Victory, as it turned out, was a fleeting thing.

It lingered just long enough to be felt—just long enough to echo through the arena in cheers, to ripple across the city in rumor, to settle briefly in the bones of those who had earned it—and then it was gone, swept aside by the relentless machinery of the tournament.

Less than an hour after their triumph, Skygate Academy was no longer the center of celebration.

They were the next scheduled act in a far larger performance.

That was the nature of the National Championship.

It did not allow anyone to rest on success.

It demanded proof, again and again, until only one remained capable of standing.

The corridors beneath the Imperial Championship Arena had transformed in the aftermath of the first round.

What had once been a tense, controlled environment filled with quiet preparation had now erupted into something far more chaotic—an ever-shifting tide of movement, sound, and emotion that refused to settle into any single rhythm.

Winning teams moved through the halls with elevated energy, their voices louder, their steps lighter, their confidence spilling over into laughter and bold declarations. Some celebrated openly, reliving moments of victory with exaggerated gestures, while others maintained a quieter pride, speaking in low tones but with unmistakable satisfaction.

In stark contrast, the losing teams painted an entirely different picture. Arguments flared in corners where strategies were dissected with bitter urgency, accusations thrown between teammates who moments earlier had relied on one another for survival. A few sat in silence, staring at nothing, still processing the abrupt end of their journey. Others were escorted away by medical staff, their injuries—physical or otherwise—making further participation impossible.

The healers moved quickly, efficiently, weaving through the chaos with practiced ease. Stretchers passed by at intervals, accompanied by the faint glow of restoration techniques, while assistants carried crates of supplies between treatment rooms and preparation chambers. The air itself seemed thick with the scent of medicinal herbs, sweat, and something sharper—adrenaline not yet burned away.

Amidst all of this, the constant presence of bookmakers added another layer to the atmosphere. They stood at key intersections, voices raised just loud enough to remain within legal boundaries, updating odds, calling out new predictions, and feeding off the shifting perceptions of the crowd. Names rose and fell in value with every match, every rumor, every visible display of strength or weakness.

And as Skygate Academy walked through these corridors—

Everything changed.

Eyes followed them.

Not casually.

Not idly.

But with focused, deliberate attention.

Their first-round performance had not simply earned them victory—it had altered the expectations surrounding them. What had once been a promising team was now something far more dangerous in the eyes of the other competitors.

Valen’s evolved Titancrest Fangbear had been impossible to ignore. The sheer physical dominance it displayed had forced even seasoned observers to reassess their assumptions.

Liora’s Moondream Hare had introduced an entirely different kind of threat—speed and precision so refined that many had struggled to fully comprehend what they had witnessed.

And Aether...

Aether had done almost nothing.

Which, paradoxically, made him the most unsettling of all.

Valen, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered by the attention.

In fact, he thrived under it.

"They’re staring because they’re afraid," he said with a grin, his voice carrying just enough for nearby groups to hear.

Rowan, walking beside him, didn’t even glance up. "They’re staring," he replied dryly, "because you still have boar blood on your boot."

Valen paused mid-step, glancing downward.

"...That’s also a valid reason," he admitted after a moment, then continued walking as though nothing had happened.

They had nearly reached their assigned preparation chamber when the flow of movement ahead of them shifted.

Not chaotically.

Not aggressively.

But with deliberate control.

A group stepped into their path, forming a clean, unbroken line that halted forward progress without needing to raise a single voice.

Blue-gray uniforms.

Identical posture.

Disciplined stillness.

Ironcliff Tactical Academy.

Their reputation preceded them.

Where Blackstone relied on overwhelming aggression, Ironcliff was known for the opposite—structured defense, layered formations, and a willingness to drag battles into prolonged engagements where opponents would gradually break under pressure.

Their captain stepped forward.

He was tall, his build lean but solid, the kind shaped by endurance rather than raw strength. A thin scar ran across one eye, not disfiguring but unmistakable, adding a subtle edge to his otherwise controlled expression. His gaze was steady, calculating, and entirely devoid of unnecessary emotion.

"We request immediate scheduling against Skygate Academy," he said, his tone calm, direct, and without any attempt at provocation.

Rowan’s brow furrowed instantly. "That is not within your authority."

The captain inclined his head slightly. "It will be submitted as an official request within the next three minutes."

His eyes shifted, settling directly on Aether.

"Momentum fades when left unused," he added, his voice lowering just enough to carry intent.

Valen’s grin returned immediately. "I like this one."

Liora’s response was immediate and cold. "I don’t."

The reasoning behind Ironcliff’s approach was not difficult to understand.

Most teams, after a first-round match, would prefer time—time to recover, to analyze, to adjust.

Ironcliff was choosing the opposite.

They had watched Skygate’s performance carefully.

They had seen Valen’s beast expend energy in a high-impact clash.

They had observed Liora reveal the speed and nature of her support style.

And they had noticed Aether’s restraint.

From that, they had drawn a conclusion.

Skygate had held back because they needed to.

Which meant—

They were vulnerable immediately after their match.

It was a logical deduction.

It was also flawed.

Far above the corridors, in the administrative levels of the arena complex, requests moved swiftly between officials, carried on parchment and sealed with authority.

Normally, such requests would be processed with caution.

Normally, they would be weighed against scheduling balance, fairness, and logistical constraints.

But today—

Something accelerated the process.

Lion Solvaris did not directly interfere.

He did not need to.

His influence was more refined than that.

A suggestion here.

A recommendation there.

A subtle push in the right direction.

No rule was broken.

No line was crossed.

Yet the outcome shifted.

If Skygate could be forced into consecutive battles—

Fatigue might accomplish what opponents could not.

And if fatigue failed—

Then perhaps their hidden strengths would be revealed sooner than intended.

Either result held value.

The notice arrived quickly.

Too quickly.

An official approached them at a near run, breath slightly uneven, though he attempted to maintain composure.

"Skygate Academy," he said, bowing briefly. "Your second-round match has been approved for late afternoon."

Rowan’s reaction was immediate and explosive.

"Approved by whom?"

"Administrative acceleration under royal event authority."

Rowan’s expression darkened. "Which translates to politics."

The official wisely chose not to respond further.

He bowed again and retreated.

Inside their assigned chamber, the atmosphere shifted.

The door closed.

Silence settled.

Then tension sharpened.

Valen was the first to react—and, unsurprisingly, he was pleased.

"So we fight again today," he said, rolling his shoulders as if the idea itself energized him. "Good. I was getting bored."

Liora remained composed, but there was a clear edge to her voice. "You were not bored. You were waiting for an excuse to break something else."

"That too," Valen admitted.

Rowan, meanwhile, was pacing.

"We protest," he said sharply. "This is not standard scheduling."

"They will deny it," Liora replied without hesitation.

"Then we escalate."

"They will delay the response," she countered calmly, "and we will still fight."

Rowan stopped, exhaling slowly. "I hate aristocrats."

Valen shrugged. "Or we win twice."

Liora’s gaze shifted to Aether.

"You have not used any of your beasts publicly," she said. "Are you planning to continue that?"

The room quieted.

Aether placed the bracket slate on the table, his gaze scanning it briefly before lifting again.

"I will use one," he said.

Valen leaned forward immediately. "Which one?"

"The Flame Sovereign Pup."

There was a moment of stillness.

Then Liora nodded once.

"Appropriate."

The reasoning was clear.

The Spirit Fairy was best reserved for sustained engagements and layered support—revealing it too early would provide opponents with valuable information.

The Fallen Succubus remained a hidden advantage, one too significant to expose without necessity.

The Pup—

The Pup appeared simple.

Harmless, even, to those who judged by appearance alone.

Which made it ideal.

Valen smirked. "I’ve been wanting to see what that thing actually does."

Aether did not respond.

The hours that followed were tightly controlled.

There was no wasted movement, no unnecessary conversation.

Food was brought in and consumed efficiently.

Recovery tonics were administered to both tamers and beasts.

Short meditation sessions were conducted to stabilize energy flow.

Footage from previous matches was reviewed, with brief discussions focusing on key patterns and potential counters.

Aether spent much of this time in the courtyard.

The Flame Sovereign Pup sat beside him, its tail flicking occasionally with restrained energy.

There were no dramatic displays.

No flames.

No destruction.

Only breathing.

Slow.

Measured.

Synchronized.

Each inhale and exhale matched, human and beast moving as one, their rhythms aligning gradually until the distinction between them blurred.

The Fallen Succubus watched from a nearby wall, her expression amused.

"You’re telling me," she said lazily, "that after all that anticipation, we’re not setting anything on fire yet?"

"Not yet," Aether replied.

The Pup let out a soft, dissatisfied sound.

"Later," he added.

The Pup’s tail wagged once, approval restored instantly.

At some point during the preparations, a servant entered.

He carried fresh towels and sealed water flasks, his presence unremarkable, his movements efficient.

He passed through the room without drawing attention.

Almost.

As he moved past Aether, one of the folded towels slipped from his grasp, landing softly on the floor.

Aether bent to pick it up.

Inside the fold—

A note.

The handwriting was familiar.

Unadorned.

Precise.

Professional.

**Refusal respected. Revised proposal: temporary cooperation only.

We can remove royal interference tonight.

Signal interest by wearing a black ribbon during your match.**

Aether read it once.

Then, without hesitation, he held it between two fingers.

A small flame flickered into existence.

The paper burned.

Reduced to ash in seconds.

The servant did not react.

He did not pause.

He did not even look back.

Which meant—

He had expected that outcome.

Across the room, Liora’s gaze had shifted.

She had not seen the note.

But she had seen enough.

"You receive many messages," she said.

"Most of them are disappointing," Aether replied.

She studied him for a moment.

Then nodded slightly.

"Acceptable answer."

Somewhere else within the arena complex, the grey-robed envoy watched through a mirrored surface, the reflection showing the brief moment of flame.

"He burned it," another voice observed.

The envoy inclined his head slightly. "He burns bait," he said. "Not opportunity."

"Then?"

"We wait."

As the afternoon approached, the tension built once more.

Ironcliff Tactical Academy prepared in their own chamber, refining their defensive structures, reinforcing their coordination, adjusting for the possibility that Skygate might not behave as predicted.

They specialized in endurance.

In control.

In breaking opponents over time.

Late sunlight filtered through high windows, casting long shadows across the stone floor of Skygate’s chamber.

The call horn sounded.

Low.

Resonant.

Unmistakable.

Second-round competitors report.

Valen stood first, energy returning in full force, his earlier match seemingly having done nothing to diminish his enthusiasm.

Liora fastened her gloves, movements precise, expression calm but focused.

Rowan muttered something under his breath that was almost certainly directed at royalty.

Aether moved toward the door.

The Flame Sovereign Pup rose beside him, its small form radiating a quiet, contained heat.

For the first time since the tournament began—

He would enter the arena with visible fire.

The corridor stretched ahead.

The distant roar of the crowd grew louder with each step.

Word had spread quickly.

Skygate was fighting again.

Soon.

Too soon.

Which meant—

Everyone was watching.

Somewhere above, Lion waited.

Somewhere unseen, the hidden faction observed.

Somewhere on the field ahead, Ironcliff prepared their traps.

Aether rested one hand lightly on the Pup’s head as they walked.

"Try not to burn the entire arena," he said quietly.

The Pup looked up at him, eyes bright.

Its tail wagged once.

No promises.