The hallways of Sylvan Grounds were quieter than usual—perhaps because the roar of students had all migrated outside, flooding the main field, eyes fixed on the shimmering projection dome in the sky. The Arcane Projector Array, a cluster of suspended crystal lenses, hovered gently above the clearing, capturing every pulse and heartbeat of the tournament-in-progress in real time.
Somewhere far above that chaos, on the upper floors of the old staff observatory, a girl moved like the shadow of a thought.
Wrapped in robes that shimmered like woven mist and moonlight, That girl walked with ghostlike steps across the polished stone corridor. Each footfall was soft. Almost polite. As though she was apologizing for existing in the same space as gravity.
Glass windows lined one side of the hallway. Through them, the spectacle of student bodies gathered in excitement unfolded like a painting—colorful, alive, loud. She tilted her head, observing the writhing crowd below, though her expression never shifted from its usual silence.
She blinked once.
Then kept walking.
Several other students passed her by—staff on assignment, runners carrying messages, an upperclassman fidgeting with a headset—but none of them stopped her. Some barely noticed her. Others gave her a brief, respectful nod. She never returned it.
Her attention was focused elsewhere. Higher.
Toward a specific room.
The door at the end of the corridor was marked:
"Broadcast HQ – Sylvan Grounds Substation."
She didn't knock. She never did.
The door opened with the same gentle resistance of breath. Inside, the room was dimly lit—arcane glyphs floated mid-air in lazy spirals, rotating slowly like bored halos. Scrolls of sound were drifting around, and on the main central desk sat a glowing projector orb humming with a low, omnipresent purr.
And at that desk, surrounded by silence she made her own
White hair cascaded down her back like snowfall, still and perfect. Her fingers were resting on a notepad, but her crimson-and-grey eyes were watching the screen, unblinking.
She didn't turn. But she spoke.
"Fuuka. You're early."
There was no surprise in her voice—only acknowledgment. The kind you give a recurring breeze through a familiar window.
Fuuka stepped inside and closed the door behind her, quietly. Her eyes lingered for a moment on the glowing orb before she responded, voice soft and perfectly measured.
"Good afternoon, Lady Yuki."
Yuki blinked once. Her lips tugged—not quite into a smile, more like a flicker of something amused.
"…You're still calling me that?"
"Oh? you dislike formality?"
"Not when it used to annoy me."
Fuuka tilted her head slightly, like she was analyzing the sentence's rhythm more than the meaning.
"Duly noted. Shall I use 'Head Broadcaster' instead?"
Yuki sighed. "Don't."
There was a long pause. Just the hum of magic. The distant muffled cheer from outside. Then Yuki leaned back in her chair, eyes flicking toward her companion for the first time.
"So. You decided to leave your cave."
Fuuka stepped toward the window. Her gaze lowered to the field again, where the crowd was beginning to react to something on the projection—a shift in camera focus, maybe. A duel between favorites.
She didn't respond right away. Only after her fingers gently touched the glass did she say:
"I heard this room had a good view."
"You have access to eight mirrors in the main tower with remote broadcast feed."
"And yet, those mirrors do not come with tea."
Yuki stared at her for a moment, suspicious.
"You brought tea?"
Fuuka turned slightly. From somewhere within her robes, she produced a delicate glass bottle—frosted with condensation. It was filled with amber-colored liquid that shimmered faintly under the light.
"White chrysanthemum. Unsweetened."
Yuki blinked.
Twice.
"…You really just came here to watch?"
"I came to not be there," Fuuka replied simply, tilting her chin toward the chaos below.
"Fair," Yuki muttered. She reached out for the bottle, took it without asking, and took a sip. "Still too floral."
"Your opinion is noted, not shared."
There was another long pause. It wasn't awkward—more like… practiced silence. The kind that didn't need filling.
From below, the cheer swelled. Someone must've landed a critical hit. The dome flashed.
Fuuka's eyes flicked toward the flicker of motion inside the projection. She didn't comment on what she saw.
Instead, she said, softly:
"Are you broadcasting?"
"Was. It's auto-looping now."
"Then you're free."
"Depends on who's asking."
"…Someone who prefers tea with her tournaments."
Yuki allowed herself a small breath—half-sigh, half-laugh.
She turned back toward the screen, tapping the projector crystal once to adjust the angle. On the display, a group of students sprinted through a bramble-warded gorge. One of them, panting, tripped.
The crowd's cheer dipped, then rose again.
Fuuka remained by the window, sipping her tea slowly. The bottle was still cold.
Yuki glanced at her sideways.
"You're watching someone specific?"
"…No one in particular."
"Liar."
Fuuka didn't deny it.
"Do you ever… wish you were down there?" Yuki asked quietly.
There was no hesitation in Fuuka's answer.
"No."
Then, softer—almost too soft to hear—
"But I wish... some of them would look up."
Yuki didn't respond. Not for a while.
Then she leaned forward again, tapping the crystal to zoom in.
"Then let's make sure they earn the right to be seen."
The field outside continued to hum with noise—cheers, gasps, the occasional synchronized chant. But inside the broadcast room, where shadows clung to ceiling corners and crystal glyphs hovered in patient orbit, there was only the quiet conversation of two girls who rarely spoke much to anyone else.
Fuuka stood near the open window, arms folded gently, white tea bottle still halfway full. Her gaze was steady—unblinking, as if watching the way light bent across the trees held more meaning than the tournament below.
She was the first to speak again.
"So. Who do you think will win?"
Yuki didn't look up.
She tapped the side of the broadcast orb with a fingertip, watching it shift feeds automatically—from a student dodging a summon beast, to another clinging to a cliffside, to a trio forcing their way through a bramble.
"That's an odd question coming from you."
Fuuka's tone didn't change. Still that slow, thoughtful rhythm, as if each word had to be chosen from a distant shelf.
"Just curious. Everyone's watching like they already know."
Yuki exhaled slowly. Her hand hovered near a dial, then stilled.
"They do."
"Do they?"
"The Council President is participating."
Fuuka turned her head slightly, just enough that the light caught one side of her cheek. Her expression remained unreadable.
"…Silas?"
"Yes."
Yuki's voice was level, like stating the color of the sky.
"If he's in, the outcome isn't a question of 'if.' It's a matter of how much damage the others can avoid before he finishes."
Fuuka let the silence stretch for a few heartbeats. Then she gently traced a fingertip along the edge of the window.
"You're confident."
"I've seen him work. Have you not?"
"…Often."
There was a pause, and then—
"But."
Yuki raised a brow.
"But?"
"Some of the first-years… are interesting."
Yuki leaned back slowly in her chair, folding her arms across her chest like a monarch humoring a court jester.
"Interesting doesn't win tournaments."
"No. But unpredictability does strange things to expectations."
Fuuka turned her gaze outward again.
"There's that boy from Class C who disabled a construct without Pacta. And the girl from House Dolen—she's erratic, but the way she fights reminds me of snow patterns over hot stone. Unstable, but fascinating."
Yuki said nothing. Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"And?"
"Blanche Van Equinox."
Now that got a response.
Yuki turned her head—not sharply, but deliberately. Her expression shifted just enough to show tension. Something thoughtful.
"You think she has a shot?"
Fuuka didn't answer immediately. Her voice, when it came, was smooth as always.
"She has discipline. Form. Range. Tactical clarity. Her team is… not uncoordinated. That's more than most have."
Yuki tapped a finger slowly against the chair's armrest. Once. Twice. A third time.
Then she said, with a wry edge:
"She has style. And power. But no battlefield instinct."
"You've seen her fight?"
"I've seen her hesitate."
Fuuka tilted her head slightly.
"Even Silas has hesitated."
"Silas hesitates to measure," Yuki replied. "Not out of fear. Blanche… she waits for permission."
"…Interesting distinction."
"It's not. It's fatal."