The studio was small, warm, and smelled faintly of paper, ink, and the faint metallic tang of the broadcast equipment. Beyond the glass, the academy's sprawling gardens were still damp from the morning dew, the faint glimmer of sunlight just breaking through the mist. Inside, the faint static hum from the transmitter was the only sound—until a low, measured voice sliced through the quiet.
"Good morning, Asterblume Academy. This is Asterblume Daily, with Izanami Yuki… bringing you the latest updates from the tournament grounds."
Her words came with the same calm precision as always, like a formal announcement from a royal court. Each syllable landed crisp and deliberate, her voice somehow carrying both a winter chill and a subtle, comforting warmth. She didn't rush. She didn't need to. Every listener in the academy knew she had their attention.
Across the desk from her sat Mirin Cazva, the ever-bright vice president of the broadcasting club, twirling a pen between her fingers. In contrast to Yuki's composed presence, Mirin looked like she could barely contain herself—shoulders bouncing slightly, a grin tugging at her lips as she waited for her cue.
"Aaand also with me," Mirin chimed in the moment Yuki paused, "your favorite co-host-slash-sunshine-provider, Mirin Cazva! Or as I like to call myself… Yuyu's designated chaos filter."
Yuki's left eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. "...Do not call me that on air."
Mirin only leaned closer to her microphone, whispering dramatically as if the listeners weren't hundreds of students scattered across the academy. "She's pretending she hates it, folks, but trust me, she loves it. Right, Yuyu?"
Yuki didn't answer. She simply shuffled a small stack of envelopes on the desk, sorting them with the same care she used when lining up her pen strokes on a report. "Today's segment," she continued smoothly, "focuses on the sixteen teams who have advanced to the next stage of the tournament. It is, as several of these letters describe it, the 'most talked-about event since the Great Dining Hall Food Fight of Year 323.'"
Mirin snorted into her mic. "Yeah, but at least this time no one's throwing pudding across the hall… yet."
Yuki ignored the interruption, sliding one of the envelopes open with a paper knife and unfolding the letter with deliberate slowness. The soft rustle of paper was almost as distinct as her voice.
"'To the Radio Club,'" she read aloud, "'my vote for the team most likely to win is Team Silas. Calm, composed, and strategic. Also, their leader is… ahem… very easy on the eyes. Please tell him that.'"
She set the letter aside without reacting, moving to the next.
Mirin tilted her head. "Wow, Silas fan club is thriving. Wonder if we should start a betting pool—"
"No," Yuki cut in immediately. She picked up another letter. "'To the lovely voice on the airwaves, I have no idea who will win, but I just want to say your voice makes even the weather forecast sound epic. Are you single?'"
Without a change in expression, Yuki set the letter aside, slid open a desk drawer, and—without even glancing down—dropped the page into a small ceramic bowl. A faint hiss of flame rose from within, and a moment later, the paper was gone.
Mirin stared at the bowl. "...Is that your love letter incinerator?"
"It is my waste bin," Yuki corrected, already reaching for the next envelope.
The next few letters were a mix of sharp observations and giddy fandom scribbles. Some speculated on strategies. Others devolved into long-winded adoration for certain duelists' fighting styles—or their looks. Yuki read each with the same steady tone, never lingering long enough for any of them to pull her off-course.
"Team Mika," she intoned, "'is like watching a noble's masquerade ball turn into a sword fight halfway through the dance. Entertaining, but also terrifying.'"
Mirin chuckled. "That's… painfully accurate. Can confirm."
Then came another. "'Team Blanche—elegant, unshakable, the kind of leader who makes you feel like she's already five moves ahead. Her recent fight was like watching a snowstorm… beautiful and dangerous at the same time.'"
Mirin whistled low. "Ooooh, poetic. I like that one. Hey, Yuyu, maybe you should save—"
The page was already dropped into the ceramic bowl, curling into ash.
Mirin sighed dramatically. "You're no fun."
Yuki didn't bother responding this time. She turned a page in her script and adjusted her mic. "Statistically," she continued, "the academy has not seen this level of student engagement in the tournament since the 318 dueling season. Based on the tone of the submissions, we estimate a seventy-two percent increase in public enthusiasm… and a forty-eight percent increase in unnecessary romantic fixation on participants."
Mirin giggled. "Which is a very fancy way of saying everyone's got crushes now."
From there, the segment rolled smoothly into a brief analysis of bracket match-ups, predictions from anonymous sources, and a quick reminder of safety protocols for students who might be attending the next stage in person. Yuki's tone remained flawlessly even, but her eyes moved quickly over each note and cue card, making small adjustments to pacing on the fly.
It was a dance they had done countless times—Yuki delivering the structure, Mirin weaving in warmth and chaos, and the listeners hanging on for both. The balance between them was precise… but it worked.
Finally, as the closing music bed faded in—a soft instrumental chosen by Theo technician—the two leaned into their mics for the sign-off.
"This has been Asterblume Daily," Yuki said, her voice settling into its calmest register yet.
"With your resident sunshine provider, Mirin Cazva!" Mirin chimed in brightly.
"Stay informed. Stay prepared," Yuki concluded. "And remember: the tournament may be fierce, but the cafeteria menu waits for no one."
Mirin grinned. "Translation: don't be late for lunch. Bye, everyone!"
The red recording light blinked off.
The quiet in the studio afterward felt heavier, as if all the energy of the segment had been released into the ether. Yuki set down her notes, Mirin leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh, and the hum of the transmitter faded into the background. Outside, the buzz of the academy carried on—students chattering about the very things they'd just heard, the tournament's heat now fanned even higher by two very different voices on the air.