The frost began to fade.
Not all at once, but in slow spirals—soft like steam curling from morning snow. The residual glow around Blanche dimmed, the radiance in her eyes waning back to their natural stormy silver.
Cracks shimmered across the icy sigil at her feet, like a mirror letting go of its reflection. Her breath hitched.
One second, she was standing tall, proud in her mastery.
The next—
Her knees gave out.
"—ghh…"
She staggered.
Then collapsed backward, catching nothing but air before her body hit the ground with a muted thud.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her gloved hand clenched a fist over her abdomen, then loosened.
Possession Mode was beautiful.
But it was brutal.
Every moment spent intertwined with Glacielle was like holding back a flood with a silk curtain.
Vila rushed forward from where she'd been watching the treeline, blades still drawn.
"Blanche—"
She knelt beside her, one arm reaching to help.
But Blanche, even as her body trembled and her skin was flushed pale from mana overuse, raised a hand—stopping Vila.
"Don't—" she muttered between sharp exhales. "Help the others first…"
"You're the one who just collapsed," Vila said bluntly.
"Ruka's still tied up somewhere up there—" Blanche's voice cracked. "And Yuxin… she hasn't moved in ten minutes."
"You're bleeding mana."
"So?" she shot back, lips twitching faintly. "I'm not the only one."
Vila hesitated, eyes flickering toward the dense foliage where Ruka had last been tangled in Rei's web... and back toward Yuxin, who was still limp near the roots, a faint wheeze audible now from her throat.
Blanche exhaled harder.
"I'll live, Vila."
Then, after a beat, quieter:
"Just... don't let the others fall because of me."
There was a pause, then Vila stood, she didn't say "okay."
She didn't nod.
She just moved—toward Ruka first, blades already ready to slice through thread. Behind her, Blanche let her head rest against the mossy ground.
Cold.
But not cruel.
They just—walked.
The broken trail beneath their feet curved gently toward a clearing up ahead. Just past the thinning trees, over the ridge and beyond the moss-covered stones, Sylvan Grounds shimmered faintly in the late light. A final marker. A signal.
They'd made it.
Or were just about to.
Maybe twenty, thirty meters left.
But every step still felt like an entire day's worth of effort.
At the front of the group, Ruka moved without rhythm. Her clothes sleeves were torn, her knees scuffed, and her mouth… was barely moving. Whispering to no one but herself.
"...I wanna go home…"
It wasn't a plea.
More like a statement of personal religion.
Behind her, Blanche dragged her boots forward slowly, one hand pressed to her side. Her breathing was shallow, but steady. The frost that once adorned her clothes had melted entirely. The glow in her eyes was gone, replaced by a dull focus—like a candle on its last inch of wax.
Possession Mode had drained her more than she let on.
She tried not to show it.
Failed miserably.
But no one pointed it out.
No one had the energy to.
A few paces back, Vila walked beside Yuxin, who had regained consciousness some time ago—but hadn't said a word since.
She kept one arm loosely draped over Vila's shoulder for balance, her eyes half-lidded and unfocused.
"Mmm… gonna be sick again if I talk…" she muttered under her breath, mostly to herself.
Vila didn't respond.
She simply adjusted Yuxin's arm slightly for comfort, and kept moving.
No one asked questions.
No jokes were made.
No celebration.
Just the sound of footfalls on uneven ground, slow and heavy, shoes catching on roots and dragging through dust. The wind didn't speak. The birds, for once, stayed quiet. Even the sky above them had dimmed into that silent shade of blue that always came just before nightfall—soft, stretched, and cold.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
Not when every muscle ached, every mind rang hollow, and every step forward meant they survived something they weren't even ready to unpack yet.
Just a few more steps.
Just a little further.
Then they could fall apart.
Later.
The sound of a teaspoon stirring echoed gently through the quiet chamber.
Not out of hurry.
Not out of rhythm.
Just—habit.
The pale porcelain cup trembled faintly under the fingers of Minase Fuuka, who sat by the wide glass window of the Sylvan Grounds broadcast room. She didn't drink the tea. Not yet. She simply stirred, once… twice… letting the sound pull her thoughts back from wherever they had wandered.
Outside the window, a view unfolded—students crossing checkpoints, wind brushing through the tall grass, banners fluttering lazily.
And above them, her.
Watching.
Always watching.
From the corner of the room, a voice cut through the silence. Steady. Serene. Cool as marble but warm in undertone.
Izanami Yuki.
Her voice drifted from the magical mic array, delivered with that haunting mix of imperial calm and battlefield precision.
"Current bracket standings: Teams Silas, Mika, Caldrun, and Ardentus have successfully reached Sylvan Grounds. Bracket Ten is now confirmed. Five remaining slots are open. Expect updates shortly."
Then—silence again.
Fuuka blinked slowly.
She hadn't even realized she was staring.
Her eyes shifted downward, through the glass, to the open clearing below—where teams passed under glowing glyphs, exhausted and battered.
Her tea had gone cold.
But her mind wasn't on the tea anymore.
She leaned one elbow on the edge of the wooden sill, eyes narrowing slightly as they traced the faces passing below.
"Tired... fractured... desperate..."
She didn't say it out loud.
She didn't need to.
Each team that passed was a case file to her. A collection of movements, reactions, potential flaws. Her eyes weren't judging emotionally.
They were analyzing.
"Too loud," she murmured at one.
"Too proud," at another.
A pause.
Her eyes landed on Silas.
He stood near the registration glyph, unreadable as ever. The weight of command in his spine. The sharpness of his silhouette. Always composed.
Too composed.
Fuuka's gaze lingered—longer than she meant to.
The reflection of her own face in the glass blinked back at her.
And she thought, without voice, just quietly within herself:
"Did you come here just for her...?"
Her fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the window, the glass cool beneath her skin.
"…Or are you still hiding something even from me?"
The thought hung, unspoken, between her and her reflection.
And just like that—she stirred the tea again.
Once.
Twice.
Still not drinking.
on the other side
The rest chamber
Dim light filtered in from the old lattice window, falling over dust-lined floorboards and leather-bound benches that no one had bothered to clean. The air held a faint trace of iron—like old swords and dried ink.
Silas Caelumotris sat alone.
One arm draped across the back of the bench. The other resting on his lap, fingers curled slightly, unmoving.
His eyes weren't closed.
But they weren't focused either.
He wasn't watching the door.
Wasn't looking out the window.
He was... thinking.
Or rather—weighing.
A dozen matches. Tactical data. Movement patterns. Draw intervals. Mistakes. Threads. Pressure zones. The memory of battle always lingered longer than the battle itself.
Until—
"Silas."
His head turned, just slightly.
A voice. Flat. Familiar. Not a question. Not a call. Just a presence.
Minase Fuuka stepped into the room like fog.
She didn't knock.
She didn't blink.
She just stood there in the threshold with her usual expression: bored with the universe. Her hands held something white and folded. A towel.
And then—
Whap.
She tossed it square into his face.
Silas didn't react.
He just… peeled it off slowly.
"...What is this."
Fuuka walked over without ceremony and sat beside him, leaving one full seat of polite space between them.
"You're disgusting," she said matter-of-factly. "You're sweating. I don't want to look at it."
Silas stared ahead.
"I haven't even broken a sweat."
"I don't care. Wipe it anyway."
There was no bite in her tone. No sass.
It wasn't a joke.
Just a command—gentle, mundane, but absolute.
Silas let out a quiet exhale through his nose. Wordlessly, he dabbed his forehead and neck with the towel, more out of surrender than agreement.
Fuuka's eyes remained forward, unfocused.
Then, she spoke again.
This time, softer.
Still flat. But sharper.
"Why are you even in the tournament?"
Silas paused mid-motion.
"Is it for your sister?"
Silence.
No verdict.
No clever parry.
Just the sound of that one question hanging in the air between them—sharp, simple, and true.
The silence after Fuuka's question stretched for a moment too long.
Then, Silas spoke—quietly, without looking at her.
"Half true."
Fuuka blinked once.
"...What?"
He rested the towel in his lap, one hand curling over it loosely.
"Rea was part of it. But not the whole reason."
Fuuka tilted her head slightly, her expression still unreadable—until her brows knit the smallest bit.
"Then what is?"
Silas exhaled through his nose. Brief. Controlled.
"There's a request I want granted. One only the first place can push through."
"Which is?"
"I want the academy to locate a gem for me. The Lazurith Tear."
The name dropped like cold water between them.
Fuuka turned her head, slowly.
Her face didn't shift. Her voice didn't rise. But there was a tiny crease in her brow now.
"...That's it?"
Silas nodded.
"That's it."
"You're joining an academy-wide trial tournament... just to ask for a gemstone?"
Another nod.
"A specific one," he clarified.
Fuuka stared at him for a long moment. She wasn't irritated. Not confused, either. Just... thrown.
She knew Silas.
And Silas wasn't the type to care about shiny rocks.
"You're not the type who gives a damn about gems," she said flatly.
Silas didn't deny it.
He just adjusted his glove, fingers flexing slowly.
"I don't."
"Then why the hell are you—"
"Because," Silas cut in, finally glancing at her, eyes calm, "the first-place winner can request nearly anything from the Academy. Resources. Access. Expeditions. Investigations. If I win—they find the gem for me. Personally."
That should've been the end of it.
Simple.
Logical.
Clean.
But Fuuka just kept staring.
Eyes slightly narrowed. Her voice dropped low, nearly a whisper.
"That's not what I'm asking."
Silas didn't answer.
Fuuka leaned a little closer.
Still calm. Still flat. But laced with a quiet weight.
"I'm asking why you're looking for that gem."
Another silence.
Silas looked away again.
The towel in his lap remained untouched.
Silas still hadn't moved.
His posture remained perfect. Composed.
Then finally, with the same calm he used to silence an entire council chamber, he replied—
"It's for Council work."
Fuuka turned her head slowly toward him.
Stared.
Paused.
Then reached out—without hesitation—and pressed the back of her hand firmly against his forehead.
Silas blinked.
"...What are you doing."
"Checking if you're sick," Fuuka replied, completely deadpan. "Or if your brain finally snapped and fell out."
He gently pushed her wrist away, lips pressed in something not quite a frown.
"I'm fine."
"You sure?" she added, shifting slightly to face him more directly. "You sound like someone who hit his head on the way here."
Silas didn't rise to the bait. He just looked forward again, tone flat.
"I'm perfectly stable. It's for decor. Nothing more."
Fuuka stared at him.
Harder.
Like she was trying to figure out whether this was a joke, a trap, or some secret government-level sarcasm test.
"You joined a multi-stage, combat-intensive tournament," she said slowly, "risked exhaustion, mana depletion, and potential public embarrassment... for a shiny rock."
"An aesthetically pleasing one," Silas added.
"You're out of your mind."
"Not yet."
Fuuka slumped back in her seat, exasperated.
She didn't know whether to slap him or stage an intervention.
"Gods. I thought I was the one with weird logic."
Silas allowed the corner of his mouth to twitch—just once.
"I didn't say the gemstone wasn't also mildly interesting," he added lightly.
Fuuka looked at him again. Stared harder.
"You're hiding something."
Silas didn't deny it didn't confirm it either.
He simply sat there, unbothered, the picture of calm wrapped in several layers of intentional deflection.
Fuuka, now officially out of guesses, leaned back, muttering under her breath—
"And people say I'm hard to talk to..."