The humid night air of Marina Bay clung to the skin like a second layer—dense, inescapable, laced with salt and ozone from the mana-charged security grids strung along the waterfront. Every breath tasted faintly of brine and static. Overhead, the skyline pulsed in shades of manufactured light—Marina Bay Sands gleaming like a crown of glass and steel, the Helix Bridge shimmering faintly as it cradled the bay in architectural light. But beneath the glow, something darker moved.
Singapore—once a neutral trade hub, global and untouchable—now bowed under the weight of foreign power. The Imperial Federal Republic of the Philippines had made its presence unmistakable.
Patrol drones buzzed overhead in ceaseless grids, their red sensors cutting through the neon haze like watchful eyes. Armored infantry moved along the waterfront in tight formation, gauntlet-mounted CADs activated and pulsing with controlled energy. Every step was calculated. Every soldier a statement. Singapore was no longer occupied in name alone. It was a forward base, a throne of stone and light for Emperor Aurelio Mendez III's Southeast Asian ambitions.
And in the shadow of a shuttered hawker stall near the Esplanade's edge, three figures waited—still, silent, unseen.
Operatives from Japan's Ten Master Clans.
They crouched low, tucked behind the rusting frame of a noodle cart abandoned when the border closed. Their mana signatures were muted by layered interference spells, thin veils of camouflage that bent energy instead of light. Not assassins. Not soldiers. Surgical instruments, chosen for their ability to slip through cracks and strike without leaving a ripple.
The mission was not vengeance.
Not yet.
But it had been sparked by flame.
Reina Saegusa's execution had rippled across the world like a thunderclap—broadcast raw and uncensored, her final breath caught in high definition as cadets, civilians, and combatants watched. The message had been clear.
The Clans had answered.
Their directive was simple: infiltrate the IFRP's core in the Philippines. Map the architecture of their mana tech. Uncover the foundation of the Imperial Gate. Expose its reach, its cost, and its limits.
The world wanted justice.
But the Clans?
They wanted truth.
The crowd moved like water around them—fluid, fast, unbothered. Neon signs pulsed above storefronts in saturated reds and blues, casting distorted reflections across rain-slick pavement. Holo-cameras flickered in tourists' hands. Civilians passed through IFRP checkpoints with forced casualness, watched by soldiers in dark combat rigs, CADs powered and primed.
Among them, the three operatives blended seamlessly.
Haruka Itsuka—lean, angular, her black hair tucked under a cap that barely hid the sharpness of her gaze—walked with a civilian's ease. But her fingers tapped a rhythmic beat against the baton at her hip. Her staff CAD, compressed and muted, vibrated with faint amber pulses as it mapped the space around them in micro-tremors. Her eyes didn't need to move. The spell fed her everything.
"Two soldiers, fifty meters left," she murmured, her voice clipped and tight with control. "Gauntlets hot. Drone two hundred up—sensors live. We're clear for now, but we keep moving."
Her hazel eyes darted to Mizuki.
The youngest of the three stood rigid, too rigid, her gauntlet CAD sparking faintly at the edges where the sapphire runes flared brighter than necessary. Her braid swayed against her shoulder with each uneven breath.
"Rein it in, Saegusa. Your mana's spiking."
Mizuki's violet eyes snapped toward her, bright with defiance—but beneath it, pain twisted at the edge of her voice. "I'm fine," she bit out, the word sharp. But the tremor in her throat betrayed her. "Reina's blood is still on their hands. And we're hiding."
She tightened the straps on her jacket as if she could squeeze the grief into silence.
Takeshi Kudou didn't lift his gaze. He was crouched behind a storage crate just off the edge of a shuttered sushi stall, his grimoire CAD resting across one knee, disguised as a sleek tablet. Emerald runes flickered across its screen like living circuits as he worked—wirelessly syncing into the mana grid, triangulating the drone's path with surgical precision.
"Patience, Mizuki," he said without inflection. "Rush this, and we're corpses before we ever reach Luzon."
His fingers danced across the runes.
"The IFRP's got Singapore on lockdown. Mana interference fields. Pulse-net facial recognition. Behavior-based threat modeling. Our extraction window's narrow as hell. If we aren't ghosts by the time we hit the docks, we're not just failing the mission—we're triggering a diplomatic incident."
Haruka exhaled through her nose, not disagreeing. Her eyes stayed on the flow of foot traffic, scanning for anything that didn't belong.
Mizuki muttered something under her breath—too low to hear—but her gauntlet dimmed by a fraction, its mana hum softening. Not surrender. Just restraint. For now.
Takeshi's voice returned, a degree softer. "Reina wouldn't want recklessness. She'd want results."
Mizuki didn't answer, but her jaw clenched. That name—spoken aloud—tightened the air around them like a closing fist.
Haruka stepped forward, her baton brushing her thigh again.
Near the southern cargo line, a checkpoint buzzed with static as freight drones hovered in place, scanning each passing crate with flickering glyph lenses. Towering spotlights bathed the scene in cold white light, throwing long shadows across the slick tarmac. The air stank of ozone and iron.
IFRP guards—men and women in their mid-twenties, all clad in dark tactical synth-weave—stood watch over the distribution site with unnerving stillness. Their faces were marked by the kind of expressionless focus that only came from routine, drilled over and over into muscle and breath.
Slung over their shoulders or cradled in trained grips were the latest standard-issue IFRP infantry weapons: sleek, angular mana-channeling rifles, their dark alloy frames embedded with glyph-circuit nodes and compression rails along the stock and barrel. The design was brutalist and efficient—no decorative flourishes, just a weapon engineered to modulate velocity, mana burst strength, and particle spin without the need for traditional CAD stabilization.
The chamber mechanisms pulsed faint red with each system check, mana cores syncing automatically to their operators' pulse patterns. Not every soldier held their weapon actively, but none were unready. Even the slightest twitch from the guard at the far end of the bay caused the others to subtly recalibrate their stance—fingertips brushing along the trigger glyphs, posture shifting into readiness.
One of the female officers, barely older than twenty-five, adjusted her HUD visor and gestured toward the incoming batch of mana-stabilized crates with a flick of her fingers. Her voice, amplified by her collar's vocoder, was clipped and emotionless.
"Stabilize the heat signature. If this cache leaks again, I'll authorize a cold eject."
No one questioned her.
This wasn't a drill.
This was distribution.
Takeshi's fingers moved in a blur over his tablet-like grimoire, injecting a looping feed into the IFRP drone's visual stream: three tourists in cheap holoshirts, not three high-priority mages. The drone's red sensor blinked once, recalibrated, then veered away without a second pass.
Haruka tapped her collapsed staff lightly against the dock, micro-vibrations mapping the terrain ahead. Her voice came low, tight with practiced calm. "Freighter's docked at Berth Seven, loading KS-77 Promethean Shells and Orion-Type Refractives. Four guards—two carrying lance-format CADs. Mana grid's hot, but there's a thirty-second patrol blindspot. We move during the cycle."
Mizuki's gauntlet pulsed faint sapphire. Her voice cut in, tense and sharp. "Orion Refractives. That's New Soviet Union branding. Reina flagged those in her last recon before…" She stopped, her fists clenching tight. "They're smuggling prototype tech through the rifles, aren't they?"
Takeshi glanced up, eyes unreadable behind his rimless glasses. "Highly likely. Reina's final logs mentioned an NSU distribution chain—new-generation CADs hidden inside conventional weapon crates. IFRP's using the Games as cover to move high-tier tech. We confirm in Manila." He adjusted his frames with clinical precision. "Her intel brought us here. Don't let her death distort the mission."
Mizuki's jaw tightened, but her voice came steadier. "I won't. We get to the Philippines. We burn the rot out from the inside."
Haruka let out a quiet snort, the brim of her cap casting a shadow over a wry smirk. "Burn later, kid. Sneak now." Her staff hummed softly—new tremors pinging in her mind. "Boots. Hundred meters. Patrol closing fast."
Takeshi didn't need prompting. His grimoire flared in response, emerald runes forming a tight spiral as illusion magic layered over them in a single seamless pulse. To the world, they became dockhands in gray jumpsuits, hauling crates, heads down, just another part of the midnight shift.
Two IFRP soldiers rounded the corner, CAD gauntlets glowing with indigo scan protocols. One paused. His visor gleamed as he swept the area. Takeshi's illusion held. Their mana readings blended into the background noise—low, civilian, unremarkable. After a breathless pause, the soldiers moved on, boots clacking against steel as their outlines vanished into the haze.
"Too close," Haruka muttered, staff held still. "Their mana grids are tighter than expected. Singapore's become a choke point."
Mizuki watched the soldiers vanish with burning eyes. "Mendez's empire is rotting from the core," she whispered. "Reina saw it—smuggling, corruption, the Gate. We expose it, and the Clans can cut it down piece by piece."
Takeshi snapped his grimoire shut, the runes fading like dying stars. "Exposure's not enough," he said flatly. "The Imperial Gate's not just tech. It's a strategic-class mana nexus. If Mendez stabilizes it, he could broadcast CAD boosts across Southeast Asia—maybe globally. Reina's death was a signal: cross the IFRP, and you disappear."
Haruka's hazel eyes gleamed in the low light. "Then we don't cross them. We slide under. Berth Seven's our window. Freighter lifts at 0300. We stow away, blend with the crew. Touch down in Manila by dawn. After that—new IDs, false credentials, neutral press covers. We enter the Games from the inside. Where the CADs are out in the open."
She looked up, violet eyes sharp.
"If that CAD's linked to ManaTech or the Gate—we start with them."
They reached the checkpoint just as the overhead klaxons cycled to a lower tone, signaling the start of the next inspection wave. The walkway narrowed into a controlled corridor of steel partitions and arcane barriers, each one humming with faint mana resonance. Overhead, spotlights shifted in rhythmic patterns, scanning every figure that passed through.
The air was thick with sweat and silence.
Ahead of them, a line of Singaporean citizens stood quietly, hands tucked into coat pockets or gripping the edges of worn satchels. The guards were meticulous—eyes sharp behind dark visors, their CADs powered and ready, slung low across their backs or resting with casual menace against their hips. Each citizen was pulled aside one by one. No questions asked. Just a wordless hand extended, expecting documents.
The guards examined each paper with mechanical efficiency—scrutinizing mana seals, verification glyphs, biometric resonance tags. A flick of the wrist. A scan. Then a nod. Or a pause. Or a frown.
The wrong look could end your night.
The wrong glyph could end your life.
The operatives held their breath, letting the illusion layer cast by Takeshi do its work. Their false IDs were embedded in the illusion—not just visual overlays, but fabricated heat signatures, falsified mana traces, emotional dampeners. They felt like civilians. That was the trick.
From just ahead in the line, the IFRP guards' voices drifted back—clipped and sharp.
"All right, sir. Step forward."
"Papers."
"Don't speak unless spoken to."
Their accents were varied, but the language was the same—English. Clear, mandatory, standardized. It had become the enforced tongue across every occupied nation, the linguistic spine of the IFRP's control. From Jakarta to Saigon to Singapore, every checkpoint echoed with the same voice: trained, accent-neutral, universal.
Haruka's fingers twitched once on her staff, her sensory spell mapping the slight irregularities in the floor beneath them—likely where shield emitters were buried. Mizuki stood unnaturally still, the flicker in her gauntlet suppressed entirely, her mana field sheathed tight around her body. Takeshi's illusion held, stable, every detail calibrated.
Just ahead, a man was stopped—his entry seal two years out of date. The guards didn't raise their voices. They didn't need to. Two CADs lit with cold-blue energy, and the man was escorted off to the side, disappearing through a reinforced door.
No one asked where he was going.
No one ever did.
The line moved forward.
The operatives followed.
And the Empire's eye blinked—once.
Then passed them over.
Floodlights bathed the checkpoint in sterile white, slicing through the haze. IFRP soldiers stood in obsidian armor, rifles slung and gauntlet CADs powered, barking clipped orders in precise, heavily-accented English—the mandated tongue of every occupied zone. KS-77s were visible at every gate: sleek mana-weapon hybrids forged for suppressive control, not combat spectacle. Drones buzzed overhead, red optics slicing through the darkness, sweeping the crowd that surged with anticipation. School banners flapped like battle flags, their crests barely concealing the nationalistic fervor building around the 2v2 Duels.
A heartbeat beneath the surface, the Games churned as spectacle.
But the Empire's true war was elsewhere.
In a shadowed alcove beyond the main flow of the crowd, one of the Ten Master Clans operatives adjusted their earpiece beneath the illusion-cloak, the faint outline of sapphire runes dull against their collapsed staff CAD. Their badge gleamed just enough to pass—Malaysian trade attaché, ASEAN credentialed, unaffiliated, invisible in the right kind of way.
Reina Saegusa's execution still burned behind their eyes, unforgotten and unburied. They didn't have time for grief. Only purpose.
A few meters ahead, Tan Wei Sheng, the Singaporean delegate, had just cleared the gate. His credentials held. His presence? Still off. His mana signature was faint, too faint—traced low enough to register, but shaped like someone trying to seem neutral. A trace of tech. Maybe a CAD fragment. Maybe something worse.
The operative pressed two fingers to their collar, subvocalizing in clipped Japanese. The words crackled through their encrypted channel, bent through three layers of mana masking and anti-drone jamming before bouncing off a tight-range relay tuned to Chiba.
"Checkpoint cleared. Singaporean delegate Tan Wei Sheng verified as ASEAN trade envoy. Papers clean. Attaché shows faint mana trace—likely concealed CAD or compressed tech. Not flagged by IFRP. No declared faction. No Stars detected. IFRP grid is tight—English-only enforcement, drones cycling every 9.3 seconds. Smuggler presence unconfirmed. Standing by."
The reply came seconds later, the voice unmistakable.
Katsuto Juumonji.
Calm. Cold. Heavy with command.
"Do not engage. Avoid detection. Prioritize observation of the emperor's daughter and her CAD function. Watch for Stars deployment patterns. Confirm any unusual CAD interface activity—especially unregistered forms. Extraction route remains Manila. Do not be seen."
There was no hesitation. No emotion. Just absolute clarity.
The operative gave a subtle nod to empty air, their tinted lenses catching the arena's distant flare as the latest match began, muffled by thousands of cheering voices.
"Understood. Infiltrating route to the Philippines now."
And just like that, they slipped into the tide of bodies—another face in the crowd, a ghost beneath the Empire's gaze, moving toward the Games not as a spectator…
…but as the first scalpel in a war of silence.
The scent of seawater and ozone braided itself into the night air like the ghosts of old Singapore, clinging to skin and memory alike. Marina Bay was no longer the city's soul; it was a siege zone, a checkpoint masquerading as commerce. Since the occupation, English had become the only legal voice, echoing from loudspeakers, signage, and mouths that once held half a dozen dialects.
The Ten Master Clans moved like rumors—silent, deliberate, invisible.
Their target: the freighter *Vega Horizon*, docked at Berth 7.
---
A ship that size was no coincidence. Chartered under a false ASEAN consortium, flagged through dummy corporations in Penang and Jakarta, the *Vega Horizon* was rumored to transport industrial CAD components to Manila under imperial seal. But Reina Saegusa's last transmission had revealed otherwise: the ship moved more than components. It moved ManaTech prototypes. Unregistered CADs. Experimental amplifiers. Weapons too volatile for testing in the open—too precious to risk in open battle.
And now, under the cover of the Games, it would carry them straight to the Philippines.
Takeshi Kudou adjusted his rimless glasses, crouched behind a rust-stained crate of mechanical parts half a meter from the customs checkpoint. His grimoire CAD, disguised as a maintenance tablet, was clutched to his chest like any dock worker's logpad. But unlike the others in this part of the yard, his tool pulsed with emerald mana threads barely visible to the naked eye.
"Two more guards posted since last ping," Haruka Itsuka murmured, flattening beside him. Her baton-staff CAD remained collapsed at her hip, runes dim. Sweat trickled down her jawline from under her cap. "Rotating in threes. Forty-five second delay between ID check and bag scan. We don't speak English, we don't pass."
Mizuki Saegusa pressed a gloved hand against the back of her neck, gauntlet CAD flickering like a low-burning coal. "Then we don't speak. We act."
Haruka arched a brow. "You planning on knocking out everyone from here to customs?"
"No," Mizuki said, her violet eyes hardened by weeks of grief and the weight of her cousin's death. "But someone's going to blink. And it won't be us."
Takeshi exhaled slowly. "If we lose the freighter, we lose a clean way into Manila. We go loud, we burn the op."
A drone buzzed past above, its searchlights skimming the edge of the water like a cold finger tracing veins. The holographic warning signs flickered at regular intervals: *AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. IDENTIFICATION IN ENGLISH.*
"The speech requirement is the real barrier," Takeshi muttered. "No local dialects. No Japanese. Even their illusion filters are audio-sensitive."
Haruka's hazel eyes narrowed. "Then we hijack someone who speaks it."
The checkpoint had two bottlenecks: visual ID and language verification. The first could be spoofed, thanks to Takeshi's grimoire. The second—imposed by the IFRP's xenophobic paranoia—required vocal confirmation in English for entry onto imperial freighters.
Their window was closing. Dock workers were moving crates now, pushing anti-grav lifts loaded with high-security sealed cargo toward the ship's rear bay. One of the workers—a young woman with an Imperial Logistics patch and an old tech implant behind her right ear—paused near a side crate. Her earpiece buzzed faintly.
"Shift change in ten," she muttered into her comm. "Rerouting batch eleven to upper cargo."
Mizuki's gauntlet lit faintly. "That one. She's local. Her mana is faint, but present. She's had CAD training."
Takeshi nodded. "She's also our way in."
"So we're mugging her?" Haruka asked, not even pretending to sound surprised.
"We're borrowing her identity. Just long enough to record her voice. Then I modulate the audio thread and mimic it for illusion pass-through."
They followed the worker through the auxiliary corridor between Berth 6 and 7, an older part of the dock retrofitted with IFRP security. Haruka moved like a shadow—her CAD active just enough to deaden sound underfoot, muting every heelstep.
The worker ducked behind a storage tank, fumbling for a vape pen. Haruka didn't hesitate.
A faint click. A shimmer of air. A single burst of kinetic silence.
The woman slumped to the floor.
Mizuki caught her before she hit the ground. "Alive. Unconscious. CAD storage implant still intact."
Takeshi moved in, his fingers hovering over the woman's throat, syncing to her voice signature with his grimoire CAD. Mana threads spun into sound—her voice, tone, cadence, and modulation compressed into an illusion package.
"Package set. Give me ten seconds."
His glasses reflected a pulsing emerald glyph as the system finalized.
Back at the gate, the guards were scanning one worker after another. The Ten Master Clans stepped forward—now perfectly cloaked in visual illusion, their bodies bearing the holographic outlines of their new disguises.
Takeshi stepped forward first, shoulders slouched just right, head lowered.
"State name and cargo ID," barked the guard.
Takeshi answered, using the modulated voice of the dock worker. "Elena Cruz. Batch eleven. Upper cargo transfer."
The guard squinted, watching the scanner flicker green. A beat passed.
"Proceed."
Haruka and Mizuki followed. They didn't speak. They didn't have to. One nod from the first guard, a wave from the second, and the trio walked down the gangway ramp into the *Vega Horizon*.
---
Inside, the freighter smelled of oil, mana residue, and something older—fear, maybe. A tension soaked into the bulkheads, humming through the reinforced steel like the low bass of a funeral drum.
The corridor lights flickered. Haruka's staff tapped softly.
"Five mana signatures ahead," she said. "Two IFRP enforcers. Three crew. No active CADs."
Mizuki's gauntlet gleamed. "We need the control manifest. And the crate logs."
Takeshi opened his grimoire, runes spinning. "I'll breach the local net. This thing's got old Chinese systems under the hood. I can override if I get close enough to the core."
They moved like ghosts.
Behind them, the checkpoint faded into the storm of dock activity. Ahead of them: Manila, the Arena, the emperor's daughter, and the secrets Reina Saegusa died to expose.
The *Vega Horizon* rumbled beneath their feet.
They were in.
Absolutely! Here's your scene with the dialogue separated out for clarity and ease of editing. I've preserved all the rich sensory detail and emotional depth you've built:
---
The Vega Horizon's cargo hold hummed with a low, metallic pulse, its dim overheads flickering like dying stars. Crates loomed in tight stacks, their mana-sealed edges glowing faintly red, casting jagged shadows across the scuffed steel floor. The air was thick with oil and ozone, each breath sharp with the tang of recycled air and latent magic.
Haruka Itsuka crouched behind a crate marked with IFRP glyphs, her cap pulled low, hazel eyes glinting as they scanned the corridor. Mizuki Saegusa pressed against the opposite bulkhead, her braid swaying slightly, gauntlet CAD dim but twitching with sapphire sparks. Takeshi Kudou knelt between them, his grimoire CAD—still disguised as a tablet—casting emerald flickers across his glasses as he synced with the ship's net.
Haruka's shoulders eased, her breath slipping out in a quiet hiss. Her collapsed staff CAD tapped once against her thigh, its amber runes barely pulsing. She tilted her head, voice a low murmur.
"That was too damn close. English-only checkpoint? Mendez's paranoia is next-level."
Mizuki's violet eyes flicked to her, sharp and restless, her gloved fingers flexing around her gauntlet.
"If they'd asked me to say one more word, I'd have choked. My English is rusty—barely got through 'cargo transfer.'"
Her voice cracked, a mix of relief and lingering panic, her braid brushing her shoulder as she leaned back against the cold steel.
"Reina could've talked circles around them. She'd have laughed this off."
Takeshi didn't look up, his fingers still dancing over the grimoire's runes, hijacking the freighter's manifest log. His voice was flat, almost mechanical.
"We're alive. That's what matters. Reina didn't die so we could trip over a language barrier."
The emerald glow flared briefly, then dimmed as he locked the hack.
"Ship's logs confirm: Orion Refractives, KS-77 shells, and something unlabeled—ManaTech crates, high-security seals. We're on the right track."
Haruka snorted softly, her cap's brim casting a shadow over her smirk.
"Alive, sure, but I could feel that guard's eyes boring into me. One wrong syllable, and we're in a cell—or worse."
She shifted, her staff's micro-vibrations pinging the hold's layout, mapping a path to the crew quarters.
"If we'd gone loud, this op would've been ash before we hit Manila."
Mizuki's jaw tightened, her gauntlet sparking faintly as her mana flared, then steadied.
"I wanted to. When that drone lingered? I was ready to blast it and run."
Her voice dropped, softer, raw.
"Reina's face keeps flashing in my head. They broadcast her like a trophy. If they'd caught us…"
She trailed off, her free hand clenching into a fist, knuckles pale against the bulkhead.
Takeshi snapped his grimoire shut, the runes fading like a dying pulse. He adjusted his glasses, his gaze cold but steady, meeting Mizuki's.
"They didn't. And they won't. We stay low, we blend. You hold it together, Saegusa, or her death means nothing."
His tone softened, just a fraction.
"We're ghosts now. Manila's where we haunt."
Haruka nodded, her staff's amber glow dimming as she stood, her movements fluid but cautious.
"Ghosts don't talk, Mizuki. We keep it tight, slip into the Games' chaos. No heroics. Not yet."
Her eyes flicked to the corridor's end, where a faint clank echoed—boots, maybe, or a crate shifting.
"Crew's stirring. We move to the lower hold, stow away there. Takeshi, you got our covers ready?"
Takeshi's lips twitched, not quite a smile.
"Press badges. ASEAN tech correspondents. Mana signatures scrubbed. We'll pass for spectators by dawn."
He slipped the grimoire into his jacket, its disguise seamless.
"But if we hit another English check in Manila, practice your lines. Mendez's goons don't miss a beat."
Mizuki exhaled, her gauntlet's sapphire runes fading as she forced her mana to settle.
"I'll manage. But if I see one of those soldiers smirk like they did on that broadcast…"
Her voice trembled, then hardened.
"I'll make them regret it."
Haruka's smirk returned, sharp and fleeting.
"Save it for the Gate, kid. Let's not get caught before we burn their empire down."
She gestured toward the hold's shadowed depths, her staff ready.
"Move. We're not safe yet."
The trio slipped deeper into the freighter's belly, their steps silent, the weight of Reina's memory a blade at their backs, urging them toward Manila's neon crucible.
---
The Mall of Asia Arena's hallway thrummed with a feverish pulse, neon lights casting jagged streaks across polished steel walls. The distant roar of the Imperial SEA Games swelled like a heartbeat, the pit's entrance glowing ahead like a neon maw hungry for the next Duel.
Sallie Mae Salcedo sauntered forward, his calibrator spinning between deft fingers, a lazy grin curling his lips. His briefcase CAD hung loose over his shoulder, green runes pulsing faintly, as if savoring the Second High rout still buzzing on every cadet's tongue.
Celeste Marie Salcedo strode beside him, her grimoire CAD holstered at her thigh, silver sigils glinting with each measured step. Her eyes flicked to the pit, mind already mapping counters for Seventh High's firestorm.
"Yo, sis, you ready to douse Diliman's princess?" His grin widened as he spun the calibrator faster.
"Andrea's gonna come out swinging after I roasted her at the mall."
His gaze darted to the corridor's end, where the pit's light pulsed, but a flicker of defiance sharpened his eyes.
Her hand brushed her grimoire's holster as she shot him a sidelong glare.
"Onii-sama, your mouth's gonna get us burned—literally."
Her voice was sharp, cutting through the hallway's hum.
"Taunting her about her family's deals was reckless. She's not just fighting for Pinnacle; she's fighting to bury you."
A flicker of amusement tugged at her lips, their locker room rift buried under the Duel's weight, but her posture stayed taut, ready.
He chuckled, adjusting his briefcase CAD as it hummed faintly.
"Smart? I'm already aware of that."
His grin sharpened.
"She wants to play royalty? No one knows."
The hallway curved, spilling into a wider concourse alive with cadets, vendors hawking glowing SparkVita cans, and drones weaving through the air. The crowd parted instinctively for the Salcedos, whispers trailing like smoke—"That's the briefcase guy!" "Celeste's tethers are unreal!"—their legend growing.
But the air thickened, heavy and hot, as two figures emerged from a side corridor, their silhouettes framed by the pit's distant glow.
Andrea Cervantes Fernandez, Seventh High's Tamaraw Inferno, stood like a coiled flame, amber eyes blazing beneath her visor. Her Tome of Embers Grimoire CAD hung open at her hip, crimson runes pulsing like embers ready to ignite. Her Mana Gauntlets crackled faintly, amplifying her fire affinity, their glow casting stark shadows across her crimson-and-maroon uniform.
Beside her, Javier Castillo gripped his lance CAD, azure sapphire runes humming with kinetic force, his lean frame taut but steady, a cool blade to Andrea's wildfire. The Fernandez clan's weight—Metro Manila's mage royalty—hung over them like a crown, but Andrea's gaze was pure vendetta, locked on Sallie.
"Well, well. If it isn't Tondo's loudmouth and his babysitter."
Her voice was low and venomous, cutting through the concourse's din.
"Still yapping about my family, Salcedo? Or are you saving your breath for when I burn that smug grin off your face?"
Her gauntlets flared briefly, a spark of mana licking the air, the crowd hushing as heads turned.
Sallie's calibrator froze mid-spin. His grin didn't falter, but his eyes hardened, locking onto Andrea's. He stepped forward, his voice loud enough for the onlookers to catch every word.
"Tondo? Nah, princess, I'm from San Jose, Batangas. Your memory's as idiotic as your aim if you think I'm some Tondo street kid."
He laughed, sharp and biting, his briefcase CAD swinging as he gestured at her.
"Laughable, honestly. You're swinging at shadows, Fernandez, and missing bad."
Andrea's eyes flared, her gauntlets sparking brighter, her lips curling into a snarl.
"Keep laughing, Salcedo. That mouth of yours is gonna be choking on my flames in ten minutes."
She stepped closer, her Tome of Embers' runes pulsing faster, heat rippling the air.
"You think digging up dirt on my family makes you clever? I'll show you what royalty does to pests."
Celeste's hand hovered over her grimoire, her voice slicing through the tension, cold and steady.
"Save it for the pit, Alvarez."
Her eyes flicked to Javier, noting his lance's hum, then back to Andrea. "You're wasting mana on a tantrum. We'll settle this where it counts."
Her silver sigils glinted, her tethers ready to snap if needed.
Javier's smirk was faint, his lance CAD steady, his voice low but carrying.
"Big words, Salcedo. Let's see if your tethers can handle kinetic fire. You're not Second High's pushovers."
His grin sharpened, calibrator still spinning as he stepped closer, voice rich with swagger.
"La Salle won it last year by a fluke, Castillo. A lucky counter, one sloppy mistake, and they slipped through the bracket like grease on tile."
He leaned just enough to catch Andrea's glare, eyes glittering.
"But this time? Nah. We already know what to do at that point."
He tapped his briefcase CAD with a knuckle—twice, deliberate, confident. Its green runes pulsed like a heartbeat in sync with the arena's roar.
"This year, there's no stumble. No fluke. Just a clean dismantling—yours. You brought the fire, Andrea, but we've got the storm system queued."
Her jaw clenched, amber mana flickering down her arms. The crowd around them tensed, the very air crackling with heat and anticipation.
"You think talking makes you dangerous? We watched your Second High duel. You were flailing until Celeste tethered the field tight. You're just flash, Salcedo."
Celeste's voice like steel drawn under pressure, cool and unshaken.
"And yet here you are. Rattled before we've even crossed the threshold."
She stepped forward slightly, her silver sigils blooming to life along her gloves.
"You should've saved your anger for the countdown. It's all wasted out here."
Lance CAD shifting subtly as he angled his body, like a chessmaster moving into position.
"Then maybe we should stop wasting time."
The hallway vibrated with the pulse of the arena countdown—ten seconds until the next Duel. Drones angled toward the four cadets, broadcasting the tension like perfume before blood.
His eyes never left Andrea's, but his smirk dropped into something colder, something sharp.
"You're not stepping into that pit with pride. You're stepping in with baggage. Let's see if your legacy burns brighter than your fear."
Andrea didn't reply. Her gauntlets hissed with pressure, mana condensing around her fists like coals fed air. Behind her visor, her eyes were fire incarnate.
The final chime sounded.
"Duelers, report to the pit. Cadets, prepare for deployment."
"Let's crack their crown, sis."
Celeste nodding "Make it clean."
___
The crowd's roars ricocheted, a living beast fueled by the Imperial SEA Games' second round. Sixth High's illusionists—once UST's pride—had just shattered Fifth High's shield-breakers, their victory over the former UE flashing on megascreens in bursts of mana and cunning.
Now, the pit's urban maze of twisted rebar, scorched concrete, and flickering holograms awaited Third High's Trixie Andalucia Saavedra, the Tamaraw Spear, and Mateo Vargas, whose lance and gauntlet CADs had carved through First High's barriers like a blade through silk. The air crackled with ozone, mana grids humming, ready to ignite.
In the Fourth High bleachers, blue-and-red scarves whipped like battle flags, cadets chanting "Sal-ce-do! Sal-ce-do!" for their siblings, still buzzing from their Seventh High rout.
Angela Castillo perched on her seat's edge, her blue-and-red uniform glinting under the spotlights, red eyes wide as she scanned the pit. Her fingers clutched a crumpled SparkVita can, its faint glow fading, her cheerleader's energy barely contained.
But a rustle beside her snapped her head around, her breath catching like a snagged thread.
Three figures settled into the seats next to her, their movements too smooth, too deliberate.
Angela's gaze locked on the woman in the center—blonde twin-tails, sky-blue eyes sharp as a blade's edge, a bracelet CAD humming faintly at her wrist.
Angela whispering "No way. Angie Sirius? Here?"
Her fingers fumbled the SparkVita can, nearly dropping it as she leaned closer, her cheerleader's poise crumbling.
"Easy, kid. You're staring like you saw a ghost."
She nudged Angelina, her gauntlet shifting slightly under her jacket.
"Lina, meet Angela Castillo. Fourth High's loudest cheerleader. Probably knows every cadet's stats by heart."
"Angela, huh?"
Her voice was calm, but carried a Lieutenant's edge, her Brionac bracelet glinting as she leaned back.
"Didn't expect a fanclub in the bleachers. You're with the Salcedos' crew, right?"
Her gaze darted to the pit, where Trixie's lance CAD gleamed, then back to Angela.
"What's the read on Third High? That spear's no joke."
"You're Angie Sirius! I mean—Major Shields! I've watched your USNA highlight reels—Heavy Metal Burst is insane!"
Angela caught herself, cheeks flushing, and straightened, clutching her can tighter.
"Uh, Third High—Trixie Saavedra and Mateo Vargas. She's a beast with that lance CAD, golden runes, piercing spells that shred barriers. Mateo's disruption pulses mess with mana flow, lag your casts. Their sync's, like, 91.2%. They took down First High clean."
Her eyes flicked to the pit, where Trixie's silhouette moved through the maze, lance flashing.
"Sixth High's illusions are tricky, but Trixie's relentless."
Amon chuckling "Kid's got a playbook in her head. You're practically a scout, Angela. Ever think of trading pom-poms for a CAD?"
He leaned forward, dreadlocks brushing his shoulders, gaze catching a drone's red sensor sweep overhead.
"What's the vibe on the Salcedos? They as cocky as they look?"
Angela grinning "Sallie and Celeste? Cocky's just Sallie's face's default setting. His briefcase CAD's a monster—morphs into anything, copies spells, like he pulled it from a game. Celeste's grimoire tethers lock you down, surgical. They smoked Seventh High's fire girl, Andrea, like it was nothing."
She hesitated, glancing at Angelina.
"But… there's buzz about Sallie's mall stunt. He called out Andrea's family for shady mana tech deals. Got her riled. People are saying he's got dirt on someone big. Maybe even ManaTech."
Cassandra voice sharpening "Dirt on ManaTech?"
Her eyes narrowed as she exchanged a glance with Angelina.
Cassandra continued "That's bold, even for a loudmouth like Salcedo. What'd he say, exactly?"
Angela nervously replied "Just… stuff at the mall. Said the Fernandez clan's skimming IFRP contracts, moving tech off-books. Bragged he had proof from Tondo dives and a Fourth High techie. I thought he was just flexing, but Andrea looked ready to torch him."
Her eyes flicked to the pit, where Sixth High's illusions shimmered, then back to the operatives.
Angelina whispering, serious "If it's true, he's playing with fire."
Her eyes scanned the bleachers, catching a flicker of movement—IFRP guards, gauntlets glowing, patrolling the aisles.
Angelina continued "ManaTech's tied to the Games' gear. If Sallie's got leaks, that's… interesting."
She leaned closer to Angela, tone soft but firm.
"Keep that to yourself, Angela. Loose talk gets people burned."
Angela quickly, nodding "Got it, Major. My lips are sealed."
She mimed zipping her mouth, but her gaze darted to the pit, where Trixie's lance struck, a golden shockwave cracking a Sixth High illusion.
Angela continued "Trixie's gonna be trouble for whoever's next. You guys… you're not just here for the show, are you?"
Amon grinning, eyes sharp "Just fans, kid. Loving the chaos."
He leaned back, his lance CAD's glow dimming further, blending with the crowd's flicker.
"But yeah, That 3rd high lance girl is a problem. Bet she's got her eyes on the Salcedos already."
"Chaos is right. This whole place is a powder keg. Sallie's stirring it, and we're stuck babysitting the flames."
Her eyes flicked to Angelina, a silent question hanging between them.
"Actually… you guys have fought them before. The Salcedo siblings. Back in the Fourth High qualifiers. Section One."
Cassandra's smirk faded. Angelina stilled. Even Amon's lazy grin twitched.
Angela continued "You were winning. I was in the stands. Sallie and Celeste were on the ropes—Celeste's tether range was getting cut off by your spell compression field, and Sallie kept burning through CAD forms trying to break Amon's angle control. You had them. Until…"
Her voice dropped further, eyes shining with both fear and awe.
"Until Sallie recognized one of your spells. Something in him just… changed."
Amon flatly said "Stars Directive: Echo Collapse Variant."
Cassandra's jaw clenched, her gaze distant now, pulled into the memory.
"That spell was never supposed to be seen outside the Stars' internal tests. How the hell did he recognize it?"
Angela softly answered "He didn't just recognize it. It triggered him. Next thing we knew, he stopped flinching. Just—locked eyes with Lina, muttered something, then that briefcase of his started doing switcheroos like it was alive."
"Yeah. That case. The one that bends on thought commands and manual triggers. Shifts like a mimic."
"And then the bow—"
Cassandra interrupting "Don't remind me."
"He formed a bow, like something out of a myth. Pulled energy into it like a gravity well, shaped a spectral arrow, and fired—at all of you. It didn't hit, but the impact blew every one of you back. Lina shielded you. Celeste tethered a delay rune on the arrow. And Sallie…"
She paused, voice hushed, as if saying it aloud would invite trouble.
"—he just smiled. Like he was finally having fun."
Amon shifted in his seat, the crowd's cheering fading beneath the buzz building between the operatives.
"His body healed during the fight. Ripped muscle from a mana blade, gone in seconds. Like Japan's Number One."
Cassandra grimmed "Regrowth under pressure. High-speed cellular magic. Not tech-based. Pure cast."
Angelina finally speaking
"We thought it was a fluke. A one-off. But if he recognized an internal Stars spell and has that, then he's not just mimicking Japan's Strategic-Class specs."
Her sky-blue eyes locked onto the pit, watching the battle unfold.
Angelina continued "He's evolving. Fast."
"He's hiding something. Both of them are. Everyone thought Fourth High was just scrappy and over-prepared. But if you three couldn't pin them down back then…"
"Then we're not the ones watching anymore."
Amon exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose as the drone cameras zipped past.
Angelina icy and pouty "I told you two to keep a low profile. We weren't even supposed to go full CAD during that round. And look what you got us into—losing to a pair of high schoolers from Manila."
She didn't yell. She didn't need to. The heat in her voice was enough to melt through pride and ego alike. Her twin-tails bounced slightly as she leaned forward, eyes hard and brilliant like sky-forged steel.
"You couldn't hold back, could you? One flashy cast and we end up as footnotes in their highlight reel."
Amon scratched the back of his neck, the tension around his eyes betraying his usual chill.
"Yeah… not our brightest moment, Lina."
Cassandra sighed, her posture stiff but contrite, her gaze fixed on the pit below as if watching Trixie's lance might spare her from Angelina's stare.
"Got cocky. Thought we could test them a bit—see what they had. Didn't expect the briefcase kid to evolve mid-match. That arrow? That was no mimic trick. That was battlefield instinct."
"And you two let him get that far."
She uncrossed her arms slowly, bracelet CAD humming once in warning before it faded. Her expression softened only slightly—disappointment replacing anger.
"Do you have any idea how bad it looks when three USNA Stars get played in a qualifier? They're not supposed to know who we are. Now they've got a reel, a pattern, and a grudge."
Silence lingered. Amon looked over at Cassandra. Cassandra glanced at the mana grid in the pit. Neither spoke.
"We messed up. You're right."
Cassandra said "We'll handle it. Quietly this time."
Angelina let out a breath, lips parting as she finally allowed the knot in her jaw to loosen. Her pout lingered, but her voice returned to its calm, surgical rhythm.
"Good. Because if Sallie Salcedo really has Strategic-Class mimicry and ties to anti-ManaTech chatter, this isn't just about pride anymore."
Amon leaned forward, elbows on his knees, expression shadowed beneath the arena lights. Cassandra sat motionless beside him, her arms folded, lips a tight line, but her eyes were unfocused—locked somewhere between the present and that memory.
"You remember what he said to us right after that match?"
Cassandra didn't answer right away. Her fingers curled against her sleeves.
"Yeah. I remember."
Angela sat between them, wide-eyed but silent now, sensing the shift. Angelina didn't speak either, though her sky-blue gaze never left Sallie's name flashing on the megascreen.
Amon soft, bitter "He looked at us like he'd been waiting years to be challenged. Like he wasn't just happy we were strong—he was relieved."
Cassandra tight "He said we were real. That finally—finally—he'd found someone worth turning off the brakes for."
"And then he said something else."
He turned his head slightly, voice lowering, his tone heavy.
Amon continued "He said: 'Tatsuya Shiba's not a goal. He's a checkpoint. I'm not here to become him. I'm here to beat him. Because if we don't have someone better, we'll lose the next war before it starts.'"
Angela inhaled sharply, but neither of them looked at her.
"And the way he said it? It wasn't some fanboy rant. He meant it. Like he'd seen something we hadn't. Like he knew what that war was going to look like."
Angelina's lips parted slightly, a faint exhale. She finally spoke, calm but edged with gravity.
"And now he's fielding Strategic-Class Regrowth. No rituals. No enchantment protocols. No chant delay."
"And no one's reporting it. No flag. No scout report. Nothing."
"Because who the hell is going to believe that a high schooler from Batangas is pulling Shiba-class abilities mid-match with a smirk and a briefcase?"
Angela quietly said "I did. I saw it."
Cassandra finally turned her gaze toward her, not unkindly—but sharply.
"Yeah. You and everyone in Section Four."
There was a long pause as the arena lit up with a flare of mana from the ongoing match, but none of them looked down. Their thoughts were too far behind.
"If Sallie's that close to Strategic-Class territory, it's not just the Games at risk."
Amon grimly replied "No. It's the doctrine. The balance. Everyone's looking at the SEA Games like it's the next big entertainment stage. But if he's serious—if he really meant what he said back then..."
Cassandra finishing it "Then he's not here for medals. He's here to prove that Southeast Asia can field monsters too."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was expectant. Like the moment before a spell detonated. Or a war started.
Angelina muttering, more to herself "I'll need to contact HQ. Quietly. If there's even a sliver of Yotsuba-tier mana structuring in his casting style, we need it documented. Catalogued. Compared. Before someone else does."
Angela finally found her voice again, hesitant.
"So... he really is trying to reach Tatsuya?"
Amon dryly, but not unkind "Kid, he's not just trying to reach him."
Cassandra firm but silent "He wants to eclipse him."
---
The Mall of Asia Arena thrummed under its neon dome, Manila's starless sky pressing against the steel rafters. The crowd's roars swelled like a tidal wave, their fervor for the Imperial SEA Games' second round a living pulse.
The pit below—a jagged maze of scorched concrete, twisted rebar, and flickering mana grids—glimmered with latent energy, primed for the next clash. Overhead, megascreens flared with replays of Sixth High's illusionists dismantling Fifth High, while Third High's Trixie Saavedra and Mateo Vargas warmed up in the wings, their lance and gauntlet CADs glinting.
The arena lights dimmed.
A spotlight sliced through the haze to the central platform.
The announcer—a wiry man in a sleek IFRP-branded suit—stepped forward. His voice, amplified by mana-enhanced speakers, boomed with practiced charisma. His holo-mic hovered before him, runes pulsing orange as he raised a hand, silencing the crowd's din.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the Imperial Federal Republic!"
His words echoed off the rafters.
"Welcome to the second round of the Imperial SEA Games' 2v2 Duel Brackets!"
The crowd erupted again. The announcer continued.
"Tonight, the Mall of Asia Arena is a crucible where cadets forge their names in fire and steel, vying for Pinnacle glory under Emperor Aurelio Mendez III's unyielding gaze!"
The audience screamed, banners of crimson, navy, and maroon whipping like battle flags.
"Our first match pits Fourth High's storm against Seventh High's inferno, a clash of chaos and destruction that'll burn this pit to ash!"
The megascreens shifted, flashing highlights of Fourth High's blue-and-red uniforms. The announcer's voice surged with energy and drama.
"First, hailing from San Jose, Batangas, representing Fourth High's navy storm—Sallie Mae and Celeste Marie Salcedo!"
Clips rolled, Sallie's briefcase CAD morphing—shotgun, sword, revolver—copying Marco's barrier in a green flash. Celeste's grimoire tethers pinned Rika mid-dash. The crowd roared again.
Fourth High's bleachers shook with chants:
"Sal-ce-do! Sal-ce-do!"
"These siblings tore through Second High's Marco Reyes and Rika Santos in round one with a blistering 98.1% sync! Sallie's chaos and Celeste's precision made Second High's Green Archers weep—and tonight, they're hungry for more!"
The spotlight swung across the arena, shifting to Seventh High's crimson-and-maroon banners.
"And their opponents, from Diliman's mage elite, Seventh High's Tamaraw Inferno—Andrea Cervantes Fernandez and Javier Castillo!"
The megascreens lit up with footage. Andrea's fire vortex melting Eighth High's barriers, Javier's lance unleashing kinetic waves that slammed Diego Santos into concrete.
"In round one, Andrea's Tome of Embers and Mana Gauntlets burned Eighth High's Clara Mendoza and Diego Santos to cinders, their 93.4% sync a testament to Fernandez clan royalty!"
"Javier's kinetic precision carved a path to victory, and now, they aim to torch Fourth High's storm!"
Seventh High's fans erupted in chants
"An-dre-a! An-dre-a!"
The announcer's grin widened, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial growl.
"Fourth High's chaos meets Seventh High's fire in a Duel that'll redefine this pit! Who'll rise—Sallie and Celeste's unbreakable sync, or Andrea and Javier's blazing legacy?"
The klaxon blared. Mana grids flared to life as the crowd's screams shook the dome, setting the stage for a seismic clash.
Announcer shouting "Cadets, to the pit!"
The crowd's roars cascaded from the rafters, Fourth High's blue-and-red scarves clashing with Seventh High's crimson-and-maroon banners. The klaxon's echo faded, signaling the imminent start of the second round's 2v2 Duel.
Sallie Mae Salcedo stood loose-limbed on Fourth High's side, his briefcase CAD dangling from one hand, green runes flickering lazily. Celeste Marie Salcedo flanked him, her grimoire CAD holstered, silver sigils glinting as she scanned the maze.
Across the pit, Andrea Cervantes Fernandez radiated heat, her Tome of Embers Grimoire CAD open, crimson runes pulsing like a heartbeat. Her Mana Gauntlets crackled, amber eyes locked on Sallie with vendetta's fire. Javier Castillo stood beside her, his lance CAD's sapphire runes humming, his lean frame a calm counterpoint to her fury.
"Yo, Fernandez, still fuming over that mall roast? Should've kept your mouth shut about Tatsuya Shiba."
His eyes glinted, sharp beneath the nonchalance, his briefcase CAD humming faintly.
"You yap about him again, and I'll make sure everyone knows your clan's dirty ManaTech deals. Keep it to yourself, princess."
Andrea's gauntlets sparked, her snarl baring teeth as she closed the gap, her Tome's runes flaring brighter.
"You've got some nerve, Salcedo, threatening me?"
Her voice was venom, heat rippling the air around her.
"Shiba's name slipped once, and you think you can hold my family over my head? I'll burn that grin off and bury your little Batangas secrets in ash."
Sallie's grin didn't waver, but his calibrator stopped spinning, his stance tightening.
"Slipped, huh? Funny how you 'slipped' his name right where cadets could hear."
He leaned closer, voice dropping, cold and pointed.
"I ain't bluffing, Andrea. I've got proof—Tondo dives, Fourth High leaks. You spill Shiba's name again, and your clan's ManaTech scams hit every betting screen. Test me."
Andrea's gauntlets crackled louder, her lips curling into a sneer.
"Proof? You're all talk, street rat. My family's untouchable—IFRP brass don't care about your rumors."
She stepped forward, heat pulsing from her Tome.
"In this pit, it's just you, me, and fire. You'll choke on your own chaos before you touch my legacy."
Celeste's voice sliced through, sharp and steady, her hand hovering over her grimoire.
"Enough, both of you."
Her silver sigils gleamed, eyes flicking between them.
"Andrea, save your flames for the Duel. Onii-sama, focus—her vendetta's a distraction."
She met Andrea's gaze, unflinching.
"We'll settle this right now."
Javier's smirk was faint, his lance CAD steady as he spoke, voice low.
"Listen to your sister, Salcedo. You're poking a dragon you can't handle."
His sapphire runes pulsed, kinetic force coiling.
"Shiba's name won't save you when my lance cracks your CAD."
Sallie chuckled, his grin returning, but his eyes stayed cold, calibrator spinning again.
"Dragon? Nah, just a sparkler with a crown. Keep Shiba's name locked, Fernandez, or your clan's secrets burn brighter than your Tome."
He stepped back, briefcase CAD flaring green, ready.
"Let's dance."
The announcer's voice boomed, cutting the tension.
"Cadets, to your marks!"
The countdown flared on the megascreens, runes pulsing red.
10… 9… 8…
Andrea's gauntlets flared one last time, her amber eyes promising fire as she turned to her side of the pit, Javier at her flank.
7… 6… 5…
Sallie slouched, but his grip on the briefcase tightened, green runes pulsing brighter, his gaze locked on Andrea.
4… 3… 2…
Celeste's grimoire floated, sigils cycling, her stance rigid, ready to tether the inferno.
1… 0…
The klaxon screamed, mana grids igniting, and the pit erupted into chaos.
BEGIN