Opening Ceremony V – The Ninth Banner

His gaze sharpened.

That banner… it doesn't belong to any of the eight.

Setsuna narrowed his eyes, squinting at the sigil fluttering in the wind like a challenge.

No… that one doesn't belong to any regular squad.

His brow furrowed. A chill crept across his spine — not from the cold, but memory.

Whose squad is that? Damn it… I should know this.

Then it hit him.

Like ice cracking underfoot.

Idris.

His breath caught.

But that's impossible. Idris's squad never enters the tournament. His Squad is a Special Unit.

His head turned slowly, almost involuntarily — toward the royal balcony.

There he stood.

King Cedric.

Still. Composed.

If Idris is in…

The thought didn't finish.

The sky cracked with sound as the announcer's voice boomed across the coliseum, slicing clean through the tension like thunder through glass:

"And now… a surprise twist in this year's Tournament of Nobles!"

The crowd murmured, voices rising like sparks before a fire.

"Entering under royal decree — a division not seen in the tournament for over a decade…"

Setsuna's eyes narrowed.

"The Crown's Severed Fang…"

Kazuo leaned closer to Setsuna. "Who the hell is that?"

But Setsuna didn't answer.

He already knew.

"The one-armed warhound himself — Captain Idris!"

A ripple went through the audience — a strange mixture of confusion, awe, and unsettled silence. Not fear. But wariness.

From the far gate, a figure emerged. The Purpur Banner with a Silver Fang Emblem.

Broad-shouldered. Heavy steps. A long black coat trailed behind him, faded with time and ash. His left sleeve hung empty — the stump ended just above the elbow. A cigarette glowed at the edge of his lip, smoke curling like lazy venom.

He didn't move like a noble.

He moved like a weapon dragged out of storage.

Setsuna grabbed Kazuos shoulders from behind and spoke quietly, eyes locked on the figure. "He belongs to the special unit."

"You know him?"

"We trained together."

Kazuo blinked. "Was he… your rival?"

"Yes."

A pause.

That answer didn't comfort Kazuo.

Especially when Idris raised his head — and locked eyes with Setsuna from across the arena.

A quiet nod.

Not of challenge.

But understanding.

Old paths crossing again — not by choice.

Then came the boy behind him.

Slender. Taller than expected.

Wrapped in the polished white-and-blue of Idris's division, the young man moved with the ease of someone unshaken by crowds or pressure. His hair was a deep, oceanic blue — neat, unbothered. A single scarf, pristine white, draped around his neck, fluttering softly with every step.

Kazuo's brow twitched. "That's… their fighter?"

Setsuna exhaled. "This is why I'm worried."

"And who is he?"

"…Aoi."

They met halfway, where the squads stood for formal introductions before returning to the stands.

Setsuna and Idris stood face to face. For a moment, neither said a word.

Then Idris reached out — his right hand.

Setsuna took it.

A firm shake.

Rough skin met colder fingers.

"You look older," Idris muttered, a smirk forming behind the cigarette.

"You look like hell," Setsuna replied.

"Still the same."

"You, too."

Their hands dropped. No hostility. Just the weight of history neither of them had asked for.

Setsuna's voice dipped. "Why are you here, Idris?"

"Didn't volunteer." He glanced up at the royal balcony. "King's orders."

Setsuna clicked his tongue. "Of course it was."

"Don't worry." Idris exhaled smoke from the corner of his mouth. "I am just following orders."

"And that's the problem" Setsuna muttered. 

That got a low chuckle from Idris. "You're still a pain in the ass."

Meanwhile—

Kazuo stood in front of Aoi, who offered a small, polite nod.

"You must be Kazuo! Everyone is talking about you. Nice to meet you," Aoi said simply, his tone flat — but not cold.

Kazuo just stared.

Blue hair. Blue eyes. White scarf. Calm aura. Hands in Pocket.

"…I hate you," Kazuo said.

Aoi blinked. "Sorry?"

Setsuna turned his head. "Huuuh?"

Kazuo pointed. "Look at him! He's not even trying! He walks in, does nothing, says two words, and girls on the sidelines are going nuts!"

From the stands, a chorus of squeals erupted — "Aoi-sama!"

Aoi tilted his head slightly, confused. "I didn't do anything."

"Exactly!" Kazuo barked. "You don't have to! You just exist and women fall over. And I have to work for it and still get rejected!"

Even Idris let out a laugh — dry, sharp, the cigarette bouncing at his lip. "I I like him. he reminds me of you."

Setsuna twitched his right eye in disbelief.

Kazuo folded his arms. "I don't care if you're nice. I still hate you."

Aoi's expression didn't change. "Understood."

Kazuo stepped back with a huff. "He probably writes poetry too."

Setsuna pinched the bridge of his nose and snapped. "Kazuo, Shut up."

Kazuo flinched. "Wha—?"

He looked at Setsuna.

But Setsuna wasn't laughing.

His face was still. Cold. Eyes sharp with something unreadable.

Aoi gave a small nod and turned, following Idris off the field with silent grace, scarf trailing like a ripple in the wind.

They waited until Idris and Aoi fully took their places.

Only then did Setsuna finally move — exhaling slowly, like he'd been holding his breath the whole time.

Kazuo tilted his head. Awaiting Setsunas explaination.

"You don't understand, Kazuo," Setsuna said, still staring straight ahead. "That wasn't just some random new fighter."

Kazuo turned his head.

Setsuna's expression hadn't changed. Still calm. Still unreadable.

"Like I said: That's Aoi." he continued. "A genius. A prodigy. One of the youngest to ever awaken his Esoteric Art. He's never failed a mission."

Kazuo squinted slightly. "Okay… and?"

Setsuna's eyes didn't move. "He uses Lightning Magic."

Setsuna finally turned to him — not sharply, but slowly. "You're Water."

Kazuo paused.

"…I still don*t understand."

Setsuna's voice lowered, each word precise. "Every magic type has strengths and weaknesses. Natural balances. Water extinguishes Fire. Fire melts Ice. Wind can erode Earth. But Water—"

He glanced back at where Aoi had walked.

"—Water conducts electricity."

Kazuo followed his gaze. His eyes landed back on Aoi.

"Wait…"

Setsuna nodded. "He's your perfect counter."

Kazuo felt it now. A subtle pressure in the center of his chest.

Not fear.

Just realization.

"This wasn't random," Setsuna added. "This was Cedric's doing. A deliberate move to stop you from winning."

He hesitated.

"Or worse."

Kazuo turned to him. "I was expecting him to plot something but this?"

The air around them felt heavier. The crowd still roared above, oblivious.

Setsuna furrowed his brow. "But the part I don't get..."

Kazuo glanced at Setsuna.

"If this was about setting you up to fail," Setsuna said slowly, "why not just replace one of the existing units? Why are we still nine?"

A long pause.

Setsuna looked up at the flags above.

His eyes narrowed.

"We're still uneven," he said. holding Kazuos shoulders tight. "I don't know what he is planning so keep your guard up!"

Kazuo turned his head again.

Back to Aoi.

The boy hadn't moved much — just standing beside Idris, hands relaxed at his sides, face unreadable.

And as if drawn by instinct—

Aoi turned too.

Their eyes met across the arena floor.

Two fighters — locked in stillness.

Lightning and Water.

Reflection and tension.

And in that one glance, Kazuo felt it:

That Death never felt so close