Late Night – Salcedo Residence, Dorm Block D
Time: 01:34 JST
The room was dim, only lit by the glow of Sallie's curved monitor and the faint blue pulse of his briefcase CAD humming quietly on the shelf. He sat leaned back in a worn gaming chair, headset on, one leg propped against the desk.
Sallie's avatar crouched behind the bakery roof edge, loadout primed—thermal sniper mod slotted, decoy drone synced, field mic planted. His left eye flickered faintly—Elemental Sight activated under the glasses, silently syncing with the screen.
The HUD didn't reflect it. No one could see it but him.
And that was the point.
Enemy 1: sprinting through alley behind red building—cloaked.
Enemy 2: top of barn, prone. Suppressor. No motion.
Enemy 3: corner camping under laundromat staircase—predictable.
Sallie didn't blink. He rotated 40 degrees right, flicked-shot through the barn window.
+1 headshot.
Ducked left. Threw a fake footstep module behind gas station. Enemy in the alley took the bait.
Swung wide. Pre-aimed.
+1 chest shot.
Last guy panicked and tried to rotate out to mid—Sallie tracked his heartbeat signature using elemental tracing tied through his headset feed.
Final round. No scope. Hit center mass.
VICTORY – OPPONENT WAGER ASSETS TRANSFERRED
The lobby exploded.
[Enemy_OneVoice]: "Nah! That's not possible, how the hell did he pre-aim that corner—"
[Enemy_Two]: "Bro's got wallhacks, I'm telling you."
[Enemy_Three]: "You better send that skin back. That's MYTHIC PAYLOAD, you rat."
Sallie pulled the headset halfway off, already yawning.
"Should've learned the spawn cycles," he muttered. "And maybe not hid in the same damn three spots like bots."
[Enemy_Two]: "You pre-aimed me through a smoke. A fully charged mana-thermal smoke. Who the hell does that?"
[Enemy_Three]: "Nah, dude had ESP. No way he knew I was behind the laundromat stairs. No way."
[Enemy_OneVoice]: "I reviewed the killcam, he flicked before I even peeked the corner! That's illegal—he's gotta be scripting."
Sallie leaned closer to the mic, unmuted for a second. Voice low. Calm.
"Not a script. Just intuition. And bad hiding spots."
[Enemy_Two]: "Intuition my ass! You tracked through two concrete walls—how do you even see that?!"
[Enemy_Three]: "He's running something. Like some government-issue wallhack. I'm reporting this."
[Enemy_OneVoice]: "Bro's not even denying it."
Sallie shrugged, voice still flat. "I'm just saying… maybe next time, move."
[Enemy_Two]: "Screw you! That Mythic was limited pull, ten thousand pesos gone!"
[Enemy_Three]: "I spent real money for that skin!"
[Enemy_OneVoice]: "You're dead next match. Queue again. We're sniping you."
Sallie clicked leave lobby, pulled up the Mythic weapon display, and rotated it slowly in the loadout menu—admiring the glow.
"Thanks for the donation," he muttered. Then muted the chat permanently.
The room went quiet except for the soft hum of the CAD shelf.
He stretched, yawned, and queued another match.
The bathroom door slid open with a soft hiss of steam, and Celeste stepped out, hair towel draped around her neck, dressed in loose training wear. She looked toward the living area, already scowling—ready to lecture. Again.
But Sallie was still in his gaming chair, half-turned toward the screen, headset tilted up. One hand rested lazily on the briefcase CAD shelved beside him. The other scrolled casually through his new Mythic loadout.
He didn't even turn his head when he spoke.
"Hey," he said flatly, "just before you yell at me for being a slouch while I laser-focus on my game, disrupting my very important winning streak…"
He tapped a key, paused the match queue.
"I already did the chores. Like you asked."
Celeste narrowed her eyes and stepped toward the kitchen.
Dish rack—empty. Sink—dry. No soap residue. Towel folded.
He spoke again, still not looking. "Finished the dishes right after we ate."
She moved to the laundry area.
The basket was empty. Dryer clean. Hanger rods still warm.
"That's your turn tomorrow," he added. "I did it today."
She walked toward the living room.
Floor swept. Sofa cushions reset. Table cleared—no wrappers, no cans, no leftover scroll fragments. Even the mana residue from his scythe loadout tuning had been scrubbed from the casting circle rug.
She stepped toward the bedroom they split during school days. His bed was made. Sheets tight. No game peripherals scattered. No wrappers tucked under the frame.
He finally spun in the chair and pointed lazily.
"Even folded your extra uniform and put it in your locker drawer. You're welcome."
Celeste stood there, towel still draped around her neck, expression unreadable.
"…Are you dying?"
"Nope."
"Are you trying to guilt-trip me?"
"Nope."
"Then what's the catch?"
Sallie smirked. "Won a Mythic weapon off some poor idiot from Cebu tonight. Felt generous."
Celeste rubbed her temples. "You don't do chores from generosity."
"I do when I'm feeling petty and need moral leverage before the finals."
She sighed, hard. "You're impossible."
He leaned back, kicked his foot up on the desk, and grinned. "But clean."
---
03:12 PM
The glow from the monitor bathed the room in electric blue. The fan buzzed quietly in the corner. A near-empty energy drink sat forgotten on the desk. Sallie leaned forward in his chair, headset on, scythe-shaped mouse in hand, a half-eaten packet of dried squid next to his keyboard.
Game: CoD: International Wager Circuit
Match Type: Private Invite 5v5 – $100,000 Pot
Opponents: USNA Ranked Squad (East Coast Division)
Final round. Map: Highrise.
Sallie's squad locked them down—tight angles, pixel shots, zero tolerance for flashy plays. It was raw utility, harsh zoning, denial spam, and trap tactics.
Sallie used Elemental Sight like a third monitor.
On-screen, one USNA player tried to flank across the left crane.
"Backside scaffold," Sallie muttered, already lining up a delayed trap mine. "Go ahead, peek it, cowboy."
Boom. +1 elimination.
Another USNA player sprinted through main office. Sallie used thermal through smoke, bounced a decoy, then pre-fired the left corner.
+2.
The fifth round ended. Final score: 5–1.
[VICTORY – Flex Space Team | WAGER TRANSFER: $100,000 USD]
The post-match voice channel lit up immediately.
[USNA_Player01]: "THAT'S BULL—he's hacking! That Filipino guy is hacking! You can't track through two floors unless you've got admin view!"
[USNA_Player02]: "Check the killfeed! His reflexes aren't human, that's auto-aim levels of prefire!"
[USNA_Player03]: "I told you this guy was rumored to be some kind of enhanced warfare trainee! You idiots said we could take them!"
[USNA_Player04]: "My rent! My actual rent! GONE!"
Sallie had a hand over his mouth, trying to suppress the laughter building in his chest. His shoulders shook.
[USNA_Player01]: "Refund. We want a refund, this was rigged—this is some imperial tech bullsh—"
He couldn't hold it anymore.
Sallie burst out laughing—sharp, ugly, unfiltered. Head tilted back. The kind that echoed off the dorm walls. He wheezed between laughs and slapped the desk once.
"Oh my god," he choked out. "One of them just said I was a military experiment."
Celeste's voice came through the wall, muffled and cold.
"Onii-sama, it's past three. Shut up or I'm breaking that headset."
Sallie tried to compose himself, wheezing.
Still laughing.
Sallie wiped a tear from the corner of his eye, still grinning as the last of the USNA team rage-disconnected from the post-match lobby. He leaned back in his chair, opened the payout dashboard, and hit the confirm button.
[TRANSFER COMPLETE – $100,000 USD SPLIT TO TEAM ACCOUNTS]
[Flex Space Team SHARE: $20,000 USD]
The screen flashed green. The digital balance adjusted instantly.
"Beautiful," he muttered. "We eatin' good this month."
Then he heard it again—Celeste's muffled voice from the next room, colder this time.
"Last warning, Onii-sama."
Sallie paused. Blinked. Cleared his throat.
"Right. Got it."
He clicked the game off, shut the monitor down, and removed his headset with quiet reverence, like a ritual. The room fell into silence, the only light now from the faint glow of the CAD shelf.
He stood, stretched, and whispered to himself, "Still a blast."
Then tiptoed toward bed before Celeste decided to turn his briefcase into shrapnel.
---
06:43 JST — Road to Fourth High, East Gate Sidewalk
The street was mostly empty. Only the low hum of passing bikes, an automated delivery drone coasting overhead, and the faint metallic whine of school perimeter barriers adjusting for the morning cycle.
Sallie walked with his hands deep in his coat pockets, collar flipped up, hair still messy from sleep. His steps were slow. Lazy. His eyes barely open.
Every few meters, he let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.
"'My rent. My actual rent.'" He muttered it like a punchline, barely holding in another snort.
Celeste walked beside him, posture straight, uniform pressed, Grimoire CAD already synced to her wrist, boots clicking crisply on the pavement. Her expression was flat. Barely restrained.
"Still thinking about it?" she said without looking at him.
Sallie nodded slowly. "They were so mad. Said I was part of a black project. Called me a weaponized matchmaking abomination."
Celeste glared. "You are an abomination. Just not classified."
He smiled, barely. "Can't believe they actually said, 'I want a refund.' Like it's a vending machine."
"I want a refund," Celeste snapped back, "for every second I've had to hear that quote since we left the house."
Sallie let out a soft wheeze. "Twenty grand well-earned."
"You got three hours of sleep."
"Worth it."
"You'll crash by lunch."
"I'll nap during class."
Celeste side-eyed him. "We have the interclass match today."
Sallie grinned wider, eyes still half-shut. "I'll nap between rounds."
"And by the way, we're up against Section Five today," he said, voice less lazy now.
Celeste glanced sideways, brow raised. "You checked the brackets?"
Sallie nodded, a smug grin creeping back onto his face. "Of course. I study important things."
She didn't respond right away. Just waited, skeptical.
He slid one hand out of his coat pocket, started gesturing casually like a coach drawing on an invisible whiteboard.
"Sixteen sections. Top eight get seeded. We were second on points after the internal matches, so we got the lower half of the bracket. Five barely scraped in with their win-loss ratio, so we pull them in round one."
He stepped ahead a pace, still talking. "Winners from our side fight the winner of Section one and eight. Whoever clears that goes to finals. Other side's got One, Two, and the wildcard from Section Five's tech division."
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "You memorized the whole bracket?"
He nodded. "If you don't study the route, you walk blind. Always know the next fight before it happens."
She gave a slow blink. "And when did you study this?"
"Between matches. While cashing out the hundred grand."
"Of course."
He pointed ahead. "Section Five runs a hybrid comp. Shield caster with a movement specialist. Fast repositioning, but weak mana defense. We break their tempo early, they collapse."
Celeste let out a quiet breath, equal parts annoyed and impressed.
Sallie tucked his hand back in his pocket.
"See? I'm not just good at trolling Americans at 3 A.M. I plan."
Sallie tapped his wristpad. A pale-blue holo projection flickered to life above his forearm, displaying the inter-section duel system in sharp lines and glowing brackets.
"Single-elimination format," he said, tone matter-of-fact now. "Sixteen teams in each left and right sections. Top 4 get seeded advantages, so we don't fight each other early. We're slotted in the upper bracket."
Celeste glanced at the projection. "And Section Five?"
"They upset Section Three last week," Sallie continued. "Barely. Pulled off a reversal in the last thirty seconds. Their shield caster stalled just long enough for the movement-type to break formation."
He zoomed in with a swipe, highlighting the match timeline.
"Section Three had better spell quality, but no sync. Section Five runs on pure timing. High risk, all-in. If we deny them momentum, they break."
Celeste's eyes stayed on the hologram. "So—pressure early. Don't let them establish their rhythm."
"Exactly. If we let them get to mid-match pacing, they'll start chaining evasion buffs and reposition cycles. Their caster's name is Duarte. He specializes in temporal delay fields. The girl—Velez—is speed-type, low-durability but high mana reflex."
Celeste folded her arms. "Shield and speed. Stall and slice."
Sallie nodded once. "So we collapse the stall. We don't fight them straight—we isolate."
He flicked the holo off, projection collapsing back into his wristpad.
"Ten-minute match window. No mistakes."
Celeste didn't say anything right away.
Then, flatly: "Did you memorize all eight teams?"
Sallie smirked. "I had time."
"Right. Between scamming mythic skins and insulting Americans."
"Multitasking," he replied.
As they reached the outer steps of Fourth High's main hall, Celeste slowed her pace slightly, eyes still focused ahead.
"What are their full names?" she asked.
Sallie didn't miss a beat.
"He is Iñigo Tomas Duarte. Third-year. Specialized in temporal anchor spells and delay field layering. His CAD is a forearm brace—slow cast, high output. Built to hold."
Celeste nodded. "And the other?"
"Janine Rosario Velez. Second-year. Mobility-type caster. Uses a ring-trigger CAD on her left hand, reinforced ankle plates for kinetic bursts. She's designed to chase weak links, break staggered positions. Not durable, but fast as hell."
Celeste glanced at him. "And they sync?"
"When Duarte holds long enough to anchor the field, yeah," Sallie said. "She uses the delay windows to cut through formations before the opponent can adjust."
Celeste's tone stayed neutral. "Then we split them. Burn Velez's stamina early. Force Duarte to cast defensively."
Sallie nodded once. "Exactly. Their entire setup relies on tempo. Break that, they fall apart."
She looked at him again.
"You actually did the research."
Sallie smirked. "Of course I did. Can't win if you don't know who you're about to break."
Celeste paused near the garden path leading to the training wing, the early sunlight cutting through the courtyard trees. She tapped her wristpad, bringing up the bracket overlay again. Her eyes tracked the paths—one finger hovering, mapping projected routes.
"So," she murmured, "if we beat Section 5, we face the winner between Section 1 and Section 8."
He tapped the lower bracket. "They're the problem if they get through."
Celeste narrowed her eyes. "Mana overload?"
"No finesse. Just raw pressure. They don't care about spell cost or casting windows. They just pump mana until something cracks."
She frowned. "They'd burn through their own stamina in six minutes."
Sallie shrugged. "Doesn't matter if you don't last that long."
Celeste traced a line up to the other side. "Section 2's Elemental Combiners are seeded against Section 7."
"They'll win it," Sallie said. "Section 7's got no sync. Section 2's pair—Mika and Reid—are twins. They stack combined elements. Cross-trigger CAD routines. Fire and gravity. Their entire casting flow is one giant loop."
Celeste's expression tightened. "Bad matchup for range-types."
"Bad matchup for anyone who stalls. They control the whole field like it's theirs."
She closed the projection, eyes narrowing.
Sallie glanced at her. "We break Section 5, and we get either brute force or spell architecture. Either way, no one's gonna make it easy."
Celeste exhaled once. "Then we don't make it easy for them either."
As the main building came into view, the chatter of early students and low drone buzz of CAD syncs floated from nearby hallways. The school's auto-sensors recognized them, door mechanisms sliding open with a soft chhk of mana-coded clearance.
Sallie's grin had faded, his steps heavier now. He slowed near the entrance, scanning the interior hall. His voice lowered.
"Today's not about showboating. Section 5 plays control. No gimmicks. Tight formations. No improvisation. They wait for mistakes."
Celeste gave a sharp nod, jaw set. "Then we don't give them any. Break their rhythm before it starts."
Sallie exhaled through his nose, then reached for the handle and pushed the door open.
"Let's get it done."
He paused at the threshold, glanced back at her, his tone quieter—almost serious.
"Hey—before we sync up later, I need a favor."
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "What now?"
He turned toward her, one hand still on the door, eyes sharp now. "My modular set. All the in-game loadouts. I coded their utility profiles into the briefcase last night."
Celeste stared at him. "You mean your ridiculous library of weapon templates from the FPS game?"
"Yeah. All of them. Not for showboating." He gestured at her wrist. "If we get split mid-fight and you're cornered, you have me, i will just used all the Loadouts at the same time. It's not tuned for elegance, but it'll get you out."
Celeste frowned. "You're serious."
Sallie nodded. "You think I'd waste all my sleep for nothing? Just use me when you need to. I'm not trying to look cool. I'm trying to win."
There was a long pause.
She looked at him—this lazy, infuriating brother who skipped classes, ignored protocols, and made enemies rage-quit for fun.
Then she nodded once, firm.
"I'll use it. And don't make me regret it."
Sallie gave a half-smile, the edge of it tight. "I'd never give you a partner that doesn't work."
"Oh—before I forget. Angela called me last night."
Celeste frowned. "You answered a call during a match?"
"I was between rounds. She was half-asleep. Said she passed out mid-review."
Celeste rolled her eyes. "Of course she did."
"She mentioned Round Two's venue got shifted," Sallie added. "It's not in the sim room anymore. It's the outdoor practice field. Real terrain."
Celeste's steps slowed slightly. "So not simulated conditions."
"Nope. Full environmental variance. Wind, heat, uneven footing. No projection barriers. Just the field and whatever cover we can find."
She narrowed her eyes. "And they told Angela first?"
"She's running volunteer logistics for the bracket. Got the memo early."
Celeste muttered, "I should've stayed awake."
Sallie smirked. "I stayed up. You get sleep. I get recon."
She gave him a dry glance. "And a hundred grand."
"That too."
They turned the corner together, the doors to the prep wing ahead, the first bell about to ring. Round One was set.
But Round Two was already in play.
As they passed through the east corridor's glass walkway, the internal holoscreens along the wall flickered to life—live broadcast feed from the field grid near the northern wing. A header streamed across the top:
[INTERSECTIONAL COMBAT MATCH – ROUND ONE: SECTION ONE VS SECTION EIGHT – LIVE FEED]
Students slowed as they passed, gathering near the display walls. Some stood, some leaned against the railing overlooking the courtyard, eyes fixed on the footage.
Sallie stopped walking.
Celeste followed his gaze.
On-screen, Section One was already mid-engagement—tight formation, three-layer rotational casting between a long-range artillery type and a midline disruptor. Section Eight's pair were cornered near the mock building cluster, playing strictly on reaction, heavy on defense.
"They're getting rolled," Sallie muttered.
Celeste nodded. "Section One's clean. Full discipline. Every cast is locked into grid timing. No wasted spells."
Sallie watched as the Section One forward flanker closed in with a shaped-field cannon CAD—short burst, right into the edge of the cover wall. The Section Eight student dodged left—right into a secondary cast zone already set three seconds earlier.
[ELIMINATED – SECTION EIGHT FLANK]
Celeste spoke evenly. "One down."
Sallie folded his arms. "Other one's boxed. They're baiting him with a false gap on the south side."
On the screen, the remaining Section Eight student tried to break line and reposition.
Too late.
Triple cast. Staggered shock bursts from two angles. No cover.
[MATCH END – VICTORY: SECTION ONE]
The screen pulsed once. Timer stopped. Applause echoed from the spectator mic feed in the background.
"Textbook," Celeste said.
Sallie cracked a grin. "Yeah, well. Clean doesn't mean invincible."
She turned toward him. "You think we can break them?"
He started walking again. "We break anyone. That's the point."
Celeste didn't argue.
As they moved past the holo display and toward the stairwell leading to the combat prep wing, Sallie kept walking, but his tone shifted—lower, more focused.
"That's Section One," he said. "They're the ones we'll face next—assuming we beat Five."
Celeste gave him a glance. "You've already studied them too?"
Sallie gave a short nod. "Yeah. I've had their roster saved since last week."
He tapped his wristpad. The hologram popped back up, this time narrowed to a pair of student profiles.
"Frontliner's name is Amon Reyes. Second-year. Born in Lucena, transferred in from regional cadet command. He's a burst caster—uses a shoulder-mounted rail-type CAD. Fires compressed kinetic bolts with minimal cast time. Needs space to operate. Not good indoors."
Celeste processed it. "He was the one who flushed the Section Eight flanker with the field cannon."
"Exactly," Sallie said. "And his partner—Vierra Kwon. Third-year. Barrier specialist. Double disk-type CADs mounted on her gloves. Her technique isn't just defense—she reflects cast vectors. Her barriers redirect."
Celeste narrowed her eyes. "That explains the perimeter snare. She was shaping the field passively while he cornered."
Sallie nodded. "If we fight them on open terrain, they'll set tempo fast. Amon lays down pressure while Vierra manipulates the zone. It's grid control, but smarter than brute force."
Celeste looked straight ahead. "Then we split them early."
"Exactly," Sallie said. "We isolate Vierra from Reyes, force her to go defensive alone. He's less accurate without her feeding him positioning arcs."
Celeste turned toward him slightly. "You're oddly focused today."
Sallie smirked. "Told you. I study the important stuff."
She shook her head. "You act like you just roll through fights, but you always come in knowing more than you admit."
He shrugged. "People expect me to be lazy. I use it."
They reached the prep wing doors. He let her step in first.
"Just don't tell anyone I'm actually trying."
---
Malacañang Palace — Interior Wing, 08:19 PHT
The halls of the Imperial Palace thrummed with movement—shined marble floors echoing with synchronized bootfalls, the scent of polished wood and pressurized mana cycling through the air vents.
Maids moved with quiet efficiency, wiping down gold-inlaid moldings and inspecting every seam in the floor tiling for specks of dust. Patrols from the Imperial Guard marched in staggered formation, each in sharp-pressed dark-blue uniforms with golden trim, visors lowered, weapons slung but unlocked.
Every corner leading to strategic wings—communications, command intelligence, transport terminals—was locked down under heavy watch. Mana detection grids flickered quietly behind the walls. No one walked alone past checkpoint three.
But inside the grand dining chamber, the war outside the walls seemed distant.
Gabriella Aurelia Mendez sat relaxed in a high-backed carved chair of dark narra wood, a half-finished cup of imported sakura tea in her hand, posture graceful, smile faint.
Around her, three girls from First High sat comfortably—one tapping through her tablet, another laughing softly over something whispered, and the third nervously sipping her drink, eyes flicking toward the looming palace guards stationed at either exit.
"Relax," Gabriella said, voice composed. "If they wanted you detained, you wouldn't have made it past the garden gate."
The others gave quiet, half-hearted chuckles.
One leaned in slightly. "Is it always this… militarized?"
Gabriella sipped her tea before answering. "Only when we're between invasions."
She didn't elaborate.
A silence fell for a moment, broken only by the sound of a distant marching cadence and the low hum of reinforced mana barriers locking another section down.
She set the cup down carefully and looked at the girl seated across from her.
"You said something about the interschool duels?"
The girl nodded quickly. "Yes. There's been some buzz. Word is they dismantled their opponents yesterday. Real synchronization."
Gabriella's smile didn't reach her eyes.
"Section Four," she murmured. "Interesting."
The moment Gabriella set her cup back on its saucer, her wristpad vibrated—once, sharp, irregular.
Unregistered line.
Encoded burst signal.
Priority: Ultra-High.
Source: offshore relay bounce, East Pacific.
Her fingers hovered over the interface for half a second, then tapped to accept. The wristpad's projection folded into a discreet earpiece link.
The girls around her noticed the shift in her expression immediately—calm, but colder. The tone changed.
She turned her head slightly away from the table.
"Go ahead."
A pause.
Then the voice filtered through. Deep. Controlled. No introduction.
"Your people still have our three in Fort Santiago. The POWs from Singapore."
Gabriella didn't blink. "You waited long to bring this up."
"We waited for confirmation they weren't dead."
Another pause. Her gaze dropped to the far end of the dining hall where the light hit the floor in clean lines.
The voice continued.
"Captain Caldwell. Lieutenant Whitaker. Sergeant Reyes. All USNA combat personnel. Captured during the eastern port fallback. Your men dragged them through two ruined wards and left a trail of broken signal relays. We picked up the last comms ping from inside Santiago's lower levels."
Gabriella stayed silent.
"We know they're alive. The question is whether that's deliberate."
She answered evenly. "They are secured. Interrogated. Not harmed beyond standard protocol. Your captain tried to detonate a failsafe implant during containment. Our healers neutralized the surge."
The voice didn't respond right away.
Then—
"We want proof of life. Today."
Gabriella tapped the tabletop once with her index finger.
"You'll have it. But this isn't negotiation."
"No. It's notice."
She exhaled faintly—almost a laugh, but not quite. Then her voice dipped into dry sarcasm.
"Mm. 'Notice,' you say. How polite."
Her tone sharpened.
"And who exactly am I speaking to? You're bold for someone routed out of the Strait by a second-line division."
Silence.
She leaned back in the chair, relaxed.
"You send your men into Singapore, across IFRP waters, into sovereign territory, and expect anything but detainment? That's not strategy. That's desperation."
Still no reply. But the line was active.
She went on.
"I've reviewed the battlefield logs. Caldwell's unit engaged civilian-tagged medivac drones. Whitaker burned a comms tower tied to evacuation corridors. Reyes planted timed explosives on a civilian freight dock."
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"They're lucky we kept them breathing."
The voice came back, cold.
"You're not untouchable, Mendez."
Gabriella smiled faintly.
"No. But I'm very, very hard to reach."
She let the silence hang for a breath, then added with a dry, drawn-out tone:
"But you already knew that, didn't you? That's why you're hiding behind a relay bounce from a patrol ship drifting somewhere east of Guam."
The voice didn't respond immediately, but the low breath on the line gave him away.
Gabriella leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping just enough to sound amused.
"The United States of North America," she said slowly. "Still arrogant enough to call itself united, still scattered enough to send Stars through backdoor insertions and pray they don't get caught."
No reply.
She kept going.
"You sent your men into Singapore—into my quadrant—under blackout conditions, using false-flag ping codes and foreign civilian network masks. And now you want proof of life?"
She laughed, short and flat.
"Should I send you teeth? Or would you prefer biometric scan logs and a list of what we had to amputate to keep your captain from bleeding out?"
The voice snapped—sharper now.
"Watch your tone, Mendez."
Her eyes narrowed. The smile didn't move.
"No. You watch yours, Canopus."
Silence on the line, but not the comfortable kind. She heard it in the breath—he hadn't expected her to drop his name that cleanly.
"I know exactly which fleet you're tethered to. I know which forward listening station is patching this signal. I even know your last combat score in Okinawa."
She tilted her head slightly, mocking thought.
"Three wins, one strategic retreat, and zero clean extractions. Impressive record for someone who's supposed to represent the best the USNA has."
He bit back.
"You're dancing on a line you can't hold, Mendez."
She didn't blink.
"You don't have a line. You have a leak. One that keeps sending your people into my territory and expecting the world to pretend you're not at war."
Another pause. Her tone softened, but not kindly—like lowering a blade just before you thrust.
"Your prisoners are alive. For now. I'll send you proof. But if you call again without a formal channel, without a diplomatic authorization code, or without a flag officer on the line—"
She leaned closer to the mic, voice dead calm.
"—I'll mail back pieces."
"You think this is a game, Mendez?"
Gabriella didn't answer.
"You're sitting on three uniformed American soldiers—decorated, active, and logged under joint security protocols. You harm a single one of them and we won't send diplomats. We'll send fire."
Her lips curled slightly.
"You've already tried. In Singapore. In Okinawa. In Luzon."
She tapped the polished table again, slow. "You lost. Every time."
"You're holding onto borrowed momentum," Benjamin said, voice now grinding through clenched teeth. "Don't think the rest of the world isn't watching."
Gabriella's voice didn't rise. It just turned colder.
"Let them watch. Let them see how easily the USNA folds when it plays war without commitment."
She leaned in again, every word deliberate.
"You don't scare me, Canopus. Your carriers don't scare me. Your Stars don't scare me. And your captured soldiers? They'll be breathing long enough for me to extract every last piece of classified protocol buried in their heads."
Silence.
Then Benjamin's voice snapped back, sharp and raw.
"You think you've seen fire. You haven't."
Gabriella's eyes narrowed, smile gone now.
"Then send it. But make sure it's the last thing you have. Because when the Empire answers, there won't be anything left to bury."
Another pause. Tighter. More personal.
Benjamin's voice came quiet, flat.
"You sound just like your father."
Gabriella didn't blink.
"Good. Then you understand what happens next."
The line cut.
Okinawa Forward Operations Command – USNA Pacific Theater – 08:51 JST
The steel-framed briefing table rattled violently under the impact of Benjamin's fist. Loose data pads slid across its surface, one clattering onto the floor.
He stood rigid, breath shallow, jaw locked, eyes burning at the dead screen where Gabriella's voice had last echoed. The room was cold, but sweat lined his neck.
A junior officer flinched nearby. No one spoke.
The door opened without a knock.
Kyoko Fujibayashi stepped inside, calm, composed, dressed in standard JSDF combat fatigues—her sleeves rolled up, tablet tucked under her arm.
She looked at the mess, then at Benjamin.
Her eyes hardened.
"You let her bait you."
Benjamin didn't answer. His fists were still clenched against the table edge.
Kyoko stepped further in, door sliding shut behind her.
"She wanted that reaction. You gave her exactly what she needed. Now she knows you're emotionally compromised."
He turned his head slowly, voice low.
"She threatened to carve up three of our people and send them back in boxes."
Kyoko didn't flinch. "And what were you going to do? Threaten her back harder? That family doesn't respond to pressure. You think Gabriella Mendez folds because someone yells louder?"
He stepped forward, slower now, breathing through his nose.
"She's pushing limits."
"She is the limit," Kyoko replied sharply. "You don't beat someone like that with posturing."
Benjamin paced once, then stopped. His voice was flat. "She's holding Caldwell. Whitaker. Reyes. They're alive—barely—and being drained for intelligence."
Kyoko nodded once. "Then we get them out. Not by shouting. Not by giving her more fuel. We go around. Quietly. And we take them."
Benjamin stared at the blank screen a second longer before finally stepping back.
Kyoko walked past him and picked up the fallen data pad. She placed it back on the table, then looked him in the eye.
"You're a professional. Start acting like one."
Then she turned and walked out.
___
Fourth High – Marauoy, Batangas – 10:17 JST
The school felt less like a structured academy and more like a chaotic open-house festival.
The hallways were packed—students in uniform but out of formation, lounging against lockers, sitting cross-legged near doorframes, others leaning on windowsills with snacks in hand. Voices echoed across the floors, a constant hum of chatter, laughter, and rumor.
No classes were scheduled. The Imperial Duel Preliminaries had taken over everything.
Holo-screens mounted at corridor junctions played match replays on loop. Students crowded around them, shouting over moves, debating spell types, CAD setups, and mock-analyzing poor decisions made under pressure.
"Section One's defense line was cracked clean by just timing, I swear—"
"No, no, Salcedo didn't even touch her—his CAD stripped her mana threads."
"I heard Celeste programs her Grimoire to auto-sync with three types of formations. That's not regulation."
"Bro, did you see the guy from Section Six launch that triple-cast combo? That was mana disrespect."
In one classroom on the second floor, Fuyumi sat at a desk near the window, half-turned toward a small group of her classmates. Her uniform was pristine again—repaired after the incident. Her fan CAD rested folded and inactive on the desk beside her.
She wasn't smiling, but she wasn't storming either.
"So you really didn't say a single word in English the whole fight?" one of the girls asked, wide-eyed.
Fuyumi looked down at her tea bottle cap. "No. I didn't think I needed to."
Another leaned in. "But he broke your uniform without even landing a hit?"
She closed the bottle cap with a quiet click. "He exploited the language scaling modifier. It shouldn't have applied in that context, but he baited it."
Silence.
Then someone muttered, "Honestly… kinda genius. Creepy, but genius."
Fuyumi didn't respond.
Another voice from the back: "They're saying Salcedo's CAD has more loadouts than the entire first battalion's logistics bay."
One girl leaned on her arm. "So what now? If you had to fight him again?"
Fuyumi looked out the window, eyes narrowing slightly. "Then I speak English."
The others laughed quietly, then shifted the topic toward match rumors.
"Hey, I heard Section Five's planning something for the Salcedo siblings. A field shift? Disrupt spell buffering?"
"Did you see the match brackets? If Salcedo wins, they face Reyes from Section One. That guy doesn't play fair either."
The conversation inside the classroom flowed easily—rumors about Section Five's shield caster, gossip over CAD mod trends, even a light debate over who would win in a raw brawl: Celeste or one of the old Third High bruisers. Fuyumi sat with arms crossed now, shoulders relaxed, lips pressed into a neutral line.
She was just about to say something—
SLAM.
The classroom door banged open without warning. Every student jumped.
"Kyaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—"
Her voice spiked into a high shriek that echoed off the walls.
Sallie stood there, one hand still on the doorframe, half-lidded eyes, coat collar up, hair unbrushed. He scanned the room once, yawned without covering his mouth, then casually walked in like he owned the place.
"Too bright," he muttered.
Students turned toward her instantly, all heads swiveling.
She didn't stop. "What are you doing!? At least knock! Are you insane!? Unbelievable—!"
Sallie had already dropped into the empty seat behind her, stretched out, one leg propped on the next chair. He pulled the coat over his eyes like a blanket.
He lifted one hand lazily, made a small circling motion with his index finger next to his temple.
"Yeah, yeah. This isn't Japan," he mumbled through a yawn. "You still got a few screws loose up there."
Laughter erupted from half the room.
Fuyumi went bright red. "Unacceptable—!"
He waved her off with a limp hand.
"Classroom's empty. I'm napping here. Deal with it."
Fuyumi fumed, still shouting something under her breath in Japanese. Her friends didn't help—they were either laughing into their sleeves or whispering things like "round two already started."
Sallie yawned again, sank deeper into the chair, and adjusted the coat across his face.
"Wake me when Section Five starts losing."
Fuyumi stood there, fists clenched at her sides, eyes twitching as Sallie fully slouched into the chair—head tilted back, mouth slightly open.
Then the snoring started.
Not subtle. Not accidental. The kind of exaggerated, buzzing snore that reverberated off the desks.
"Snnnnk—hhkk—hhrrrhk—"
A vein visibly pulsed on Fuyumi's temple.
She leaned over his desk, her voice low and sharp, teeth clenched.
"Salcedo... wake up."
Nothing.
Snore. Shift. Snore again. He even kicked his boot slightly, like he was dreaming about running.
Fuyumi jabbed a finger into his shoulder, hard. "Oi!"
No response.
She switched to English, voice rising. "Get. Up. You are disrupting the entire classroom!"
Sallie made a muffled noise and half-opened one eye. He didn't move.
"Mmmh… I'm the class rep now, right? I claim executive nap privilege…"
He rolled slightly and stuffed one arm behind his head.
Fuyumi's voice dropped to a growl. "This isn't a hotel, Salcedo!"
Sallie cracked one eye again. Raised a lazy brow.
"Could've fooled me. You yell like a landlady."
Gasps. A few students bit their knuckles, trying not to laugh.
Fuyumi stood there, face flushed, frozen in place—halfway between dragging him out of the chair and launching a wind burst at him.
He closed his eye again. "Anyway… you talk louder than my alarm, so you're perfect for watch duty. Keep the area secure."
"Snnnrrkk." Back to snoring.
She turned to her classmates, arms wide. "Why is he like this!?"
Someone in the back replied, "Because no one's stopped him."
Sallie didn't hear a word. He was already dreaming of clean headshots and another easy bracket.
Sallie blinked at the ceiling lights, then slowly sat up with a groan. He rubbed his neck, cracked his shoulder, then shifted his gaze toward Fuyumi—who stood stiff, arms crossed, still fuming.
He yawned, long and slow, like nothing just happened.
"Got angry after you lost your right to represent Section Four," he said casually, voice flat. "That's a new low."
The classroom went quiet again. Not tense—just curious. Watching.
He stood up lazily, stretched his arms overhead, coat riding up slightly. His joints cracked one after the other.
"Everyone here knows the deal," he added, adjusting his collar. "We siblings represent Section Four. It's done."
Fuyumi's jaw tensed. "Because you used an exploit to win."
Sallie nodded. "Yup."
"You call that fair?"
He shrugged. "I call it functional."
She took a step forward. "You humiliated me—"
He raised a finger. "I didn't touch you. Your CAD and the language mod did the rest."
Another yawn. He stretched his neck lazily side to side.
"You walked into a system you didn't understand," he continued, voice lower, less smug now—just tired. "You chose not to adapt. That's not on me. That's on your assumptions."
Fuyumi opened her mouth to retort, but paused. Just for a second.
Sallie turned toward the classroom, gestured with a limp hand.
"They all saw the match. It wasn't pretty. Wasn't perfect. But we won it."
He looked back at her.
"Now you can keep yelling. Or you can study what beat you. Maybe next time, you'll win without needing to scream in two languages."
Silence.
He stepped past her, dropped into his seat again, leaned back.
"You're better than most. Just not better than us."
He pulled his coat over his face again.
A long silence hung in the room after Sallie dropped back into his seat, coat draped over his face like a curtain between him and the world.
Fuyumi stood frozen in place. Jaw tight. Shoulders squared. Still upright, but quiet now.
The classmates who'd been laughing minutes ago weren't laughing anymore.
One of the boys near the window—who'd openly complained about Sallie's sarcasm every other week—shifted in his seat and muttered, "He's not wrong though."
Another girl near the front, arms crossed, nodded. "He and Celeste wiped us all out without breaking sync. Doesn't matter how he acts. They earned it."
"Yeah," someone else chimed in. "You could hate his attitude all day, but the way they handled that our combo? That was surgical."
A few heads nodded across the room.
Fuyumi heard it. All of it. And her fists slowly relaxed.
Someone behind her added, a little more quietly, "We all trained. We practiced. He slept through half of it. Still showed up and delivered."
More silence. Just the hum of the hallway outside and the occasional buzz from the holoscreens.
Fuyumi didn't move. Her pride stung. But even she knew what Sallie had said wasn't wrong. Not completely.
Sallie shifted in his chair without lifting the coat.
"Glad you're all finally catching up," he mumbled from under the fabric.
Another yawn followed.
"Don't worry. We'll carry Section Four to the finals. You can thank us after."
No one clapped. No one smiled.
But no one argued.
They all just let him sleep.
Two hours later—
The world slowly faded back in.
Sallie stirred in his seat, the dull drone of classroom noise replaced by a female voice cutting through the blur.
"—Onii-sama."
His eyes barely cracked open. The first thing he saw: Celeste, arms crossed, Grimoire CAD active on her wrist, staring down at him with the precision of a warhead lock-on.
"You've been sleeping for two straight hours."
Sallie blinked, yawned, sat up slowly.
Celeste didn't wait.
"Our match starts in ten minutes," she said sharply. "Ten. Minutes."
Next to her, Angela stood with her hands behind her back, expression unreadable but eyes already scanning Sallie's sluggish form.
He scratched the back of his head. "Already? Feels like I just blinked."
Celeste didn't move.
"You pissed off the Japanese girl again."
Sallie rolled his neck, cracking his shoulder with a dull pop. "She started it. I was just napping."
Angela spoke up, voice quiet. "You flipped her uniform protocol in a duel, walked into her classroom uninvited, ignored her shouting, and slept through her yelling in two languages."
Sallie grinned. "That's called consistency."
Celeste's eyes narrowed. "You're going to give me a migraine."
"Not during the match," he said, standing slowly. "During the match, I'm focused. Deadly. Laser-sharp."
Angela raised an eyebrow. "You remembered who we're fighting?"
Sallie shrugged on his coat. "Duarte and Velez. Shield and speed. Already built the counter-loadouts last night."
Celeste let out a breath. "Then move."
He stretched his arms once more, cracking his neck.
"Yeah, yeah."
He paused, glanced back at the empty chair.
Then smirked.
"Bet Fuyumi's still mad."
Celeste turned on her heel. "And I still don't care. Get your ass to the prep wing."
Sallie followed, still stretching.
Another day, another fight.
As they exited the classroom, Sallie slung his coat over one shoulder, steps still loose, gait unhurried despite the ticking clock. Celeste walked ahead without waiting, Angela close beside her, already syncing mana readings from her support CAD.
Just before the stairwell doors hissed open, Sallie tilted his head back, muttering:
"Please remind me… the fight's at the practice field, right?"
Celeste didn't look back.
"Yes, Onii-sama. The place with real terrain, no safety nets, and zero tolerance for you crashing into trees again."
Angela added without turning, "They've already set up the field nodes and locked in the mana boundaries. You've got seven minutes."
Sallie sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Good. Just making sure I don't fall asleep in the wrong battlefield."
He followed them out—still yawning, still unfazed—toward the edge of the campus where Round Two waited.
Imperial Duel Arena — Practice Field Sector, 10:54 JST
The open-air field sprawled in organized chaos—tall stone barricades, reinforced walls, mana-soaked terrain zones. No projection overlays. No simulated safety nets. Just raw fieldwork and controlled violence.
Sallie, Celeste, and Angela arrived near the stage platform at the eastern sideline. A few rows of fold-out benches surrounded the combat grid, lined with students, instructors, and observers. Teams from other sections stood scattered around, watching the current match intently.
On the field, Section Three was already deep in it—relying on clean casts and formation discipline. Their frontliner held position near the high cover wall, while their support-type tried to manage a rotational field spell behind a scatter of broken pillars.
Section Six, meanwhile, came in like a sledgehammer.
Monzon and Leyva—massive CADs, full-body mana augmentation rigs, and absolutely no restraint. They pushed with overwhelming force, refusing to give the opponent a second to breathe.
Sallie whistled low. "They're just charging through every cast. Don't even shield it."
Angela crossed her arms. "That's how they win. They take the hits, close the gap, and end it before rhythm matters."
Celeste didn't speak. Her eyes were locked on the field—watching how the terrain shifted, where pressure points were forced, how quickly Section Three's formation frayed.
Section Three's support tried a counter-seal. Didn't even finish the chant. Leyva's mana wave hit like a truck—threw him clean off his feet.
[SIMULATED IMPACT: OUT OF BOUNDS]
Seconds later, Monzon slammed a kinetic burst into the last standing opponent.
[MATCH END – VICTORY: SECTION SIX]
Sallie tilted his head.
"Well. That's our next match if they get through."
Celeste's expression stayed cold. "If we get through."
Angela just murmured, "You'd better not be tired now."
Sallie cracked his knuckles. "Nah. I'm warmed up."
USNA Offshore Base – Quarantine Quarter, 22:47 EST
The room was still, dimly lit by a wall lamp casting soft amber light across sterile floors and pale walls. The hum of distant machinery and rotating air filtration systems murmured just beneath the silence.
Lina stood motionless in front of the small wooden dresser. Her hair was loose, uniform jacket draped over the back of a chair. Barefoot, she stepped forward, the floor cold against her skin.
She reached for the top drawer, fingers hesitating only briefly before sliding it open.
Inside—folded neatly, untouched for months—was the uniform.
The suit of Angie Sirius.
Field armor plates, polished white and blue. Mask rig and lens insert. The old Stars patch. The silent identity that once meant execution without hesitation.
The one she left behind.
She stared at it, unmoving.
Her fingers hovered above the edge of the folded combat vest, brushing the familiar textured fabric. She let out a breath—shaky, quiet, not quite tired, not quite resigned.
"…Back to this again," she murmured.
No one answered.
She didn't move for a long moment. Her eyes lingered, unreadable, not with fear—just weight. Memory. Expectation. Orders that never changed, even when everything else did.
She slowly closed the drawer but didn't lock it. Didn't push it all the way in either.
Then she turned toward the window.
The sky was clear. Stars scattered across black.
Somewhere beyond that horizon, the Empire moved. The world was shifting again.
Lina rested her hand against the cool glass.
"…Do I really have a choice this time?" she whispered.
No answer.
Just the quiet night.
And the sound of distant winds crossing oceans.