The hotel dining area hummed with a restless energy, a chaotic blend of clinking cutlery, murmured bets, and the low buzz of cadets processing the opening ceremony's shock.
The air carried the scent of adobo, grilled fish, and slightly burnt rice, mingling with the faint static of mana-charged devices at every table. Long fluorescent lights cast a sterile glow over the packed room, where cadets from First to Ninth High jostled for seats, their uniforms a patchwork of colors—navy, crimson, gold—each school's pride on display. Some laughed too loudly, others whispered odds on the upcoming Duels, but the execution's shadow lingered, dulling the usual bravado.
Sallie Mae Salcedo slouched through the entrance, hands in his pockets, his Fourth High jacket unbuttoned just enough to skirt regulation. His eyes, half-lidded, scanned the room with a mix of boredom and wariness, still carrying the weight of Fuyumi's outburst and the arena's bloodstained stage.
Celeste Marie followed, her posture crisp, arms crossed, her gaze darting across the crowd like she was mapping a battlefield. Angela Castillo trailed behind, clutching a water bottle, her usual grin replaced by a tight-lipped frown, her steps slower than normal.
"Place is a zoo," Sallie muttered, sidestepping a Second High cadet balancing a tray of lumpia and soda. "We're not eating standing up, are we?"
Celeste's lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Keep whining, and you'll be eating off the floor. There's a table by the window—move."
Angela glanced at the crowded tables, her voice quieter than usual. "Think they're all talking about… you know. Her."
Sallie's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond, his eyes flicking to a group of Fifth High cadets huddled over a holotab, gesturing wildly as they debated Extraction odds. Celeste's gaze lingered on a First High trio, their voices low, faces pale, one of them tracing a finger along a CAD's edge like it was a lifeline.
"Let them talk," Celeste said, her tone clipped. "Doesn't change what we have to do tomorrow."
They wove through the chaos, dodging trays and elbows, until they reached a small table by the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manila Bay. The city lights glittered against the dark water, a stark contrast to the dining area's frenetic pulse. Sallie dropped into a chair, leaning back with a sigh, while Celeste slid in across from him, her posture still rigid. Angela hesitated, then sat, setting her water bottle down with a soft clunk.
"Food first, feelings later," Sallie said, grabbing a menu tablet from the table's center. "I'm not facing Andrea's fire gauntlets on an empty stomach."
Angela managed a weak smirk. "You're assuming you'll survive the halo-halo brain freeze first."
Celeste's eyes stayed on the crowd, her voice low. "Keep it light, but don't get sloppy. We're not alone here."
As if on cue, the dining area's chatter dipped, a ripple of silence spreading from the entrance. Heads turned, conversations faltered, and even the clatter of plates seemed to pause. A figure stepped into the room, her presence slicing through the noise like a blade. Her Third High uniform—green coat, yellow undershirt, black tie—was pristine, every crease sharp enough to cut.
A jet-black ponytail swung behind her, catching the light like polished obsidian, and her crimson eyes swept the room with a predator's calm. In her right hand, she carried a sleek, rune-etched lance case, its faint hum drawing wary glances from nearby cadets.
Sallie's fingers paused on the menu tablet, his gaze flicking up. "Well, damn," he murmured. "That's a statement."
Celeste's eyes narrowed, tracking the newcomer's path. "Third High. She's not here to blend in."
Angela leaned forward, voice hushed. "Who is that? She's got the whole room spooked."
The figure stopped at the edge of the buffet line, ignoring the stares. A Seventh High cadet nearby fumbled his tray, nearly dropping it, then scurried away. She didn't react, simply set her lance case against a pillar and began scanning the food options with deliberate calm.
"Name's Trixie Andalucía Saavedra," a Fourth High cadet at the next table whispered to his friend, voice low but audible. "Third High's ace. They call her the Steel Storm of the South. Word is, her lance CAD can shred mana shields like paper."
Sallie leaned back, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Steel Storm, huh? Sounds like she's compensating for something."
Celeste shot him a look. "Don't start. We've got enough enemies."
Angela twirled her water bottle, her eyes still on Trixie. "She's not even trying to hide it. That lance case is screaming 'try me.'"
Trixie's gaze briefly met theirs across the room, her crimson eyes locking onto Sallie for a split second before moving on, as if she'd sized him up and found him unremarkable. She turned back to the buffet, selecting a plate with the same precision she might apply to a battlefield.
Sallie's smirk faded, his fingers tapping the table. "Okay, maybe she's not compensating."
Celeste's voice was barely above a whisper. "Focus. She's a problem for later. Right now, we eat, we plan, we sleep. Tomorrow's Duels won't wait."
The dining area's noise slowly crept back, cadets resuming their chatter, though many kept stealing glances at Trixie. The Salcedos and Angela turned to their menus, the weight of the execution, Fuyumi's rage, and the Games' looming battles settling over them like a storm cloud.
The dining area's clamor—clinking plates, overlapping voices, and the occasional burst of laughter—felt like a fragile shield against the tension still simmering in Sallie Mae Salcedo's chest. He slouched over the menu tablet, scrolling through options with a bored flick of his finger, though his eyes occasionally darted to the crowd, wary of the whispers circling since Fuyumi's outburst and the execution's echo.
Celeste Marie sat across from him, her posture straight, scanning the room with the precision of a radar, her fingers lightly tapping the table's edge. Angela Castillo, beside her, fiddled with her water bottle, her usual spark dimmed, her gaze flitting between the menu and the sea of cadets.
"Lechon kawali or pancit?" Sallie muttered, more to himself than anyone, his voice low. "Or both. Screw it, I'm starving."
Celeste's lips twitched, but her eyes stayed on the crowd. "Eat fast. We need to sync CADs before midnight."
Angela sighed, poking at the tablet. "Can we at least pretend we're not prepping for war for, like, five minutes?"
Before Sallie could retort, the air shifted—a subtle drop in the dining area's noise, like a radio dial nudged down. Heads turned, conversations faltered, and the trio's eyes lifted as a figure approached their table. Trixie Andalucía Saavedra, Third High's ace, moved with a predator's grace, her green coat pristine, black ponytail swaying like a metronome. Her crimson eyes locked onto Sallie, and the rune-etched lance case in her hand hummed faintly, drawing wary glances from nearby cadets.
She stopped at their table, her presence commanding silence from the surrounding tables. Her voice was calm, smooth as polished steel, but carried an edge that cut through the room's din. "Sallie Mae Salcedo, correct?"
Sallie leaned back, one eyebrow raised, his lazy grin sliding into place like a mask. "Depends who's asking. You selling something, or just here to admire the view?"
Trixie's lips curved slightly, a smile that didn't reach her eyes. She set her lance case against the table's edge with deliberate care, the faint mana pulse making Angela's water bottle vibrate. "I heard something curious from some Fourth High cadets. A display in the dorms. Furniture restored, glass unshattered. They called it… 'Restore'. It seems like the spell you're using is similar to Regrowth"
The word hung in the air, sharp and heavy. A few cadets at nearby tables leaned closer, their whispers buzzing like static. Sallie's grin didn't falter, but his fingers stilled on the tablet. Celeste's tapping stopped, her gaze narrowing on Trixie. Angela's eyes widened slightly, but she stayed quiet, glancing at Sallie for a cue.
"Regrowth, huh?" Sallie drawled, tilting his head. "Sounds fancy. You sure they weren't just hyping up a parlor trick? I'm good with a mop, you know."
Trixie's smile tightened, her crimson eyes unblinking, studying him like a chessboard. "A parlor trick that rewinds destruction? That's an unusual talent. Rare, even. I'm curious—where does a cadet from Tondo pick up magic like that? A mentor? A lab? Or something… less conventional?"
Sallie chuckled, leaning forward now, elbows on the table, his voice dripping with mock innocence. "You're digging deep for a first date, aren't you? Tell you what—how about you share where you got that shiny lance first? Looks like it's got stories to tell."
Trixie's expression didn't shift, but her fingers brushed the lance case, the runes pulsing faintly. "My equipment is standard Third High issue. Its stories are earned on the field, not whispered in dorm halls. But you… your magic sounds like it has a history. One I'd like to understand before we meet in the Duels."
Celeste cut in, her voice sharp, like a blade sliding from its sheath. "If you're scouting for weaknesses, you're wasting your time. We've heard about you, too—Steel Storm of the South. Anti-tank ambushes, right? Word is, you've got a knack for shredding heavy defenses. Care to share how you pull that off? Or is that also 'standard issue'?"
Trixie's gaze flicked to Celeste, her smile softening into something almost amused. "You're well-informed, Celeste Marie. I'd expect nothing less from the Salcedo strategist. But ambushes are about timing, not secrets. I'm sure you understand—your brother's 'parlor trick' seems to rely on timing, too."
Sallie snorted, waving a hand dismissively. "Timing, luck, and a good breakfast. You should try the lechon here—it's practically magic. Want a recommendation?"
Trixie Andalucía Saavedra's crimson eyes glinted, her smile a thin, controlled line that neither warmed nor wavered.
She leaned slightly forward, the rune-etched lance case at her side humming faintly, as if echoing her unyielding presence. "I'll pass on the lechon, Salcedo," she said, her voice smooth but laced with a pragmatist's edge. "I prefer to keep my focus sharp. Unlike Fourth High, we don't rely on… culinary inspiration to win."
Sallie's grin widened, but his eyes sharpened, catching the jab. "Ouch. You wound me. Here I thought Third High's Steel Storm had a taste for flair."
Trixie's gaze didn't falter, her tone calm but cutting. "Flair's fine for parades, but the urban warfare trials? Those reward precision. My cavalry's trained to hit hard, fast, and gone before your chaos can catch up. Fourth High's reputation—scrappy, unpredictable—won't hold against a lance line that can pierce a tank's mana shield in one strike."
Celeste leaned forward, her fingers interlaced, her voice cool as glass. "Bold claim. But urban trials aren't open fields. Tight corners, civilian cover, shifting zones—your cavalry's too rigid for that. Fourth High thrives in the mess."
Trixie tilted her head, acknowledging the point with a faint nod, but her conviction didn't waver. "Maybe. But the IFRP's supremacy isn't built on adaptability alone. It's discipline. Purpose. Every cadet in this room—" her eyes swept the dining area, where cadets from First to Ninth High chattered and bet, "—knows the Empire's will is unbreakable. We don't just fight to win. We fight to prove no one can stand against us. Not Japan. Not anyone."
Angela's grip tightened on her water bottle, her knuckles paling. Trixie's words, delivered with such calm certainty, stirred the unease she'd been suppressing since the execution. The Empire's bloodlust—cheered in the arena, whispered in bets—felt like a noose tightening. She forced a weak smile, her voice quieter than usual. "Sounds like you've already got the victory speech ready."
Trixie's eyes flicked to Angela, softening slightly, but her tone remained firm. "It's not about speeches. It's about what's coming. The Games are the Empire's forge. We're the steel. You'll see it in the trials."
Sallie leaned back, arms crossed, his lazy charm masking the gears turning in his head. "Big talk for someone who hasn't seen us in action. How about a deal? You show us your lance tricks, I'll let you in on my… what'd you call it? Parlor trick?"
Trixie's smile returned, sharper now, like a blade catching light. "Tempting. But I'd rather learn by watching you in the arena. Secrets spill faster under pressure." She paused, then gestured toward a larger table near the buffet, where a few Third High cadets sat, their green coats a stark contrast to the room's chaos. "Join us. Plenty of room, and I'd like to know my rivals better before we cross paths."
Celeste's eyes narrowed, sensing the calculated move. "You're not just being friendly."
"Never said I was," Trixie replied, her voice almost playful, but her gaze was a challenge. "Consider it… reconnaissance."
Sallie chuckled, standing with a stretch. "Recon over adobo? I'm in. Let's see how sharp your steel really is."
Celeste hesitated, then rose, her posture rigid, signaling Angela to follow. "Fine. But don't expect us to play nice."
Angela grabbed her water bottle, muttering, "This is gonna be weird," as they trailed Trixie to the larger table. The seating arrangement felt like a chessboard: Sallie slid into a chair directly across from Trixie, his grin daring her to make a move. Celeste took the seat beside Angela, positioning herself to watch both Trixie and her Third High teammates, who eyed the Fourth High trio with guarded curiosity.
The table was already laden with steaming plates—adobo's rich, garlicky aroma mingling with the tangy steam of sinigang, alongside mounds of rice and grilled bangus. Trixie's cadets passed bowls, their movements disciplined, almost ritualistic. Sallie grabbed a plate, piling on adobo with exaggerated enthusiasm, while Celeste methodically spooned sinigang, her eyes never leaving Trixie. Angela picked at her rice, her appetite dulled by the tension.
"So," Sallie said between bites, his tone deceptively casual, "Steel Storm. That lance of yours—runes look custom. You craft those yourself, or is Third High handing out anti-tank toys to all their aces?"
Trixie sipped her water, unruffled. "The runes are mine. Forged them over a year. Each one's tuned for mana density disruption—tanks, shields, doesn't matter. What about your briefcase? Looks like more than a 'mop' to me."
Sallie smirked, chewing slowly. "Just a tool. Gets the job done. You wanna talk toys, though, I'm curious—how's your cavalry handling the urban trial's red zones? Can't exactly charge through a collapsing alley."
Trixie's eyes gleamed, catching the probe. "We adapt. My team's drilled for choke points. We don't charge blind—we carve paths. You, though—Regrowth's flashy, but it's a support spell. How's it hold up when Andrea's fire gauntlets are melting your cover?"
Celeste cut in, her voice sharp. "Support or not, it's versatile. Urban trials reward control, not just firepower. Your lance line's precise, but precision fails when the battlefield shifts under you."
Trixie nodded, almost approvingly. "Fair. But the Empire's trials are designed to break the undisciplined. Fourth High's chaos might surprise, but it's a gamble. My team's built for certainty."
Angela, pushing rice around her plate, spoke up, her voice unsteady but pointed. "Certainty's great, but… doesn't it bother you? All this—killing, blood, the execution? You talk like it's just another drill."
The table stilled. Trixie's cadets exchanged glances, their forks pausing. Trixie set her glass down, her expression unreadable for a moment. "It's not about liking it," she said, her voice low, deliberate. "It's about duty. The Empire's enemies don't hesitate. Neither can we. The execution… it was a message. One we all have to carry."
Angela's jaw tightened, her eyes dropping to her plate, the weight of Trixie's conviction pressing against her own doubts. Sallie took a slow sip of water, his grin gone, watching Trixie like he was measuring her resolve. Celeste's fingers tightened around her spoon, but she kept her tone even. "Messages are one thing. Turning cadets into executioners is another. You're fine with that line?"
Trixie met Celeste's gaze, unflinching. "I'm fine with winning. The line's already drawn—Japan's on the other side. You'll have to pick one eventually."
The words landed like a gauntlet tossed onto the table, the clink of cutlery and chatter from the dining area's other cadets momentarily fading under their weight.
Sallie Mae Salcedo leaned back, his lazy grin a thin veneer over the tension in his jaw, his fingers drumming lightly on his water glass. Celeste Marie's eyes narrowed, her spoon poised over her sinigang, her posture rigid as she processed Trixie's challenge. Angela Castillo's gaze dropped to her plate, her rice untouched, the Empire's fervor—embodied in Trixie's calm certainty—churning her unease.
Sallie broke the silence with a low chuckle, scooping adobo with exaggerated nonchalance. "Picking sides, huh? Sounds like you've got your war banner ready, Saavedra. Care to share what's stitched on it?"
Trixie's crimson eyes flicked to him, her smile faint but sharp, like a blade half-drawn. She set her fork down, her movements deliberate, and leaned forward slightly, her voice steady but carrying the weight of conviction. "Duty, Salcedo. That's what's stitched on it. My family's been military since the old wars—grandfathers, aunts, cousins, all bled for the IFRP's rise. The Andalucía Saavedras don't just fight; we build legacies. These Games? They're my chance to honor that. To prove the Empire's not just a name—it's a force no one can break."
She paused, her gaze sweeping the table, taking in Celeste's calculating stare and Angela's discomfort. "You've heard the Emperor's plans. Japan's next. Their mana fortifications—Yokohama's grids, Tokyo's barriers—are tough, but not unbreakable. My cavalry's been drilling for years to punch through. Post-Games, we're the spearhead. That's not a boast. It's a fact."
Celeste's spoon clinked against her bowl, her voice cool but probing. "Intel like that doesn't just slip out. You're saying Third High's already got schematics on Japan's defenses? That's a bold card to play at dinner."
Trixie's smile didn't waver, but her eyes gleamed with a tactician's caution. "Not schematics. Patterns. Japan's mana grids pulse predictably—our recon's caught enough to know where to hit. My lance is tuned for it. You'll see in the urban trials—precision over chaos, every time."
Angela's fingers tightened around her water bottle, her voice soft but edged with unease. "You talk like it's already done. Like… like the invasion's just a formality. Don't you ever wonder what it'll cost? All those people, their cities—"
Trixie cut her off, not harshly, but firmly. "Cost is war, Castillo. Japan didn't count bodies when they burned our villages. I don't lose sleep over theirs. The Emperor's vision is clear: dominance or nothing. We're the ones who make it real."
The table fell quiet, the weight of Trixie's words settling like ash. Sallie's drumming fingers stilled, his grin fading as he studied her, not with his usual mockery but a flicker of respect—or wariness. Celeste's gaze shifted, her eyes catching a flicker of movement at the dining area's entrance.
Fuyumi Nakamura slipped into the room, her Fourth High uniform slightly wrinkled, her shoulders hunched as if trying to shrink from notice.
Her eyes, still red-rimmed from her earlier outburst, avoided the crowd, darting to an empty table in the corner near the dessert station. She carried a small tray—plain rice, a single slice of mango—her movements mechanical, her silence louder than any words. The other cadets barely noticed her, their chatter unbroken, but Celeste's gaze lingered, sharp and assessing.
Sallie followed his sister's line of sight, his expression unreadable. Their eyes met briefly, a silent agreement passing between them: *Keep an eye on her.* Fuyumi's knowledge of Sallie's Restore, combined with her ties to Japan, made her a wildcard—grief-stricken, volatile, and potentially dangerous if she leaked his secret to the wrong ears.
Celeste turned back to Trixie, her tone deceptively light. "Sounds like Third High's got big plans. But spearheads break if the shaft's weak. Your cavalry's only as good as your intel—and Japan's not known for leaving gaps."
Trixie's smile twitched, a hint of amusement breaking her stoic facade. "You're fishing, Salcedo. I like that. But don't worry—our intel's solid. The Emperor's got eyes everywhere. You focus on surviving Andrea's gauntlets. I'll handle the bigger targets."
Sallie snorted, piling more adobo onto his plate. "Bigger targets, huh? Hope your lance's as sharp as your ego, Saavedra. Urban trials are a grinder—fancy runes won't save you from a bad call."
Trixie raised her glass, her voice almost playful, but her eyes locked on Sallie's. "And parlor tricks won't save you from a clean strike. Let's see who's standing when the dust settles."
Angela pushed her plate away, her appetite gone, her voice barely above a whisper. "This is all just… too much. You're all talking like it's a game, but it's not. That girl on the stage—she wasn't a game."
Trixie's gaze softened, just for a moment, but her tone remained steady. "She was a soldier, Castillo. Soldiers fall. It's ugly, but it's truth. You'll learn to carry it—or you won't last."
The words hung over the table like a cold fog, silencing the clink of Angela's spoon against her bowl. Sallie Mae Salcedo leaned back, his grin replaced by a tight-lipped stare, his fingers still on his glass.
Celeste Marie's eyes flicked between Trixie and the dining area's bustle, her mind clearly turning over the implications of Trixie's unyielding resolve. Angela's shoulders slumped, her gaze fixed on her untouched rice, the weight of the execution and the Empire's hunger pressing harder against her.
Sallie broke the tension with a slow clap, his voice laced with mock admiration. "Damn, Saavedra, you give one hell of a pep talk. Ever think about motivational posters? 'Embrace the Ugly Truth'—it's got a ring."
Trixie's crimson eyes glinted, her smile sharp as she leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Laugh it up, Salcedo. But let's talk real tactics. Hypothetical duel—my cavalry charges your Haxor tricks in an urban trial. Open street, debris cover, mana grids flickering. My lances hit like a storm, synchronized, shredding shields in one pass. How do you counter?"
The question cut through the table's unease, drawing eyes from nearby cadets. A Second High trio at the next table paused mid-bite, leaning closer, while a Fifth High cadet whispered to her friend, "She's testing him." The dining area's noise dimmed slightly, the air charged with anticipation.
Sallie's eyes lit up, his lazy charm giving way to a tactician's edge. He leaned forward, mirroring Trixie's posture, his voice low but animated. "Nice setup, but you're assuming I'd let you charge. Urban trial? I'd turn that street into a maze. Debris isn't cover—it's my playground. I'd use Haxor's adaptability to shift mana currents, make your grids misfire. Your lances need line-of-sight, right? I'd choke your visibility with smoke, illusions, anything to break your sync. Then Restore—" he paused, grinning, "—lets me outlast you. You hit hard, I hit back, and I don't stay down."
Trixie's smile widened, a predator recognizing a worthy rival. "Bold. But you're banking on chaos. My cavalry doesn't need perfect sight—just a target. We'd flank, feint, draw you out. Restore's impressive, but it's not instant. One clean strike through your core, and no magic's saving you."
Celeste interjected, her voice crisp, cutting through the escalating bravado. "You're both oversimplifying. Urban trials have variables—civilian zones, collapsing structures. Sallie's chaos thrives there, but your cavalry's discipline could exploit a bad pivot. It's not about one strike—it's who controls the tempo."
Trixie nodded, her gaze flicking to Celeste with grudging respect. "Well said. Tempo's everything. But Fourth High's tempo is reckless. My team's drilled to set the pace, force errors. You'll slip, and we'll be there."
The exchange drew more onlookers, a cluster of Sixth High cadets now openly staring, one muttering, "Steel Storm's sizing him up." Angela shifted uncomfortably, her voice barely audible. "This is getting intense…"
Sallie laughed, grabbing a piece of bangus from his plate. "Intense is my middle name. But seriously, Saavedra, you talk a big game. Let's see if your lances can keep up when the arena's burning."
Trixie's eyes narrowed, but her tone stayed even, almost playful. "Oh, they will. And when they do, I'll be aiming for that parlor trick of yours. Restore's a wildcard—makes you a target worth crushing."
The table fell quiet, the weight of her words settling. The surrounding cadets whispered louder now, snippets of "Restore" and "Salcedo" rippling through the dining area. Across the room, Fuyumi Nakamura remained at her corner table, her head bowed, her tray untouched, oblivious to the escalating tension but still a silent specter in Sallie and Celeste's minds.
As the meal wound down, plates nearly empty, Trixie rose, her movements fluid, the rune-etched lance case in hand. Her crimson eyes locked onto Sallie's, her voice low, carrying a warning wrapped in calm certainty. "The Games' elimination rules aren't just about skill, Salcedo. They test loyalty—to the Empire, to its vision. Any weakness, any crack in that loyalty, and you're done. Regrowth's powerful, but it won't shield you from the arena's truth. I'll be watching for that crack."
Sallie met her gaze, his grin returning, but it was tighter, less playful. "Watch all you want, Saavedra. I don't crack easy."
Trixie's smile was a fleeting shadow. "We'll see." She nodded to her Third High teammates, who stood in unison, their green coats a unified front. With a final glance at the trio, she turned, her ponytail swaying like a battle standard as she headed for the exit, the dining area's noise swelling in her wake.
Celeste exhaled, her posture easing slightly, but her eyes stayed sharp. "She's not just a rival. She's a hunter. And she's got you in her sights."
Sallie shrugged, pushing his plate away. "Let her hunt. Gives me something to play with in the trials."
Angela's voice was quiet, her unease palpable. "It's not a game, Sallie. She's talking like… like the Empire wants us to be monsters. Like that's the point."
Celeste's gaze flicked to Fuyumi, still alone, then back to Angela. "Monsters or not, we survive. That's the point. We'll deal with Trixie—and Fuyumi—when the time comes."
Sallie stood, stretching, his voice low but resolute. "Yeah. And when it does, we'll show 'em Fourth High doesn't just survive. We win."
The trio gathered their trays, weaving through the crowded dining area, the weight of Trixie's warning and Aurelio's war cry echoing in their minds. Fuyumi's silent presence lingered in their periphery, a reminder of secrets and stakes yet to unfold. Outside, Manila Bay's lights glittered, a city poised on the edge of war, its pulse mirrored in the cadets' restless hearts as they braced for the trials ahead.
___
Juumonji Family Household - Japan 5:30 PM
The Juumonji estate's war room, buried deep beneath the clan's fortified compound, was a fortress within a fortress. Its mana-shielded walls, etched with interlocking runes, pulsed faintly, absorbing ambient magic to maintain an impenetrable cocoon.
Dim overhead lights cast stark shadows across the long obsidian table at the room's center, where representatives of the Ten Master Clans sat in taut silence. A muted holo-screen, suspended above the table's end, replayed the Imperial SEA Games' opening ceremony execution in a loop—the crack of rifles, the collapse of a young woman in an orange jumpsuit, her face obscured but her defiance unmistakable. Each silent gunshot reverberated in the attendees' minds, a wound that refused to close.
Katsuto Juumonji, head of the Juumonji clan, stood at the table's head, his broad frame an anchor against the room's swelling tension. His face, chiseled and unyielding, betrayed no emotion, but his dark eyes burned with a quiet fury as they swept over the gathered clan leaders.
His navy suit, formal yet unadorned, mirrored his demeanor—disciplined, resolute, a bulwark against chaos. The air hummed with mana, not from active spells but from the raw emotional weight of the mages present, their psions crackling like static.
Mayumi Saegusa, seated to Katsuto's right, broke the silence. Her delicate features were composed, but her hands, folded tightly on the table, trembled slightly.
Her crimson eyes, usually warm, were shadowed with grief as she stared at the holo-screen, now paused on the fallen operative's form. "Her name was Reina Saegusa," Mayumi said, her voice steady but thin, cracking on the last syllable. "My cousin. A covert mage, tasked with monitoring the IFRP's mana grids along the Pasig River. She was… exceptional. Precise. Loyal."
The room stilled further, the weight of her words pressing against the shielded walls. Masaki Ichijou, across the table, clenched his jaw, his red hair catching the light as he leaned forward, his fists tightening. Miyuki Shiba, seated beside him, remained eerily calm, her pale beauty a mask, though her fingers traced the edge of her sleeve, a rare tell of unease. Other clan representatives—Kudou, Itsuwa, Futatsugi—sat rigid, their expressions a spectrum of rage, sorrow, and calculation.
Mayumi continued, her voice gaining strength, though it carried a raw edge. "Reina's mission was low-profile. She infiltrated Manila three months ago, posing as a trade liaison, mapping the IFRP's mana infrastructure—grid relays, CAD production hubs. Her last report, two weeks ago, warned of an Imperial Gate, a strategic-class teleportation system. We believe that's what drew their attention. She was captured during a sweep near Pasig, betrayed by a local informant."
Katsuto's deep voice cut through, measured but heavy. "The IFRP didn't just kill her. They staged it. A public execution, broadcast to billions, during their Games' opening. Why?"
Mayumi's eyes flicked to the holo-screen, the frozen image of Reina's collapse. "It's a provocation. Emperor Aurelio Mendez III wanted Japan to see this—to feel it. Reina wasn't just an operative; she was Saegusa blood, a symbol of our strength. Her death, televised, was meant to break our morale, to show the world the Ten Master Clans can be touched. It's a declaration of war, dressed as spectacle."
Masaki's fist hit the table, not hard, but enough to rattle nearby glasses. "War's been coming since Mendez turned his republic into an empire. This isn't just about Reina. It's about what's next. The Games are a training ground—those cadets aren't competing, they're drilling for invasion. Yokohama's grids are already picking up IFRP mana signatures offshore."
Miyuki's voice, soft but piercing, followed. "The Yotsuba concur. Our intelligence suggests the IFRP's Imperial Gate is operational, capable of deploying battalions instantly. Reina's data confirmed its anchor in Manila. The execution was a signal—they're ready to move, and they want us shaken before they do."
Kudou Minoru, his frail frame belying his sharp mind, adjusted his glasses, his tone clinical. "The global impact is undeniable. USNA's Angie Sirius was at Ninoy Aquino Airport during the broadcast—our contacts report she's escalating threat assessments. China's Great Asian Union is mobilizing naval assets, citing IFRP aggression. The execution didn't just target us; it's pulling the world into a standoff."
Itsuwa Hiroki, his weathered face grim, leaned back. "And our people? Japan's civilians saw that broadcast. Social media's exploding—grief, anger, calls for retaliation. If we don't act, the clans lose face. If we overreact, we play into Mendez's hands."
Katsuto raised a hand, silencing the murmurs that followed. "We don't react blindly. The IFRP wants us to strike first, to justify their invasion. Reina's death is a wound, but it's also a warning. We need clarity—on their forces, their timeline, their weaknesses."
His voice, deep and unyielding, anchored the Juumonji estate's war room, its mana-shielded walls absorbing the tension radiating from the Ten Master Clans' representatives. The muted holo-screen, frozen on Reina Saegusa's collapse, cast a grim pallor over the obsidian table.
Katsuto's dark eyes swept the room, his towering frame a bulwark against the simmering rage and grief. Mayumi Saegusa's hands trembled, her composure fraying, while Masaki Ichijou's fists remained clenched, his red hair stark under the dim lights. Miyuki Yotsuba sat poised, her icy calm a contrast to the room's heat, her fingers still tracing her sleeve.
Katsuto leaned forward, hands braced on the table, his tone shifting to cold pragmatism. "The IFRP's SEA Games are their proving ground. Those cadets aren't just competitors—they're a vanguard, trained for war. We need eyes inside Manila, at the Games. Intel on their mana weapons, their cadet capabilities, and most critically, Gabriella Mendez's Imperial Gate. That teleportation system could land their forces on our coasts in minutes. We can't afford blindness."
Masaki's voice cut through, sharp with urgency. "Infiltration's risky. The IFRP's on high alert after Reina's capture. Their mana grids are sweeping Manila—any operative we send could be exposed, especially if they're sniffing for clan signatures."
Kudou Minoru adjusted his glasses, his frail frame belying his analytical edge. "He's right, but the Games' chaos is our advantage. Thousands of spectators, international delegations, media—Manila's a sieve. We can slip through, but it'll take precision. Neutral covers, no clan-affiliated magic."
A faint hum interrupted as a secure holo-link flickered to life at the table's far end. Maya Yotsuba's image materialized, her raven hair and sharp features rendered in ghostly blue light.
Her smile, enigmatic and unsettling, seemed to cool the room's air. "Katsuto-san, you're correct to prioritize intelligence over rash action," she said, her voice smooth, almost melodic, but carrying a cryptic weight. "The Yotsuba strongly advise against direct retaliation. Reina's execution was a calculated strike to provoke us. We mustn't give Mendez the war he wants—not yet."
Mayumi's eyes flicked to Maya, her voice tight. "You're suggesting we sit back while they parade our loss? Reina was Saegusa. Her death demands a response."
Maya's smile didn't waver, but her eyes darkened. "Not inaction, Mayumi-san. Strategy. My nephew is analyzing the Imperial Gate's mana signature, based on Reina's final reports. It's a complex system—strategic-class, unstable without precise calibration. We need more data to neutralize it. Charging into Manila with magic blazing would only expose our hand."
Katsuto nodded, his expression unreadable. "What do you propose, Maya-san?"
Maya leaned forward in her holo-image, her tone measured but laced with intent. "Covert operatives, disguised as neutral observers. Journalists, trade diplomats, academic liaisons—roles that blend into the Games' international crowd. The world's eyes are on Manila; their media frenzy is our camouflage. We send mages with no traceable clan ties, equipped with passive mana sensors to map the IFRP's grids and CADs. The Games' urban trials will reveal their cadets' tactics—let them show us their strengths while we stay in the shadows."
Masaki frowned, his voice skeptical. "Neutral covers won't hold under IFRP scrutiny. Their security's paranoid—drones, mana scanners, cadet patrols. One slip, and we lose more than intel."
Miyuki spoke, her voice soft but cutting. "The Yotsuba have operatives trained for such environments. Non-magical infiltration, minimal psion output. They can embed as press corps or ASEAN delegates. The IFRP's focus will be on their cadets, not civilians."
Itsuwa Hiroki, his weathered face grim, interjected. "And the Imperial Gate? If it's as advanced as Reina reported, we're not just facing cadets. We're facing instant deployment—thousands of troops, maybe more, bypassing our coastal grids."
Maya's smile sharpened, a glint of something dangerous in her eyes. "That's why we prioritize data. My nephew's work suggests the Gate's anchor is mana-intensive, vulnerable during activation. If we can pinpoint its relay points in Manila, we can disrupt it before it's used. But we need boots on the ground—eyes in the arena."
Masaki Ichijou slammed a fist on the table, his red hair flaring under the dim lights, his voice raw with indignation. "Data's not enough, Maya-san! The IFRP executed one of ours on a global stage—they're laughing at us! We can't just sneak around like cowards. I say we hit them now—send a strike team to Manila, sabotage their mana relays. Cripple their real-time casualty feeds, blind their command. Show Mendez we're not broken!"
The room erupted in murmurs, heads turning. Itsuwa's brow furrowed, his voice gruff. "A strike's bold, Ichijou, but reckless. You'd expose our mages, give Mendez the excuse he needs to escalate."
Kudou adjusted his glasses, his tone sharp. "He's not wrong about impact. Disrupting their relays would chaos their trials—buy us time. But the risk is catastrophic. Their grids would detect active magic in seconds."
Mayumi's eyes flashed, her voice cutting through. "And what signal does that send? Reina's death was meant to provoke us. A strike plays into their hands—makes us the aggressors."
Masaki's jaw tightened, his passion undeterred. "Sitting back sends a worse signal! Japan's watching—our people want blood, not spies. If we don't act, the clans look weak. We hit their relays, we show strength, not just to Mendez but to our own!"
Miyuki's voice, soft but laced with steel, silenced the rising voices. "Strength isn't loud, Ichijou-san. A strike team would be a spark in a powder keg. The IFRP's cadets are trained to kill—any team we send faces a meat grinder. We lose more than we gain."
Katsuto raised a hand, his presence quelling the debate like a tide receding. "Enough. Masaki, your fire is noted, but Miyuki's right—open action now is suicide. The IFRP wants us to bleed first. We don't give them that." His eyes locked onto Masaki, unyielding but not unkind. "But we don't cower, either. We'll answer Reina's death, but with precision, not fury."
Masaki leaned back, fists still clenched, his glare fixed on the holo-screen. The room waited, the air thick with unresolved tension.
Katsuto's deep voice broke the stillness, precise and unyielding. "Infiltration details. We send a team of eight—two operatives per clan from Saegusa, Yotsuba, Ichijou, and Kudou. They'll pose as ASEAN trade delegates from Thailand and Singapore, with forged credentials to access the Mall of Asia Arena's outer zones—press galleries, VIP lounges, civilian areas. Objectives: map IFRP CAD deployments, identify key cadets driving their trials, and assess Gabriella Mendez's Imperial Gate activation protocols. Mana-cloaking spells, Kudou's design, will mask their psion signatures to evade IFRP scanners."
Kudou nodded, his tone clinical. "The cloaking spells are passive, layered to mimic ambient mana noise. They'll hold against standard grid sweeps but won't survive direct scrutiny. Operatives must avoid active casting—observation only. My micro-sensors will record CAD outputs and Gate mana spikes, relaying data through encrypted bursts disguised as civilian comms."
Miyuki's voice, soft but sharp, added, "The Yotsuba will embed our operatives in a Singaporean trade group—logistics consultants, low-profile but with arena access. The Games' urban trials are our window; cadets will be distracted, their CADs active, exposing specs. Gabriella's Gate is likely near the arena, given Reina's last report. We'll need thermal and psion scans to pinpoint its relays."
Mayumi's tone was firm, though her hands tightened. "Saegusa operatives will focus on cadet profiling. The IFRP's elite—Third High, Fourth High—are their spearhead. We need names, magic types, combat patterns. If we know who's leading their trials, we can predict their invasion tactics."
Masaki, his anger now channeled, leaned forward. "Ichijou will handle perimeter scans. The arena's outer zones have mana relays—disruptable if we find their nodes. Our operatives can mark them for later sabotage, even if we don't strike now."
Itsuwa's gruff voice cut in. "Coastal defenses will sync with your intel. If the Gate's relays are arena-based, we'll adjust Yokohama's grids to counter teleportation spikes. But we need hard data—coordinates, mana thresholds."
A younger voice, hesitant but clear, interrupted from the table's edge. Koichi Saegusa, a junior clan member with sharp features and nervous eyes, stood, his hands clasped tightly. "Forgive me, Katsuto-sama, but… is this ethical? We're sending operatives into a death match—cadets trained to kill, arenas rigged for blood. Reina was caught, tortured, executed. What's to stop the IFRP from doing the same to our team? Are we sacrificing more lives to their war machine?"
The room fell silent, Koichi's words a raw nerve exposed. Mayumi's eyes flicked to her cousin, her voice steady but strained. "Koichi, I feel Reina's loss more than anyone. But inaction isn't an option. The IFRP's moving on Japan—Gabriella's Gate could put their army in Tokyo overnight. If we don't act, we lose our sovereignty, our people, everything. Reina died to warn us. We honor her by fighting back, even if it means risk."
Koichi's jaw tightened, his voice softer but persistent. "Fighting back doesn't mean throwing lives away. Those cadets—they're our age, some younger. The Games are a slaughter disguised as sport. Sending our mages into that… it feels like we're playing Mendez's game, not ours."
Miyuki's gaze, cold and piercing, met Koichi's. "The IFRP's game is war, Saegusa-san. We don't choose the board, only our moves. Our operatives won't engage—they'll observe, unseen. The risk is real, but so is the cost of ignorance."
Masaki's voice, gruff with frustration, followed. "Ethics won't stop Mendez's invasion. Reina knew the stakes when she went to Manila. So will our team. We're not sacrificing them—we're arming them to protect Japan."
Kudou's dry tone cut through. "The boy's not wrong to question. The Games' elimination rules blur combat and execution. Our operatives will need exit protocols—safehouses, extraction routes. Manila's a fortress; one mistake, and they're dead."
Maya's holo-image flickered, her smile unnervingly calm. "The Yotsuba have prepared for that. Our network includes safehouses in Pasay and Quezon City, with civilian transports on standby. Operatives will carry cyanide seals, if it comes to it. But let's not assume failure—our mages are trained to be ghosts. Mendez's war machine is loud; we'll be silent."
Katsuto's hand rested on the table, his voice a low command. "Koichi, your concern is noted, but Mayumi's right—inaction is surrender. Our operatives will be volunteers, fully briefed on the risks. We minimize exposure with Kudou's tech and Yotsuba's covers. The Games are a death trap, but they're also a window into the IFRP's soul. We'll see their weapons, their will, their weaknesses."
Katsuto straightened, his towering frame commanding the room's attention, his voice a low rumble that carried the weight of centuries. "The Ten Master Clans are Japan's shield, its sword, its soul. Reina's death is a scar we all bear, but it will not define us. We protect our nation, our future, not with reckless vengeance but with unyielding will. The IFRP seeks to break us. We will show them Japan stands unbroken."
His words, deliberate and resolute, ignited a quiet fire in the room. Mayumi's shoulders squared, Masaki's jaw set, and even Koichi's eyes lifted, meeting Katsuto's with a flicker of determination.
Miyuki's lips curved faintly, a rare acknowledgment of Katsuto's leadership. Maya's holo-image nodded, her voice soft but piercing. "Well said, Katsuto-san. The Yotsuba pledge our shadows to this fight. Japan will endure."
Katsuto's gaze swept the table, his tone final. "The observation team departs for Manila in 24 hours. Mayumi Saegusa, two Ichijou mages, and a Yotsuba shadow operative—four total, no more. They'll carry Kudou's mana-disruptors to jam IFRP scanners and encrypted comms for secure relays.
Their cover: ASEAN trade delegates, embedded in a Singaporean logistics group. Objectives: map the Imperial Gate's relays, profile cadet CADs, track Gabriella Mendez. Training begins at dawn, here, under Yotsuba oversight. Clans, finalize your operatives now. We move as one."
Mayumi nodded, her voice steady. "Saegusa's operative is ready—a covert mage, trained in grid analysis. I'll brief them tonight."
Masaki's tone was gruff but cooperative. "Ichijou's sending two—brothers, stealth specialists. They'll handle perimeter scans, mark relay nodes. They're already prepped."
Miyuki spoke, her voice calm but authoritative. "The Yotsuba's operative is a shadow—no clan signature, no record. They'll lead extraction if needed. I'll coordinate their integration."
Kudou adjusted his glasses, his voice precise. "Disruptors and comms will be distributed by 0400. I'll calibrate them for Manila's grid noise myself. Expect daily data bursts—short, untraceable."
Itsuwa's weathered face hardened. "Coastal defenses will be on high alert. JSDF's ready to sync with your intel. We'll hold the line here."
Katsuto's hand lifted from the table, a signal to conclude. "Then we're done. Clans, disperse and prepare. No delays, no deviations. Reina's sacrifice buys us this chance—use it. Dismissed."
The room stirred, chairs scraping softly as the representatives rose. Mayumi lingered a moment, her eyes on the holo-screen, then turned to Koichi, placing a hand on his shoulder, her voice low. "We'll make this right, Koichi. Stay strong." He nodded, his expression still conflicted, and followed her out.
Masaki exited with a purposeful stride, already murmuring to an Ichijou aide. Miyuki glided toward the door, her poise unbroken, while Kudou and Itsuwa conferred quietly, their voices a hum of logistics. Maya's holo-image flickered out, her final smile a cryptic promise.
Katsuto remained, alone now, his broad frame silhouetted against the war room's dim light. His eyes fixed on the holo-screen, Reina's frozen defiance staring back. The crack of gunfire echoed in his mind, not from the screen but from memory, a wound that fueled his resolve. His hands clenched, then relaxed, his breathing steady but heavy. The IFRP's war loomed, a storm gathering over Japan's shores, but Katsuto Juumonji stood as its first wall, steeling himself for the battles ahead.
The war room's mana shields pulsed, a silent heartbeat, as the Ten Master Clans scattered to their tasks, their observation team poised to pierce Manila's glittering facade.
___
The Mall of Asia Arena locker room thrummed with a restless pulse, its steel lockers gleaming under harsh fluorescent lights, the air thick with the faint ozone tang of mana-charged CADs. The space was a hive of pre-match chaos—cadets from various schools darted between benches, adjusting gear, testing spells, their voices a chaotic blend of bravado, nerves, and last-minute strategy.
Mana currents crackled faintly, like static before a storm, as CADs hummed and runes flickered across weapons and armor. The distant roar of the arena crowd seeped through the walls, a reminder of the trials looming just beyond the concrete.
Sallie Mae Salcedo sprawled across a bench, one leg dangling, his Fourth High jacket slung carelessly over a locker. His briefcase CAD rested on his lap, its sleek surface etched with runes that pulsed a soft green as he tweaked its settings with a handheld calibrator.
His fingers moved with lazy precision, adjusting the weapon transformation output, the device shifting briefly into its revolver form before snapping back.
"*CyberSmith's BattleForge* is peak," he declared, eyes glinting with enthusiasm as he mimed a headshot, complete with a dramatic finger-gun. "Tight controls, no lag, and the mech skins? Chef's kiss. I'm telling you, this CAD's output is basically the plasma rifle from the Neon Vanguard DLC."
Celeste Marie Salcedo stood a few feet away, her posture rigid, her grimoire CAD—a slim, book-like device etched with silver sigils—open in her hands.
Her fingers danced across its surface, syncing mana relays with precise, almost surgical taps, her eyes scanning diagnostic readouts projected in faint holograms. She shot Sallie a withering glance, her voice dry. "Focus, nerd. Second High's got shield-breakers, not mechs. You're not sniping bots in some anime shooter—you're facing cadets who'll melt your face off if you miss a cast."
Angela Castillo, leaning against a locker, snickered, her Fourth High cheer uniform—gold-trimmed navy, no CAD in sight—crisp and ready for the bleachers.
She tossed a water bottle at Sallie, who caught it without looking, his grin unfazed. "Your aim's trash in real life, though," Angela teased, crossing her arms. "Remember that training sim last month? You hit the dummy's foot and called it 'tactical suppression.'"
Sallie clutched his chest, mock-wounded, the briefcase CAD wobbling on his lap. "Betrayal! That was a calculated feint, and you know it. Besides, my aim's golden when it counts. Ask Fuyumi—she's still shook from the Regrowth show."
Celeste's eyes flicked up, her tone sharp. "Keep your voice down, idiot. Regrowth's not a party trick to brag about. Trixie's already sniffing around, and we don't need Second High catching wind before the Duels."
Sallie waved a hand, recalibrating the CAD with a faint beep. "Relax, sis. Nobody's listening. Place is louder than a Divisoria market." He leaned back, grinning. "Besides, Second High's shield-breakers are clunky—slow cast times, predictable arcs. I've got this. Just need to channel some *BattleForge* clutch energy."
Angela snorted, adjusting her cheer squad armband. "Clutch energy? You're gonna trip over your own ego and eat a mana bolt. I'll be in the bleachers, cheering when you inevitably faceplant."
Celeste snapped her grimoire shut, its runes dimming as she slipped it into a thigh holster. "Both of you, shut it. Second High's not the problem—it's their commander, Rika Santos. She's got a knack for baiting overextends. Sallie, your Haxor chaos won't work if she locks you into a mana drain. Stick to the plan: flank, disrupt, reset."
Sallie spun the calibrator between his fingers like a pen, his voice dropping to a mock-serious tone. "Yes, Commander Celeste, ma'am. Flank, disrupt, reset. Got it. But I'm still vibing *BattleForge* strats—hit 'em with the slide-cancels and a quick Regrowth pop. They'll be too confused to counter."
Angela laughed, shaking her head. "You're such a dork. I'm telling the squad to chant 'Nerd King' when you're out there."
Celeste's lips twitched, a rare hint of amusement breaking her focus. "They should. It's accurate." She glanced at her watch, her tone shifting to business. "Ten minutes till we're called. Angela, get to the bleachers—keep an eye on Third High's cheer section. Trixie's crew might be scouting us. Sallie, finish that calibration and stop daydreaming about video games."
Sallie saluted lazily, the briefcase CAD clicking as he locked in the final settings. "Aye, aye. But if I pull off a headshot with this thing, you owe me Ice Cream."
Angela smirked, heading for the door. "Deal. But if you whiff, you're buying the whole squad lumpia."
He leaned back, briefcase CAD balanced on his lap, its runes pulsing faintly as he flashed a cocky grin. "Trash? I'd wipe the floor in *BattleForge*'s ranked mode. Unlike you, Angela, who'd camp in a corner and cry when the kill feed lights up."
Angela spun around, mock-offended, her cheer uniform's gold trim catching the fluorescent light. "Excuse you, nerd king?" she gasped, flicking her wrist to send a tiny mana spark—barely a firefly's glow—zipping toward him. Sallie tilted his head, dodging it with a lazy smirk, the spark fizzling against a steel locker with a soft *pop*. "Camping's strategic, okay? You'd be too busy flexing for the leaderboard to notice me sniping your ass."
Celeste Marie Salcedo, standing a few feet away, snapped her grimoire CAD shut with a sharp *click*, her silver sigils dimming. Her eyes narrowed, her voice cutting through the locker room's buzz like a blade. "Can you *not*? We're facing La Salle's old guard—chain-casters, fast triggers, built for attrition. Stop fanboying over pixel guns and focus, or we're eating mana bolts for breakfast."
Sallie spun the water bottle on his finger like a basketball, unfazed, his grin widening as he leaned toward his sister. "Chill, Celeste. I'm locked in. But real talk—bet you'd love *BattleForge* if it had a 'tactical waifu' mode. You'd simp hard for the sniper chick, all 'oh, her scope's so precise!'" He mimed a dreamy sigh, batting his eyelashes.
Celeste's glare could've melted steel. She snatched her CAD calibrator—a sleek, pen-sized device—from the bench and tossed it at him, the tool sailing in a perfect arc. "Keep dreaming, Onii-sama. Your taste is a war crime. *BattleForge*'s probably got a 'clueless dork' skin just for you."
Sallie caught the calibrator one-handed, laughing as he tucked it into his jacket pocket. "Oof, shots fired. But you're dodging the truth—sniper waifu's got your name written all over her. I see you, strategizing your way to her heart."
Angela, halfway to the door, cackled, turning back to point at Celeste. "He's not wrong! You'd totally write fanfic about her reload animations. 'Her trigger discipline was… poetic.'"
Celeste's cheeks flushed faintly, but her glare didn't waver. She stepped closer to Sallie, pointing a finger at his chest. "Keep talking, and I'll reprogram your CAD to shoot confetti. La Salle's chain-casters don't care about your anime fantasies—they'll lock us in a mana web if you're not sharp. So, calibrate, *now*, or I'm benching you myself."
Sallie raised his hands in mock surrender, the briefcase CAD wobbling on his lap. "Alright, alright, Commander Buzzkill. Calibrating, see?" He tapped the device, its runes flaring briefly as he adjusted the transformation output, the briefcase humming as it cycled into revolver form and back. "But for the record, my *BattleForge* strats are gold. La Salle's old guard won't know what hit 'em when I slide-cancel their whole vibe."
Angela snorted, pushing the locker room door open, the distant roar of the arena crowd flooding in. "Slide-cancel your way to lumpia duty, dork. I'm off to hype the squad—don't embarrass us out there." She flashed a grin, then slipped out, her cheer armband glinting as the door swung shut.
Celeste folded her arms, her grimoire CAD secure in its thigh holster, her tone dropping to a low warning. "She's right about one thing—don't embarrass us. La Salle's commander, Marco Reyes, loves baiting reckless casts. Your Haxor chaos is useless if he chains you into a mana lock. Stick to the plan: I control the tempo, you disrupt their backline."
Sallie leaned forward, his grin softening into something sharper, more focused. "Got it, sis. Tempo's yours, I'll mess with their heads. Marco's chain-casts are slow to pivot—I'll keep 'em scrambling. This bad boy briefcase's my ace if they pin us."
He lowered his voice, glancing at the nearby cadets, who were too busy with their own prep to eavesdrop—Second High mages testing gauntlets, Fifth High cadets adjusting staves. "Just… keep an eye on Trixie's crew. If Angela's right, Third High's scouting us hard."
Celeste Marie Salcedo nodded, her grimoire CAD secure in its thigh holster, her eyes scanning the locker room's chaos before locking onto Sallie. "Trixie's a tomorrow problem. Right now, it's Second High." She pulled a holo-tab from her jacket, its surface flickering to life with a projected roster of Second High's Duel team. The glowing interface displayed names, CAD types, and mana output stats, with Marco Reyes' profile highlighted at the top. "Let's run it through. No distractions."
Sallie slid his briefcase CAD onto the bench, its runes dimming as he leaned over the holo-tab, his posture shifting from playful to tactical. "Alright, hit me. What's Marco bringing to the party?"
Celeste's voice was sharp, all business, as she tapped the projection, zooming in on Marco's data. "Marco Reyes, Second High's ace. Runs a chain-cast barrier—adaptive, redirects mana like a mirror. Hard to crack without overloading it. His team's built around him: two flankers with pulse gauntlets, one sniper with a lance CAD. They lock you in, drain you dry. We hit fast, disrupt his rhythm, or we're toast."
Sallie nodded, spinning his calibrator between his fingers like a toy, his eyes narrowing on the holo-tab. "Got it. I'll bait him—use Haxor to overload his shield. Spam low-cost casts, make his barrier overcompensate, then slip through the gaps. Full arsenal of my briefcase full of weapon's my backup if he pins me." He grinned, unable to resist. "Kinda like *Neon Trigger*'s decoy drones—ever play it? You'd vibe with the chaos mode."
Celeste groaned, smacking his arm with a quick, sharp jab, the sound barely audible over the locker room's din. "Stop. Or I'll chain-cast your mouth shut. Marco's not a video game boss—he'll read your Haxor tricks if you're sloppy. We need precision, not your anime nonsense."
Sallie rubbed his arm, feigning pain, his grin undimmed. "Harsh, sis. But fine, precision it is. I'll keep Marco dancing—fake a big cast, let him overcommit, then hit his flankers with a mana pulse. You hold the center, lock down his sniper. Your grimoire's got range for that, right?"
Celeste tapped the holo-tab, pulling up the sniper's profile—a wiry cadet named Rika Santos, lance CAD, high-accuracy casts. "Yeah, I'll pin Santos with counterspells, force her to reposition. Her lance is deadly but slow to recharge. We exploit that window." She glanced at Sallie, her tone stern but laced with trust. "No heroics, Onii-sama. You bait, I control. If we lose tempo, Marco's barrier will choke us."
Sallie leaned back, spinning the calibrator again, his voice dropping to a confident drawl. "Trust me, I'm all tempo. Marco's gonna think he's fighting a *BattleForge* pro—slide-cancels, fakeouts, the works. He'll be too busy chasing shadows to notice you dismantling his team."
Celeste's eyes rolled, but a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "If your ego was a CAD, it'd overload the arena. Finish calibrating that briefcase—we're out in three minutes." She swiped the holo-tab, collapsing the projection, and slipped it into her jacket, her movements brisk.
Sallie grabbed his briefcase CAD, its runes flaring as he ran a final diagnostic, the device humming softly. "Done. Locked and loaded. Let's make Second High regret signing up." He stood, slinging his jacket over his shoulder, his grin returning but tempered by a glint of focus. "And if Trixie's watching, she's getting a free show."
Celeste adjusted her holster, her voice low, a warning. "Let her watch. But if Regrowth in action, we're on every rival's radar. Keep it tight, Onii-sama."
Sallie Mae Salcedo leaned against a locker, his briefcase CAD now calibrated, its runes dimmed as he strapped on his combat harness, the straps snapping into place with a practiced flick. His grin, sharp and playful, returned as he glanced at Celeste, who was double-checking her grimoire CAD's holster, her movements precise but tense.
"*Neon Trigger*'s better than *BattleForge*, honestly," Sallie said, his voice teasing as he tightened a strap. "The kid protagonist, Jax? Total badass, sniping corpos at 12. Got more guts than half the cadets here."
Celeste's eyes flicked up, her expression a mix of exasperation and disbelief. "You're still on this? We're minutes from facing Marco's chain-casts, and you're ranting about some pixel punk. Focus, Onii-sama."
Sallie chuckled, undeterred, leaning back against the locker with a dramatic sigh. "Chill, I'm focused. But Jax is the vibe—cool-headed, clutch shots, no hesitation. Kinda like me, you know? Minus the corpo-slaying part. Yet."
Celeste snorted, snapping her holster shut. "You wish. Jax probably doesn't waste time hyping himself up before a fight. And you're more 'tactical height' than badass, shortstuff."
Sallie clutched his chest, mock-wounded, his grin widening. "Short?! I'm a tactical height, unlike you, beanpole. Bet you'd trip over your own legs trying to keep up with Jax's parkour moves."
The banter, light and familiar, cut through the locker room's tension, but Celeste's patience was thinning. She crossed her arms, her voice sharper now. "Keep poking, and I'll parkour your CAD into the trash. La Salle's old guard isn't a game—they'll chain us down if you're daydreaming about *Neon Trigger*."
Sallie's grin didn't fade, but his eyes glinted with mischief as he pushed off the locker, stepping closer. "Speaking of *Neon Trigger*, been writing this fanfic for it. Jax gets this deep arc—teams up with a rogue AI, real intense, like, they're hacking corpo mainframes together, vibing on this chaotic, world-breaking energy. It's straight fire."
Celeste froze, her grimoire CAD mid-check, her eyes narrowing. "Fanfic? You're writing *fanfic*? Now? When we're about to walk into a Duel with Second High breathing down our necks?"
Sallie shrugged, his tone casual, almost defiant. "Yeah, why not? It's a side hustle. Jax and the AI—they're, like, partners in crime, tearing down the system. Got this whole scene where they crash a digital fortress, all poetic chaos. You wouldn't get it, Miss 'Tactical Manual Only.'"
The mood shifted, the playful edge souring. Celeste slammed her grimoire CAD onto the bench, the sound sharp enough to draw a glance from a nearby Second High cadet. Her voice was low, furious, her mana flaring faintly, a ripple of heat in the air. "Poetic? You're wasting brain cells on some dumb story while we're prepping for a fight that could end us. That's not a hustle, Sallie—it's a distraction. And it's stupid."
Sallie's grin vanished, his posture stiffening as he stepped forward, his tone defensive. "Stupid? It's a story, Celeste, not a crime. Jax and the AI—they're fighters, bonded by tearing down corpos, same as us against the IFRP. You're blowing this up 'cause you hate anything fun."
Celeste's eyes blazed, her voice rising, sharp as a blade. "Fun? You're obsessing over a kid and a robot while Marco Reyes is out there ready to chain-cast us into oblivion. That's not fun, it's reckless. You're not Jax, and this isn't a game. Grow up."
Sallie scoffed, crossing his arms, his briefcase CAD still on the bench, its runes flickering as if mirroring his agitation. "Grow up? You're such a prude, Celeste. Fiction's not reality—nobody's hurt. It's just a story to blow off steam. Why do you always gotta judge everything I do?"
The locker room's air crackled, their mana clashing in subtle waves, unnoticed by the other cadets but palpable between them. Celeste stepped closer, her voice low but venomous. "Judge? I'm trying to keep us alive. You're so wrapped up in your anime fantasies you can't see what's at stake. The Duels, Trixie, the whole IFRP war machine—you think fanfic's gonna save you from that?"
Sallie's jaw tightened, his voice dropping, a mix of hurt and defiance. "Maybe it's what keeps me sane, ever think of that? Not all of us can be a walking strategy bot like you. I'm ready for Marco, for Trixie, for whatever. But I'm not gonna stop being me just 'cause you don't get it."
Celeste's hands clenched, her mana flaring brighter, a faint shimmer around her. "Being you doesn't mean being an idiot. Drop the fanfic, drop the games, and focus, or you're gonna get us both killed."
A sharp knock sliced through the tension, the sound jarring against the locker room's din. The door cracked open, and a Games staffer—a stern woman in a crisp IFRP uniform, her badge glinting under the fluorescent lights—poked her head in. Her voice was clipped, authoritative. "Fourth High, you're up! Stage in five—move it!"
The siblings froze, their argument suspended like a blade paused mid-swing. Sallie's eyes flicked to the staffer, then back to Celeste, his jaw still tight. He grabbed his briefcase CAD from the bench, its runes flaring briefly as he slung it under his arm, muttering, "Let's go."
Celeste's movements were jerky, her anger barely contained as she snatched her grimoire CAD and secured it, the device clicking into place with a sharp snap. She avoided Sallie's gaze, her lips pressed into a thin line, her mana still simmering, a faint shimmer in the air around her. The weight of their rift hung heavy, unspoken but palpable, a fracture that the arena's call couldn't erase.
The locker room's chaos surged around them—Second High cadets slamming lockers, Fifth High mages testing spells, the distant roar of the arena crowd growing louder, a hungry pulse that beckoned. Sallie adjusted his combat harness, his usual grin absent, his focus now a brittle edge. Celeste checked her wrist-mount one last time, her posture rigid, her silence louder than any retort.
They moved toward the door, weaving through the crowded locker room, their steps in sync despite the tension. The staffer stood by the exit, her arms crossed, her eyes scanning them with impatient scrutiny. "Hurry it up, Fourth High. Reyes is already at the stage entrance," she barked, then turned to shout at a lingering Fifth High cadet.
Sallie's voice was low, barely audible over the din, as they reached the door. "We'll crush Marco. Fanfic or not, I'm not screwing this up."
Celeste's eyes flicked to him, her expression hard but softening just a fraction, the barest hint of their bond holding fast. "You better not," she said, her tone clipped but laced with a reluctant trust.
"Stick to the plan, or we're done."
The door swung open, the arena's roar flooding in, a wall of sound that drowned the locker room's buzz. The corridor beyond was stark, lined with mana-shielded walls that hummed faintly, leading to the stage where Second High's Marco Reyes and his chain-casters waited. The siblings stepped out, their rift a silent weight, their CADs ready but their unity strained.
The neon-lit corridors of the Mall of Asia Arena's underbelly thrummed with a restless pulse, the roar of the crowd above reverberating through the mana-shielded walls like a distant thunderstorm. The air was cool, heavy with the faint hum of active runes etched into the concrete, their soft blue glow casting stark shadows across the floor.
Sallie Mae Salcedo strode ahead, his briefcase CAD slung over his shoulder, its runes dim but ready. His usual swagger was muted, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the corridor's end where the stage doors loomed. The weight of his argument with Celeste clung to him, a silent anchor dragging at his steps.
Celeste Marie Salcedo trailed a few paces behind, her grimoire CAD secured, its silver sigils glinting faintly under the neon lights. Her face was a mask of focus, her posture rigid, but her clenched fists betrayed the anger still simmering from their locker room clash.
Sallie's fanfic obsession, his cavalier attitude—she hadn't forgiven him, not yet. Her steps were deliberate, each one a quiet assertion of control, but her eyes flicked to Sallie's back, a flicker of their bond warring with her frustration.
Angela's voice echoed in their minds, a memory from the locker room before she'd left for the bleachers:
*"You're still family. We'll crush Second High, right?"* Neither had responded then, and now, in the corridor's stark silence, the words hung like a fragile bridge between them. No one spoke, but their steps synced—a muscle memory of teamwork, forged through countless drills and battles, overriding the raw wounds of their fight.
The corridor stretched on, its neon lights flickering slightly, the crowd's roars growing louder, a hungry pulse that shook the walls.
Banners in Second High's green-and-white colors peeked through the stage doors ahead, swaying faintly, a taunt from their opponents. Marco Reyes and his chain-casters waited beyond, their barrier tactics a looming threat. The IFRP's Games were no mere competition; they were a crucible, and the Salcedos' rift—however deep—had to hold against it.
Sallie adjusted the CAD on his shoulder, his voice low, barely cutting through the ambient hum. "Marco's barrier's gonna be a pain. You got my back, right?"
Celeste's eyes narrowed, her response clipped, her anger still sharp but tempered by the mission. "Always. But don't make me regret it. Bait him clean, no stunts."
Sallie nodded, a ghost of his grin flickering, then fading. "Clean. Haxor's ready to mess with his head. You set the tempo, I'll follow."
Celeste's fists unclenched slightly, her voice softening, just enough to hint at their bond. "Good. We end this fast, or we're done."
The stage doors loomed closer, their steel frames etched with runes that pulsed in time with the arena's mana grid.
The crowd's roar surged, a tidal wave of anticipation, as the announcer's voice boomed faintly through the walls: "Fourth High versus Second High, Duel One—prepare for entry!" The green-and-white banners fluttered, Marco Reyes and Rika Santos' silhouette visible beyond, his chain-cast CAD glinting under the arena lights.
Sallie and Celeste paused at the threshold, their steps halting in unison, a final moment before the crucible. they'd fight as one, rift or not. Sallie gripped his briefcase CAD, its weight a grounding force. Celeste touched her grimoire CAD humming softly, ready to dictate the battle's flow.
The doors slid open, the arena's light flooding the corridor, the crowd's roar now a deafening wave. Second High's banners loomed large, their opponents waiting, and the Salcedos stepped forward, their bond strained but their resolve forged in the Games' brutal fire.