The Twist before the Blade

From the squad stands above, Sora leaned over the railing, arms dangling, her ears twitching with visible irritation.

She squinted at Aoi and muttered, "That's basically cheating."

Tetsu didn't move at first — just stood with his arms folded, adjusting his glasses calmly as if this were all expected.

"Well, yeah," he said. "What did you think this was? Fair?"

Sora snorted. "Still. Bringing him in? That's next-level rigged. I mean, come on. They even made it nine this year. That's not tradition — that's a setup."

Tetsu glanced sideways at her. "It's politics. The moment Kazuo walked into that arena, the rules bent. But still it is weird to choose an uneven tournament format."

Sora didn't answer. Her gaze drifted back down to Kazuo — standing alone, surrounded by noise, eyes still locked on Aoi.

Her voice dropped. "I wonder how he'll handle it."

Tetsu was silent for a moment.

Then: "That depends."

"On what?"

He adjusted his glasses again.

"On Setsuna."

High above, the scene shifted to the royal balcony.

Lady Elyria sat poised beside her father, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Her gaze lingered on the arena below — on the clasped handshake between Setsuna and Idris, and the quiet unease surrounding Kazuo and the newcomer at his side.

"Father…" Elyria's tone was gentle. "Why are there nine this year? The Tournament has never exceeded eight. And Idris…" she hesitated, weighing her words, "…he belongs to the Special Unit. Was the Council truly consulted on this?"

King Cedric did not answer.

He only sat back, one leg crossed over the other, fingers steepled beneath his chin. A platter of grapes rested untouched at his side. His eyes remained fixed on the field — unyielding.

Elyria shifted slightly toward him, waiting, but silence was all she received.

Then—

A sharp burst of sound rang out, silencing the crowd.

The announcer's voice returned, more energetic than ever:

"Honored guests, noble houses, and esteemed spectators — a special announcement regarding this year's Tournament of Nobles!"

"As you've seen, nine divisions are present this year — an unusual number, we admit. But worry not! There's a reason for this surprise…"

A pause.

Then, like a thunderclap—

"Before the formal duels begin... we will commence with a Battle Royale Preliminary Match!"

For a second, no one moved.

Then—

BOOM. The entire coliseum erupted. Voices clashed, feet stomped, banners waved furiously as nobles and spectators jolted from their seats in disbelief.

"Battle what?!"

"A prelim?!"

"That's not tradition!"

The voice of the announcer blared over the chaos, louder, more theatrical:

"All nine divisions will unleash their champions into the ring at once — nine enter, only eight advance!"

Gasps surged like waves crashing.

"The battle will occur TODAY."

The captains stood shoulder to shoulder behind their chosen fighters — a living wall of power and politics.

Before them, nine champions waited at the edge of the arena. The air vibrated with rising noise, tension curling like smoke.

Kazuo's heart skipped.

He blinked.

"…Huh?" His voice barely came out. "I have to fight…TODAY?"

Setsuna's pupils shrank. His arms, previously folded, snapped open.

Idris exhaled a stream of smoke. "Well… this is news."

Aoi turned slightly. "What's the meaning of this, Idris?"

Idris clicked his tongue, letting the smoke curl higher. "Hell if I know."

Shiranami scoffed under her breath, arms rigid at her sides. "What a waste of time," she muttered. "This has nothing to do with tradition. Just theater."

Vaskel chuckled, slow and lazy, a snake playing noble. "Oh, I don't know," he said, eyeing Kazuo with a glint of mischief. "Sounds entertaining."

The announcer wasn't done.

"Rules of engagement: No weapons. No magic. Any use will result in immediate disqualification."

A hush swept the coliseum.

"And the victory condition—only one."

A dramatic pause.

"Once a single fighter is eliminated — forced out of the ring — the match ends. The remaining eight proceed to the official bracket."

"One ring-out… ends it?" Kazuo repeated, stunned.

Behind him, Setsuna exhaled sharply through his nose.

"So that's how he's playing it," he muttered. "I trained you in swordplay. We honed your magic control. And now before even entering the real tournament it's just… a brawl?"

He clicked his tongue.

"Tch. Of course. This is why we're nine," Setsuna muttered. "I told you — Cedric was never going to risk it. Not with you."

Kazuo frowned. "What exactly does that mean?"

"Your rise," Setsuna said flatly. His voice carried a weight that pressed against the noise of the arena. "If you stand too tall, the nobles get restless. But if Cedric finds a reason to let you fall — on the stage, under their eyes — then it's no risk to him. It becomes proof. Proof you were nothing more than a mistake."

"A Battle Royale? Father, this defies tradition. Why would you sanction such a thing?"

Cedric didn't answer. He plucked a grape from the silver plate, rolling it lazily between his fingers, eyes cold as they stayed fixed on the arena.

Her posture stiffened on the cushioned chair. Frustration edged her tone. "Father — answer me."

His reply came like a whip crack. "Stay out of this."

The snap stung. Elyria flinched, only slightly — but he saw it.

Cedric's gaze lingered on her for a moment, the chill in his look ebbed. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter — less harsh, though still unyielding.

"This matter lies beyond you. Temper your curiosity. Trust that every move I make is deliberate — for Yurelda, and its future."

Elyria stayed silent, though the doubt in her eyes had not faded.

—

At the squad stands, Sora's tail puffed, ears flicking sharply upright. She pressed against the railing like a cat ready to spring.

"Wait—what?" she hissed. "That's not fair."

Tetsu blinked once. Then again. His hand moved slowly to adjust his glasses, mouth parting in disbelief.

"...This is certainly new." His tone was too calm to be normal.

Sora's fangs showed as her voice sharpened. "They'll all turn on him."

The announcer's voice rang out one final time, sharp as a blade:

"All participants now have exactly fifteen minutes to confer with their captains and prepare. Lay down your weapons. Leave behind your magic."

A beat.

"And when you return… step into the ring ."

Silence followed. Heavy. Breathless.

The countdown had begun. And there would be no second chances.