrents of dread, mapped every tremor. His movements were shadow-work, unfolding in windless silence. Senses honed to a razor''s edge, he vanished into observation—watching, never drawing attention.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    He found the boy in a heartbeat.


    At the freshman corridor''s dead end, where a dim alcove huddled beside a door long sealed, Kenji crouched — curled fetal on a bench, knees drawn to his chest like a chrysalis pose. His backpack, clutched like a splintered shield, pressed bruises into his collarbone. His silhouette bled frailty, a lamb awaiting the altar.


    His blurry vision strained, he was meticulously picking up the spilled rice and vegetables from his ruined bento box, placing them back into the dented metal container with a forlorn, almost ritualistic precision, his movements small, defeated. The lunch was ruined, beyond saving, but the act of gathering the scattered remnants seemed to offer a small, pathetic comfort in the aftermath of his humiliation.


    Muren approached silently, deliberately making his footsteps audible only at the last moment, enough to announce his presence without startling him into panic. He stopped a few feet away, observing Kenji for a moment, assessing his state. Broken glasses replaced by squinting, strained eyes, posture slumped, radiating dejection. Classic prey profile.


    “Kenji,” Muren stated, his voice flat, devoid of warmth, but also devoid of threat. Just a statement of identity, a neutral marker in the chaotic soundscape of Sakuragoka.


    Kenji flinched violently, snapping his head up, his blurry eyes widening in alarm, then slowly focusing, struggling to recognize the figure looming over him. Recognition dawned slowly, hesitantly, replaced by a flicker of… disbelief? Fear warring with nascent hope.


    “Y-you’re…” Kenji''s voice trembled, the name caught in his throat like a stone. He knew only the act, not the man. A defiance of the natural order, a cold ruthlessness in execution, a power that moved in silence.


    “Muren,” the reply came curtly. “I’m here to… escort you.”


    The word "escort" hung in the air. It was a neutral term, like a threadbare veil, covering the covenant of the War Spirit. Behind the simplicity lied the heavy burden of protection. For Muren, it was a duty he was now reluctantly undertaking.


    Kenji''s pale eyes widened, misted with deepening confusion. “E-escort?” He could not fathom why such a thing was needed—let alone from this reticent wraith who had shattered his calamity in an instant.


    Muren offered no further explanation, no comforting platitudes. He simply stated the parameters of the service, pragmatic, direct.


    “Until the bell tolls thrice tomorrow. Stay close. Avoid… attention.” He gestured vaguely towards the general direction of the hallway where the brawl had occurred, the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air. ''Avoid a repeat of that. Avoid Biao. Avoid trouble.''


    Kenji finally understood. Not fully, not the "why", but the "what". Protection. Offered by this… ''Muren''. It was surreal, unbelievable, a bizarre intrusion of impossible hope into his bleak Sakuragoka reality.


    Tears welled again in his eyes, not tears of fear this time, but of overwhelming gratitude, a fragile dam breaking under the weight of unexpected relief. He bowed again, deeper this time, almost prostrating himself, words failing him entirely, choked by emotion.


    Muren remained unmoved by the display of gratitude. Emotional outbursts were inefficient, irrelevant. He needed compliance, not thanks. He needed Kenji to be manageable, predictable, to not attract further trouble through his own vulnerability.


    “Stop that,” Muren commanded, his voice still flat, devoid of emotion, but laced with a quiet authority that brooked no argument. “Useless. Stay close. Move.” Muren pivoted and strode onward, waiting to be followed. A wordless command hung like forged iron in the stillness—a glacial proclamation: ''My service starts now. Don''t complicate it.''


    Kenji, snapping out of his emotional paralysis, scrambled to his feet, hastily shoving the ruined bento and his torn backpack into a semblance of order.


    Kenji followed Muren swiftly, yet his steps still faltered. His eyes darted anxiously, scanning the surroundings as fear and hope clashed within him—a heart suspended by a thread.


    He stayed a few paces behind Muren, shadowing him, clinging to his presence like a lifeline in the treacherous currents of Sakuragoka.


    From then on, Muren''s unexpected escort career was branded into his fate. Shadowing prey. Protecting weakness.


    He learned to pinpoint the malice to the finest thread, tracing its path and timing the execution. In the dim corridors, phantoms trembled from the void - yet he was ready to crush their faltering limbs into crystal dust.