Seris Vale sat at the head of the table, silver hair catching the lamplight, eyes sharp as cut glass.

Around her, the Crimson Fang gathered—five fighters who'd carved their reputation through precision, discipline, and an unblemished record.

Eight wins. Zero losses.

Not because they were the strongest squad in Vester.

But because they were the smartest.

"Sunshine Squad," Seris said, voice calm, measured. "Tomorrow. Arena Three."

She tapped a finger on the table where a dossier lay open—notes, observations, tactical assessments compiled from every fight the Sunshine Squad had participated in.

"What do we know?" asked Krin, the squad's second-in-command—a lean man with a scar across his jaw and a talent for reading opponents.

"They're from Grim Hollow," Seris replied. "Survivors of the evacuation. That means they've seen real combat. Real chaos. Not just some arena matches."

"That makes them a bit tough to handle," said Mira, the squad's ranged specialist.

"It makes them unpredictable, they won't be going down easy like the chumps we face every now and then," Seris corrected. "There's a difference."

She flipped through the pages. "Their leader is an initiate named Bright Morgan. Sixteen years old. No formal military training. No noble backing. But he's got some rare talent, good with his blade and probably has a Soul talent but there has not been any record of it."

"What's his choice of weapon?" asked Thorne, the squad's heavy hitter.

"Weapons," Seris said. "A katana and an extending blade, melded into one, still wondering where he got one of those. He can shift between close-quarters precision and mid-range control. That versatility makes him hard to pin down."

"And the rest of his squad?"

Seris continued.

"Duncan—newly promoted Initiate with a defensive core. He effectively serves as the team's anchor. Strong. Reliable. Maintains formation integrity and absorbs pressure the others can't afford to take.

"Mara—a fledgling, dual-blade user. There's no official record of the ability core she fused with, only that she's unusually proficient with her weapons for a novice. Reports suggest she was far more fragile in the past. A close brush with death may have accelerated her growth. She's shown the most visible improvement out of the group.

"Adam—their firearms specialist. Nothing extraordinary in terms of raw power, but he compensates with a tactical mind. He thinks ahead, plans angles, manages spacing. Useful in coordinated engagements.

"Baggen—a mid-tier Initiate. Crowd control specialist with the earth wall and quick sand ability core. He stabilizes chaotic fights and prevents the squad from being overwhelmed.

"Rolf—a high-tier fledgling with a fireball ability core. Aggressive. Reckless. He functions as their primary caster—an odd choice, given that such a role is typically assigned to someone more restrained and level-headed."

She closed the dossier. "On paper, they shouldn't be a threat. But they've beaten squads that were threats. Iron Fangs. Golden Spears. They adapt mid-fight. They exploit openings. And their leader has a very high spatial awareness from what I can tell—he sees things before they happen, he fights like he has a bird eye view of the arena."

Krin frowned. "So we don't give him time to think."

"Exactly," Seris said. "We hit them fast. We don't give them patterns to exploit. We don't give the Morgan boy time to predict. We overwhelm them before they can adapt."

"And if that doesn't work?" Mira asked.

Seris smiled—thin, cold. "Then we target their weak points. Morgan is their anchor. Remove him, and the formation collapses."

She stood, sliding the dossier across the table. "Read it. Memorize it. But don't underestimate them."

"Why?" Thorne asked. "They're just kids from Grim Hollow."

"So were we once," Seris replied quietly. "And look what we became."

She walked to the window, staring out at the darkened training yard.

"Tomorrow, we show them what eight wins looks like. And why we've never lost."

-----

The training yard was empty except for two figures.

Silas stood on one side, hands loose, breathing steady.

Across from him, Garren—the mid-tier initiate from Tyven's squad—grinned. "You sure about this, kid? I hit hard."

"I'm sure," Silas replied.

Garren shrugged. "Your funeral."

He charged.

Fast. Brutal. A straight-line assault meant to overwhelm through sheer force.

Silas activated his new speed core.

The world slowed.

Not literally—but his perception sharpened, his body responding faster than thought.

Garren's fist came at his face—

Silas wasn't there.

He'd sidestepped, moved three paces left, and Garren was still swinging at empty air.

Garren blinked, confused. "What—"

Silas was behind him now, blade pressed lightly against Garren's ribs.

"Dead," Silas said quietly.

Garren spun, eyes wide. "How did you—"

"An ability of mine," Silas replied, stepping back. "Combined with another. I had the bread for a while—only just got the butter. Which means from now on, I'll be serving my enemies full meals."

His eyes flicked to Garret.

"You weren't just slow," Silas continued calmly. "You forgot I was there. I know everyone's guarded about their talents, but I'm telling you this because, from where I'm standing, you're no longer my match. Not in any way. Not anymore."

Garren could only stare.

"Pompous prick…" he muttered. "This is fucking bullshit. Bested by a little shit like this. Terrifying.

"That's the point."

They reset.

Again.

And again.

Each time, Garren tried a different approach. Faster strikes. Feints. Misdirection.

And each time, Silas wasn't there.

By the tenth round, Garren was panting, frustrated. "Alright. I'm done. You're a ghost."

Silas smiled faintly. "Good."

Because that's exactly what he needed to be.

A phantom.

Untouchable.

Forgotten.

He walked off the training field, feeling the new core settle into his soul force like a second heartbeat.

Tomorrow, when he fought—whenever that was—

No one would catch him.

And the ones who tried?

They'd never see him coming.

-----

The message came just before dawn.

A runner from the medical wing, face pale, voice tight.

"Private Morgan?"

Bright looked up from where he'd been sharpening his blade. "Yes?"

"It's about the instructor brought in, Hailen right?."

Bright's chest tightened. "What about him?"

The runner hesitated. "He… didn't make it. Passed in his sleep last night. The healers said his body just… gave out."

The words hit like a physical blow.

Bright stood slowly, blade clattering to the ground.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," the runner said quietly. "They did everything they could."

Bright didn't respond.

He just walked.

Out of the barracks. Through the corridors. Down to the medical wing.

Hailen's body lay on a cot, covered with a white sheet.

Bright stood at the doorway, staring.

He didn't go inside.

Couldn't.

Because if he went inside, if he saw Hailen's face—

It would be real.

And Bright wasn't ready for it to be real.

Hailen had been his teacher. Not for long. Just a few weeks at Grim Hollow.

But those weeks had mattered.

Hailen had taught him how to hold a blade properly. How to read an opponent's stance. How to survive when survival seemed impossible.

And now he was gone.

Dead in his sleep, after surviving everything else.

Bright clenched his fists.

It wasn't fair.

None of it was fair.

But fairness didn't matter in Vester.

Only survival mattered.

And Hailen hadn't survived.

-----

Duncan found Bright an hour later, sitting alone on the barracks roof, staring at nothing.

"Hey," Duncan said quietly, sitting down beside him.

Bright didn't respond.

"I heard about Hailen."

Still nothing.

Duncan exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"He taught me how to fight," Bright said finally, voice hollow. "Not just swing a blade. Fight. How to think. How to adapt. How to stay alive."

"And you did," Duncan said. "You survived because of him."

"And he didn't," Bright replied bitterly. "What's the point of surviving if the people who teach you don't?"

Duncan didn't have an answer for that.

Because there wasn't one.

They sat in silence for a long time.

Finally, Duncan spoke. "The match is in six hours."

"I know."

"Are you going to be ready?"

Bright looked at him. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Duncan said firmly. "Because if you're not ready, we all lose. And I don't know about you, but Atheon's match has me on edge. I can't tell whether our opponents are going for the kill or treating the arena like what it's supposed to be—entertainment. So for all our sakes, you'd better get your shit together."

Bright stared at him.

Then nodded slowly.

"You're right."

"I know."

Bright stood, brushing dust from his jacket. "Let's go. We've got work to do."

But as they walked back down to the barracks, Duncan could see it.

The weight pressing down on Bright's shoulders.

The hollow look in his eyes.

Hailen's death had shaken him.

And going into a fight against Crimson Fang—the most dangerous squad they'd faced—

In this state?

Duncan wasn't sure they'd survive.

But he didn't say that.

Because sometimes, hope was the only weapon left.

-----

In her quarters, Seris Vale sharpened her chain-blade, the metal singing softly with each pass of the whetstone.

Tomorrow, she would face the Sunshine Squad.

An unfortunate name.

Their entire squad functioned on in-battle adjustments.

They thought adaptation was enough.

She smiled faintly.

Adaptation required time.

And she wouldn't give him any.

The blade gleamed in the lamplight, sharp and ready.

Tomorrow, the Crimson Fang would claim their ninth victory.

And the Sunshine Squad would learn what it meant to face perfection.

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