Somewhere Near the Mall of Asia Arena – Just Before the Execution
Imperial Avenue – 3:10 PM
The sun cast a golden sheen over the avenue as the air filled with chants, camera flashes, and holographic banners displaying the names and ranks of rising student champions.
The Salcedo siblings walked at the front—one on each side of the imperial banner held high by a ceremonial drone. Their uniforms were pressed, polished, and gleaming in the afternoon light. Every step they took down the imperial road was matched by dozens behind them—Angela, Fourth High's other elites, and contingents from every school across the IFRP. Hundreds of cadets marching in formation.
Around them, the crowd surged with energy. Parents, fans, cheering students, and entire families lined the streets and walkways. Children waved digital flags from their parents' shoulders. Old men cried at the sight of uniforms that mirrored their own from decades past. Food stalls boomed. Spectator drones hovered overhead broadcasting live feeds to megascreens across Manila.
All of them were rooting—for favorites, for districts, for hometown heroes.
But the mood was complex. Beneath the cheers and waving banners, whispers buzzed like static:
"Did you hear about the execution?"
"Wasn't she one of the Ten Master Clans?"
"They're showing it live."
The cadets marched on, heads high, faces disciplined—but inside, many of them were already wrestling with what was coming. With what the Games had become.
Beneath the thunder of drums and the blinding flashes of photodrones, Sallie Salcedo leaned just slightly toward his sister, his stride never once breaking formation.
"This better be the last damn lap," he muttered under his breath. "We've circled this arena like we're stuck in a loading screen."
Celeste smirked, her gaze fixed forward. "You'd think with all their tech, they could streamline a parade. Or at least give us water."
Sallie snorted. "Or chairs. Or shade. Or a refund for wasting perfectly good afternoon hours marching for an audience that's half here to place bets."
From behind, Angela piped in, voice low, laced with dry sarcasm. "You mean you're not enjoying the slow, ceremonial walk into militarized propaganda?"
"That's the problem," Sallie muttered. "It's too slow. If we're going to be symbols, can we at least be efficient symbols?"
Celeste's fingers lightly tapped the side of her thigh—nervous energy masked by poise. "Keep your sarcasm internal, Onii-sama. We're being watched by half the world."
"Yeah," he said. "And the other half is watching to see who drops dead first."
The holographic banners surged above them again, projecting UNITY – GLORY – SACRIFICE in Imperial gold. The roar of the crowd swelled once more as they passed the western plaza, where betting terminals were already swarmed by citizens placing last-minute predictions.
Sallie flicked his gaze upward at the looming spire above the arena's grandstand. His voice lowered.
"…Bet they already know who's supposed to win."
Celeste didn't answer.
The march went on.
The march rounded the southern corridor, boots echoing in lockstep until the cadence softened. Schools peeled away with mechanical precision, banners snapping like sails as cadets formed sweat-soaked blocks of gray and gold beneath the Mall of Asia Arena's looming silhouette. No longer a mere venue, its steel-and-glass maw swallowed them whole.
Inside, stadium lights dimmed to a twilight glow. Spotlights sliced through the haze, guiding thousands of cadets to their sectors. Silence cloaked the air—no whispers, no shuffled steps. The weight of the moment pressed against their chests.
Sallie and Celeste slotted into place at the Fourth High delegation's front, shoulders squared, faces unreadable. Behind them, Angela tugged at her cuff, her gaze flickering to the central stage, where shadows stirred.
A low hum pulsed from the loudspeakers. Massive screens suspended from the dome sparked to life, cycling through provincial flags—vibrant reds, deep blues—before locking on the Imperial Federal Republic's obsidian sigil, sharp as a blade.
Deep strings slithered from the speakers, joined by mournful brass. The national anthem unfurled, its notes heavy as iron.
The crowd stood frozen. No hands reached for phones. No voices broke the stillness. Tens of thousands of cadets, from Luzon's coasts to Mindanao's hills, stood rigid, eyes fixed on the stage. Sweat beaded on brows, trickling down necks. Some fists tightened until knuckles paled. Others let eyelids flutter shut, as if bracing for a storm.
High above, on a platform flanked by armored honor guards, Emperor Aurelio Mendes emerged, his ceremonial cape rippling like liquid obsidian. At his side, his daughter stood, her face a mask of porcelain radiance, eyes distant as stars.
The anthem's crescendo clawed at the air. A spotlight drenched them in molten gold, their silhouettes burning into the arena's heart.
Not a cadet stirred. Not a breath faltered.
The silence that followed was a blade, poised to sever what came before from what would come next.
Sallie didn't just sigh. He collapsed—not onto the ground, but into a deep, theatrical slump like his bones had finally given up the act. His head tilted back, arms sagging at his sides, eyes rolled skyward as if he'd just crossed the longest kilometer in human history.
Celeste didn't need to look. She could feel the performance happening beside her.
"God," Sallie muttered under his breath, "I thought that march would never end. I was one footstep away from turning into a ghost."
Celeste gave him a side glance, unimpressed.
He kept going. "Another lap and I would've filed a war crime complaint. Bataan-style. My calves are writing their will."
She raised a brow. "You're literally still standing."
He clutched his chest with mock despair. "In spirit, I've died twice."
"Oh, Onii-sama, your sacrifice in the sacred march of valor shall never be forgotten," she said, voice laced with syrupy sarcasm. "We'll build a monument. Right next to the food court."
Sallie gave her a slow blink, mouth twitching into a mock frown. "You laugh now, but in the history books, they'll call this the March of the Martyr of Sore Legs."
"Oh please." She uncrossed one arm just to jab a finger toward his boots. "You wore running shoes under regulation pants."
"I wore them to survive, Celeste. Survive." He took a dramatic step forward like he was on stage, hands raised to the heavens. "Unlike you—fashion over function. Enjoy those blisters."
"You whined more than the grade schoolers," she muttered, turning away just enough to let the corner of her lip curl.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "You love this. Admit it."
"You're exhausting."
"And yet, you followed me all the way."
"I had to. You were walking like someone who just discovered legs five minutes ago."
Angela, a row behind them, leaned forward and whispered, "Should I call security or just let you two keep flirting like siblings?"
Both turned. "Shut up." they said in unison.
"You did not just say that," he said, drawing out every word with theatrical offense. "You know exactly who we are, Angela."
Celeste didn't even turn—she just arched a brow, eyes fixed forward as she spoke with crisp precision. "Siblings. Operative word: siblings. Meaning we're allowed to fight like it's civil war on a school trip."
"And we will," Sallie added, pointing from himself to Celeste. "Because that's tradition. That's heritage."
Angela shrugged, barely hiding her grin. "Sure, sure. Just saying—you two bicker like it's foreplay."
Sallie recoiled like he'd been shot. "What?!"
Celeste's eyes twitched sideways, horrified. "Angela."
"What?!" he repeated, louder this time, both hands in the air like he was surrendering to a crime he didn't commit. "You're talking to a man who once fought his own sister over the last siopao! At Christmas! That's not flirting. That's warfare."
Angela crossed her arms with a smirk. "Still sounds like repressed emotional codependence."
Celeste turned now, slowly, eyes sharp as razors. "Keep talking and I'll reassign you to kitchen duty for the next four days. And we both know what happened last time you touched a rice cooker."
Angela's smirk faltered just enough.
Sallie leaned in, eyes wide with mock horror. "Was that the congee disaster of last month?"
"She broke it," Celeste said flatly.
"It exploded," Sallie whispered. "How do you make rice explode?"
Angela rolled her eyes. "Okay, okay, I get it. Sibling chaos is sacred. I'll back off before you both throw me into a pot."
"You won't fit," Sallie said cheerfully. "We already tried last year with Jun."
"What?!"
The stage's ambient light dimmed into a dull, clinical hue.
A mechanical hiss whispered across the arena as the crimson velvet curtains—once framing nothing but empty grandeur—parted with slow, deliberate intent. Gasps rippled from the crowd like a dropped stone in still water.
There she was.
A young woman. Japanese.
Her frame was small, but she stood upright, restrained only by the thick manacles binding her wrists. Her orange jumpsuit clung to her like shame—creased, torn in places, as if she'd been dragged here, not escorted. Her hair, matted in sections, still held its length with a stubborn elegance. She blinked into the stadium lights, face impassive, but her shoulders gave her away.
Not fear. Resignation.
Angela stopped breathing. Sallie's posture stiffened. Celeste didn't blink.
The arena, only moments ago alive with cheers and playful chants, fell into a terrible hush. No one moved. Even the drones circling overhead went still in mid-air, holding their broadcast positions like vultures eyeing a corpse.
From stage left, they came—eight men in black combat dress, boots thudding in perfect synchronicity. Each carried an imperial-standard rifle, barrels angled down, helmets shining under the harsh floodlights.
They took their places behind her. One by one. Rifles rose. Clicks echoed—mechanical, final.
The prisoner's eyes moved, scanning the crowd—not searching for mercy, but memorizing faces. It was as if she wanted to leave a piece of herself in each of them before vanishing forever.
Celeste's voice trembled, low and tight behind clenched teeth.
"…She's one of the ten."
Angela's lips parted, just barely. "She's a…?"
"Shhh," Sallie breathed. "Watch."
And the world did.
Tens of thousands in the arena, millions more through screens across the globe, all locked into that image:
A girl in a prisoner's jumpsuit, shadowed by rifles, standing tall in the moment before history burned her name into memory.
Rifles cracked, splintering the silence like glass underfoot.
One.
Two.
Three volleys.
The girl jerked once. Then collapsed forward, chains clinking weakly as she hit the stage floor—no scream, no plea. Just a body folding like paper in the wind.
The arena didn't cheer.
Even the boldest among the crowd—those who bet and boasted—fell into an eerie stillness. Some averted their eyes. Others stared, frozen, unsure whether to applaud or weep.
Then, as if choreographed by silence itself, golden light poured from the upper gantry of the arena stage.
A figure descended.
Emperor Aurelio Mendez III stepped into view—draped in a military parade coat of white and silver, his medals catching the light with every stride. He did not rush. He did not blink. His presence alone seemed to command obedience, not fear. Behind him, the body remained—unattended, forgotten. A footnote in his grand script.
He stopped at the center of the stage, flanked by imperial banners. The mic adjusted to him automatically.
He looked into the camera first. Not at the crowd. Not at the schools. Not at his people.
But at the world.
"Tonight," his voice boomed, slow and cold, "you bear witness to the new face of justice."
He turned then, sweeping a hand toward the body as if presenting an exhibit.
"The woman executed moments ago was a combatant of the Ten Master Clans. Her presence within our sovereign territory was not sanctioned. She was captured during an infiltration operation along the Pasig River, where she—along with others—attempted to disrupt national surveillance grids and tamper with classified mana infrastructure."
He paused. A murmur ran through the crowd.
"Under the laws of wartime espionage," he continued, voice unwavering, "she was tried by the High Court of Strategic Crimes. Her guilt, proven beyond contest. Her fate, deserved."
"To every student here," he began, his gaze sweeping the sea of young faces, "every soldier in training, every child of this new empire—listen."
The arena's vastness seemed to shrink, his words pulling every soul toward him. A girl in the front row, her uniform crisp but her knuckles white, stared up, unblinking.
"Today is no mere spectacle." He turned, his hand slicing toward the stage's center, where cleaners had just scrubbed blood from the polished floor. The faint tang of iron lingered in the air. "This is a declaration."
A murmur rippled through the crowd, quickly swallowed by the weight of his pause. Students shifted, their training boots scuffing softly against concrete. Parents in the upper tiers clutched each other's hands, their pride warring with dread.
"The Imperial Sea Games," Aurelio continued, his voice rising, "are the birth cry of something greater."
He paced now, slow and deliberate, his shadow stretching long across the stage. The banner behind him snapped once, sharp, as a gust from an open vent caught it.
"Our people," he said, "carry scars no history book can erase." His eyes darkened, and for a moment, his composure cracked—just enough for the crowd to glimpse the fury beneath. "1941. The occupation. Our grandparents' blood soaked this soil while foreign flags flew above them. The world turned away when we begged for justice."
A low growl rose from the stands, students' voices blending into a primal hum. A boy, no older than sixteen, slammed his fist against his thigh, his jaw tight.
"But we were never meant to kneel forever." Aurelio's voice surged, each word a hammer strike. "We rise."
The arena erupted—fists pumped, banners waved, a roar that shook the rafters. Yet Aurelio's hand rose again, and the noise died as if severed.
"With discipline," he said, his tone softer now, almost intimate. "With unity. With power forged not just in labs or training halls, but in the will of a nation."
He stopped at the stage's edge, his silhouette framed against the banner's glow. Below, a student—a wiry girl with cropped hair—gripped her comrade's arm, her eyes wide with something between awe and fear.
"Today, our best compete in games that mirror the battlefields they will walk." His words slowed, each one heavy with intent. "These Games are not the end. They are the beginning."
A chill slithered through the arena, despite the humid air. Parents exchanged glances, their smiles fading. Soldiers along the perimeter tightened their grips on rifles.
"The next stage," Aurelio said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper, "begins with reclamation."
He turned, facing east, as if he could see through the arena's walls to the horizon beyond. "Japan."
The word hung like smoke. The crowd stilled, every breath suspended. A camera drone whirred closer, its lens zooming in on Aurelio's unyielding face.
"You who marched on us," he said, his voice now a growl, "burned our towns, shattered our futures—you will look to the East and see our banner rising."
A student in the back row, his face half-hidden by shadow, mouthed the word *Japan*, his lips trembling.
"You took," Aurelio thundered, his fist clenching. "Now we take back."
The arena quaked with cheers, but they were jagged, laced with something darker—resolve, rage, hunger. Fireworks burst outside, their booms rattling the dome, yet the sound felt distant compared to the pulse of the crowd.
Aurelio's gaze swept the stands again. "To the parents watching," he said, his tone softening, "be proud. Your sons and daughters are not just competitors. They are the vanguard of justice delayed."
A mother in the crowd pressed a hand to her mouth, tears streaking her face. Her husband pulled her close, his own eyes fixed on the stage.
"To the world watching," Aurelio said, his voice rising to a crescendo, "know this: We are no longer your colony."
A mother in the crowd pressed a hand to her mouth, tears streaking her face. Her husband pulled her close, his own eyes fixed on the stage.
Then, Aurelio's posture shifted—his shoulders squared, his chin lifted, as if addressing not just the arena but the unseen millions beyond. The spotlights tightened on him, casting his shadow vast and sharp across the stage. A faint hum rose from the cameras, their lenses whirring to capture every angle, beaming his image to screens in distant capitals—Tokyo, Washington, Beijing.
He spoke, his voice a low, deliberate rumble that seemed to vibrate through the arena's steel bones. "And to the world beyond these walls, watching through your flickering screens, mark this moment."
The crowd stilled, the air growing heavier. A student in the front row, her braid frayed from nervous tugging, leaned forward, her breath shallow. Outside, the Manila skyline flickered as every billboard synced to the Emperor's face, his eyes piercing through the humid dusk.
"You think borders and oceans shield you," he continued, each word measured, like stones dropped into a silent pool. "You think history forgets. But we are its memory, and we are its blade."
A chill rippled through the arena, though the air was thick with heat. Soldiers along the perimeter shifted, their boots scuffing faintly, their gazes darting to the exits. A drone overhead wavered, its operator momentarily frozen by the weight of the words.
Aurelio's hand rose, fingers splayed as if grasping something intangible—power, vengeance, destiny. "This is your warning," he said, his voice rising, sharp enough to cut through the static of a billion livestreams. "The empire you ignored is awake. And it will not sleep again."
The silence that followed was suffocating. In the stands, a boy's banner slipped from his trembling hands, its gold threads glinting as it fell. Across the globe, viewers leaned closer to their screens, some with clenched jaws, others with widening eyes. In foreign embassies, aides scrambled to relay the broadcast, their whispers urgent.
Aurelio lowered his hand, his gaze unyielding. The cameras lingered on him, the world holding its breath.
"Let the Games begin."
The stage erupted in light—pyrotechnics flared, banners unfurled from the rafters, their red and gold swallowing the shadows. The crowd surged, students chanting, parents weeping, soldiers standing straighter.
Sallie's lips parted, but no words came out.
He stood still—eyes locked on the stage, where the shadow of the fallen woman still haunted the polished floor. The cheers, the applause, the booming of fireworks overhead—they all blurred into a low, sickening roar in his ears.
Beside him, Celeste had stopped breathing.
Her hands, clenched into fists at her sides, trembled slightly, knuckles pale from the pressure. Her gaze flicked toward her brother, then back to the emperor, as if trying to make sense of what she had just witnessed.
Angela, on the other hand, staggered half a step back. Her usually bright expression was drained, her lips curled in disbelief. "Did they just… actually…?"
No one answered.
A few steps away, Fuyumi Nakamura stood frozen among the ranks of Fourth High. Her head bowed, shoulders drawn up tightly like she could fold herself away from the moment. But her eyes—dark, distant, and wide—were locked on the empty spot on the stage.
Her fingers trembled as they clutched the hem of her blazer. She didn't cry. She didn't scream.
But her silence screamed the loudest of them all.
No one moved. Not Sallie. Not Celeste. Not Angela. Not Fuyumi.
Even the noisy arena felt muted around their section. Because in that one shared moment, the cost of the game they were about to play finally made itself known.
---
A hush fell over Section 4 like fog rolling through a graveyard.
Rafael stood stiff, his jaw clenched so tight a vein pulsed at the side of his neck. His arms were folded across his chest, but it wasn't out of his usual bravado. It was restraint. "That wasn't a show," he muttered under his breath. "That was a damn execution."
Clarisse, usually quick to offer comfort, said nothing. Her eyes shimmered, not with tears, but with something colder. Fear, maybe. Or disbelief. She reached for Alyssa's hand beside her and squeezed.
Alyssa, who never missed a chance to make light of tension, didn't respond. Her lips were slightly parted, eyes fixed on the bloodstained platform like she'd seen something from a nightmare. "She looked… young," she whispered. "Too young for this."
Jomar sat down. Right there on the arena floor, legs folding beneath him like they couldn't carry the weight anymore. "That could've been anyone," he said hollowly. "One wrong step. One mistake. Boom—gone."
Arwen gritted her teeth, her fingers twitching as if itching for her CAD. "This isn't a competition. This is a warning."
Marcelo didn't say a word. He just stared at the floor, fists resting on his knees. The quiet around him said more than any words could.
Around them, other students murmured—some in disbelief, others in unease. A few began to look around, as if wondering if this was what they really signed up for.
___
The hallway lights flickered soft and sterile above their heads as the trio made their way past room 712.
Then—
Crash.
A muffled, violent thud slammed against the wall inside 715.
Another crash. Shattered glass. Furniture dragging. Something—a drawer?—splintered hard against drywall.
Sallie stopped walking. "That's Fuyumi's room," he muttered.
Angela didn't wait. She reached for the handle. "It's not locked."
The door swung open.
The scene inside looked like a storm had passed through. A lamp lay on the floor, neck twisted like a snapped limb. Curtains half-ripped from the rail. Glass shards glittered across the carpet from a broken mirror. The bedframe groaned under the pressure of a mattress shoved halfway off it.
Fuyumi stood near the window, chest heaving, eyes red—not with tears, but rage. Her fist was bleeding. She didn't even look at them.
"Fuyumi!" Sallie shouted, stepping forward. "Stop! What the hell are you doing?!"
She spun, lips curled. "You're asking me that now?! After watching my clan sister get gunned down like a criminal?! In front of everyone?!"
Celeste stepped inside, cautiously. "We saw, okay? But tearing your damn room apart won't bring her back—"
"She didn't deserve that!" Fuyumi's scream cracked in her throat. "None of them deserve this!"
Angela flinched as a pillow flew past her head.
Sallie raised his voice—sharper this time, firmer, like steel trying to cover panic. "Fuyumi—there's nothing we can do."
"Bullshit," she spat. "You're just scared."
He stepped closer. "We're all scared. But you think breaking furniture's gonna change the war that's coming? You think your grief is louder than theirs?"
Silence fell like a curtain. Just her breath, ragged. Her shoulders trembled.
The curtain swayed lightly from the breeze, revealing the glittering curve of Mall of Asia's dome. Sallie stepped forward, narrowed his eyes down both sides of the hallway, then pulled the door shut with a quiet click. He turned the lock, then tugged the heavy curtains closed, plunging the room into dim shadow.
Celeste stayed crouched beside Fuyumi, her voice calm but edged with pointed curiosity.
「何がそんなに大事なの?あの人が処刑されたからって,なんでこんなに怒ってるの?」
(What's the big deal? Just because that woman was executed—why are you this angry?)
Fuyumi flinched. She didn't look at her. Just stared at the cracked mirror on the floor like it still held the image she couldn't erase.
Celeste pressed on, slower this time, but her voice held.
「十師族って,そんなに特別なの?その人が死んだからって,あなたがここまで怒る理由って…何?」
(Are the Ten Master Clans really that special? Is that why you're furious? Because one of them died?)
Fuyumi's lip quivered. She wiped her nose with the back of her shaking hand. Her voice trembled as it came, not from fear—but from the shame of knowing she couldn't stop what she saw.
「彼女は…ただの魔法使いじゃない.彼女は,私の…私たちの未来だった.」
(She wasn't just a magician. She was… our future.)
Celeste blinked. Her mouth drew a thin line, confused but quiet.
Fuyumi finally turned to her. Her eyes, red-rimmed and furious, locked onto Celeste's.
「十師族は日本の誇りよ.あの人が殺されたってことは,日本への宣戦布告なの.」
(The Ten Master Clans are Japan's pride. Killing her… that was a declaration of war.)
Sallie let the silence stretch. He didn't speak. He just stood at the door now, arms folded, gaze cold but alert. Like someone already counting the minutes until they'd be next.
Celeste leaned back, just slightly, her voice no longer sharp, only steady.
「じゃあ,あなたはこれからどうするの?この怒り,どうするつもり?」
(Then what will you do now? What are you going to do with all that rage?)
Fuyumi didn't answer. Her breath caught in her throat.
She didn't know yet.
The room pulsed faintly—soft, rhythmic flickers of light green spiraling outward in slow, expanding rings as Sallie's hand clenched the briefcase handle.
He exhaled.
Eyes closed. Focus narrowed.
Tiny threads of numeric sequences—no wider than a strand of hair, no louder than a whisper in his mind—began to form and wrap around him like circuitry come to life. The CAD's shell trembled faintly, then popped with a pressurized click as the briefcase unfolded, segmented, and reshaped.
From its polished, compact form emerged a sleek revolver, elegant and unblemished. Etched runes shimmered faintly along its barrel, humming in low resonance as if responding to the weight of what was to come.
Celeste instinctively stepped aside, her breath caught as she watched the shift. Even Angela fell quiet.
Sallie's voice was low. Controlled. Weighted with something older than the boy he appeared to be.
"Restore."
The word cut through the static in the room.
Light flared up the barrel of the revolver—not violently, but with a clean, measured brilliance. It shot toward the ceiling like a vertical stream of code, cascading invisible signals across the walls, the floor, the air itself.
Time inverted.
The shattered glass reformed, leaping back to the vanity like it had never broken. A chair un-splintered, its legs straightening. Dents lifted from the drywall. Sheets, pillows, broken lamps—each rewinded the moment of their damage.
The wreckage un-happened.
Fuyumi gasped, stumbling back as the room, only seconds ago a reflection of her fury, stood whole once more. No sound echoed now but the hum of residual mana receding like a tide.
Sallie lowered the revolver. Steam curled from its muzzle, faint and fading.
He opened his eyes slowly.
"I told you," he said softly, "there's nothing we can do about what's already been done. But wrecking yourself won't change what's coming."
He glanced at Fuyumi—not cruelly, not coldly, but with something distant. Like he'd seen it all before.
"You break it again…" he holstered the revolver, the CAD shifting back into its sleek briefcase form with a soft clack, "I won't fix it next time."
Fuyumi's breath caught. Her lips parted, but no sound came at first—only the faint trembling of someone who had just seen a ghost wearing a stranger's skin.
"That..." she whispered in English, eyes wide, fixated not on Sallie's face but the now-harmless briefcase at his side. "That was Regrowth."
Angela looked between them, confused. Celeste stiffened, already sensing where the conversation was headed.
Fuyumi stepped forward, her voice low but sharpened by disbelief.
"That magic… it shouldn't even exist outside of him."
Sallie didn't respond. Not right away. His expression remained unreadable, cool in the way he always was when emotion tried to claw its way out of him.
Fuyumi didn't back down. She took another step. Her voice cracked under the weight of her shock.
"You used Tatsuya Shiba's magic. How? That's not something people learn. That's—he's the only one who could—"
"Was," Sallie said, interrupting flatly.
Fuyumi froze. The room seemed to shrink.
Sallie's eyes narrowed slightly, his posture casual but his gaze... unblinking.
"Was the only one," he said again. "Now, it's not just him."
Celeste folded her arms, tone clipped. "We don't owe you an explanation."
"I'm not asking for an explanation." Fuyumi's voice faltered, but her resolve held. "I'm asking how. Who—what—taught you that?"
Sallie slowly walked toward the window, pulling the curtain just enough to peek through. The city beyond was alive with lights and tension, but he wasn't looking at any of that.
He was remembering something else.
"I didn't learn it," he said finally. "Not in a classroom. Not from a book. And definitely not from him."
Fuyumi's brows furrowed.
"I bled for it," he added. "Came back from nothing for it. I wasn't taught, Nakamura-san. I was rebuilt."
Angela let out a low breath.
Celeste's eyes flicked toward Sallie, then back to Fuyumi, watching her reaction.
Fuyumi stared. Her jaw clenched.
"You're trying to become him," she said quietly.
Sallie gave her a slow, humorless smile. "No."
He took a step forward, voice low but edged in that unmistakable tone of command.
"I want answers," he said. "Now."
Fuyumi flinched at the weight of his voice.
"Why the hell did you go berserk? What was that tantrum supposed to solve? You almost brought the whole ceiling down on us."
Celeste, arms still folded, arched a brow at Fuyumi before glancing at her brother. With a sigh, she rolled her eyes and translated his words into crisp, pointed Japanese:
「何があなたをああさせたの?ホテルの部屋をめちゃくちゃにして,みんなで弁償させるつもりだったの?彼が修復しなければ,私たち全員が責任を取らされるところだったのよ.」
Fuyumi's face twisted, a cocktail of anger and shame shadowing her features. She bit her lip, fists clenching.
Celeste kept going, voice colder now.
「何がそんなに大事だったの?何があんなに怒らせたの?答えて.」
Fuyumi looked down at the mess that had only moments ago been shattered furniture, torn drapes, splintered lamps—now immaculate, restored to its untouched state by the impossible magic she'd just witnessed. She was breathing hard, jaw tight.
Sallie didn't blink. "You're not the only one who lost something today. But if you're going to lose your mind every time something doesn't go your way—then maybe you don't belong in this game."
He tapped the briefcase lightly once against his leg.
Celeste translated again, without sugarcoating it.
Fuyumi's eyes shimmered with something unspoken. Guilt. Rage. Grief. Maybe all of it. But she didn't shout back.
Not yet.
Sallie's gaze bore into her like a spotlight in a dark interrogation room—no cruelty in his tone, just blunt, burning curiosity and a hint of irritation still simmering under his voice.
"So that's it, huh?" he asked, slowly stepping closer to Fuyumi, stopping just before the edge of the ruined carpet.
He tilted his head slightly, watching her, voice dropping to a level tone—quiet enough to draw out the truth, sharp enough to cut through the fog in her head.
"That woman they executed—was she someone important to you? Some kind of celebrity back in Japan? Government figure? One of those Ten Master Clans you people treat like royalty?"
Fuyumi's breath hitched.
Celeste, arms now uncrossed, paused before translating, watching her carefully before speaking:
「処刑されたあの女性,あなたにとって特別な人だったの?日本で有名な人?政治家?それとも,十師族の一員?あなたたちが崇拝してるような…?」
Fuyumi didn't answer. Her hands trembled.
Sallie exhaled sharply through his nose. "If she was caught as a spy—if she infiltrated Pasig River during a high-alert operation—then she made her choice."
He turned slightly, not out of dismissal, but to pace a small circle as he kept speaking.
"Your people play clean and noble in public, but you know damn well they send ghosts too. Shadow operatives. They gambled and lost. That's war."
He stopped, facing her again. His voice lost its edge, now just flat, brutal honesty.
"And if she was a symbol—if she meant something to Japan—then maybe that's why they killed her first. Because this whole thing… these Sea Games... it's not a game anymore. It's a warning."
Celeste slowly relayed the words in Japanese:
「もし彼女がスパイとして捕まったなら,選んだ道だったんだ.戦争ってそういうものでしょ?日本が正々堂々と見せかけていても,裏では影の工作員を送ってる.彼女たちは賭けに負けたの.で…もし彼女が日本にとって象徴的な存在だったなら,だからこそ最初に殺された.これはもう"競技"じゃない.警告だよ.」
Fuyumi's legs gave slightly, like her knees threatened to buckle. She didn't cry. But something inside her had cracked.
Sallie watched her carefully, then added with a final, colder note—
"They're aiming for Japan next. You heard the emperor yourself. That woman's death wasn't just punishment. It was an opening act."
Fuyumi's fists clenched so tightly her nails dug crescent moons into her palms.
She stepped forward, eyes burning, chest heaving—barely able to contain the wave of emotion crashing through her. And then the dam broke.
"You think I don't know that?!" she shouted, her voice cracking with a mix of rage and grief. "You think I don't understand what war means? I'm not some naïve little girl you can talk down to!"
Celeste stepped back, startled. Sallie narrowed his eyes but said nothing—watching.
Fuyumi pointed toward him, trembling. "That woman—she wasn't just anyone. She was part of our government's magical security council. She was a guardian. A protector. My mentor. And they paraded her death like a show. Like it was entertainment!"
Tears threatened the corners of her eyes, but her pride held them back.
"You say she chose that fate? Then what do you call this? This whole bloodsport where you turn children into killers and call it patriotism?" She turned toward Celeste, then back again, her voice rising. "You act like Japan's the only one playing dirty—but your country is dancing on graves! Laughing! Cheering while someone's sister, someone's daughter, someone's hero gets shot in front of the world!"
Her voice faltered then—not out of weakness, but from sheer emotional exhaustion.
"Don't you dare tell me what I should feel."
Sallie didn't move. His face was stone. But there was something quiet in his stare now—like recognition.
Celeste didn't translate. She didn't need to.
The silence after her outburst was heavy. Not awkward—loaded. Like something fragile had been broken and left on the floor between them, still sharp and glinting in the hotel light.
Fuyumi's breath hitched, but instead of calming, she stepped forward—roaring back into the fire.
"You people don't understand anything!" she cried, her voice echoing off the ruined walls of the hotel room. "You call this the pinnacle of strength? You call this 'pride'? This—" she gestured violently toward the window, the neon glow of the Mall of Asia Arena bleeding into the curtains, "this circus of blood, pain, and propaganda?!"
Her words came faster now, hotter, no longer restrained by caution.
"The Nine Schools Competition was never about war! It was a celebration of discipline, of skill—of youth pushing the boundary of what magic could become. But here?" She jabbed a trembling finger at the air between them. "You've turned it into execution for sport! You've turned students into weapons, given them a stage, and then tell the world it's progress!"
She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, it cracked—rage tempered by despair.
"It's not a competition anymore. It's a warning shot. A performance for foreign eyes. You dress it up in uniforms and medals, but it's still killing."
Her eyes locked onto Sallie's now, unblinking. "Do you really think you're stronger just because your rules are bloodier? That your cause is just because your enemies fall harder?"
Sallie didn't flinch.
But she wasn't finished.
"One day, you're going to look at the cost of this 'glory'—and see nothing but children who lost their humanity for a headline."
She stood there, breathless, chest rising and falling. Her anger no longer wild, but gritted. Controlled. A blade that no longer screamed—but waited.
Fuyumi's fists clenched at her sides, trembling—not from fear, but from everything she couldn't hold back anymore.
"Why?" she spat, her voice low now, sharp as broken glass. "Why did your emperor turn students into soldiers? Why take something like Monolith Code—something meant to test teamwork, tactics—and twist it into Imperial Warfare where you eliminate the other side like you're clearing a battlefield?"
She looked from Celeste to Sallie, then finally to Angela, her gaze cutting through them.
"Is this what he wants? A generation raised to kill with pride, dressed in school colors instead of fatigues? You all cheer for it like it's just another sport, but deep down… you know what this is."
Her voice rose again, trembling not from weakness, but fury.
"It's revenge. That's what this whole spectacle is. A slow, theatrical vengeance for a war that ended centuries ago. He's dressing it up with fanfare and flags, but it's still World War II in his heart, isn't it? He doesn't care how many of you die—as long as Japan gets to bleed."
She took a step closer, her eyes burning into Sallie's.
"And you're all letting him do it. You're wearing the uniforms and smiling for the cameras, while the rest of the world watches and whispers—what have the Philippines become?"
The silence that followed Fuyumi's outburst was heavy—too heavy. Not even the low hum of the hotel air conditioning dared intrude.
Sallie leaned against the wall near the door, arms crossed, his gaze fixed somewhere on the carpet. He didn't speak right away. He let her words settle, soak in like rain on scorched earth.
It was Celeste who finally moved first. She stepped forward, slowly, arms no longer crossed but loose at her sides. Her voice wasn't cold. It wasn't defensive either.
It was honest.
"...You're right," she said softly. "We are wearing uniforms. And maybe we are smiling for the cameras. But that doesn't mean we don't see what's really happening."
Angela looked down, lips pressed thin. She had no words. Not yet.
Celeste continued.
"My brother and I—we didn't ask for this. We were born into it. You think we want to become weapons? You think we chose to turn our schools into battlegrounds? No. But this is our reality. And you can't survive reality by pretending it's a dream."
Sallie finally pushed off the wall.
"No one here wants a war," he said flatly, stepping forward. "But we're not going to beg for peace either—not after what history did to us."
He looked her in the eye, sharp but steady.
"You say it's revenge? Fine. Maybe for some, it is. Maybe the emperor's carrying ghosts from a war he never lived. But people in the slums? Kids like us from dirt roads and burned cities? We just want a future where no one dares to bomb us again."
Angela lifted her chin. "This isn't about glory. It's about not being the punching bag anymore."
Celeste nodded. "And if that means we have to fight in games built to scare the world into leaving us alone—then maybe we fight."
Sallie added, "But don't mistake us for killers, Nakamura. We haven't forgotten what it means to bleed. That's why we train so no one else has to."
He glanced toward the curtained window, his jaw tight.
"Still doesn't mean we're proud of that girl's death."
Celeste's voice dropped to almost a whisper.
"But we knew it was coming."
His voice, when it came, didn't rise in anger. It was quiet. Even. Like the weight of what he was saying required no shouting to make it heavy.
"You want to know why, Fuyumi?"
He glanced over his shoulder at the curtained window, as if he could still hear the emperor's voice echoing from the arena.
"Because ever since Aurelio Mendez the Third stepped in… the republic died."
Angela shifted uneasily at those words. Celeste didn't interrupt.
Sallie turned back, eyes sharp, but not cruel.
"He turned us into an empire. And you know what? Empires don't beg. They don't wait. They take."
He stepped forward, just enough for the light to catch the outline of his jaw.
"You look at the Sea Games and see uniforms, see kids fighting. You see madness. But for him? For the emperor?" Sallie's lip curled. "This is the foundation. A message. A warning. That we're no longer at the mercy of powers like yours. That the Philippines—our country—has teeth now."
Celeste finally spoke, arms still crossed, tone heavy with irony. "It's like… the emperor wants the world to boo him. He wants them to hate him, to fear him. Because if they do that, they can't ignore us anymore."
Sallie nodded. "And what better way to prove that, than to take ASEAN first… and then aim for Japan. Your home. Your comfort zone. Make you feel what it's like when someone bigger, meaner, comes knocking."
Angela winced. But she didn't disagree.
Sallie let the silence sit again for a moment, then added, voice low:
"Yeah. Maybe it's vengeance. Maybe it's politics. But maybe…" He looked Fuyumi in the eye. "Maybe it's just about reminding the world that even a country like ours can become the monster in the ring."
Celeste's eyes narrowed slightly.
"And monsters don't need to be loved. Just feared."
Sallie exhaled through his nose, slow. His voice dropped, no longer sharp—just heavy, like rusted chains dragged through memory.
"You think this is madness," he said to Fuyumi, "but for us, it's balance."
He pointed at her—not to accuse, but to anchor his words.
"Your ancestors didn't just visit our islands. They conquered them. And when they left, they didn't leave peace behind."
"Do you even know what it was like, Fuyumi? When your soldiers marched through our villages?" His eyes darkened. "People whipped in front of their own children. Women dragged from homes. Men burned alive just for hiding rice in the walls. Whole barrios turned to ash because they wouldn't bow fast enough."
His voice cracked—not with emotion, but weight.
"They beheaded priests. Strung them up. Piled corpses in churches and burned them."
Celeste's jaw was tight, arms folded tighter. She said nothing, but her eyes didn't blink.
"Now our emperor," Sallie continued, "he doesn't want your pity. He doesn't want your apologies. He wants something fairer than words."
He pointed again—not at Fuyumi, but beyond her. Past the curtain. Toward the arena. Toward the roar of thousands still echoing in their ears.
"He wants you to feel what we felt. What your great-grandfathers did. And maybe then, when you finally understand what it's like to be the ones begging for mercy from monsters dressed in uniforms—maybe then, Japan'll remember what it used to be."
He turned away, only to sigh, deep and long. The fury that once sat on his shoulders now felt tired.
"So yeah, Fuyumi. It's a fair fight now. Equal rights… or equal fights. And you get to watch."
He met her gaze again. And this time, no venom—just bitter honesty.
"Watch your country bleed the way ours once did. That's the game now. And you're not just here to play it—you're here to understand it."
Sallie threw a look over his shoulder—half-annoyed, half-done with the whole conversation. His voice carried a flat edge now, no longer passionate, just blunt:
"If you're not getting it in English," he muttered, "then maybe Celeste can spell it out for you. In Japanese."
He glanced sideways at his sister, already stepping back from the confrontation, arms swinging lazily at his sides like he'd just finished a sparring round.
Celeste didn't break eye contact with Fuyumi. Her arms were still folded, the muscles in her jaw tight.
「要するに,あんたが泣いてるのは,初めて自分たちの国が『悪役』にされたからよ.」
("What it comes down to is—you're crying because it's the first time your country got cast as the 'villain.'")
「でも,私たちはそれを何十年も演じてきた.逃げ場もないまま,ただ焼かれて,殺されて,黙ってた.」
("We played that role for decades. No escape. Just fire. Death. Silence.")
「今,やっと立ち上がった.それだけ.」
("Now we're standing up. That's all this is.")
She uncrossed her arms. Her voice softened—not warm, but resolute.
「悔しいのはわかる.けど,それが戦争の現実.あなたたちが始めた歴史の続きを,今,私たちが引き受けてるだけ.」
("I get that it hurts. But this is the reality of war. We're just finishing the history you started.")
Sallie didn't say anything as he stepped out first, brushing his palm along the doorframe before letting it go. Celeste followed, her eyes hard, but her footsteps slower than usual. Angela paused for a second, glancing back at the open room, then quietly stepped out.
The door shut with a dull, final click.
Inside, the air seemed to stop.
Fuyumi remained where she was—kneeling amid the half-repaired mess, her knees pressed into the carpet, hands trembling against her thighs. Her breath hitched. Once. Then again.
She didn't cry.
She didn't scream.
She just stared at the floor, as if waiting for it to open and swallow her whole. The silence inside that room was louder now than anything she had heard in her entire life.