The referee raised his staff, silencing the roar of the crowd. "With this, the quarterfinals for the Singles Arena are done! The four advancing to the semifinals will be announced after the Team Arena concludes. For now—we move into preparations for the next event!"

A cheer erupted, but quickly softened as he continued. "All participants, you will meet your teammates. The Team Arena Preliminaries shall start in an hour."

He turned toward the stands, voice rising. "To unveil the Team Arena… we call upon the Vice Principal of Dawn Crest Academy!"

A hush swept across the audience as an elderly man strode into the arena. His frame was tall and spare, shoulders draped in layered robes of deep violet threaded with silver sigils that shimmered like constellations. His hair was snow-white, combed neatly back, and his sharp, aquiline features were lined with age yet unbent by it. Every step radiated calm authority, as though the air itself deferred to his presence. His eyes—deep pools of silver-gray—glittered with an almost celestial light, commanding both respect and awe.

With a simple gesture, the vice principal summoned his beast from his contract space.

A shimmer split the air, and space rippled open like a curtain. From the rift stepped a towering bipedal creature cloaked in radiating void scales that bent and warped the light. Its elongated limbs ended in sharp digits, each glowing faintly with runes. Eyes like mirrored spheres reflected infinity, and the air around it warped and folded unnaturally—as though reality itself bent to its will.

The beast lifted its clawed hand. The arena trembled.

In a breath, the space compressed—stands, walls, even the air seeming to buckle inward. Then it expanded outward, doubling, tripling the stage into a colossal battlefield. Shimmering walls of distortion locked into place, forming an enclosed pocket dimension large enough to hold entire armies.

Gasps spread across the audience as the beast moved again, claws slicing unseen patterns. Terrain erupted into existence: jagged cliffs, forests of crystal, rivers of molten light, and stretches of broken stone plains. An entire battlefield was born within the arena, layer by layer, like a world unfurling from nothing.

The referee's voice rang clear. "As first announced during the third day, the Team Arena Preliminaries will be a Rumble Royale. All teams will fight simultaneously, alliances forged or broken at will, until only the final sixteen remains. One team member incapacitated and the team is automatically eliminated."

—

Meanwhile, Aston was led into a side chamber where Team 11 had already gathered. The hum of conversation quieted as he stepped inside, Gray perched on his shoulder and Mirage swooping silently above.

"That's him—the scout's quarterfinalist," whispered a lanky boy leaning against the wall. His beast, a lean wolfhound with scarred flanks, lifted its head and sniffed the air. This was Marcellus Trent of Spirit Combat, his expression sharp with a fighter's confidence, though a glint of relief flickered in his eyes at Aston's arrival.

Beside him, a girl with braided dark hair adjusted a charm-studded bracelet, the faint shimmer of runes glinting across her fingertips. Ivy Deyra, from Enchantment Arts, offered Aston a quick, assessing smile. At her feet prowled a small, foxlike beast with silver fur etched in glowing sigils—an enchantment familiar that seemed to hum in tune with her aura.

On the other side of the room, Selene Roth stood with quiet poise, her healer's robes pristine despite the long day. A dove-like spirit perched on her arm, feathers luminous with a soft glow that radiated calming warmth. Selene's expression softened as she studied Gray, though her lips pressed into a line when she glanced at Marcellus's wolfhound—already sizing up the work she might have later.

At the back sat Brennar Coil, thickset and broad-shouldered, tinkering with a metallic orb that floated lazily above his hand. Sparks leapt from it, and a squat, crablike construct clanked at his side, gears ticking as it mirrored its master's impatience. Brennar gave Aston a nod, his voice low but approving. "Good. A scout makes us harder to pin down. And one who reached the quarterfinals? Better still."

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The tension in the room shifted, whispers replaced by genuine nods of respect.

Marcellus smirked, pushing off the wall. "Glad to have you. With that cat of yours, maybe we'll actually stand a chance against the heavy hitters."

Ivy added lightly, "More than stand a chance—we'll make top sixteen. A combat core, enchantment to amplify, healing to sustain, engineering to fortify… and a scout who just humbled Spirit Combat's pride." She tilted her head at Aston. "Not bad for Team Eleven."

Aston clasped Marcellus's offered hand.

Gray flicked his tail smugly, while Mirage glided closer, settling just behind Aston's shoulder as if to seal the unspoken pact. For the first time that day, Aston allowed a small smile.

This wasn't just survival anymore. This was a team—and momentum.

Aston took his seat at the round table in the center of the chamber. The air buzzed with a strange mix of nerves and anticipation. Around him, his new teammates settled in, their beasts arrayed close, some pacing, others resting.

Marcellus cracked his knuckles first, leaning forward with the restless energy of a born fighter.

His wolfhound prowled behind him, scarred muzzle lifting in low growls. "Our best bet is simple—we hit hard, we hit fast. No dragging things out in a Rumble Royale. We pick a team, crush them before they can breathe, and move on."

Ivy rolled her eyes, fingers dancing along her charm-bracelet as the runes sparked. Her silver fox familiar flicked its tails in irritation. "And walk straight into an ambush? Please. This isn't a duel, Marcellus. Terrain's going to shift and alliances will form the moment the match starts. We need subtlety—my enchantments can blind, bind, or amplify. But I need you lot to not charge headlong into a trap."

"Subtlety doesn't win when at least three teams dogpile you," Marcellus shot back.

"It does if they can't see you coming," Ivy replied smoothly.

Selene lifted a hand, her dove-beast cooing softly as light shimmered around her. Her tone was calm but steady, like cool water dousing a fire. "We'll need balance. If Marcellus drives the attack, Ivy can back him up with her enchantments. I'll keep both of you in fighting shape, but I won't last if I'm swarmed. I'll need protection."

"You'll have it," Brennar rumbled from his corner. The crablike construct at his feet clicked and whirred, its pincers sparking faintly. He set down the floating orb he had been tuning. "I can lock down choke points. Barricades, mines, automated turrets. If we're smart about terrain, we can make one part of the arena ours and bleed anyone who tries to cross it."

"And while you're digging in," Marcellus muttered, "we'll be knee-deep in enemies."

"Which is why," Ivy cut in, "we'll need a scout to tell us which direction the tide is moving."

Five pairs of eyes turned toward Aston. Gray's tail lashed lazily on his shoulder, while Mirage's glassy wings shimmered faintly in the chamber light.

Aston inclined his head. "I'll keep us ahead of the fight."

He didn't add the rest—not aloud.

While the others hashed out details, Aston quietly analyzed the beasts of his temporary teammates. His thoughts flickered, moving through as if thumbing through unseen pages.

Each profile unfolded in his mind, essence signatures and skill outlines etching themselves into memory. The strengths were clear, the weaknesses clearer.

The discussion spiraled between bold strikes and cautious traps, Marcellus and Ivy trading sharp words while Brennar muttered about structural integrity and Selene quietly pressed for balance. Aston listened without interruption, his analysis already shaping into a plan he hadn't voiced.

Then the chamber lights flickered, and a clear voice rang out from the crystal-lined speakers overhead.

"Attention, participants! The Team Arena preliminaries will commence in five minutes. All teams report to your designated gates."

The room fell silent.

Marcellus pushed off the table, his wolfhound growling low, eager for the fight. Ivy snapped her bracelet shut, her fox's eyes gleaming as it twined around her ankles. Selene exhaled, steadying herself, her dove's glow settling into a soft pulse of light. Brennar hoisted his gear, his construct clanking into place beside him.

Aston rose last, Gray hopping down from his shoulder with feline grace, tail flicking like a blade in the shadows. Mirage circled once overhead, wings shimmering faintly before settling into stillness.

Five minutes. One battlefield. Dozens of opponents. Only sixteen groups will remain.

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