Let the Match Begin

The platform awaited.

Pale stone gleamed beneath the sun, its curved surface unmarred. Dust hung in the air like the breath of god holding still.

They began to return.

From nine different entry paths scattered across the outer ring, the chosen combatants stepped forward, one by one, re-entering the sacred space.

Kazuo walked with quiet focus, his hands already wrapped into fists, the medallion under his collar warm against his chest.

To his left, Rulthan rolled his shoulders like a beast ready to charge.

Opposite him, Aoi adjusted the scarf around his neck, eyes half-lidded, completely calm.

Kaya arrived barefoot, her presence as still and heavy as stone. Yuki, near the opposite edge, stood like a breath of snow before melting. Sylvain stepped in like a dancer — elegant, deliberate, unreadable.

They formed a wide, natural circle, each fighter standing far apart. Awaiting for the battle to start.

On the High Balkony

Cedric raised the crystal glass to his lips.

The wine touched his mouth, but he didn't drink.

His gaze remained fixed on the arena — on the boy now standing at the center of it all.

Kazuo.

He watched the black-eyed figure among nobles, unblinking.

And finally, he thought:

No deception in your steps.

No lies in your eyes.

Just like you promised.

I do believe you.

But I don't take risks — not on belief. Not on symbols.

You are still a pawn.

The crowd cheered, but Cedric didn't react.

The wine swirled faintly in the glass.

Still…

Even a pawn, if it reaches the other side, becomes a queen.

And queens move wherever they please.

That… I cannot allow.

This tournament will shape you — not into a queen, not into a knight, not into anything unpredictable.

You will become a rook. Straight lines. Controlled paths.

You move only when I open space.

You act only when I decide it's time.

A story I control.

He tilted the glass slightly, watching the red reflect the sun.

Let them cheer for the black-eyed boy.

Let them believe he's different.

Because soon… they'll see a message:

That even he rose only because I allowed it.

He took a slow sip.

And said nothing.

High above, in the Captain's Gallery, Setsuna stepped up to the marble railing.

To his left stood Idris, a thin line of smoke curling from the cigarette in his mouth. His one remaining arm rested lazily on the ledge, the other sleeve tied off with practiced ease.

"Thought you'd chicken out," Idris muttered without looking at him. Then, without ceremony, he extended the cigarette in his fingers.

"Want the last one?"

Setsuna exhaled slowly. "You know I don't smoke."

Idris grinned sideways, cigarette resting between his fingers. "Didn't ask if you did. Asked if you wanted it."

Setsuna glanced at him, lips curling faintly. "Still no."

Idris shrugged, took a long drag. "Suit yourself. Helps with nerves."

"I'm not nervous," Setsuna replied, eyes fixed on the ring."He is."

A pause. Then Idris asked, casually:

"You think your student's gonna make a splash?"

Setsuna didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on Kazuo — small in the circle, but standing still.

"He doesn't need to make a splash," he said at last."He just needs to stay afloat."

Idris chuckled. "You're dodging."

Setsuna shrugged. "I taught him how to swim. If he drowns, it's on him."

"Well," Idris flicked ash off the balcony, "Let's see what will happen."

Behind them, the soft click of heels announced Shiranami, posture regal as ever, arms crossed tightly.

"Still waiting?" she said coolly. "This pre-match charade is a complete waste of time."

"Then why even taking part in it?" Idris muttered.

She ignored him. Her gaze swept the field like she was watching children ruin choreography.

"Even tho they are all around their 20s. It feels like they are still kids."

Vaskel approached next, his perfume arriving before he did. He smiled at the tension like it was perfume, too.

"What a thrilling thought" he said smoothly. "Children fighting to the death would be refreshing."

"You would enjoy it?" Shiranami asked.

"llet's say watching that Water pesant drown is all I need to see for now." he said while looking at Setsuna.

Setsuna didn't react. Provocation like this doesn't work on him.

Garou stomped up next, all arms and teeth. "We all know what's coming. My Rhakka's built for this. He's gonna end this quick."

"Hmm," Zahari murmured as he arrived, quiet as ever.

He stood beside the others, arms behind his back, gaze on Kazuo.

Then, honestly, without spite:

"You think your kid could beat mine in a straight brawl?"

A beat.

"Not trying to insult," he added. "But he doesn't look like someone cut out for that kind of fight."

Setsuna's reply was calm. Crisp.

"You're right."

He paused, then added, quietly but with weight:

"But unlike all of your fighters… he was raised in the Lower Crescents."

Zahari nodded once. Not in agreement — in acknowledgment.

"Tough place."

Silence fell again as they watched the nine figures hold formation.

From across the gallery, Alenia leaned over the railing, wings catching the sunlight like glass.

"Should we not be hoping this will end well?" she asked airily. "After all… it's only a game."

Vaskel let out a slow laugh. "We all know this is more than just a game.."

Setsuna took a breath, flicked the unlit cigarette Idris had offered over the edge. It spun once, then vanished.

His eyes returned to Kazuo — a single boy among giants.

"You can do this" he muttered.

Below, the circle remained unbroken. No one moved. The crowd roared on.

The platform was silent.

But the tension? Deafening.

One by one, the nine combatants shifted — weight over toes, arms loose but ready, eyes scanning the circle like wolves in a room full of knives.

Sweat beaded at brows. Shoulders rolled. Breathing steadied.

Kazuo lowered his stance. His heart thudded once, hard. Aoi didn't move. Kaya cracked her neck. Rulthan smiled like he'd waited his whole life for this moment.

Just the air, heavy with magic they couldn't use — and instincts they couldn't hide.

Then—a single breath later—the announcer's voice rang out across the coliseum:

"Let the match… begin."

Beneath each fighter, the rune etched into the marble flared to life — a sudden pulse of ancient light.

The signal.

The arena exploded with noise.

And the game was no longer theoretical.

It had begun.