Fuyumi's a spy?

Their footsteps echoed softly down the dimly lit hallway, the polished tiles reflecting the gentle glow of closed storefronts, shadows lengthening as the hour approached nine. Sallie ambled slightly behind, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, eyes half-lidded and indifferent to the buzz of excitement humming quietly around him.

"We only have fifteen minutes," Angela murmured, glancing anxiously at her wristwatch, a thin silver band catching a flicker of neon light from a nearby storefront. "Shouldn't we hurry back?"

Celeste raised an eyebrow, lips quirking into an amused half-smile. "You worry too much. Even if we're a little late, what are they going to do? Disqualify us before the games even start?"

Angela scowled playfully, nudging Celeste with her elbow. "Not everyone can afford your reckless attitude, Celeste. Some of us actually care about the rules."

"Rules," Sallie drawled lazily, his voice dripping with boredom. "They're just there to make things interesting. Besides, it's not like they'd really kick out their star performers."

Angela rolled her eyes, her fingers unconsciously tracing the smooth metal edges of her dual CAD wrist mounts. "You're infuriating, Mr. Shortcut Prodigy."

"And you're exhausting," Sallie retorted with a teasing smirk. He shifted his gaze briefly toward Celeste, who maintained her poised stride, eyes calmly scanning the displays around them as though she were surveying a battlefield. "Doesn't your friend ever relax?"

Celeste chuckled softly, her voice composed, edged with gentle sarcasm. "Angela relaxes in her own, unique way—usually by panicking."

Angela huffed dramatically, crossing her arms tightly against her chest. "Fine. You two have your fun. But when they lock you out of the dorms tonight, don't come begging me for help."

Sallie shrugged, stifling a yawn. "We'll manage."

The trio slowed near an ornate display window illuminated by a soft golden glow. Behind the glass lay elegant magical artifacts, intricate engravings shimmering faintly beneath the lights. Celeste paused, eyes narrowing slightly as she studied a particularly ornate grimoire. Sallie observed her quietly, sensing the gears turning within her mind.

"See something you like?" Sallie finally asked, his tone genuinely curious despite his usual apathy.

Celeste tilted her head slightly, her gaze never wavering. "It's impressive craftsmanship. But practical? Doubtful."

Angela leaned closer, studying the artifact with intense curiosity, her nose almost brushing the glass. "Looks pretty enough."

"Precisely," Celeste replied smoothly. "Looks alone won't win battles."

Sallie smirked softly, glancing down the now nearly deserted hallway, the quiet murmurs and distant laughter fading away as curfew drew closer. "If beauty was a weapon, Angela might just have a chance."

Angela turned sharply, cheeks flushed crimson. "What's that supposed to mean, Sallie?"

He chuckled quietly, hands sinking deeper into his pockets as he stepped back, eyes dancing with subtle amusement. "Absolutely nothing."

Angela glared, turning on her heel and marching ahead with determined strides. Celeste watched her go, shaking her head gently. "You enjoy getting under her skin too much."

"Guilty as charged," Sallie admitted with a shrug, a faint smile pulling at his lips. "It's one of life's small pleasures."

Celeste sighed softly, resuming her walk, the soft clack of her boots rhythmic against the marble tiles. "Just remember, tomorrow isn't a game, even if they call it one."

Sallie's smile faltered for a brief second, eyes darkening almost imperceptibly. "Oh, trust me. I haven't forgotten."

The fluorescent lights overhead flickered slightly—barely noticeable—but Celeste still glanced up. Her boots made soft, crisp sounds against the polished tiles of the Mall of Asia's west wing. She walked just a step ahead of the others, her arms folded, her eyes scanning the storefronts not with curiosity, but with calculation. Most of the boutiques had already dimmed their displays. A few clerks inside watched the roaming cadets with cautious smiles and tired eyes.

Angela trailed a bit behind, cradling a bubble tea in one hand, a shopping bag in the other. Her pace was erratic—stepping quickly to catch up, then slowing again whenever a particular window caught her attention.

"Do you think they'll let us skip the briefing if we get food poisoning tonight?" she asked, tilting her head toward a stall offering suspiciously neon-colored sushi. "Because that might be my only shot at sleep."

Celeste didn't answer. She was already turning a corner toward the upper atrium, where the lights from the main concourse cast long shadows across their path.

Sallie brought up the rear, his briefcase CAD strapped lazily across his back, hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. His eyes wandered—more toward the ceiling speakers and camera domes than the designer labels or promo signs.

"You two do know this might actually be our last shopping trip, right?" he muttered. "Like. Ever."

Angela made a dismissive noise. "Don't get all poetic, Mr. Shortcut Prodigy. You're the one who dragged us out here."

"Technically, Celeste dragged us out here," Sallie replied. "I just followed the smell of rebellion."

Celeste stopped without warning. Her gaze lingered on a large display showing a countdown: "13 Hours Until the Imperial Sea Games."

Below it, a looping promo played—highlights of tactical simulations, last year's duels, and a final frame declaring: "THE BLADE THAT TESTS THE YOUNG."

For a long moment, none of them spoke.

Beyond the glass railings, they could see other cadets from various high schools—some laughing with arms full of bags, others filming videos for their school archives, and a few just sitting in silence, soaking in the last normal night they might have.

Celeste's voice cut through the quiet.

"We go back by 8:50. No excuses."

Angela groaned. "I was gonna try the arcade. You never let me have nice things."

Sallie chuckled once, then tilted his head as if listening for something distant—static, maybe, or just the silence under the noise.

"...You feel it too, huh?" he murmured.

Celeste didn't answer.

But Angela's face turned just a bit more serious. "Yeah."

Sallie spoke up, voice dry and eyes half-lidded as he slowed beside a bench overlooking the atrium fountain.

"By the way, Miss Tactical Glutton, don't forget to prep for tomorrow's urban warfare trials. Y'know—after that little food trip catastrophe that cost us almost fifteen hundred pesos worth of grease and carbs."

Angela choked on the straw, sputtering. "Fifteen hundred?! You make it sound like we raided an Imperial banquet."

Celeste, still leaning on the rail, glanced over her shoulder with a faint smirk. "That's barely a proper meal, Sal. If anything, it was a discount war crime."

"Street food shouldn't count as a war crime." Angela crossed her arms, clearly offended. "And those lumpiang togue were life-changing."

"Yeah," Sallie muttered, "Life-changing as in you'll spend the next twelve hours changing your guts."

Angela narrowed her eyes. "Says the guy who inhaled six isaws and a bag of kwek-kwek like it was mana-infused protein."

Celeste didn't look at them, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward. "He did ask for extra vinegar too. That was bold."

"Calculated," Sallie replied without missing a beat. "But back to the point. Trial starts at oh-eight-hundred. We need to finish CAD sync before that. You still haven't recalibrated your ring-type CAD's burst module, Angela. You'll get shredded in a tight corner."

Angela blinked, then groaned, deflating like a popped balloon. "Ugh, I knew you were gonna bring that up…"

"You want Celeste to do it?" Sallie offered, glancing at his sister with mock innocence. "Her tuning's precise. No lag spikes. No overheating. And unlike you, she reads the manuals."

Celeste finally turned around, arms still folded. "I'm not cleaning up your mess at 2 a.m. again. You overload one more circuit, you're on your own."

Angela huffed, cheeks puffed in frustration. "Fine! I'll do it tonight. Happy?"

"No," Sallie replied. "But I'll sleep better knowing your CAD won't explode next to me."

The weight in Sallie's voice dropped, just enough to slice through the remnants of their teasing.

"…Besides," he muttered, eyes fixed on nothing in particular, "we're not getting Noche Buena this year anyway."

Angela paused mid-step. Celeste's boot scuffed lightly as she turned back.

"What?" Angela asked, brows furrowing.

Sallie exhaled through his nose, voice low and even now, stripped of sarcasm. "Schools are keeping us on standby. All of us. Nationwide. No holiday leave, no cadet dispersal. The Empire's eye is already past the Sea Games."

He looked up at them, gaze sharper now, more awake.

"They want Japan. And they want it soon. The moment the closing torch dies out, we're moving. Fast. The Emperor already gave the directive."

Celeste didn't react outwardly, but her silence deepened. The air around her felt more still—dense, like a spell waiting to snap.

Angela's mouth opened, then shut. Her grip tightened on the now-empty cup.

"Wait, seriously?" she said, softer now. "But Christmas is—Sallie, that's less than three weeks away."

"I know," he replied. "But we're not going home."

He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, voice laced with a bitter smile.

"Congratulations to us, right? We win a few medals, shake some hands in front of cameras, then pack our gear and start a war."

Angela looked away, jaw tight.

Celeste finally spoke, her tone as cold as steel.

"How soon?"

"Emperor said within the month," Sallie replied. "We're the next wave. No more drills. No more simulations. First High and Fourth High are going in front-line. Fifth and Seventh for support. Others rotate depending on mana classification."

"And you?" Angela asked, not looking at him.

He answered without hesitation.

"They're assigning me to suppress resistance cells. Especially strategic-class threats. Tatsuya's profile is top of the docket."

Angela blinked. "They're… sending you after him?"

Sallie gave her a look—tired, knowing.

"Yeah," he said. "Because the Emperor said so."

The words hung in the air, echoing between storefront glass and marble pillars, until even the footsteps of other cadets felt muted beneath it.

They were still walking, deeper now into the quieter sections of Mall of Asia's west wing, where the shops had closed and only vending machines buzzed softly under cold overhead light.

Angela didn't respond. Not immediately.

But it was Celeste who broke the silence next, her voice crisp, almost too calm.

"He didn't tell you everything," she said, eyes forward, arms folded. "About what happened in Malacañang. Two months ago."

Angela blinked. Her pace slowed. "Wait—what?"

Celeste glanced at Sallie, who didn't object—didn't even turn. Just kept walking.

"The Emperor called us," Celeste continued, her voice steady, deliberate. "Both of us. The Inner Chamber. Gabriella was there too."

Angela's brows furrowed. "Why would they summon—"

"It wasn't just a summons," Celeste cut in. "It was an offer. And a test."

Sallie gave a quiet grunt. "More like a provocation."

Celeste ignored him. "They didn't say his name. But they showed his profile—his title, his battlefield data, his record. The Silent Reaper of Japan's Defense Line. The one who erased an entire platoon using nothing but cast jamming and sequence disruptions."

Angela's face paled. She didn't need to hear the name.

"The Emperor called it a necessary encounter," Celeste continued. "A confrontation between titans. A message to the world that no Strategic-Class Magician would ever stand taller than an Imperial blade."

Angela's voice was a whisper. "And Sallie accepted."

"He didn't just accept," Celeste said, her tone sharpening. "He smiled."

Sallie finally stopped, right beneath a flickering LED banner that blinked between Sea Games promo ads and tourist safety reminders.

"I mean, come on," he said, turning halfway toward them, a lazy grin forming. "How many times do you get to fight a legend and have an empire cheering for it?"

Angela stared at him. "That's why you've been training so hard. Why you haven't skipped simulation drills, not even once."

Celeste nodded. "Because the deal was conditional."

"If I win the Imperial Duels—2v2 format, gold medal only," Sallie said, tapping the side of his CAD case. "And if I participate in the actual invasion warfare, survive the frontline, and secure two objectives solo…"

"…Then the Emperor and Gabriella guarantee that match," Celeste finished. "No interference. No backup. Just him and Sallie. One-on-one."

"And they'll keep their promise?" Angela asked, voice laced with disbelief.

Celeste's eyes darkened. "They will. Gabriella sealed it herself. Imperial Contract. Blood-bound."

Angela's breath caught in her throat.

Sallie shrugged. "It's not just about power anymore. It's about proof."

"Proof?" Angela echoed.

Sallie didn't answer right away.

He turned, slowly, toward the great glass windows lining the hallway—where the city lights of Pasay flickered like embers across the black Manila Bay. The horizon was still. Too still. As if it, too, was waiting for something.

Then, he spoke.

"You know the story of David and Goliath?" His tone softened, but there was something razor-edged beneath the calm. "Old. Biblical. Maybe the oldest underdog story there is."

Angela blinked. "Of course. Everyone does."

Celeste stayed silent, but her gaze sharpened.

Sallie's voice dropped lower, just above a murmur. "But most people forget the important part. David didn't win because he was lucky. Or fast. Or brave."

He lifted a hand, fingers curled as if gripping something unseen. His gaze didn't move from the glass.

"He won because Goliath was prepared for a warrior, not a shepherd. He was armored for swords, not stones. He expected strength… not a miracle."

Angela watched him, her hands tightening around the strap of her bag.

"And that's what this is," Sallie continued. "They all think I'm the shepherd boy—lazy, distracted, doesn't care. That I don't belong up there with the monsters like him." He turned now, looking straight at them, his eyes sharp—focused. "But I've got my sling ready. I've got my stone picked. And when I aim—"

He tapped his temple lightly. "It's going to hit exactly where it should."

Celeste's arms relaxed at her side. Just a little. No smile, no nod—but something in her expression flickered. Not quite approval. Something closer to belief.

Angela let out a quiet breath. "You really think you can take him?"

Sallie's response was immediate.

"I have to." Then, softer—almost like a whisper meant only for himself— "Because if I don't, then we'll always be running from giants."

Celeste broke the silence, her voice quieter than before. Not mocking. Not sarcastic.

Just curious.

"You really think you can beat him?"

Sallie didn't stop walking, but his gaze sharpened ahead—like he could already see the duel, the battlefield, the weight of expectations pressing down.

"If that's what it takes…" he began, his tone shifting—measured, deliberate, charged with a rare kind of sincerity, "...to bring down the Demon of the East on my terms, then that's what I'm gonna do."

He turned slightly, just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. No bravado. No smirk.

"But it's not just about beating him," he added. "It's about making someone like that—someone who can level armies with a breath—see me… and decide I'm worth saving."

Angela blinked. "Saving… from what?"

Sallie smiled, but it was a strange, distant kind of smile. One that didn't reach his eyes.

"From this endless loop. Of drills. Of missions. Of pretending any of this surprises me." He tapped his temple once again. "Everything's been easy, Angela. Predictable. Even war. Even victory."

He stopped walking.

"I want to feel cornered for once. I want to feel like I have everything to lose. And if facing him is what it takes to escape this boring hell of certainty—"

He looked up, and this time, his grin returned. Faint. Fierce.

"Then I'll take the shot."

Celeste stared at him a moment longer. Then turned back, her voice clipped.

"Just don't miss."

Angela sighed, falling in step again. "Well, guess I better recalibrate that burst module if I don't want to be the side character in your legend."

Sallie chuckled. "You were always the best supporting role."

"Shut it."

Sallie exhaled, slow and even, then glanced up at the darkened ceiling where tiny security drones floated like silent fireflies.

"…Still," he muttered, half to himself, half to the girls, "I gotta give thanks."

Celeste slowed again, looking over her shoulder. Angela blinked, confused.

"To who?" she asked.

Sallie's voice was low, but clear. Steady.

"To the Emperor, obviously," he said. "For spelling it out. For giving me the criteria… the terms of what comes next. No politics, no smoke. Just a duel. A war. A challenge."

He paused, a glint of something almost reverent in his voice now.

"And to her—Miss Teleport Gate herself," he added, eyes distant now. "For making it official. For treating me like I already mattered, even before I proved it."

Angela frowned. "You mean—"

But Celeste answered for him. "Gabriella."

Sallie gave a small nod. "Whatever comes next… they handed me the script. And I'm gonna write my own ending."

Before another word could be said, the overhead speakers flared with a final chime—sharp and commanding.

"DORM CURFEW NOW IN EFFECT. ALL STUDENTS, RETURN TO ASSIGNED QUARTERS IMMEDIATELY. DOORS WILL LOCK IN FIVE MINUTES."

The lights along the corridor flickered from white to gold—a transition signal for lockdown.

Angela groaned, tightening her grip on her bag. "Ugh, I didn't even get to brush my teeth yet."

Celeste was already moving. "Then walk faster."

___

The hotel's upper floor was quieter now—muted behind thick carpets and security-muffled walls. Outside, the city buzzed beneath scattered clouds and distant floodlights, but here, in the hallway lined with polished wood and mirrored sconces, all that could be heard were their footsteps.

Sallie walked with his hands tucked behind his head, eyes half-closed but still tracking movement like a predator too bored to hunt. Angela trailed beside him, still nursing a new drink she swore was the last one of the night. Celeste led, silent and sharp-eyed, her senses drawn to the subtle flicker of motion at the far corner where the hallway turned.

There—just past the vending alcove—

A familiar figure appeared.

Fuyumi Nakamura.

The quiet, studious Fourth High transfer. Formerly from Japan. Quiet, even among the cadets from the Empire. But now, she looked… unsettled.

The three of them stopped.

Fuyumi stood under the low-lit exit sign, eyes flicking left, then right, as if checking for someone. Then, with one last glance over her shoulder, she slipped through a side stairwell door and disappeared.

Angela raised an eyebrow. "That was shady as hell."

Sallie whistled under his breath. "She always this jittery, or did the ghost of curfew past just whisper in her ear?"

Celeste didn't speak. She was already moving.

Sallie sighed. "Alright, guess we're doing this."

They trailed quietly after her—no words, just instinct.

The stairwell was dimly lit and echoed with the faint hum of electricity. They kept their distance, close enough to track her soft footfalls, far enough not to alert.

Fuyumi descended a floor, then slipped through a maintenance door—clearly off-limits for students.

Angela whispered now, careful not to let her voice carry. "What the hell is she doing?"

Sallie's voice was equally low, but calm. "We're about to find out."

Celeste pressed her palm lightly to the frame of the maintenance door. No spell—just checking. Sensing. Feeling for residual magic.

Her eyes narrowed. "She used a minor silence spell. Untrained. Sloppy."

Sallie grinned. "Which means she doesn't want anyone to hear what's behind this door."

Angela nodded. "So we're opening it, right?"

Sallie gave her a side glance. "Do we ever not open doors we shouldn't?"

Celeste didn't wait. She cracked it open, slow and silent.

What they saw made all three pause.

Fuyumi was inside—alone. Standing before a dimly lit storage terminal wired into an Imperial device console. The lights around it flickered with recent activation. She pulled something from her coat—a data shard glowing with blue circuitry—and inserted it.

A faint transmission hum buzzed to life.

Angela whispered, breath tight. "That's not just a comms relay. That's an uplink."

Sallie's voice hardened for the first time that night.

"She's contacting someone off-grid."

Celeste's eyes were fixed, unblinking.

"No. She's reporting."

Inside the narrow utility room, the light from the uplink console cast an eerie blue glow on Fuyumi's face. Her fingers hovered over the controls, hesitant—then she tapped the final key.

The holographic screen flickered. A second later, her father's image appeared—older, gaunt, dressed in a sleeveless black uniform marked with the sigil of the reformed Japanese Defense Bureau. Behind him was a dimly lit command center, unmapped and buried beneath the earth.

His face softened the moment he saw her.

「ふゆみ…無事か?」

(Fuyumi... are you safe?)

She nodded quickly, her voice hushed but sure.

「うん,お父さん.私は大丈夫.でも,ここは…」

(Yes, Father. I'm safe. But this place...)

Her voice wavered. She swallowed.

「帝国の大会は思っていたものと違う.」

(The Imperial Games... they're not what I thought they'd be.)

Her father leaned closer to the screen.

「説明しなさい.」

(Tell me everything.)

She hesitated—but then her words flowed out like a dam had broken.

「これはただの競技じゃない.戦いの訓練.試合と言っても,目的は明確に"排除"よ.失格じゃない,"排除".」

(This isn't just a competition. It's war training. They call them matches, but the objective is elimination. Not disqualification—elimination.)

Outside the door, Celeste narrowed her eyes. Sallie and Angela remained motionless, listening.

「帝国の生徒たちは…兵士そのもの.競技場も,街を模した戦場になってる.監視ドローン,リアルタイムの戦死者データ,全部記録されてるの.」

(The students of the Empire… they're not students. They're soldiers. And the arena—it's modeled after urban warzones. Surveillance drones, real-time casualty feeds, everything's being recorded.)

Her father's jaw clenched.

「…九校戦は,そんなものではなかった.」

(The Nine Schools Competition was never like this.)

「そう.でも今,日本で行われているこの大会は,もう九校戦じゃない.」

(Exactly. But this tournament being held in Japan now—it's no longer the Nine Schools Competition.)

She glanced over her shoulder, instinctively paranoid.

「帝国は名目上は競技大会にしてるけど,実態は違う.明日からの試合は…殺し合いよ.」

(The Empire calls it a competition on paper, but that's not the truth. Tomorrow's matches… they're death matches.)

Her father leaned back, shadows tightening across his face.

「わかった.情報は受け取った.だが,危険だ.これ以上は深入りするな.」

(Understood. I've received the intel. But it's dangerous, Fuyumi. Don't go any deeper.)

She bit her lip, eyes trembling.

「でも,私はもう見た.私はこの地獄を伝えなければならない.」

(But I've seen it. And I have to tell the world what this hell has become.)

Fuyumi's breath hitched. Her hand trembled slightly as she pulled the data shard from the console. But her eyes—burning with something between dread and defiance—stayed locked on the now-dark screen.

Then she spoke again. This time, quieter. As if the words themselves carried a weight too heavy to say out loud.

「開会式で…」

(At the opening ceremony…)

Her voice wavered.

「…帝国の命令で,日本の十師族の誰かが見せしめとして処刑される.」

(…By Imperial order, someone from the Ten Master Clans will be executed as an example.)

Outside the door, Celeste stiffened. Angela's eyes widened, a sharp intake of breath escaping before she caught herself.

But none of them moved. Not yet.

Fuyumi continued, each syllable a crack in the dam.

「おそらく女性だって.あの人かもしれない.まだ名前は知らされていないけど…今夜,帝国の高官たちはその舞台の準備をしてる.」

(They said it's likely a woman. Maybe even her. I don't know the name yet… but tonight, the Imperial officers are setting the stage.)

She wrapped the shard in cloth, placing it carefully inside a false lining in her jacket.

「開会式の"演出"として,処刑を全世界に中継するんだって.生中継で."反逆"の象徴を潰すって.」

(They're going to broadcast it to the entire world. As part of the ceremony. Live. To crush the symbol of 'rebellion.')

Fuyumi's voice broke at the end—but her father didn't react with surprise.

He simply closed his eyes.

When he opened them, there was no hesitation—only grief that had already been processed. Hardened. Weaponized.

「…やはり,あの時の報告は本当だったか.」

(So… the report from Pasig River was true after all.)

His voice was quiet, hollow.

「彼女が捕まったのは,一ヶ月前.正確には,バギオで潜伏中の通信が傍受され,そこから帝国が動いた.追い詰められ,最後は…あの川で拘束された.」

(She was captured a month ago. It started in Baguio—her encrypted comms were intercepted. The Empire moved fast. Pinned her down. She was finally taken at the Pasig River.)

Fuyumi's hands clenched.

「誰か動けないの?助けられないの?」

(Can't anyone do anything? Can't someone help her?)

The man on the screen shook his head slowly. He looked older now—like the weight of that one truth had added years in seconds.

「あの会場には近づけない.招待国の監視すら厳重だ.我々に動ける余地はない.」

(No one can get close to that venue. Not even the invited delegations. Surveillance is too tight. We have no room to move.)

He stared at his daughter.

「だが君は——中にいる.」

(But you are on the inside.)

Fuyumi swallowed. "I'm just a student."

「違う.」

(No.)

Her father's voice was firm now, filled with a weight that allowed no denial.

「君は目撃者だ.君が今,見ている現実が,後世の真実になる.」

(You are a witness. What you see now—that becomes tomorrow's truth.)

Fuyumi's lips parted, a new urgency burning behind her eyes. Her voice cracked forward, breath catching—

「それに,皇女様の他にもう一人…戦略級魔法師が——」

(And besides the Emperor's daughter, there's another Strategic-Class Magician—)

Snap.

Sallie moved before the sentence finished, faster than either girl could blink.

His hand darted forward, plucked the handheld comm unit clean out of Fuyumi's grip, and flipped it toward Celeste with a lazy toss like he was passing her a pen.

Celeste caught it mid-air, calm as ever.

Fuyumi stumbled back, eyes wide in shock. "W-What—?!"

The screen hadn't disconnected yet. Her father's face sharpened instantly, alarm rising like fire behind his gaze.

「誰だ.貴様は何者だ?」

(Who are you? Identify yourself, now.)

Celeste tilted her head, holding the phone just below her line of sight. Her voice was cold. Dispassionate. Steel under frost.

「あなたには関係ない.娘に命をかけさせて,部外者に秘密を話させようとした時点で,あなたの立場は終わってる.」

(It's none of your business. You gave your daughter a death sentence by pushing her into this. And you lost the right to speak when you tried to force her to expose someone who hasn't even moved yet.)

The man's face twisted.

「その口の利き方は——」

(You dare speak to me like—)

Celeste cut him off.

「黙れ.そして消えろ.お前の失敗は,私たちの問題じゃない.」

(Shut up. And disappear. Your failure isn't our problem.)

The screen trembled as his expression broke—rage, humiliation, helplessness coiling behind his clenched jaw.

Then the line went dead.

Angela finally exhaled. "…Holy hell."

Fuyumi stood frozen, her breath short and sharp, eyes wide with betrayal.

"Why did you do that…?" she whispered.

Sallie stepped forward, his tone relaxed, but his eyes? Dark. Focused.

"Because if you said one more syllable," he muttered, "you'd have doomed more than just yourself."

He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to.

Celeste handed the phone back to Fuyumi, her expression unreadable. "We're not your allies. But we're not the ones pointing the gun at your neck, either."

Angela stayed quiet, watching Fuyumi with something like sympathy—but not trust.

The hallway outside buzzed faintly with security drones passing.

Fuyumi clutched the phone to her chest, her voice small, broken.

"…He was trying to protect me."

Celeste's voice, flat as stone.

"No. He was trying to use you. Big difference."

Her eyes locked onto Sallie's. Her breath trembled, but she stood her ground, as if clinging to some invisible line of resolve.

Sallie, however, had stepped closer—just enough for his shadow to fall across her. No anger on his face. No yelling. Just that calm, lazy tone that carried a threat sharper than any blade.

"You're smart, Fuyumi. You connect dots real fast. That's dangerous." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "So here's my warning—free of charge."

Celeste folded her arms, already listening, already translating silently in her head.

"You breathe a word of what you almost said—just one whisper about that magician to anyone in Japan…" He leaned in slightly, voice a near whisper now.

"I'll finish what I started back in that simulation room during the internal qualifiers."

Fuyumi's eyes widened.

Angela winced. "Sallie…"

Sallie didn't flinch. "You remember that, right? When your illusion shell cracked and you ended up half-exposed in front of the screens?" His voice sharpened—not cruel, but deliberate. "This time, I won't leave it at half."

He held up a finger.

"One misstep, and I'll make sure the entire stadium sees the bikini you swore no one would ever find out about. On live feed. Before millions."

Celeste stepped forward now, voice cool and clipped as she translated into Japanese with surgical precision:

「もし君がたった一言でも日本でこの戦略級魔法師について漏らしたら…シミュレーションルームでの続きをしてやる.半分だけじゃ済まさない.今回は…水着姿を,世界中の観客に見せてやる.」

(If you so much as whisper a single word in Japan about that Strategic-Class Magician… I'll finish what I started in the simulation room. This time… not just half. I'll show your swimsuit to the world.)

The words struck like thunder.

Fuyumi staggered back, humiliated more by the precision than the threat itself.

"I-I won't," she breathed. "I swear—please…"

Sallie just turned away, already done.

Angela muttered under her breath, "Yikes, that was nuclear."

Celeste didn't break stride as she followed. "She needed to understand."

The weight of what they'd uncovered—and what he'd prevented—still hung in the air, heavy like smoke before the burn.

He looked over his shoulder, eyes locking on Fuyumi's.

She stood still, shaken but listening. He could tell. That terrified flicker in her eyes had shifted—replaced by something quieter. A deep, uncertain respect. Or maybe fear. It didn't matter.

He took a slow step back toward her. No swagger. No grin.

Just truth.

"You want something to hold on to?" he asked, voice low. "A real secret worth keeping?"

Angela blinked, recognizing that tone. Celeste's eyes narrowed slightly but said nothing.

Sallie kept walking toward her until they stood face to face—just close enough for his voice to reach only her.

"I'm going to beat Tatsuya Shiba," he said clearly. "One on one. No tricks. No reinforcements. Just me and him."

Fuyumi froze.

Not at the name—but the certainty behind it.

Sallie leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping into her ear like a whisper threading through steel.

"That's the secret. Yours to keep. Only yours."

Then he pulled back, looking her dead in the eyes.

"…Everyone will understand—once it happens."

He stepped away, slow, deliberate.

Celeste followed, but not before translating every syllable with crystal precision:

「司波達也を,俺は一対一で倒す.トリックも,援護もなし.ただ俺と彼だけ.それが君の秘密だ.君だけのもの.いつか皆も分かる時が来る.」

(I will defeat Tatsuya Shiba—one on one. No tricks. No backup. Just him and me. That secret? It's yours alone. And someday… everyone will understand.)

Fuyumi's breath hitched. Her hands clutched the phone as Celeste gently returned it to her.

Angela offered no words, just a faint nod as they turned away.

Sallie raised a hand lazily behind his back in farewell, not looking back.

And like that, the trio walked on—leaving Fuyumi in the quiet hallway, the door to her room just steps away.

She looked down at the phone in her hands. Then up at the long, empty corridor.

"…Tatsuya Shiba," she whispered.

The quiet continued to suffocate the estate. The only sound now was the soft scrape of Tatsuya's fingers as they slid the data crystal into the reader, the faint click of it being processed barely enough to disturb the stillness.

His eyes followed the data flow across the crystal's projected hologram—lines of code, encrypted maps, and intel reports that he read with a detached precision, each fragment revealing more of the complex web he had come to expect from this war masquerading as a competition.

The name that had been etched into the data crystal, Gabriella Aurelia Mendez, burned in his mind, though it wasn't the first time he had seen it. But now, the stakes felt heavier. The Imperial Gate was no small tool. It was an artifact of power, of control, capable of shifting the battlefield itself, especially in the hands of someone like her.

A faint sigh escaped Tatsuya's lips as he scanned further, not looking for immediate action but for understanding. The signature he had felt resonating through Japan's leylines wasn't a product of just any Imperial magician. It was a pressure that had been carefully cultivated, engineered into something far beyond mere schooling. The Yotsuba might have thought it was theirs to control, but there were more forces at play here than they anticipated.

He closed his eyes again, focusing, feeling the mana currents that snaked across the Pacific, tightening like a noose around Japan's very sovereignty.

The Imperial Sea Games, a spectacle meant to prove dominance and power—rebranded to show the world just how far the IFRP's reach could extend. But beneath the surface of games and competition, there was something more sinister: a message wrapped in blood, a message for Japan to remember their place.

Tatsuya stood, stretching his legs briefly as his mind ran through the possibilities once more. His purpose here had always been clear, but this... this was something different.

Gabriella Aurelia Mendez, a key player in this strategy, but one who had already made herself a target the moment she stepped into the arena. There was no room for mistakes. No allowances for weakness in the face of Imperial ambition.

With the data crystal still in hand, Tatsuya moved towards the estate's study, his thoughts as sharp and calculating as ever. The coming days would demand more than just his usual efforts. The Games were no longer a stage for amateurs. It was a battle for something far more valuable.

Before leaving the courtyard, Tatsuya made his way silently through the interior of the house.

His steps were soundless on the polished floor. The hallways remained bathed in early shadows, lit only by the faintest traces of pre-dawn light slipping through narrow windows. When he reached her door, he paused—not because he hesitated, but because the silence on the other side was familiar. Comforting, even.

He pushed the door open without a sound.

Inside, the room was untouched by the growing tension of the world outside. The curtains filtered the earliest rays of sunlight into a soft gold that pooled across the floor, painting it with fleeting warmth.

Miyuki lay nestled beneath her blanket, her expression serene. A slight smile played on her lips—gentle, unguarded, like she was dreaming of a world that hadn't yet fallen into the grip of war.

Tatsuya stood still.

He didn't move toward her. Didn't speak.

He simply watched.

Not with longing. Not with sorrow. Just with the silent awareness that, perhaps in this one room, time had not yet shifted. That her sleep remained untouched by the knowledge he carried.

For now.

His gaze lingered for a moment longer, memorizing the stillness, committing the rhythm of her breath to memory.

Then he turned toward the window.

Outside, the first light broke fully over the horizon, casting a line of gold across the city's far edge. Clouds gathered above the bay—heavy, silent, like the sky itself was bracing for something inevitable.

Tatsuya's expression didn't change, but his eyes hardened as they followed the skyline toward the east.

----

Mall of Asia Arena – 10:00 AM

Imperial Sea Games Opening Ceremony

A thunderous roar surged through the colossal dome of the Mall of Asia Arena, now transformed into a militarized colosseum.

Gone were the days of school banners and paper confetti. In their place: drones swarming above in tight formation, trailing streaks of colored smoke across the air like a thousand serpents twisting into an Imperial sigil.

The massive LED screens displayed synchronized visuals—flashes of students in combat gear, strategic overlays, glowing CADs mid-activation, and towering shots of reconstructed urban battlefields. The theme blared through speakers: "Where Youth Is Forged in Flame."

Stadium lights burned bright against the morning sun pouring through the arena's open dome. The stands were packed to capacity—parents, students, media, military officers, school supporters, and cheer squads in coordinated colors—nine high schools, each bearing the seal of the Empire and the name of their city.

They were screaming. Chanting. Singing war songs once meant for ceremonies, now twisted with competitive bloodlust.

Then came the Parade.

From the far west tunnel, the first formation marched—First High of Metro Manila, led by a vanguard of elite cadets in polished armor-fused uniforms. Behind them came Fourth High, then Fifth, and so on. Each contingent emerged with full squad formations, their weapons peace-bound but visible, their CADs proudly displayed on wrists, belts, or slung across backs.

Celeste Marie Salcedo led Fourth High's second row, eyes forward, posture sharp.

Angela Castillo grinned beside her, waving half-heartedly at the cheering crowd.

And somewhere in the center-back—hands still in his jacket pockets, briefcase CAD slung lazily across his shoulder—Sallie Mae Salcedo walked like a man who didn't care about cameras… but whose face was already printed on banners, profile cards, and news streams.

Above them, on the imperial balcony—framed by steel, banners, and a protective mana field—the Emperor himself, Aurelio Mendez III, stood in full ceremonial attire. Beside him, cold and radiant in a black imperial uniform and silver-lined cloak, was his daughter—Gabriella Aurelia Mendez.

The Ten Imperial Family Households flanked them in designated seating zones, their members robed in subtle marks of power and ancient family seals.

Behind the imperial stands, ranked rows of military generals, sports analysts, foreign observers, and strategic-class magicians in reserve watched the parade unfold with grim anticipation.

Below, lined around the combat ring that served as the stage, the Imperial Police, Special Forces, and High-Speed Medical Response Mages waited in position—armed, calm, and unsmiling.

And as the final wave of students entered the field—the cheers rose to a deafening crescendo.

Then, silence.

The main spotlight illuminated the central stage.

A single podium emerged, lifting from below the floor. The Emperor stepped forward.

The crowd stood.

The anthem of the Imperial Federal Republic of the Philippines began to play—its chords slow, thunderous, imperial. And all across the arena, even the rowdiest students went still.

Outside the Mall of Asia Arena Simultaneously – Across Greater Manila

While cheers thundered through the Mall of Asia Arena and the Emperor's anthem echoed over the seas, the rest of Metro Manila pulsed with a different kind of rhythm—faster, hungrier, laced with tension.

Tondo – The Backstreets Beneath the Towers

Smoke curled from food stalls and makeshift grills as residents huddled around old televisions, radios, and even black-market mana screens jerry-rigged to pick up the live feed from the Sea Games. Men shouted bets over crates. Children weaved through alleys selling homemade scorecards. Tattooed enforcers from small-time gangs sat atop crates with ledgers in their laps, taking wagers with the same precision they once used for extortion.

"A thousand on First High, kid. They've got that girl with the counter magic."

"Nah, Fourth High's got the Salcedo siblings. That boy's a freak."

"Hey, shut up and pass the goddamn adobo!"

In the background, an ancient radio crackled with the announcer's voice—lagging five seconds behind the hologram projector embedded in a stolen jeep's hood.

Divisoria – The Imperial Trade Nexus

Stalls buzzed, not just with trade, but with whispered deals. CAD blueprints, bootleg enchantments, and battle data stolen from training feeds were changing hands faster than the Eye of Surveillance could track.

"You want his motion profile? Salcedo's? Got it right here. Six hundred pesos. No refunds if he teleports."

Screens flickered under tarp-covered canopies, displaying students mid-parade—every step a new number in someone's ledger.

And deeper in the alleys, underground bookies packed into reinforced rooms lined with runic barriers, holding encrypted comms to provinces beyond. This wasn't just local betting. This was regional.

Quezon City – The Rich and the Ruthless

Luxury condominiums. Rooftop parties. Imperial youth with money to burn and egos to flex lounged beside open-air LED walls projecting the Sea Games in real-time. Champagne flutes clinked. Mana drones served appetizers. But their eyes were glued to the battlefield as if it were bloodsport. Because it was.

"Two hundred grand says someone from Seventh High doesn't survive Day Two."

"Lame bet. I want to see that Tondo prodigy—Salcedo—go toe-to-toe with that teleport witch. What's her name again?"

"Gabriella. Daughter of the Emperor. The Sword of the Empire."

Laughter. Glasses raised.

But even among the wealthy, there was a quiet edge.

They all knew—this wasn't just school games anymore.

This was a proving ground for future gods.

And in the slums, where children made makeshift banners from old shirts, and mothers held back tears while cheering their sons on from screens propped on stolen crates—they, too, gambled something.

Divisoria – A Rooftop Bar Beneath Neon and Smoke

Later That Morning

The cheers from the opening ceremony echoed faintly, bouncing off concrete towers and tin rooftops, as the first stream of bets began flowing like wildfire through the black-market terminals.

A holographic board flickered into life above a grimy betting bar, projecting names, team emblems, and upcoming match formats.

**"UPCOMING EVENTS:

IMPERIAL DUELS (5:00 PM)

BATTLE ROYALE (10:00 PM)

Shouts followed immediately.

"Bro, battle royale's where the blood gets good. Everyone drops into their favorite kill zones now—Urban Core, Sand Canal, Ridgepoint, even the Cargo Bay."

A man leaned in, lighting a cigarette as he pointed at the map zooming in on a cityscape split into quadrants. "My money's on the Taguig kids. They always drop hot. No fear, no strategy—just carnage."

"Taguig's all flash. I'm betting on the Pasay crew. They know how to rotate into the safe zone without getting wiped." Someone else tapped their holotab. "They've got a terrain reader specialist and a sound-based disruptor. If they hit End Zone near the Grand Pavilion, it's over."

Someone from Tondo scoffed from the corner. "The safe zone'll close hard this time. You'll see. Those who panic in the red zone die first."

Another man barked, "No way. It's Extraction that'll make the real money. That's where you see who's smart. Who knows value."

A younger bettor leaned forward. "I heard Sixth High's bringing a looter team with a CAD that tracks mana-based relics. They sweep fast and disappear faster."

"No, no, no." An old man waved him off. "The ones to watch are the Davao squad. They don't just loot—you die, they clean your corpse and your backup cache. Heard they're running a teleport extract."

"But that's risky, old man," someone snapped. "If you get gunned down during recall, you lose everything."

A hushed silence passed as a new team name appeared on the scrolling board.

Everyone leaned forward.

New bets were placed.

Prices shifted.

And with every passing second, the streets buzzed louder—not just with hopes, but with the heat of who would survive, and who would be remembered.

Because out here, far from the lights of the arena,

winning wasn't about glory—it was about escaping irrelevance.

The alley reeked of engine grease, soy oil, and sweat—but deep below it, past a rusted service elevator and behind a bolted iron door painted in sigils that flickered faintly with mana, a different world moved.

This was the pit—the underlevel. Not on any map. Not in any registry.

Inside, surrounded by holo-projectors and mana-stabilized terminals, the bet owner stood like a priest before his altar. A man in a linen barong cut with kevlar seams, half his face lit by a screen listing student combatants, rankings, and odds updated in real-time. Gold-rimmed glasses perched low on his nose, reflecting numbers and code. His name wasn't spoken here. People simply called him Manong Bituin.

Assistants moved around him, plugging data into obsidian slabs, linking feeds from the arena's internal systems, calculating injury likelihoods, CAD usage trends, and team synergy coefficients.

"Make sure we update Battle Royale kill potential for Davao Squad—word's out they're using an anti-radar enchantment," Manong Bituin muttered.

"Already done, sir," said the analyst beside him.

Across the floor, a dozen clients lined up—rich kids, syndicate runners, and a few off-duty military informants—all with credsticks and encrypted chips in hand.

A voice chimed from above—"Three hours until Imperial Duels conclude. Six hours until Extraction begins."

The bet owner nodded. "Start pushing the final wave. People will throw anything before the ceremony ends. Desire is highest when illusion's brightest."

His men activated the "End Spike Protocol"—a betting window that only lasted until the closing fireworks. Odds would shift violently. Desperation would soar.

Upstairs, in every stall, bar, and slum café with a half-working screen, scrolling messages began to appear on public betting streams:

**"Last Bets Before Ceremony Close:

Top Duelist Elimination?

First Blood in Extraction?

Will Battle Royale End in Zone 5?"**

Back in the pit, Manong Bituin raised his hand.

"Double the payout for wildcard kills. And boost the hidden pool."

His assistant blinked. "You think someone's going to flip the board?"

He smiled faintly.

"No. But someone always tries."

And above them, in the arena, the banners still waved, the ceremony marched forward, and across Manila, the blood economy began to thrum.

Ninoy Aquino International Airport – Terminal 4

3:05 PM – Same Day

The terminal buzzed with layered tension—quiet but heavy, like the static in the air before a downpour. Customs officers stood stiffer than usual. Civilian passengers kept their distance from the three black SUVs idling near the arrival gate. The imperial banners on every wall fluttered gently, casting long shadows over polished floors.

Near Gate 7, Cassandra Kwon leaned against the glass railing, arms folded, chewing faintly on the inside of her cheek. Her tailored cadet jacket, crisp and tight at the collar, bore a faint insignia—not the IFRP's, but a neutral observer crest approved by the Imperial Joint Commission. Her slate-gray eyes scanned every movement from the gate's mouth.

Beside her stood Amon Reyes, dark coat draped over his shoulder, his fingers rhythmically tapping on his wrist-mounted comm. His gaze was unbothered, almost lazy—but Cassandra could see it in the way his foot shifted every eight seconds. He was ready to move. Or fight.

"She's late," Amon murmured.

"No," Cassandra replied. "She's precise."

Just as she said it, the gate's security lock hissed open.

Out stepped a girl.

She moved like she belonged on a battlefield—straight-backed, eyes forward, not one inch out of place. Not a wrinkle on her uniform. The coat—a dark crimson hybrid of USNA military and foreign envoy cut—hung like it carried both weight and legacy.

Her gold hair caught the light. Her eyes were like drawn sabers—cool, blue, unreadable.

She walked through the gate alone.

Cassandra's brow lifted.

"Well, well…" she murmured. "Angie Sirius, in the flesh."

Amon gave a low whistle. "Didn't think she'd be the one they sent."

The girl stopped two paces from them. She said nothing.

Cassandra stepped forward first, extending a hand, her diplomatic tone smooth but edged.

"Welcome to Manila. Wasn't expecting a visit from one of the Stars this close to the Games."

The girl—silent a moment—took the hand with a firm grip. Just enough to assert herself, but not enough to challenge.

"I'm not here for sightseeing," she said simply. Her accent—American, clean, and trained.

Amon chuckled. "Let me guess. You're here to see if the rumors are true."

She didn't answer.

Cassandra smiled faintly. "You'll find this place isn't what it used to be. Even Tokyo looks like a library compared to this circus."

The girl's eyes didn't move from Cassandra's face.

"I'm not here to be impressed," the girl repeated coolly. "I'm here to evaluate."

Cassandra Kwon arched an eyebrow. Amon Reyes leaned in, curious now.

"Evaluate what exactly?" Cassandra asked. "The cadets? The showmanship?"

The girl didn't flinch. Her gaze swept toward the city skyline, where even from the airport terminal, the distant beams of Mall of Asia Arena could be seen punching into the afternoon haze like a signal flare.

"That's why I came here," she said. "To watch their Games. You've heard the rumors. About the bloodsport."

Amon and Cassandra exchanged a glance—mild confusion, a flicker of unease.

"Bloodsport?" Amon echoed. "We thought it was just another glorified Nine Schools redux. Tactical sims, CAD duels, a few theatrical matches for the crowds."

The girl let out a humorless smile.

"That's the part they dress up for diplomats," she said. "But I've seen the lists. The rulesets. The Empire didn't recycle Japan's model. They rewired it."

She looked them both in the eyes now, as if checking whether they could handle the truth.

"Here, it's not about sportsmanship or clan prestige. There's no honor in scoring points or syncing spells. This entire event is designed to simulate war. Real war. The kind where you bleed out if you pick the wrong corridor. Where speed isn't just a stat—it's the difference between a kill or being bagged yourself."

Cassandra folded her arms slowly. "…You're saying it's not just training anymore."

"No," the girl said. "It's indoctrination. Every uniform in that arena—students or not—is being conditioned to think survival is the only victory that matters."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the Fourth High cadets passing in formation outside the terminal—sharp, synchronized, more militant than academic. There was no laughter among them. No casual chatter.

Cassandra followed her gaze.

"…They look ready."

"They have to be," the girl replied. "The ones who aren't won't make it to the final week."

Amon crossed his arms now, voice low. "And you're here to report on all of it?"

She turned back toward them, stepping closer.

"I'll watch the Games," she said softly now, her voice dropping into something closer to her real self. "Because I need to see what happens when a country stops pretending."

Cassandra tilted her head, saying nothing.

Lina continued. "When the Nine Schools Competition was still held in Japan, it was intense—sure. Pressure, pride, politics. But it was still a celebration of control. Of restraint."

She glanced once more toward the cadets outside, the Fourth High students waiting for transport. Their movements were crisp. Empty of joy.

"But here?" Her voice sharpened, almost breaking. "They're not building champions. They're building weapons. Children who fight like war is their first language. Who celebrate kills instead of points. It's not just culture shock. It's a red flag."

Amon leaned against the railing, crossing his arms. "You think this is going to escalate."

"I know it is," Lina said without hesitation. "The Sea Games aren't about proving who's the strongest. They're about who's ready to invade first. And when this is over, when the dust settles—some faction will point to these Games and say: See? They're ready. Let them off the leash."

Cassandra looked away, toward the skyline. "And when that happens…"

"…Our country gets dragged into a war we didn't ask for," Lina finished.

Amon was quiet now. Cassandra's fingers tensed slightly where they rested on the railing.

Lina stood still, arms folded tightly against the sudden chill that no Manila heat could touch.

Cassandra and Amon exchanged a glance. Amon gave a faint nod. It was time.

"We weren't sure when to bring this up," Amon said, his voice now void of its usual ease. "Didn't want to start this trip with a knife to the throat."

"But the knife's already here," Cassandra added. "Might as well show you where it's pointing."

Lina turned toward them slowly, her expression tense, guarded.

"What happened?"

Amon looked her straight in the eye.

"One of the Ten Master Clans. Female. High-priority target."

Lina's jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

"She was captured during a covert infiltration op along the Pasig River," Cassandra continued. "Intel says she was part of a reconnaissance unit, possibly gathering data on Imperial Sea Games logistics and mana-grid disruptions."

Lina's voice was cold. "She came to observe and got caught."

"She came to monitor," Amon corrected, "but the Empire doesn't distinguish between a monitor and a spy when it's convenient."

He shifted his weight. "She tried to escape. Didn't make it past the east floodgates. IFRP students were the ones who found her. Not soldiers. Students."

Lina's breath stilled.

"They detained her. No formal charges. No announcement. But her presence—her capture—was known to the higher-ups within hours. Her family issued a silent inquiry. It went nowhere."

Cassandra stepped closer.

"And now, she's the finale."

Lina's brow furrowed. "…What do you mean?"

"She's going to be executed," Amon said, voice blunt. "Live. At the end of the ceremony. As a message."

"They'll going to frame it as punishment for espionage," Cassandra added. "But it's not just punishment. It's a declaration. The Empire doesn't just win wars. It performs them."

For a long moment, Lina said nothing.

The weight of it was staggering.

"They're doing this in front of everyone?" she asked at last, almost not believing the words leaving her own mouth.

Amon nodded slowly. "Streamed globally. Projected to every arena, every screen. The students will watch. So will their parents."

Lina looked away, biting the inside of her cheek.

"…They're not just building weapons," she asked. "They're building witnesses?"

No one spoke.

The crowd had thinned slightly, but the tension in the air had only thickened. Something unseen had shifted.

Then—

"Here she is," Cassandra whispered, panic catching in her throat. She turned toward the terminal's wall-mounted holo-screen. Her voice cut through the idle chatter of airport personnel and Imperial security like a gunshot.

Amon and Lina snapped their heads around. The terminal quieted—first in confusion, then in growing horror.

On every screen, across every public broadcast platform, the Imperial Livestream had hijacked the feed. The Games' opening ceremony was still technically underway, but the festive visuals were gone. No cadets. No banners. No crowd.

Only a single, fixed camera. A stone courtyard.

A raised platform under the shadow of the Imperial Seal.

And a single girl—blindfolded, hands bound behind her back, her uniform stripped of insignia.

Lina stepped forward, her eyes narrowing.

Even blurred, even distant—she knew that silhouette.

And so did the world.

A daughter of the Ten Master Clans.

A hush fell over the terminal. Somewhere, a worker dropped a clipboard. No one moved to pick it up.

The girl stood alone. Trembling.

A voice rang out—mechanical, official, cold.

"Classified operative of foreign sovereignty. Captured within Imperial jurisdiction during active surveillance. Sentence: irreversible. Witnessed by the people of the Empire."

Then the broadcast camera panned just slightly, its focus sharpening.

A row of IFRP soldiers stood at rigid attention, boots planted on the glinting tarmac, rifles held in perfect formation. They were students—barely older than cadets—dressed in immaculate uniforms, insignias freshly pressed and crests shining against their chests. The barrels of their rifles gleamed beneath the sun, immaculate and ready.

Imperial Firing Squad.

Lina's breath caught in her throat. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, her eyes widening as the screen cut to a tighter angle. A girl stood before the line, hair pulled back, posture stiff, hands bound behind her back.

"No," Lina whispered, the word barely audible, barely real.

One second.

Two.

On screen, the girl raised her chin just a little. A gesture so small it could have been missed—except it wasn't. It was quiet defiance. Or maybe just acceptance. A final breath taken into lungs that would never breathe again.

Then—gunfire.

Seven sharp cracks split the silence. Echoing. Precise. Final.

The girl's body snapped once from the impact, then collapsed forward, lifeless. No cry. No resistance. Just gravity—and the end of something young.

Gasps erupted throughout the airport terminal. Someone screamed. A child clung to their mother. One of the guards dropped to his knees, his weapon falling forgotten at his side. The silence shattered like glass, the soundless grief breaking into chaos.

Even Amon, ever composed, stepped back instinctively, his face pale. Cassandra's expression—usually cool, unreadable—locked in place, her eyes wide, unblinking.

Lina didn't move.

Her body was still, but her soul? Her soul was already screaming.

And then—

The Emperor's face appeared.