The first light of dawn spilled over the jagged skyline of Beijing, brushing the Iron Spire of Casa de Imperium with cold, pale gold. Mico Cein Esguerra adjusted his tie, its crimson thread sharp against the pristine white of his shirt. The courtyard stretched before him like a chessboard — every tile, every shadow, a calculation waiting to be made.
He walked alone. The echo of his footsteps on polished stone carried farther than it should, bouncing between the minimalist steel towers, the Nexus, the Imperial Dome. Even at twenty-two, Mico felt smaller than the campus. Smaller than the legacy it demanded. And yet, he had no intention of shrinking.
Most students rushed past him, bleary-eyed or caffeine-fueled, but Mico noticed every detail: a janitor placing a mop slightly off-center, a group of freshmen fumbling with their ID scanners, a drone hovering overhead with bureaucratic precision. Everything could be read, measured, predicted.
He paused in front of the main training complex — the basketball court. It wasn't just any court. It was the nucleus of potential, the arena where reputations were forged and broken. Here, Mico first felt the itch, the electric pulse that told him a game could be more than points on a scoreboard. It could be art. War. Life.
A soft whistle cut through the morning air. Mico turned, eyebrow arched.
"You're early."
Uno Perez lounged by the entrance, earbuds in, a grin on his face that refused to respect the rigidity of the campus. Mico's lips twitched, almost imperceptibly. He didn't smile often, but when he did, it was deadly.
"I like to see the field before anyone else," Mico said. His voice was calm, precise, measured. "Preparation is everything."
Uno chuckled, tossing the ball in his hand, spinning it once before catching it effortlessly. "You're practically married to this place, you know? Even the Spire looks jealous."
Mico didn't reply. His gaze drifted past Uno, over the empty stands, to the horizon. He saw potential in empty space, strategy in silent hallways, promise in the echo of bouncing balls.
The wind shifted. Somewhere in the Scholars' Quarter, someone laughed. Somewhere else, a basketball bounced — quick, staccato, a rhythm that pulled Mico in. He wanted to chase it, dissect it, understand it. But he waited. Observation first. Action second.
"Mico," Uno's voice softened. "You're not gonna tell me the plan yet, huh?"
Mico finally turned, cold eyes catching the glint of sunrise. Though, his eyes was glinting with tease. "Make me."
Uno groaned.
Mico's chest tightened. Patience. Discipline. Vision. But even as he reinforced the ice around his heart, a spark flickered — one that would soon draw the right chaos, the right fire, the right people to his side.
Because greatness isn't born. It's built, sweat after sweat. And Mico Cein Esguerra was about to start building.
The courtyard seemed to breathe with him, steel and stone humming a silent challenge: Who dares to rise here? Who dares to claim the crown?
---
The day moved fast inside Casa de Imperium — too fast for most, but never for Mico. By midmorning, he and Uno were already seated at the Office of Athletic Affairs, a glass-walled room overlooking the east court. Everything inside smelled of new paper, disinfectant, and ambition.
Stacks of documents lined the desk between them, stamped with the crimson seal of the university.
Application for Team Formation – Non-Departmental Sports Unit.
Uno sighed, head dropping against the chair's backrest.
"Man, they make it sound like we're declaring war," he muttered, flipping through another page. "Team name, logo concept, training schedule, psychological certification, financial sponsor—bro, are we starting a basketball team or a military division?"
Mico didn't look up. His pen moved smoothly across the form. "Casa de Imperium doesn't train athletes," he said evenly. "It trains systems. If we want to play here, we build one."
The clerk from across the counter glanced at them over her glasses, curious. Mico's pen stopped. He stared at the last blank space on the document — Team Name.
He could almost see a game that hadn't happened yet. Five shadows running, one rhythm, one heartbeat.
He wrote, Castillian.
Uno leaned over, reading it upside down. "Castillian, huh? Sounds royal."
"It means 'of the castle,'" Mico said, eyes still on the ink. "A home built by its players, through blood, sweat and tears. Whether from the players or from the enemies. Something earned."
Uno let out a low whistle. "Damn. You really thought this through, huh?"
Mico finally met his gaze. "Everything worth building deserves a name before it's born."
They submitted the forms by noon. The clerk nodded, stamping the last page with official approval.
"Congratulations, gentlemen," she said in a clipped tone. "You're now recognized as a probationary independent team under Casa de Imperium's Athletics Division. You have two weeks to complete your roster. Minimum five players."
"Two weeks?" Uno repeated. "That's tight."
"It's enough," Mico said simply.
Outside, the wind was cold, carrying the metallic scent of the Iron Spire through the air. The two walked down the long marble corridor — students in formal uniforms passing by, eyes full of their own ambitions.
"Any idea who we're getting?" Uno asked, bouncing a small ball off the wall as they walked.
"I have criteria," Mico replied. "Each one will represent a principle. Order. Chaos. Strength. Passion. Vision."
Uno chuckled, shaking his head. "Bro, we're not recruiting for the Avengers."
"We're not," Mico said. "We're building something better."
He stopped at the edge of the court — sunlight cutting across the floor like a golden divide.
"Let's start by finding the one who doesn't follow rules," he murmured, almost to himself.
Uno blinked. "The one who doesn't follow—? That's an interesting start."
"It's necessary," Mico said, his voice low, almost a whisper. "A system that doesn't learn how to adapt is doomed to collapse. We need someone wild enough to break formation… but smart enough to survive it."
Uno grinned, spinning the ball on his finger. "Sounds like trouble. My kind of guy."
Mico's eyes narrowed in the light. He could already see him — the reckless, laughing blur of movement on some forgotten court, a phantom among the dust.