Silver radiance engulfed them, the battlefield dissolving in a blur of light. When the glow faded, Aston and his team stood in a new chamber—circular, its walls carved from pale stone veined with glowing lines of essence. The air was calm, the silence almost heavy after the chaos of the rumble.

Marcellus leaned back against the wall, dragging in a breath as his beast settled at his side. "God… that was madness. I thought those last swings would do us in."

Brennar sat cross-legged on the floor, his construct crawling back to perch at his shoulder. "Madness, maybe—but effective."

Selene's dove fluttered onto her arm as she gently spread healing essence across the group, soothing bruises and easing their exhaustion. "I'm beat."

Ivy, brushing strands of hair from her face, traced her fingers absently over the remnants of her enchantments etched into her gloves.

Aston remained near the center, Gray perched on his shoulder and Mirage circling overhead. He said little, but his gaze swept over each of his teammates, silently weighing their strength, their fatigue, their trust. For the first time since the rumble began, there was a fragile stillness—an earned pause.

That stillness ended as the chamber pulsed with light. A tone rang out, clear and firm, followed by the voice of the academy's announcer:

"Surviving squads of the rumble royale—your respite has ended. Prepare yourselves. Exit your chambers and proceed to the arena."

The walls shimmered as a pair of doors slid open, bright light spilling into the chamber.

Marcellus pushed off the wall, rolling his shoulders. "Guess that's our cue."

Brennar smirked faintly. "Back to the fire."

Selene nodded, her dove ruffling its feathers.

Ivy drew in a steady breath, her eyes sharpening.

Aston adjusted his stance, Gray's tail brushing his neck while Mirage settled into place. "Let's go."

The light beyond the chamber doors expanded, swallowing Aston and his teammates in radiance. The sensation was disorienting—weightless yet firm, like walking across a bridge of air. Then, all at once, the world steadied.

The roar of the crowd hit them.

Team 11 emerged onto the vast arena floor, the grandstands a sea of faces and banners. Overhead, the projection shimmered, displaying each of the surviving squads for all to see.

Marcellus squared his shoulders, Brennar lifted his chin, Selene and Ivy walked with quiet poise. Gray perched on Aston's shoulder, tail flicking, while Mirage glided just above, glassy wings catching the light.

But Aston's attention moved beyond himself. One by one, the other fifteen teams stepped from their own gates, arrayed across the arena in a sweeping line.

He spotted Kai immediately—pale, sharp-eyed, with Shelldon lumbering at his side. Beside his team, Rowan grinned faintly, Verdy clinging to his back as if nothing could shake him. Relief flickered in Aston's chest, quickly hidden.

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Farther down, another squad drew murmurs from the crowd—the alliance of four that had marched like an army. Their leader strode tall, flanked by handlers whose beasts filled the space with sheer presence. Tristan Graves was among them, his Infernal Fang Cheetah prowling at his heel, its ember-black fur shimmering under the light. Their arrogance radiated like a banner of fire.

Then came the artificer-like squad, the ones who had burned swathes of the forest to ash. Their alchemist captain walked forward with measured calm, a flask glowing faintly at his belt. Even now, their beasts marched in eerie unison, as though the battlefield itself bent to their command.

Aston's gaze shifted again—landing on a group whose faces twisted with fury even as the light carried them in. He recognized them at once. They were the alliance that had scowled during Rowan's rescue, snarling that his team had survived only because of an ambush. Their captain's eyes locked briefly with Rowan's across the floor, lips curling in a silent promise of revenge.

The sixteen squads stood arrayed at last, their ranks diverse—combatants, enchanters, engineers, healers, scouts, artificers, merchants. The crowd roared, voices blending into a single crashing tide.

Above them, the Vice Principal raised a hand. His beast's silver seams glowed brighter, and the noise quieted. His voice boomed across the arena.

"Behold—the sixteen who endure. They will not rest. They will clash. And through their clash, the strongest shall rise."

The crowd thundered again, banners waving, the names of their favorites rising like sparks into the air.

Aston exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing as he swept across the field. Allies, rivals, enemies—it no longer mattered. From this point forward, every step would be in the open, under the weight of a thousand watching eyes.

The crowd's roar still echoed when the Vice Principal lifted his hand again, commanding silence with a single motion. His voice rolled like a tide across the arena.

"The sixteen squads you see before you will not clash today. The field must be leveled, their strength tempered for what comes next. Their battles will begin tomorrow."

A murmur ran through the audience, part surprise, part anticipation.

The Vice Principal's beast raised its arm, a ripple of silver light spiraling upward until it formed a series of glowing orbs, each numbered from one to sixteen. They hovered in the air like stars, drifting into two neat rows.

"Each team shall send one representative," the Vice Principal continued. "You will step forward and draw your lot. Numbers one and two shall face one another. Three and four, likewise, and so forth. These are the brackets of the team battles."

The announcement sent a fresh surge of energy through the crowd. The squads shifted slightly, handlers exchanging glances, murmurs rising among them as they weighed the looming matchups.

"Representatives, step forward," the Vice Principal commanded.

One by one, members from each squad advanced. Some carried themselves with calm confidence, others with stiff tension, but all felt the eyes of thousands bearing down on them.

Marcellus exchanged a glance with Aston before stepping out. His beast padded close behind, eyes narrowed, as though ready to face the draw itself.

The first representative extended a hand into the orbs. With a pulse of light, one sphere drifted into their palm, glowing brighter until a number blazed across it. "Eight."

The next followed, then the next—numbers called out as the crowd scribbled them down, placing mental wagers, trying to predict which squads would clash first.

When Marcellus's turn came, he strode forward without hesitation. The orb he touched spun, shimmered, and locked into place in his palm. The number blazed bright.

"One."

Aston gave a small nod, Gray's ears twitching, Mirage gliding down to perch briefly on his shoulder. Ivy and Brennar exchanged quick looks, Selene smoothing her robes in silent composure.

The draw continued. A murmur rippled through the crowd as another orb flared—"Two!"—and all eyes shifted between that squad and Aston's Team 11.

The brackets were forming.

And already, the first battle was decided.

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