Chapter 77 - Threads of Influence

Date: Late July X786

Location: Crocus Arena District & Citadel Halls

The evening sky over Crocus shimmered like a restless sea, magic pulsing in every lantern orb suspended above the streets. Each orb flickered with caught sparks — souvenirs from traveling guilds, stars trapped behind thin glass.

Tonight, the Games weren't just a festival anymore. They felt like a chessboard stretched thin, every move echoing far beyond the sand of the arena.

Teresa moved through the crowd, her silver cloak trailing in ghostly arcs over mosaic stones, each step leaving a hush behind it. Reporters lunged, clipboards sharp as hunting knives, their questions slicing through the roar:

The duel. The vaults. Fairy Tail's empty bench.

She answered only once, voice low enough that some strained to hear.

"Strength isn't in numbers. It's in precision."

That silence said more than any cheer could.

From a high pavilion overlooking the "Puzzle Relay," Teresa joined Councilor Fitzroy.

He greeted her with a flicker of relief and unease all tangled into one. "Suppression thresholds… they're lower than Ky'run's," he murmured.

Her gaze didn't waver. "Then someone wants chaos. Not balanced."

Below, Multiply Guild and Crime Sorcière fought through puzzle sigils — a dance of frost and flame, each rune crumbling moments before final activation. The match ended in a hard draw.

A second round started at once. Fairy Tail's box stayed dark. Empty.

That emptiness roared louder than any shout. Teams shifted restlessly, some praying for easy points, others fearing a last-minute ambush.

Down in the Citadel's underhalls, Bran met envoys from the Fantasy Guild beneath guttering braziers.

"We lower suppression," Bran said, his voice like cracking ice. "We invite spectacle. Blood sells."

Cobra of Sabertooth bristled. "Don't tip it into slaughter. We won't stand idle."

Bran's smile was thin as a hairline crack. "Blood, not death."

Up above, the night event announcement flashed on every screen: "Covert Maze — illusion field hazard, five minutes to escape."

Cheering surged. Teresa stood unmoved.

That maze sat on unstable rock. Vault echoes beneath it tremored faintly, like distant thunder in the marrow.

Fitzroy's voice dropped. "They want you inside. To fracture you or force your hand."

She watched him, eyes quiet as snowfall. "They assume I'll break."

When the gates opened, cloaked figures slipped into the fog. Viola from Blue Pegasus. Krag of Sabertooth. Others were too cautious to cheer but too proud to hesitate.

Lights flickered.

A scream — sharp, sudden — rang out. A suppression shard gleamed, embedded in a mage's leg. Healers rushed as the crowd gasped, that half-horrified thrill rising.

Another mage hit a necromantic residue, black mist detonating into clawed illusions that clawed at mental wards.

Designers watched above, unflinching.

Teresa didn't enter. She watched. Every movement, every fracture point.

When survivors finally crawled out, torn and pale, the arena clapped — a nervous, broken sound.

Later, she found Org in a back corridor near the maze control runes.

"They went in blind," she said softly. "This wasn't a test. It was bait."

Org didn't deny it. "To some, it's a loyalty ritual. To Bran… a stage."

She tilted her head slightly. "He's shifting the narrative. Turning Council eyes away from the real cracks."

Org's jaw tightened. "We let him think that. We hold the true game."

Word flew: Teresa would enter an unscheduled exhibition match. Balcony screens pulsed invitations like urgent heartbeats.

The Games turned from a show to a sudden trial.

At the maze's core, hazard triggers quivered, ready to collapse entire floors.

Three battered teams emerged at last, stumbling under stadium lights.

Teresa stepped forward. No introduction. No flourish. Just her cloak trailing, blade sheathed but humming like a waiting storm.

Silence hit the stands, thick as fog.

The announcer's voice broke once, then steadied.

"Please welcome… Teresa of Fairy Tail."

A pause — then the stands burst open with a roar that shook dust from the rafters.

Her opponent: Alek Mirion. Council-backed, destructive range specialist, precise as a surgeon's scalpel.

No runic buffers. Magic unbound.

Alek launched first — crystal mana shards slashed the air, shattering illusions and wards alike.

Teresa stood still. Yoki's aura barely flickered, folded so tight it looked like stillness.

A second volley — she vanished.

Phantom Step.

She reappeared at his flank, blade tip resting lightly on the sand.

One motion. Void Sever.

His focus crystal shattered. Shards scattered harmlessly at his feet.

Alek staggered back, panic rising.

She advanced — fluid, edges of her aura sliding like glass over a tide. Tiny pulses of Living Weave mended her cloak's fibers in near-invisible threads.

Alek tried one last desperate downward strike — a hammer of raw mana.

Teresa absorbed it, sparks hissing around her feet.

She pivoted behind him. One quiet tap to his spine.

He dropped, conscious but immobile.

Silence.

Then an eruption — the stands broke into a tide of sound. Fireworks split above, petals of fire raining against the black.

"Victory: Teresa of Fairy Tail!"

Backstage, slayers huddled close to their screens.

Gajeel leaned forward, frowning. "No scent. No kill-hunger. Just… void."

Wendy trembled, voice thin. "She doesn't feel alive… or dead."

Two Devil Slayers exchanged glances.

"She's carrying something deeper than a curse," one whispered. "A sealed echo."

Guild captains drifted toward her after, some in awe, some in silent calculation.

Alto of Blue Pegasus offered a sharp salute. "Spectacular. But your method frightens more than it inspires."

She inclined her head slightly. "Inspiration is not my mission."

Krag of Sabertooth grunted. "We'll see you in the covert rounds. Our oath stands."

Her eyes stayed steady.

Later that night, bulletins crackled: "Suppression glyph breach — Citadel implicated. Vulnerable sectors."

Crowds quieted as rumors spilled across balconies.

Teresa stood backstage, reporters scattering in a flurry of quills and lacrima flashes.

In that hush, she felt the loom twist beneath her feet — alliances fraying, new threads forced into place.

She stepped forward, cloak drifting like dusk behind her.

The Games weren't Games anymore.

They were warnings in motion.