Fire Beneath the Surface

As King Douglas steps down from the podium, applause swells and then slowly fades. Yet, one gaze remains fixed, burning into Moto: Gwen. The Master of Fire's stare bores into him, sharp and unreadable. Moto's initial thrill at being chosen flickers, replaced by a creeping unease. Mukai, ever perceptive, immediately catches the subtle shift in his expression.

Moto glances around. The other fire students are staring too—not with curiosity, but with simmering annoyance. Narrowed eyes. Furrowed brows. Whispers ripple like embers beneath forced grins. Their silent judgment closes in fast, and Moto braces himself, his fists clenching.

Then, a sudden rush of cool air. A shimmering wall of water surges up, rising between Moto and the encroaching students.

Mukai stands just behind the curtain of water, his arms folded, his voice firm and unwavering. "Behave yourselves."

The aggressive murmurs instantly die down. Most of the crowd shifts uneasily, stepping back with grumbled compliance, but glancing at Mukai with veiled irritation. Jason, the flame prefect, doesn't flinch. He steps forward, lifts his hand, and with a casual flick of his fingers, Mukai's water wall hisses, steams, and vanishes into thin air.

Jason strides up to Moto, his voice casual but laced with venom. "So you're getting your daddy to hand out spots to your friends now? Must be nice, being the son of the King."

The dig lands with brutal precision. Mukai's body stiffens. Jason isn't just mocking Moto—he's directly challenging Mukai's own place among the chosen. If the chosen were simply handed their positions, what did any of their strength or years of training truly mean?

Before anyone can blink, Mukai is in Jason's face, raw, silent fury radiating from him.

"Enough!" Principal Jumbo's voice slices through the tension, sharp as a whip. He marches forward, his gaze stern. "Prefects do not brawl in front of the King's podium."

Jason, a smirk still playing on his lips, holds up his hands and backs away, offering no further resistance. Mukai lingers for a moment, his jaw tight, then slowly relents, stepping back from the volatile prefect.

As the crowd disperses, Moto approaches Mukai, a hint of genuine gratitude in his voice. "Hey… thanks for standing up for me."

Mukai looks aside, avoiding Moto's gaze. "My father's making a mistake. I'll speak to him."

Moto's tone sharpens, a spark of his inherent stubbornness igniting. "No. Don't. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I have to prove myself."

Mukai turns to leave, but Moto reaches out, grabbing his wrist with unexpected strength. Mukai halts, surprised by the force in Moto's grip. When he turns, Moto meets his gaze—serious, calm, and steady.

He knows. Moto's mind races. If I ever want a peaceful future for my family, I'll need more than good intentions. I'll need power. Recognition. Allies. And this tournament is a chance to earn all three.

"This isn't about a fight," Moto says, his voice low and resolute. "The King's given me a chance to show I belong here, to earn my place. And I won't back down. I'd appreciate your help, but I won't let you stop me either."

Mukai searches Moto's face, then slowly, reluctantly, pulls his hand back. He sees it—that unshakable fire. A burning conviction not unlike his own. "Not a bad speech," he admits, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "But your opponent? He's infamous for his temper. That spot was meant for his favorite student. He's got one of the highest fire resistances we've ever seen in the academy. And you? You don't even have fire. Step into that fight, and you might not leave it alive."

Moto doesn't flinch, his resolve unyielding. "Sounds like you know a lot about him. So why don't you help Sheu and me train… and let me worry about the rest."

A pause hangs heavy in the air.

Then Mukai nods, a flicker of something akin to respect in his eyes. "Alright. Then we're even."

Moto grins. "Bet."

As he turns to leave, Mukai calls out, "Tomorrow. 5 a.m. My place."

Moto flashes a lazy wave over his shoulder, not even turning. "Sure. Don't be late."

In the castle's high halls, King Douglas hurries through the ancient stone corridors, his mind abuzz. A critical message has just arrived—from the Kingdom of Denga. King Manasseh himself is returning.

Denga, the strongest of the Five Kingdoms, has always been a complex, powerful partner. Douglas has been careful, playing politics like a meticulous game of chess, slowly, patiently gaining Manasseh's trust. A second, unexpected visit could signal true diplomatic progress—or just more intense scrutiny.

He turns to Aritri as they pass through the great corridor, his voice urgent. "Begin preparations. He arrives the day after the Trials. Everything must be perfect. Nothing can go wrong."

Later, in the solemn quiet of the war chamber, Gwen stands silent beside the King, arms crossed, his jaw clenched, eyes burning with suppressed fury.

"Why didn't you choose my student?" he demands, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Even at ten percent, no one compares."

Douglas responds calmly, his gaze unwavering. "Because it's not just about strength. And I'm asking you—don't go overboard."

Gwen doesn't answer. He simply continues to stare, his eyes fixed on the King, his lips pressed into a thin, unyielding line. He doesn't smile.

That evening, Moto finds himself in the dim, quiet solitude of Sheu's house. She sits in the same spot as the day before, staring down at a faded photo of her and her father, the edges worn smooth from being held too often. The final, fading light of the day casts a long, amber glow over the room, deepening the shadows.

Moto enters quietly, his footsteps soft. "Hey…"

She doesn't respond, her gaze fixed on the picture.

He lowers himself beside her, slow and careful—close enough to offer comfort, but leaving her space. He rests his hands in his lap, letting the silence breathe between them. He glances at the worn photograph, then softly asks, "How are you holding up?"

It takes her a moment. "Trying," she whispers, her voice rough, raw from the unspoken weight of her grief.

They sit for a long while, both grounded by the profound stillness.

Eventually, Moto opens his bag and pulls out a folded slip of parchment—the official notice for the Succession Trials.

"You don't have to say anything now," he murmurs, his voice low, "but… we've been selected for the Succession Trials. The King's giving us a chance to prove ourselves."

Sheu's eyes, dull with grief, narrow slightly. "I'm not going."

Moto blinks, surprised. "What? Why not?"

"I don't want anything to do with the King." She sets the worn photo down carefully beside her. "His story about my father's death doesn't make sense. He told me… he'd never take his own life."

Moto furrows his brows, a ripple of unease. "But why would they lie?"

"I don't know," she says, her voice steady now, though tinged with a cold certainty. "This was the first time he left without seeing me. And they won't even tell me where he went."

Moto studies her face, a grim realization dawning. "You think they're involved?"

She doesn't flinch, meeting his gaze head-on. "I'll get to the bottom of it. But you should do what you want. I know how long you've waited for this. Just… be careful."

Moto nods slowly, the fire in him clashing with a sudden chill running down his spine. "Okay."