The stained glass windows filtered in a dull red glow over the marble floor. Heat shimmered off the long iron torches burning low against the granite pillars. Above the throne, the black-crossed imperial standard hung still, the silk weighed down by gold-thread borders.
Aurelio Mendez III leaned into the carved stone backrest, boots planted wide, saber across his lap. The creak of ceremonial armor echoed faintly each time he shifted. A row of silent guards lined both sides, faces blank behind black-visored helms. No one moved.
Boots struck the polished floor in measured rhythm, each step slicing through the silence. Gabriella's cape dragged slightly behind her, its weight trimmed with the same black-gold weave as the banners above.
She reached the base of the dais and dropped to one knee, fist pressed to the floor, head bowed. No words. No hesitation. Just the scrape of her kneepad against stone.
Gabriella raised her eyes. "The quarterfinals at Fourth High concluded this morning," she said. Her voice cut through the hall, flat and even. "I was there. Watched every match."
She reached into her coat and placed a small recording module on the floor. "Footage and data logs. All matches verified."
Gabriella kept her eyes forward. "Amon Reyes and Cassandra Kwon—USNA-trained. Stars-affiliated. Eliminated."
"They went down in under four minutes. Celeste and Sallie Mae Salcedo dismantled them. No wasted movement. No hesitation. A coordinated kill."
"It wasn't close. Celeste locked down the field. Sallie finished them both."
"I've found him."
"The variable that can neutralize Tatsuya Shiba. Sallie Mae Salcedo. He doesn't care about politics. Doesn't even care about the war. But he can match Tatsuya."
Aurelio didn't shift on the throne. Just one word—quiet, exact: "How."
Gabriella didn't answer immediately. Her eyes stayed on her father. "It wasn't healing. It wasn't regenerative magic."
"Not a chant. Not a cast. Just a trigger."
"I reviewed it four times. That wasn't Regrowth. That wasn't something copied from USNA archives."
"That was better."
"That moment flipped the duel. Celeste recovered. Sallie engaged. No delay. No cooldown. Just reset and advance."
"It was intentional. He was holding it back. Waiting."
"He wanted to see if they were worth the effort."
Gabriella didn't wait for permission to continue. Her voice lowered—not reverent, but exact. Each word lined up like pieces falling into place.
"The arena shifted after the Restore. It wasn't a match anymore. It was control."
"No signal. No countdown. Just escalation."
"Unified Output—Ragnarok Bloom. That's what he called it."
"No direct hit. He wasn't aiming for them. He was breaking their footing, scrambling their channels."
"Kwon lost targeting. Reyes staggered. Sallie disappeared—then he was behind Kwon. No prep. No chant. Just movement and impact."
"He moved like he didn't care about rules or pacing. The briefcase CAD rotated through polearms, rifles, scythes, and scatter mods on reflex. Everything rebuilt on the move."
"Celeste didn't need to move. Her Grimoire was synced to Sallie's rhythm. Every step he took, every strike he made, she locked it down with timed recursion."
"Section One's tempo was broken. Every time they adjusted, the Salcedos were already two steps ahead."
"Kwon tried to blink into close range. That was a mistake."
"He didn't need to chant. Just moved, fired, reloaded mid-stride. She couldn't recover."
"He wasn't trying to kill them. He was testing something."
She let the words hang.
"Not just his loadout. Not just his sister."
She leaned forward slightly.
"He was testing whether anyone here could push him past boredom."
"He hasn't been pushed yet."
Gabriella's posture didn't shift. Her voice dropped a notch—calmer, quieter.
"He doesn't care about the politics. Doesn't care about the school titles. Doesn't even care that it was USNA training."
She glanced down, just once. "But he liked that it was Stars."
She met her father's eyes again.
"He likes fighting the best. Doesn't matter where they're from—USNA, Japan, NSU, Europe. If they have a name, if they have weight, he listens. He moves."
A pause.
"He was interested, Father. That was the difference."
Another pause. Then her tone turned final.
"If he wants the best—he won't find better than Tatsuya Shiba."
She straightened.
"And he knows it."
Aurelio Mendez III remained motionless on the stone seat, sword still laid across his lap, eyes fixed on his daughter. Torchlight caught faint reflections in the gold trim of his collar, but his face stayed unreadable.
Gabriella didn't fidget. She stood at parade rest now, feet locked together, arms folded behind her back. Formal posture, but her tone shifted—less report, more calculation.
"He didn't join Fourth High to win matches," she said. "Didn't train for glory. He doesn't even engage with our command hierarchy. I reviewed his entire file. He skips briefings. Misses drills. Ignores evaluations. They've tried sanctions—nothing sticks. Because every time they deploy him, he ends it in under five minutes."
Aurelio finally moved—slow tilt of the head.
"You believe he's the answer to Shiba?"
Gabriella nodded once. "Not because of potential. Because he's the only one who doesn't care."
Her voice sharpened. "The others hesitate. They measure. Even our elites—Althea, Sylvan, Trixie—they respect the gap. They prepare for it."
She gestured to the now-dimmed projection feed. "Sallie doesn't recognize the gap."
Silence followed. Then the Emperor's voice again, lower.
"You said he likes the Stars."
Gabriella stepped forward, stopping at the base of the throne's rise. "He smiled when Reyes got serious. I reviewed all the archived footage from previous tournaments, training matches, field deployments. That moment—when the Stars protocol activated—that was the first time he focused."
Aurelio leaned forward slightly.
"Define 'focused.'"
Gabriella didn't hesitate. "Prior to that, his output was staggered. Spell rotation uneven. He recycled his own combos. Mid-match, he wasn't using more than twenty-five percent of the CAD's potential." Her eyes flicked up. "When they fired the suppression barrage, he dropped all restraint. Mana distribution tripled. Casting efficiency spiked. CAD synchronicity hit maximum."
She took a breath. "He changed form output during the final draw. Mid-volley. That's when the arrow entered railspin. That wasn't scripted. That wasn't rehearsed. That was instinct."
The Emperor's fingers tapped the hilt of the ceremonial saber once.
"You believe this is more than compatibility."
Gabriella nodded. "I believe he wants a fight. Not a mission. Not an objective. A challenge. A reason."
Aurelio let the weight of her words hang between them.
"And what would you give him, Gabriella?" he asked.
Her voice didn't soften. "Shiba."
Another pause. Longer.
"You'd throw our trump card at Japan's deadliest asset," he said, slow. "A card we barely understand. One that doesn't report to anyone."
"He won't follow orders," Gabriella agreed. "But he'll follow interest."
She paced once—measured steps. "We don't guide him with rules. We guide him with stakes. With opponents that force him to get off the bench."
Her eyes snapped back to Aurelio.
"Right now, there's only one name left in the world that might force him to stop playing."
She said it plainly. "Tatsuya Shiba."
___
The hallway buzzed like a live wire—low voices, shifting shoes, the hum of mana detectors rebooting in the wall panels. Students from every section packed the corridor, crowding the glass-lined second floor that overlooked the arena complex. Uniforms clashed—navy of Section Three, gray of Section Five, the crimson trims of Section One now silent in the back.
Sallie Mae Salcedo stood in the middle of it, one hand stuffed in his coat pocket, the other holding his scuffed briefcase CAD by the handle like it was a cheap lunchbox. His collar was half-popped, tie crooked. A patch of blood—not his—dried brown along his sleeve.
He looked bored.
Celeste stood beside him, arms crossed, Grimoire CAD docked into its folded state at her hip. Her expression didn't shift. She scanned the crowd—eye contact where necessary, dismissal where not. Her breathing stayed level. No tension. No pride.
Section Four students hung just behind them, frozen between awe and disbelief.
The silence cracked near the center—someone from Section Five cleared his throat. "That was real, right?" he muttered to no one. "They actually dropped Reyes and Kwon?"
Someone else answered. "Not dropped—launched."
From the corner, a girl from Section Three, the dueling team's analyst, whispered, "Vector Recursion with synchronized CAD bonding... no lag... no callouts..."
"Who are they?" another voice said.
Sallie yawned. Loudly.
"Man, I'm starving," he said. "Do we still have that vending machine that takes cash?"
Nobody answered.
Celeste didn't move.
A kid in the front—first-year, still wearing his indoor slippers—blurted it: "They beat the Stars' trainees—just the two of them."
Another voice, sharper: "Did you see that railshot? What was that?"
Sallie rolled his neck.
"Y'all acting like it was the finals," he muttered. "Quarterfinals, dude. Chill."
Celeste didn't speak.
More students pressed in, the outer ranks forcing themselves to the walls just to get a look. Even a few instructors from the Combat Spell Application Department stood behind the students—silent, unreadable.
Then Section One arrived.
Amon Reyes walked stiff, hands at his sides, uniform still charred across the shoulder. His face was stone. Cassandra Kwon flanked him, lip split, one arm in a temporary support sling. They didn't speak either.
The hallway split without needing to be told.
Reyes stopped across from Sallie. Not too close. Just enough.
Sallie didn't even glance up.
The silence stretched long.
Then Reyes said, quiet: "What was that technique?"
Sallie shrugged. "Which one?"
Kwon's voice came sharp. "The one where your briefcase exploded into a war crime."
"Oh," Sallie said, rubbing his eye. "That's just Ragnarok Bloom. It's kind of a joke name. I was bored when I built it."
"You built that yourself?" one of the instructors asked from the back.
Sallie tilted his head. "Is that weird?"
Kwon opened her mouth, then shut it.
Celeste stepped forward finally. "It's modular," she said, voice flat. "We built it to shift roles mid-match. Frontline, suppression, support, disarm, railburst, close quarter disruption."
"You didn't even give us a chance to adapt," Reyes muttered.
"Correct," Celeste said.
Sallie raised his hand lazily. "Not trying to be rude, but you did get a shot in. You cracked her ribs, actually. That was impressive."
Celeste didn't blink.
Reyes' jaw clenched. "We trained with USNA Stars. You shouldn't've—"
"You trained with a system," Sallie said, finally looking up. His eyes were sharp now. Cold. "We don't run systems."
He stepped past Reyes.
"Systems are for people who want to pass tests. We're not here for that."
The crowd parted ahead of him, quiet, uncertain.
Celeste followed. No parting words.
Behind them, the hallway slowly found its noise again—just slower, cautious. No cheers. Just looks. And unspoken calculations.
The moment they crossed into Section Four's corridor, the mood flipped.
Applause. Shouts. Noise.
Angela Castillo shoved her way past the last bystanders and threw her arms around Celeste, nearly knocking her off balance. Her short blue bob bounced as she grinned wide, practically vibrating with energy.
"You launched them!" she shouted. "Launched them out of the damn building!"
Celeste didn't return the hug, but she didn't stop it either. "They were open."
Angela pulled back, grabbing Celeste's shoulders. "That railbow thing? I thought you were going to tear the roof off. I swear—half the department instructors were filming that shot."
Sallie leaned against the nearest wall, sinking slowly until he was sitting on the floor. He pulled out a meat bun from somewhere in his coat. "You guys didn't bring food?"
"No," Angela snapped, spinning to him. "Because we thought you'd get clapped, not pull out a goddamn military-grade fusion spell."
Fuyumi Nakamura pushed her way into the circle, arms crossed, mouth set tight. She wore her uniform like armor—clean, buttoned to the collar, not a thread out of place. She stopped three feet from Sallie, staring down at him.
He looked up mid-bite. "Hey."
She didn't blink. "You're a menace."
Sallie chewed. "Thanks."
"You slept through internal quals."
"Correct."
"You stripped me mid-match."
"That wasn't me. That was the CAD," he said, holding up the briefcase. "Accidental discharge."
"It targeted my uniform threads with surgical precision."
"Again—CAD settings were experimental."
"You didn't even apologize."
"I saluted."
"That is not an apology!"
Celeste spoke from behind Fuyumi. "You beat her."
Fuyumi snapped her head around. "What?"
Celeste clarified, tone flat. "Kwon. You beat her. Midfield control, one-on-one pressure, outmaneuvered her blink spacing. That was your layout, wasn't it?"
Fuyumi's mouth opened. Then shut.
Angela snorted. "Don't pretend you weren't watching that whole match with binoculars, Nakamura."
Fuyumi turned red. "For the record, I was analyzing their exposure arcs, not cheering."
Sallie pointed the meat bun at her. "But if you were cheering... it's fine. I get it."
"I wasn't."
He nodded. "Loud and clear."
The hallway buzzed with rough celebration as the rest of Section Four closed in, half-stumbling over each other in disbelief and adrenaline. The energy wasn't polished like Section One's usual PR victories—it was loud, raw, and messy. It felt earned.
Someone near the back yelled, "You fried the arena, man!"
Another shouted, "They couldn't even counter!"
Dion Banzon, usually quiet and buried in his terminal, clapped Sallie on the shoulder like he was trying to dislodge a spine. "Bro. You were sleeping before the match. Sleeping. What the hell happened in there?"
Sallie, still seated and chewing, said, "Woke up."
Hector Sison laughed. "That's it? 'Woke up'? Dude, Reyes was about to light up the whole grid and you—what was that? A rail arrow? A mana cruise missile?!"
"I had a feeling," Sallie mumbled.
Fuyumi Nakamura stood off to the side again, arms crossed, not smiling. "That wasn't instinct. That was a calculated, unauthorized combat experiment."
Hector turned to her. "Yo, Nakamura, you saw how he baited Kwon into the scatterfield? That was clean."
"Reckless."
"Effective," Dion countered.
Shiori Gomez, one of the Analysis cadets, pulled up her tablet. "The projectile velocity on that rail arrow was—hold on—two-point-three kilometers per second? How is that even legal?"
"It's not," Fuyumi muttered.
"It wasn't lethal," Sallie added. "Just dramatic."
Shiori stared at the readout. "Dramatic? That thing broke the stadium's ward net. They had to switch to auxiliary backup grid. You know how rare that is?"
Sallie shrugged. "I was aiming for the gap between Reyes' convergence field and Kwon's soft-lock arcs. They crossed. I just made the most of it."
"You weaponized geometry," Shiori said. "Who does that?"
A voice near the back added, "Guy naps in class, then shows up to rewrite doctrine."
Another: "Reyes and Kwon haven't lost once since they got back from USNA. What kind of loadout was that?"
"Briefcase boss fight mode," Hector said. "He called it Ragnarok Bloom."
"Oh, come on," Fuyumi snapped. "You named it?"
Sallie raised a hand. "Celeste named it."
Celeste: "I did not."
"You signed off on it."
"I signed off on its weapon sync. Not your stupidity."
Dion snorted. "God, Section Four's going to be insufferable now."
Shiori held her tablet up. "We earned that. Look at the numbers."
Fuyumi stepped forward again. "It's not about numbers. That kind of output attracts attention. Military eyes. External analysts. You think they'll let us walk into semifinals like nothing happened?"
"Good," Sallie said, standing up at last. "Maybe the next match won't be boring."
---
In the common hall outside the Fourth High Combat Arena, the projection spire activated with a sharp whir—a thick column of blue light surged upward, stabilizing into a holographic display above the crowd. Students turned as one.
Floating in mid-air, the semi-transparent screen flashed:
IMPERIAL DUEL PRELIMINARY QUALIFIERS — FOURTH HIGH CAMPUS
TOP RANKED TEAMS — AS OF QUARTERFINAL MATCHES
Each name hovered beside glowing ratings—mana efficiency, combat initiative, tactical control, sync ratio, and win conditions. Color-coded graphs updated live, pulsing with each data ping from the official servers in Malacañang.
At the top, newly updated:
---
#1 – SECTION FOUR
SALCEDO, SALLIE MAE / SALCEDO, CELESTE MARIE
Mana Efficiency: 94.2%
CAD Sync Ratio: 98.1%
Tactical Initiative Index: 96.7
Total Spell Output (Cumulative): 183
Kills / Disables: 2 / 0
Victory Condition Time: 04:12 (minutes)
Combat Rank: S+
Note: First team to disable USNA-trained opponents in under 5 minutes. CAD variation marked as irregular. Grimoire sync flawless. Projectile breakthrough recorded above threshold. Subject to review.
---
Gasps rippled through the room.
Further down:
---
#2 – SECTION ONE
REYES, AMON / KWON, CASSANDRA
Mana Efficiency: 87.5%
CAD Sync Ratio: 88.3%
Tactical Initiative Index: 92.4
Total Spell Output (Cumulative): 164
Kills / Disables: 3 / 1
Victory Condition Time: 07:21
Combat Rank: A+
Note: Previously undefeated. Defeated by Section Four. CAD overload recorded during final engagement.
---
#3 – SECTION TWO
SORIANO, MIGUEL / GARCIA, EVELYN
Mana Efficiency: 83.3%
CAD Sync Ratio: 80.1%
Tactical Initiative Index: 78.6
Combat Rank: A-
---
The screen scrolled down further, showing the remaining eight pairs in descending order, but no one paid attention to the lower slots anymore.
All eyes were locked on the new number one.
Section Four, the team no one expected to pass the quarterfinals.
And at the center of that holographic crown:
Sallie Mae Salcedo — grinning in his ID photo, his collar crooked, a meat bun in hand.
Celeste Marie Salcedo — deadpan, unblinking, her Grimoire CAD caught mid-rotation.
A message pulsed below their names:
QUALIFIED FOR SEMIFINAL BRACKET – STATUS: ACTIVE
MATCH UPDATES TO FOLLOW.
Angela found them in the west wing stairwell, where Celeste had just finished recalibrating her Grimoire against the maintenance panel. Sallie leaned on the railing, halfway through another pastry, staring out the window like the world offended him.
She didn't knock. She didn't clear her throat.
She just said it straight: "Semifinal bracket's locked. You're fighting Section Two tonight."
Celeste didn't respond.
Sallie blinked once, chewed twice, then said, flat: "Who's that again?"
Angela exhaled, annoyed. "Miguel Soriano and Evelyn Garcia. Ranked third. Consistent midfield pressure team. Mana field overlap. Evelyn's the zoning type, Soriano hits hard when she sets tempo."
"Ah," Sallie said, already turning away. "Locals."
Angela stared at him. "What—so?"
He slumped down onto the steps, one hand behind his head, chewing slower now. "I thought we'd pull Section One again. Maybe Shiba early if the organizers were feeling bold."
Celeste secured the last plate on her CAD and stood. "You knew that wouldn't happen. Shiba's at First High. He's not even in our bracket."
Sallie groaned. "Yeah, exactly. Waste of a slot."
Angela stepped forward, pointing a finger at him. "You just knocked out a Stars-trained team in front of half the faculty and you're telling me this match doesn't matter?"
He gave her a tired look. "No, it matters. It's just not interesting."
"Interesting?" Angela repeated. "You're going to walk into the semifinals and nap through it again?"
"If it's another mid-tier tempo loop with soft-lock zoning? Yes."
Angela opened her mouth, closed it, then looked at Celeste. "Does he do this all the time?"
Celeste nodded. "Worse when it's local."
Angela threw up her hands. "Unbelievable."
Sallie leaned further into the stair rail, pulling his coat over his head like a blanket. "Wake me if they bring missiles."
Celeste snapped her Grimoire shut with a metal clack, slid it into the mag-lock holster at her hip, and glanced down at her brother.
"You could at least pretend to give a damn."
Sallie, now fully reclined across the stairwell bench like a collapsed umbrella, mumbled through his jacket hood. "I gave a damn this morning. Used up my quota."
"You didn't even stretch," she said.
"That's because I thought we'd lose."
Celeste narrowed her eyes. "You're full of crap."
"Technically correct," he yawned. "Still won though."
Angela stepped forward, smacked the stair rail. "You are literally in the semifinals of the Imperial Duel and you're acting like this is a bathroom break."
Sallie peeked out from under the coat, expression deadpan. "Bathroom breaks are relaxing. This is paperwork with explosions."
Celeste crossed her arms. "I warned you not to fire the arrow that broke the arena's ceiling if you didn't want attention."
"I was hungry."
"That's not a reason."
"It was at the time."
Angela dragged both hands down her face. "Oh my god—how do you two function?"
Sallie sat up halfway, legs still stretched out. "She threatens to abandon me mid-mission. I try to die dramatically. Balance is key."
Celeste tilted her head. "I still might."
"Love you too," he said.
Angela finally gave up, let out a strangled noise, and facepalmed hard enough to rattle her clip-on ID badge.
Celeste looked back at her. "Welcome to Section Four."
Angela didn't reply. She just kept her face buried in her palm and muttered, "I'm defecting to Section Two."
Sallie pointed lazily. "Better bring a shield."
---
In the silence of the Yotsuba main estate, high in the surveillance wing of the compound, a single display room remained lit. Cool light from the wall-sized monitor bathed the polished floor and the faint outlines of ancient wood latticework. The match feed from the Philippines had finished airing, but Maya Yotsuba hadn't moved.
She leaned back in the high-backed chair, one leg crossed, tea untouched.
On the screen, a frame was paused.
The moment it happened.
Celeste Salcedo, crouched in pain, blood at her lip—then the burst of light. No chant. No cast sequence. Just a word from the boy standing beside her.
"Restore."
Maya's eyes narrowed. She rewound the footage again. Slow motion.
The flash triggered. Mana warped. And then—wounds vanished. Burn patterns cleared. Fracture lines in the skin snapped back into shape like a reel running in reverse. Not faked. Not delayed. Not theoretical.
Real-time restoration. Total.
She froze the frame as the Grimoire lit up again, Celeste rising with perfect casting rhythm.
Her voice was calm, as always.
"…A regrowth system without cast time."
A moment passed.
She pressed another key. The system zoomed in—readout overlays surged across the paused frame, highlighting mana flow, heat signatures, spell construction. All of it screamed impossible.
Yet it was there.
"And not artificial," Maya murmured. "Not ritualized. Field-deployed. Instinctive."
She turned slightly as footsteps approached.
Ayako Kuroba entered quietly, stopping at a respectful distance.
"You saw it too," Maya said.
"Yes," Ayako replied. "Confirmed across three separate feeds. Mana analysis confirmed cellular reversal. The Philippine CAD systems recorded it as a Class-S restoration event."
Maya tapped the remote once.
"And he's not in any national registry?"
"No, ma'am," Ayako answered. "The boy—Sallie Mae Salcedo—has no deployment history, no formal records in international databases. Only listed under a regional high school combat unit."
Maya let the silence stretch again. Then: "He built his own CAD."
Ayako blinked. "That would explain the transformation mechanism."
"And the weapon sync with his sister's Grimoire," Maya added. "The arrow."
"Yes, ma'am."
Another beat. Maya's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Prepare dossiers on both Salcedo siblings. Focus on familial ties, CAD design, training background. And double-check all records from the Fourth High internal qualifier archives."
Ayako bowed. "Understood."
Maya's gaze lingered on the frozen screen.
"Regrowth was never meant to be replicated."
She tapped the frame again.
"But that wasn't a replication."
She paused.
"That was evolution."
---
The practice arena's overhead lights pulsed to full brightness, casting long shadows across the polished combat stage. The seal of the Imperial Duel League hovered in the center, faintly glowing. Section banners hung across the upper balcony—every seat filled. Students from all sections packed the bleachers, shoulder to shoulder, murmuring, shifting, whispering. Phones hovered. Tablets recorded.
The second semifinal was moments from starting.
Section Two stood to the far right—Miguel Soriano already in stance, both hands raised, CAD embedded into reinforced gauntlets. Evelyn Garcia stood just behind him, legs apart, arms relaxed at her sides. Two ring-mounted CADs floated above her shoulders, slowly spinning. Her face was unreadable, her mana field already pulsing in controlled intervals.
Across the field, Sallie Mae Salcedo stood with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his eye. His coat hung half open, his tie was missing, and his combat boots weren't fully laced. He yawned—long and loud. His breath fogged slightly in the arena's chilled air.
The crowd rustled. A few laughs. A few jeers.
Celeste stood beside him, Grimoire CAD already deployed—plates unlocked, floating over her forearms in a low idle pattern. Her back was straight. Her focus locked.
She turned toward him without shifting her stance. "Snap out of it."
Sallie scratched his head. "They said the match would start at four. It's four."
"It's four-oh-seven."
"That's still four."
"You were asleep on the bench when the officials called us up."
"I had a blanket."
"You brought a blanket to a semifinal."
"Correct."
Celeste exhaled through her nose, sharp. "Wake. Up."
"Man, I'm still wrecked from earlier," he muttered. "You know how hard it is to go full output after a nap?"
The crowd stirred.
Miguel Soriano tightened his stance. Evelyn shifted her weight, expression flat.
Sallie wiped a tear from his eye and sniffed. "Like seriously, we yeeted Section One so hard they probably landed in the Pentagon. I deserve at least one snack and a thirty-minute horizontal session."
Celeste didn't even look at him. "Focus."
He tilted his head at her. "I am focused. Focused on getting this done fast."
"You better be. We're not dragging this one out just because you're moody."
"I'm not moody. I'm fatigued."
"You slept through the pre-match brief."
"Exactly. And I need to do that again. So let's clear this bracket."
Across the field, Evelyn's rings clicked into position.
Miguel raised his fists.
The air shimmered with starting mana pressure.
Sallie adjusted his grip, eyes finally sharp now—boredom burned off just enough to flicker something dangerous beneath it.
He cracked his neck.
"Alright, Section Two. Let's wrap this up quick. I've got a nap to return to."
The second the match timer hit zero, the Salcedo siblings shifted.
No signals. No hand gestures. Just movement—fast, fluid, intentional.
Celeste's Grimoire CAD burst into full deployment with a resonant hum, its plates unfurling in a seamless spiral that wrapped around her arms and shoulders like a protective arcane bloom. Each segment locked into place with clockwork precision, and as they settled, delicate glyphs began to glow along their surfaces—faint violet inscriptions pulsing in time with her breath.
Her stance shifted without hesitation, sliding into a textbook casting posture so fluid it looked more instinct than learned. One foot angled back, shoulders squared, spine aligned as if drawn by invisible lines of force. Her mana stream surged—not wild or chaotic, but tight and exact, flowing into a single, focused channel that funneled straight through the core of the Grimoire.
Above and around her, spell slots flickered to life—layered and rotating in perfect sync. They hovered in a calculated orbit, each spell matrix primed and ready, floating like satellites caught in gravitational lock. There was no chanting, no flourish—just silent command. Controlled power. Absolute readiness.
Sallie's briefcase snapped open mid-step with a sharp metallic crack—not a simple unfold, but a full structural metamorphosis. Plates shifted with fluid momentum, the casing blooming outward as rotating weapon cores snapped into alignment. Emitters locked onto anchor rails with a magnetic hiss, casting brief pulses of charged light as mana synced through the framework. A targeting frame flicked down over his eye, calibrating in real-time, glyph lines racing across the lens with rapid diagnostics.
For a second, the configuration resembled a long-range sniper platform—sleek, extended, precise. Then it shifted again, armor panels rotating with grinding efficiency as twin energy blades flared into existence along the sides—an axe, brutal and close-range, the edge humming with kinetic vibration.
Then, just as quickly, it compressed once more.
The frame collapsed inward, reshaping into a compact, streamlined rifle. Beneath the barrel, a chain bayonet locked into place with a solid click, the blade glowing faintly with mana-fed friction. The weapon wasn't locked into one identity—it was a shifting threat, built for whatever came next.
And Sallie moved like he already knew what that was.
Across the field, Miguel and Evelyn reacted on instinct—too slow.
Evelyn launched the first field with a sharp cast, her CAD dispersing a wide-range mist that swept low across the arena floor. The air thickened with a dull, gray shimmer—suppression-grade, tuned specifically to scramble elemental channels and distort mana resonance at the base level. A textbook opener, aggressive and smart.
But Celeste wasn't casting elements.
Her Grimoire responded with a pulse—silent, deliberate. A layered glyph unfurled and shimmered to life, folding across her casting space like a prism shield. The suppression mist hit the barrier and refracted outward, redirected into a self-contained loop. The feedback circuit twisted the field's energy inward, isolating the interference and collapsing it into a harmless swirl that dissipated at her feet.
"Vector Loop—Field Cleanse," she intoned, her voice like frost over glass.
Before the mist had even cleared, Sallie broke formation.
He shot wide across the field with a sudden burst of motion, cloak trailing behind him in a jagged arc. His CAD reconfigured mid-run, the casing snapping open with a roar of compressed mana and kinetic locks. What emerged wasn't sleek or refined—it was jagged, curved, an exaggerated energy blade glowing with searing orange along the edges. It looked like something ripped straight from a vintage arcade sim: oversized, impractical by textbook standards.
But his movement was anything but reckless.
He turned his hips mid-sprint, cutting a low arc across the battlefield—his line tight, clean, deliberate. The blade hummed as it leveled with Soriano's exposed flank, the exact point in the opponent's stance where their defense hadn't reformed yet.
Miguel tried to counter with a kinetic shield—too linear.
Sallie dropped into a low slide, his body coiled with purpose as he moved beneath the arc of Miguel's counterstrike. In a single fluid motion, he released his energy blade mid-spin, fingers twisting along the hilt to add torque. The weapon ripped free with a harsh metallic CLANG, the edge striking Miguel's CAD at an off-angle, sparks flaring as the blow sheared through his defensive channel with brutal efficiency.
The moment the weapon cleared the clash, the CAD restructured.
No delay. No gap.
The blade collapsed inward, plates rotating and locking into place as a scattergun snapped into form—short-barreled, dense, and already charged. Sallie didn't hesitate. He pivoted sharply, boots scraping across the tile, and leveled the weapon square at Evelyn's support frame.
At the same instant, Celeste's Grimoire ignited.
The air around her shimmered as four glyph rings activated in tandem, spinning into position like gears in a divine machine. Each one pulsed with a different frequency, layering their spellforms without delay. Her casting wasn't sequential—it was parallel, four threads woven at once, all feeding into a single, elegant barrage of command.
And the tempo only accelerated from there.
"Recursive Lock. Chain Mode."
Evelyn's body flickered as she initiated a blink-step, her form beginning to blur with displacement—but she barely made it two meters before her momentum failed. The ground beneath her feet pulsed, and in the space of a breath, binding glyphs snapped into place around her heels like shackles forged from light. Her trajectory collapsed mid-cast, balance shattering as the spell snagged her at the source.
She didn't have time to react.
Boom—
Sallie's scattershot detonated with a concussive burst, slamming into her outer barrier. The blast fractured the protective layer with a violent ripple, forcing an emergency discharge. The shield cracked, flickered—and broke. Mana surged in all directions, uncontrolled.
Across the field, Miguel moved to intercept. His gauntlet CAD lit up with a flash of precision—he fired a tight arc of mana, a pinning shot aimed cleanly at Celeste's center line, designed to interrupt her casting sequence mid-channel.
But it never reached her.
Sallie's CAD had already shifted again.
With a sharp mechanical click, a barrier plate deployed over his offhand—angular, glowing with a pulsing grid. The arc spell slammed into it with a solid thunk, dispersing across the surface like water on glass. The overflow rolled along the shield's edge and redirected cleanly into a preloaded glyph socket, which responded immediately.
A return pulse fired—automatic, calibrated, and without hesitation.
"Reflector mod," he muttered. "Haven't used this one since Cebu."
Celeste advanced two steps and spoke without looking.
"Next loadout. Right flank."
"Copy," Sallie answered, CAD morphing into a chained flail with embedded emitter nodes.
The Salcedo siblings were conducting—and the battlefield had become their orchestra.
Celeste stood at the center of it, her Grimoire casting glyphs with surgical speed. There was no lag between intent and execution; every spell left her hands already anticipating where her opponents would be. Each binding trap landed before movement even began, locking down angles and options with predictive precision. It wasn't guesswork—it was calculation. Her casting didn't follow their attacks.
It preempted them.
Sallie, meanwhile, moved like his CAD wasn't just responding to commands but following an internal combat rhythm all its own. The weapon transformed with the beat of the fight—blade to rifle, rifle to scattergun, scattergun to shield—each shift pulling kinetic energy forward into the next form, never losing pace. His movements didn't stall for transitions. They flowed, like a perfected loop pulled from hours of simulations, boss fight patterns, and combat drills no instructor had ever sanctioned but he'd mastered anyway.
Every strike had the memory of the last one in its bones.
Every attack carried the logic of a gamer who never missed frame data.
And their enemies felt it.
Evelyn tried again to stabilize, breath ragged, her rings spinning out mid-cast as she scrambled for range—but she couldn't find it. Celeste's pressure was too exact, the windows too narrow. Her casting zone was collapsing in real time, and the air around her offered no safe direction.
Miguel shouted, "Collapse to center!"
Too late.
Celeste moved without hesitation, her hands shifting in sync with the sudden reversal of her Grimoire's plates. The glyphs spun backward, not in retreat, but in recalibration—a new spellform unfolding across the field like a net cast in silence. Lines of violet snapped into a tight grid beneath her, locking into place beneath Miguel's feet.
"Sector Coil. Gravity Bind."
The command left her lips like a verdict.
Beneath Miguel, the floor shimmered with dense light, and then—he dropped. Just two inches, but the effect was immediate. His knees buckled under the sudden spike in gravitational pressure, his stance collapsing like a folding chair beneath a too-heavy load. He grunted, off-balance, locked in place.
Sallie's CAD folded again in a fluid motion, the weapon morphing back into rifle form, the barrel humming with pent-up force. He didn't brace. He didn't take aim like a marksman.
He barely lifted it.
"Game over," he muttered, voice low, flat.
The shot cracked out in a single burst.
The round struck Miguel center mass—a clean hit, tuned for non-lethal takedown, but laced with raw impact magic. The effect hit like a mana cannon. Miguel's body lifted off the ground and flew backward, tumbling through the air before crashing into the arena floor in a ragged sprawl, armor scraping tile.
Across the field, Evelyn gathered what was left of her focus and charged—desperate, reckless.
But Celeste was already there.
Her vector anchor flared to life with a blink of light—an invisible hook latching onto Evelyn's forward momentum and twisting it mid-step. The spell didn't stop her.
It redirected her.
Evelyn's body snapped sideways mid-charge and slammed hard into the barrier wall with a dull thud, her momentum scattered like glass dropped from height.
Silence hit the arena before the final call.
"MATCH END."
"VICTORY: SECTION FOUR — SALCEDO, CELSTE MARIE AND SALCEDO, SALLIE MAE."
The projection board updated immediately.
Section Four. Finals.
Celeste exhaled once, Grimoire dimming.
Sallie yawned again. "Can I sleep now?"
The cheers erupted before the echo of the final blow even faded.
Section Four's side of the stands went wild—shouts, stomps, chairs banging against the railings. Students jumped to their feet, fists raised, some tossing notebooks into the air like confetti.
Angela yelled over the noise, "That's how it's done!"
Hector was already halfway over the railing, yelling, "Finals, baby! Finals!"
Shiori waved her tablet in the air, shouting, "Confirmed—total field control, tactical suppression, no damage taken!"
Fuyumi stood with arms crossed, but her lip twitched. Just a little.
Down on the field, as Celeste dismissed her Grimoire and adjusted her coat, Sallie stretched his arms over his head like he'd just gotten out of bed. He blinked once at the roaring crowd, then scratched the side of his neck.
"Honestly?" he said loud enough for the student mics to pick up. "That was barely a warm-up."
Angela nearly fell over laughing. "You're unbelievable!"
Sallie turned to Celeste, deadpan. "They didn't push anything. That pressure field? Weak. Evelyn's spell loop collapsed after three glyphs. And Soriano's defense? Might as well have handed me his CAD."
Celeste didn't reply. She just kept walking offstage.
He followed, still talking. "At least when we fought Reyes and Kwon, it felt like a duel. Those two actually made me stand up."
He pointed a thumb back toward the arena. "That? That was a glorified spar."
More laughter echoed from the Section Four crowd. Someone shouted, "He's not even tired!"
Sallie yawned mid-step. "Exactly."
Another wave of applause followed.
Celeste spoke only once before exiting the arena tunnel. "Shut up and hydrate."
Sallie grinned. "After the nap."
From the east side bleachers, Section One erupted into applause.
Amon Reyes stood with his arms crossed, face tight but nodding once. Cassandra Kwon gave a single slow clap, her eyes locked on the arena gate where the Salcedo siblings had exited.
Behind them, the rest of their classmates shouted over each other.
"They did it again—clean."
"No damage taken. No damage!"
"They're monsters. Straight up."
Someone leaned into Kwon's side. "You still bitter?"
She snorted. "Bitter? Hell no. I'm just glad it wasn't us that got pancaked today."
Section Three and Section Five students weren't as sure.
Across the hall, mutters filled the rows.
"Wait—are they going to representing our school?"
"For the SEA Games?"
"I thought they were private military."
A kid from Section Seven, holding a snack halfway to his mouth, said, "You're telling me those two are going to stand on the national stage with our patch on their jackets?"
Shiori, listening from Section Four's corner, called back: "Yes. You're welcome."
More muttering.
"Dude. If they're the ones carrying our school flag, we might actually win the Southeast Asian prelims."
"Might? We're already winning. Did you see that match?"
"Yeah, but the finals aren't done yet—Section Nine's next."
That name dropped like a weight across the student body.
Section Nine. The dark horses. No recordings. No public footage. Rumors of foreign-trained cadets embedded for test purposes. Tactical files locked behind administrative clearance.
Celeste and Sallie had one more match.
The finals of the Fourth High bracket.
And every single student—whether they liked the siblings or not—was watching now.
___
The classroom was half-lit, shadows creeping in through the high windows as the sun dipped behind the ridge. The clock on the wall ticked to 18:47. Match time was closing in.
Sallie Mae Salcedo sat slouched at the back, head resting sideways on the chair-table, arms folded beneath it like a makeshift pillow. His coat draped over his head. One boot hung loosely off his foot. His briefcase CAD sat on the desk beside him, locked and dormant.
Celeste stood nearby, leaning against the window ledge, arms crossed. Her eyes stayed on her brother—expression unreadable, but her stance still, watchful.
Angela burst in without knocking.
"There she is!" she shouted, holding two boxed drinks and a packet of sugar-coated pastries.
Celeste blinked once.
Angela rushed over, shoved the snacks into her hand, and grinned. "For the champion and future SEA Games killer. I told you you'd make finals."
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "We haven't won yet."
Angela rolled her eyes and flopped into the chair across from her. "You roasted Section Two like it was a midterm. I watched that scatter combo twelve times. Eris and Rael might be ghosts, but ghosts still bleed."
Behind them, Sallie let out a low snore.
Angela glanced over, frowned. "Is he asleep again?"
Celeste didn't answer. She just stared at him.
Angela leaned closer, whispering, "Do you think he even knows we're fighting in fifteen minutes?"
"He knows."
"Did you at least check his CAD? Make sure it's not set to launch fireworks or something stupid?"
Celeste finally replied. "I tuned it myself. He just likes the drama."
Angela laughed quietly, opened one of the drinks, and passed it to Celeste. "Whatever. Just don't die out there. We need you two to carry this school's name harder than our principal's pension plan."
Celeste took the drink. No smile, but no protest either.
Angela leaned back, watching the ticking clock.
"You know," she said softly, "I've seen a lot of duels. But what you and Sallie did out there—"
She paused.
"—it wasn't school-level. That was deployment-level sync. Like battlefield command units. I've never seen anyone move like that. Not even Section One."
Celeste's gaze stayed fixed on her brother. His breathing hadn't changed. Not even now.
"We trained for worse," she said flatly.
Angela leaned back in her chair, arms crossed over her drink. "Yeah, I believe it. But that fight with Section One—he flipped a switch, Celeste. I've never seen him move like that."
Celeste's eyes stayed fixed on Sallie's motionless form. "He doesn't move unless it's worth it."
Angela snorted. "That's the problem. We're all sweating spells and pre-match drills and he's treating this like casual mode."
Celeste finally looked at her. "You saw it, didn't you?"
Angela nodded slowly. "Yeah. I saw it. That second half—when Reyes and Kwon got serious? He changed."
Celeste's voice didn't shift. "He always does when there's real weight."
Angela pointed at the briefcase CAD, resting idle beside him. "That thing? It's like a videogame loadout menu exploded and became sentient."
Celeste replied instantly. "He designed it that way."
Angela blinked. "Wait—what?"
Celeste nodded. "Based off six of his favorite FPS and ARPG games. Full mod stack. Every form he deploys is mapped to old muscle memory. Trigger styles. HUD overlays. Even the reload patterns."
Angela stared. "You're telling me he built a custom combat CAD off gaming reflexes?"
"Yes."
"And it works?"
Celeste didn't answer.
Angela blew out a breath. "That scythe form—when he flanked Kwon and slammed Reyes' barrier from the side? He didn't even blink."
"That wasn't instinct," Celeste said. "That was a rehearsed combo string."
Angela tilted her head. "Wait, so the flail swap, the scattergun, the rail-arrow sync—"
"—All mapped. All practiced. He trains silently every night. I monitor the field logs."
Angela stared across the room at him, still slouched over the desk. "So the guy who uses my notebook as a pillow during class is actually stacking full-tier combat logic based on boss fights and multiplayer matches."
"Yes."
Angela rubbed her eyes. "You know that's actually insane, right?"
"He's not normal."
"No kidding."
Celeste looked back at Sallie. "But against Reyes and Kwon, he wasn't bored. That's why it worked."
Angela leaned forward. "That's the first time he looked serious. Like... dialed in."
Celeste didn't respond immediately. Then: "It won't happen again until someone like that shows up."
Angela lowered her voice. "You think Section Nine's got it?"
Celeste's gaze sharpened.
"I hope so."
Sallie snored. Quiet. But just loud enough to ruin the tension.
Angela looked at him, then back at Celeste, and just shook her head, smiling despite herself.
"You know what?" she said. "I don't care how weird this all is. You two are still freaks. But they're our freaks."
Celeste blinked.
Angela stood up and jabbed a finger toward the door. "You've dragged this entire school into the finals. You made Section One cheer for you. You broke the arena. And somehow, you did all that with him snoring through half the prep."
Celeste gave the smallest shrug.
Angela stepped in close, bumped her shoulder lightly. "I'm proud of you. Both of you."
Celeste didn't respond at first. Then she said, almost flat: "We haven't won yet."
"Yeah, yeah," Angela said, waving her off. "Finals are in twenty. You'll probably launch someone into orbit and then complain about cafeteria food."
Celeste almost—almost—smiled.
Angela grinned. "Don't think I didn't see how you anchored that railshot in the Reyes match. That was surgical. You know they're already calling you a tactical monster on the forums?"
"Forums are unreliable," Celeste replied.
"Still true."
Angela held out the unopened pastry packet. "Here. Victory sugar. It's tradition now."
Celeste accepted it without hesitation. "Thanks."
They stood there for a moment, side by side.
Then Angela threw an arm around her shoulder. "We're going to the finals, Cel. You and your walking weapon case of a brother. And when you win? I'm putting a banner on the rooftop. With your faces. Big ones."
"That's unnecessary."
"Too bad."
Celeste didn't shake her off.
Angela bumped her again. "Best freaks I know."
Angela flopped back into the chair beside Celeste again, arms behind her head, clearly riding the high of semifinal victory. The arena call time was ticking closer, but she acted like they had all the time in the world.
"So anyway," Angela said, popping open her soda. "Did you see the new scandal with that magi-idol from NSU?"
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "No."
Angela grinned. "Exactly why I'm telling you. Guy got caught using illusion overlays during live performances. Real projection spells to make himself look taller, leaner, shinier. Whole fanbase is melting down."
Celeste blinked once. "That's… public record?"
"Not supposed to be. But someone hacked his promo drone and streamed the raw feed. Dude looked like a cardboard cutout during rehearsal. It's all over the net now."
Celeste said nothing.
Angela leaned in. "I know you don't follow this stuff, but you should see the comment threads. People are losing their minds. Half are like, 'he's fake,' and the other half are like, 'king deserves magic-enhanced abs.'"
Celeste stared at her, face unreadable. "Abs?"
Angela nodded. "Literal contouring enchantments. He built a whole six-pack spell loop."
Celeste looked down at her Grimoire, then back at Angela. "That's inefficient."
Angela laughed so hard she snorted soda out of her nose. "Oh my god—you would say that."
Celeste turned away slightly. "It's wasteful mana use."
"Tell that to his three million followers."
Silence hung for a moment.
Then Angela leaned sideways, half-whispered: "Also, rumor says the Rising Hex group from USNA is secretly dating two members from Japan's Magical Modeling Unit. No confirmation. Just 'leaked aura footage.'"
Celeste tilted her head. "Aura leaks?"
Angela nodded. "You can trace proximity magic if their emotional field resonance syncs. It's subtle, but the fans caught it. Background filters showed mana threads between them."
Celeste looked genuinely confused. "And this… matters?"
Angela beamed. "Not at all. But it's fun."
Celeste stared for a moment longer, then said, "You're unwell."
Angela grinned wider. "And you're still my best friend."
Celeste sighed. "Unfortunately."
The PA system crackled again, calling all finalists to staging.
"FINAL MATCH COMPETITORS—REPORT TO STAGING IMMEDIATELY. PRACTICE ARENA A-1. MATCH BEGINS AT 1900 HOURS."
The PA crackled again, then went silent.
Celeste turned. "Time."
Angela exhaled. "Alright. Let's go wake up Sleeping Tactical Hazard."
They both looked toward the back of the room where Sallie still slumped over the chair-table, coat covering half his face, one arm dangling, mouth slightly open. The briefcase CAD rested next to his foot like a loyal dog waiting for orders.
Celeste stepped closer, stared down at him.
Angela followed and whispered, "Okay. Do we go with the usual or...?"
Celeste was already pulling a coin-sized mana plate from her pocket.
Angela blinked. "Oh no. Not the shock rune."
Celeste didn't answer.
She dropped it right under his exposed palm and activated the trigger glyph with a single flick.
ZAP.
"GHHH—!" Sallie convulsed upright, nearly flinging his chair backward. "What the hell!?"
Angela burst into laughter. "Every time!"
Celeste returned the plate to her pocket like nothing happened. "We're late."
"You electrocuted me," Sallie growled, rubbing his hand.
"You didn't respond to verbal cues," Celeste replied flatly.
Angela grinned. "We could've just thrown water."
Sallie pointed at both of them. "Y'all are terrorists."
Celeste turned to the door. "You're walking. That means you're fine."
Sallie sighed and grabbed his briefcase, muttering, "One day I'm going to rig this thing to scream when you touch it."
Angela opened the door, holding it for both of them.
"Finals time, warlords," she said. "Don't forget to smile for the camera."
Celeste walked out.
Sallie followed, still muttering under his breath.
"Freakin' shock rune... Uncalled for... I was having a dream about dumplings..."
She adjusted the Grimoire CAD on her hip without looking back. "Finals are starting."
Sallie was still rubbing his hand. "Yeah, yeah. Got it. Shocking wake-up call received."
Celeste didn't slow her pace. "Section Nine isn't like the others. Keep your head clear."
"I'm always clear," he muttered. "Just sleepy."
Angela jogged a few steps to catch up, flashing a lopsided grin. "You two better not hold back this time. I want a bodycount—figuratively."
Sallie gave her a lazy glance. "Define figuratively."
"Don't actually kill anyone," she clarified, smacking his arm lightly.
Celeste reached the end of the hallway and paused. She turned just enough to speak. "We'll finish it."
Angela nodded, taking a step back toward the opposite stairwell. "Damn right you will. Go ruin someone's tournament bracket. I'll be in the front row."
Sallie tossed her a half-salute. "We'll try to keep the collateral damage under one wing of the building."
Angela grinned wide. "That's all I ask."