The projection's glow flickered across Team Eleven's chamber. Aston leaned forward, elbows on his knees, Gray's faint purr rumbling against his thigh. Across from him, Marcellus muttered in a tone too low for the healers to catch:

"Gods above… I really don't want to face Team One."

Brennar blew out a short laugh, though it carried no humor. "You mean the marching "V" of discipline? If they call our number against them, we'd better pray your sword arm can slice through the leader's military doctrine."

Selene's dove cooed, a strangely soothing sound amidst their nerves. "We won't fight them unless we pick them during drawing lots. Focus on the present."

Aston said nothing, though his eyes narrowed at the projection. The army cadets' precision had unsettled him too—but fear was wasted effort.

The announcer's voice boomed through the chamber. "Quarterfinal Match Two! Team Twenty-Five versus Team Twenty-Nine!"

—

The gates parted, and there he was—Rowan, grinning like a man who hadn't just fought through a gauntlet. Verdy clung to his shoulders, mossy tail twitching with energy. His teammates, though, didn't look nearly as sharp. Darren, the spirit combat archer, walked with a limp, his beast still bandaged. Their alchemist and support both bore shallow cuts, their essence signatures dulled.

The crowd cheered at Rowan's entry, but even from the projection it was clear—their stance was uneven, exhaustion clinging to them like smoke.

Across the arena, Team Twenty-Five stood gleaming. Constructs unfolded, drones hovering, gauntlets sparking. Their alchemist captain raised a single hand, calm and cold.

The referee gestured. "Teams, prepare—"

Rowan lifted his hand. "We surrender."

A gasp tore through the stands, followed by a ripple of confusion.

Rowan's grin didn't falter as he said it, but Aston could read the stiffness in his shoulders. Every participant had already healed their physical wounds, but the mental and emotional exhaustion from the previous match drained them. Fighting now would only break them.

The referee nodded grimly. "Victory—Team Twenty-Five!"

The alchemist and their team members did not look smug. They simply gathered their equipment and moved out.

"Quarterfinal Match Three!" the announcer roared. "Team Eighteen versus Team Eleven!"

Brennar stood, stretching his arms. "That's us."

The chamber dissolved in silver light.

—

The arena air hit them like a furnace. The roar of the crowd swelled, shaking the stone beneath their feet.

Team Eighteen was already waiting. Their lineup was a strange mix: a combat student with a flaming boar, an Enchantment Arts student with a crystal-looking mantis, a Support and Healing student with a capybara, an engineer with a monitor lizard, and a scout with a thundering vulture.

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The crowd thundered approval at the variety—combat, support, engineering, aerial threat. A balanced team.

Marcellus cracked his neck. "This'll be messy."

"No," Aston murmured after analyzing the opponents' beasts.. "It'll be clean. We'll make it clean."

The referee's hand dropped. "Begin!"

—

The boar roared first, charging forward like a battering ram. Dust plumed in its wake, tusks aflame.

"Marcellus," Aston said, voice sharp. "Intercept. Selene, cover him."

Marcellus surged forward, his wolfhound racing beside him. The wolfhound slammed into the boar head-on, claws tearing sparks from its tusks. Marcellus's blade followed, deflecting the burning thrust aside. Selene's dove shimmered, casting a veil of light that dulled the flames clinging to Marcellus's shoulder.

Above, the vulture screeched, talons crackling with lightning as it dove.

"Ivy—sky!" Aston barked.

The enchantress flung her hands outward, runes blazing. Mirage burst from behind Aston in a flash of light, wings unfolding like translucent glass. With a beat of its feathers, an Icy Gale surged upward. The vulture shrieked, lightning scattering as frost lanced across its wings.

On the flank, the engineer's monitor whipped its tail, chains snapping as it launched spiked weights toward Brennar.

"Trap it," Aston commanded.

Brennar's eyes gleamed. His construct—a squat, spider-like machine—skittered forward, weaving glowing threads across the ground. The chains tangled in the net of steel-wire enchantment, and the lizard thrashed helplessly. Brennar grinned, voice rough. "Caught you."

The Silverglass Mantis darted in then, bladed limbs cutting arcs through the air.

"Ivy—left!" Aston snapped.

The girl didn't hesitate. Enchantments wrapped around Mirage's talons, sharpening its frost as the owl slashed down. Glass met ice—shards flew as the mantis staggered, its forelimbs encased in frost.

The healer tried to rally them, the Starlight Capybara glowing with soothing light. Injuries began to knit, burns fading.

"Gray," Aston whispered.

The kitten leapt from his shoulder, landing silently behind the healer. One moment, the capybara was glowing bright. The next—Surgical Claw. The healer didn't even realize he'd been struck until his knees buckled. Both handler and beast flared, vanishing in silver light.

"One down," Aston said coldly.

The enemy scout roared in fury. "Storm Vulture—Tempest Dive!"

The lightning-wreathed bird plunged, wind howling as it funneled a storm toward Aston's squad.

"Selene—barrier! Brennar—spikes!" Aston's commands cut through the chaos.

A dome of light shimmered as Selene's dove spread its wings, absorbing the storm's edge. Beneath, Brennar slammed his fist into the ground. Stone Spikes erupted in jagged rows, skewering the vulture mid-dive. It screeched, pinned to the earth. Mirage struck an instant later, feathers slicing as frost consumed its wings. Another silver flare—gone.

The boar bellowed, wounds smoking. Marcellus's wolfhound sank its teeth into its throat, dragging it down. A final slash made it into light particles as it got teleported off the arena.

The mantis tried to flee, but Ivy's runes snared it, and Mirage finished the elimination.

Only the duelist remained, sword trembling as his team vanished around him. His blade lifted, but Gray was already there, eyes glinting like shards of obsidian. A single cut—and it was over.

"Victory—Team Eleven!"

The roar of the crowd did not quiet when the referee's voice declared Team Eleven the winners. Instead, it surged louder, layered with gasps, whispers, and sharp exclamations.

"Did you see the coordination? That wasn't luck—that was command."

"Their opponents fell through their hands as if…"

"...they know their opponents beasts."

"What would happen if they face Team One or Team Twenty Five?"

The debate rippled through the stands, admiration and doubt interwoven. Yet one truth lingered over all else—Team Eleven had become the team to watch.

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