Sylvan Grounds – Broadcast Overlook
The hum of the crystal amplifiers filled the room, faint but steady, a soft undercurrent beneath the calm authority of Izanami Yuki's voice.
Her tone was crisp, measured—every syllable landing with the precision of a formal royal decree, yet still carrying the faint warmth of an announcer who knew exactly how to keep a crowd engaged.
"Four teams remaining… the final bracket slots are—"
She paused.
The hesitation was so slight it almost went unnoticed, but for someone like Yuki—whose delivery was as smooth as polished marble—that hitch was deliberate.
Her eyes shifted toward the far edge of the field, narrowing slightly as if confirming something she already suspected.
And then she saw them.
Team Blanche.
The announcement cut short, the amplification crystals dimming for a brief moment as Yuki let the sight speak louder than words. Somewhere far below, the crowd began to murmur, the energy rippling like a breeze before the inevitable cheer.
Cut to Ground Level – Team Blanche's Approach
The camera in your mind tilts downward from the broadcast tower's vantage point, finding its focus on four figures emerging from the treeline. The midday sun filtered through the canopy above, painting dappled shadows over their path, every shaft of light catching in the faint dust stirred by their boots.
They were not sprinting.
They weren't even striding with the sharp precision of competitors desperate for the finish line.
No—their pace was deliberate, somewhere in the quiet middle between urgency and relief.
Blanche led the way, her posture upright but not rigid. Even in her state of exhaustion, there was an unshakable control in her gait—like she refused to let her steps betray how much the last few hours had wrung her dry. Her white-and-blue clothes was marked with streaks of dirt, faint scratches along her gloves, and the faint shimmer of dried frost still clung to her shoulder pads—residue from Glacielle's lingering presence. Her eyes scanned ahead, focused, but with a softer set to them than usual.
Behind her, Ruka walked with her head slightly lowered, hair falling to half-hide the tired slump in her shoulders. Her steps were smaller, more deliberate, one hand brushing against her thigh where she'd taken the brunt of her earlier fall. Every now and then, she glanced to the sides at the gathering crowd, not quite used to the attention but unwilling to slow down.
At the rear, Vila moved with the controlled grace that seemed impossible to lose, even under fatigue. One arm supported Yuxin, who was still recovering from the earlier dizzying swings and strain of overusing her Astraga. Yuxin's face was pale but determined, lips pressed into a thin line as if she didn't want anyone to see her discomfort. Vila kept her steady, her steps perfectly timed to match Yuxin's so the support looked seamless rather than burdensome.
As they stepped into view of the Sylvan Grounds proper, the atmosphere changed.
The low hum of conversation among students turned into a wave of sound—cheers, claps, and shouts of encouragement rolling toward them.
It wasn't deafening like a tournament arena, but it was loud enough to make heads turn from all corners of the grounds. A handful of first-year students leaned over the rope barriers, calling out names—some for Blanche, others for Vila, and a surprising few even for Yuxin and Ruka, their voices tinged with admiration and relief.
Blanche's gaze flickered briefly toward the sound, and in that fleeting moment, the sharp commander's mask softened.
She raised one hand—not high, not with the grand flourish of a victory lap, but just enough to acknowledge them. The gesture was small, but the students responded like she'd just given them a personal salute. The cheer swelled again, buoyed by the simple recognition.
Yuxin shifted slightly in Vila's hold, glancing at the cheering faces with an unreadable expression, somewhere between annoyance and quiet appreciation. Ruka, for her part, kept her eyes mostly forward, though the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed a reluctant smile she didn't want to admit to. Vila didn't react outwardly, but her pace never faltered—every step still perfectly measured.
The four of them moved past the open stretch of field, the shadows of the Sylvan Grounds' outer walls now falling across their path.
The crowd noise began to fade behind them, the stone archway ahead marking the entrance to the inner corridor. Inside, the air would be cooler, quieter—the noise of the outside world muffled by the thick walls.
Blanche kept her eyes forward.
Her hand—still faintly cold from the ice pact's residual energy—brushed against the metal frame of the arch as they crossed under it, like a silent personal mark of arrival.
Once they were through, the cheers dimmed into an indistinct background hum, replaced by the echo of their boots on stone. The light here was softer, filtered through narrow windows, and the smell of clean stone and faint herbal incense from the rest stations ahead drifted toward them.
They didn't speak.
Not because there was nothing to say—there were plenty of things they could have thrown into the air between them: relief, complaint, humor, even tactical notes for next time. But the silence was mutual, born of the kind of tiredness that didn't need words.
They walked.
Steady
Toward the rest area, where the weight of the day could finally slip from their shoulders.
The heavy wooden door groaned faintly on its hinges as Blanche pushed it open, the muted air of the rest hall spilling out to meet them. The room was spacious but carried the weight of lingering fatigue—low conversations, the occasional clink of metal cups, the quiet scrape of boots on stone as exhausted teams shifted in their seats.
At first, no one really noticed the four new arrivals. But the moment Blanche stepped fully into the threshold, flanked by Vila, Ruka, and Yuxin, the room's atmosphere shifted.
Heads turned.
A few whispers broke off mid-sentence.
The scrape of a chair leg against stone echoed far louder than it should have.
It wasn't the kind of noisy, boisterous attention they'd gotten from the crowd outside. This was different—measured, evaluating, quiet. The other teams had already been through their own grueling ordeals, and they recognized the look of people who'd fought hard and walked out the other side with their heads still high.
For a few heartbeats, the silence in that section of the hall felt heavier than the air outside in the forest.
Blanche didn't return the stares.
Her gaze moved evenly across the room, not in challenge, not in greeting—just a calm, unspoken acknowledgment that she'd seen them all and decided not to care. Her posture remained upright, but the set of her shoulders and the slow exhale through her nose betrayed the strain that had been grinding into her muscles since Glacielle's possession.
Vila didn't even glance at them. She adjusted her grip on Yuxin, keeping the shorter girl steady as they crossed the room at a measured pace. Yuxin's head lolled slightly, her expression still carrying that pale, unfocused look of someone caught between recovery and exhaustion.
Ruka trailed just a half-step behind, arms crossed loosely, eyes fixed on some point far ahead rather than on the curious gazes surrounding them. She looked as if she'd built a little wall around herself the moment they'd entered, each step careful, almost reluctant.
They didn't stop until they reached the far corner of the room, where a long wooden bench stretched against the wall—a perfect spot, away from the thickest cluster of people, far enough for breathing space but not completely secluded.
Settling Down
Vila lowered Yuxin with the same care one might handle a fragile vase, easing her down until her back touched the wall. The stone was cool, the surface unyielding.
Yuxin's face scrunched almost immediately, and her voice came out in a quiet, drawling murmur, still heavy with fatigue.
"Ugh… this wall's rough… and cold. Not comfy at all."
Her tone wasn't sharp, just drained, like she didn't have the energy to dress the complaint in her usual bluntness.
Vila shifted slightly, turning her head to look at Yuxin with that calm, almost unreadable expression.
"Do you want to lean on me instead?"
There was a pause. Yuxin blinked once, then gave a small, wordless nod. Vila didn't smile—she rarely did—but there was a faint softening at the edge of her eyes. Without another word, she gently guided Yuxin's head away from the wall and onto her own shoulder.
Yuxin settled in almost immediately, her eyelids drooping as though the simple change in position had removed the last barrier between her and sleep.
Ruka didn't say a word. She slid onto the bench at the far end, tucking herself inward, knees drawn up and arms wrapped loosely around them. She rested her chin against the tops of her knees, her gaze tilted toward the floor. Her breathing was steady, but there was something in her posture—a closed-off stillness—that hinted she wasn't ready to engage with anyone just yet.
Blanche sank down onto the bench last, lowering herself with deliberate slowness as though she was pacing even this small movement. She leaned back, the edge of her shoulders brushing the wall, and finally let out a long, controlled breath.
It wasn't dramatic—no sagging collapse, no exaggerated sigh—but the kind of exhale that spoke of long hours spent holding tension and finally, finally letting just a fraction of it go.
Her hands rested loosely on her knees, fingers relaxed, head tilted back slightly as she let her eyes half-close.
Around the room, the low hum of conversation began to return, but softer now—like the initial curiosity about their arrival had burned off, leaving the other teams to retreat back into their own recovery. The air smelled faintly of herbal salves and hot tea, mingling with the metallic tang of dried sweat and worn gear.
Somewhere near the center of the room, someone laughed—a short, tired chuckle over some private joke. A few chairs scraped faintly against the floor. The occasional clink of metal from someone cleaning their weapon punctuated the background, the rhythm slow and unhurried.
But in the far corner, on that long bench, Team Blanche's little section stayed quiet.
Vila's steady breathing matched Yuxin's slower, almost drowsy rhythm. Her head lowered nearly close against the other, facing Yuxin's tired and exhausted look. With no control or even any sort of impulsions, Vila pressed her forehead towards Yuxin's, just a fair attempt of comfort.
Ruka remained in her curled-up posture, the faint swish of her hair shifting against her knees when she moved her head.
Blanche's stillness was a different kind—controlled, watchful even in rest, as though her body allowed itself to sit but her mind hadn't completely let go of the battlefield yet.