Day Two of the Grand Neophyte Festival dawned brighter than the first. The storms of chaos that had ripped through the campus yesterday were still there—booths shouting, alchemy fires flaring, engineering contraptions breaking apart in bursts of sparks—but they no longer seemed overwhelming.

Maybe it was because Aston and his team had found rhythm.

The late-night practice had ended in exhausted smiles and quiet certainty: their beasts could now hold resonance chains without collapsing. The sync was imperfect, but steady enough to enter the Integration Showcase and survive the chaos of combat.

And so, by silent agreement, they rested.

—

The group wandered the academy grounds together for once, no training drills or timed synchronizations. The crowds pressed close, but it was strangely liberating to move among them not as competitors but as spectators.

The Support Showcase dominated the center plaza. Dozens of students demonstrated creative applications of healing, reinforcement, or tactical augmentation. A boy from the Healing Division summoned a dome of golden mist that knitted shallow cuts on his assistants. A girl with a Spirit Wisp shaped glyphs of clarity that boosted her teammates' focus until they recited an entire page of formulas without stuttering.

"Efficient," Seria murmured, watching closely. "But fragile. Too concentrated. If their wisp is disrupted, the effect collapses."

Rowan whistled low. "Still more useful than Verdy patching moss on my bruises."

Lyra elbowed him lightly. "Don't be jealous. Moss healing has its charm."

Kai smirked. "Charm's one word for it."

They moved on to the Curing Company, a brand-new event that had drawn the most buzz of the morning.

Teams were given simulated crisis scenarios: poisoned supply crates, injured civilians, or a caravan contaminated by corrupted essence. Each group had to diagnose, prioritize, and respond within a strict time limit.

One squad doused a crate in alchemical frost to halt spread while their healer stabilized a "patient" mannequin. Another jury-rigged purification seals across a wagon in less than five minutes.

"It's like a puzzle," Lyra said, eyes shining. "Except the puzzle screams at you if you're wrong."

"Reminds me of half our missions," Aston muttered.

He didn't laugh, but Mirage ruffled her feathers from his shoulder as if amused.

The festival air was alive—cheering from the crowd, frantic cries from contestants, bursts of glyph-light and herbal smoke drifting on the wind. Yet for once, Aston let himself breathe in the noise. He was calm. Focused. Tomorrow would be theirs—the Integration contest and Arena Singles—but today? Today was a reprieve.

Or so he thought.

—

By midday, a low hum rolled across the square. The overhead glyph screens flickered, shifting from sponsor crests to the emblem of Dawn Crest Academy. The chatter dimmed into silence.

A tall figure appeared in the projection: one of the Academy's festival adjudicators, cloaked in deep crimson robes. His voice carried, amplified across the grounds.

"Attention, first-years. After deliberation by the Elder Council, we announce the full structure of the Team Arena."

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The crowd leaned forward. Even Aston's group paused mid-step.

The adjudicator raised one hand. "On the rules of the team arena—the format will not be same-team entry. You will not enter alongside your chosen companions. Instead…"

The glyph flared, reshaping into bold lines of text.

[Preliminary Round: All applicants will be shuffled into randomized five-person groups. Each group will enter an arena battlefield simultaneously. Elimination continues until sixteen groups remain.]

Gasps rippled across the plaza.

[Semifinals: The sixteen remaining groups will be paired for direct team-on-team combat until eight groups remain. Subsequent rounds continue—top eight, top four, top two.]

[Finals: Last two teams compete for the championship.]

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then the square erupted.

"What—randomized?"

"But my team—!"

"That's insane! How are we supposed to prepare?"

Aston's group exchanged quick, sharp glances.

Kai was the first to curse. "Shuffle? That means—what—we could end up with strangers who we're not familiar with?"

Rowan scowled. "Or worse—deadweight who drag us under. What's the point of practicing all week if they just randomize us?"

Lyra's brow furrowed, her voice steady but tense. "No… there's a point. They want adaptability. Integration across divisions. Testing whether we can adjust under pressure."

Seria nodded slowly, lips pressed thin. "It mirrors real deployments. Not every mission sends you with your friends. You're given who's available, and you succeed—or fail—together."

Aston stayed silent, watching the screen until the adjudicator's voice cut back in.

"Group assignments will be announced tomorrow morning. No appeals will be granted. Any student unwilling to participate may withdraw."

The glyphs flared once more, then dissolved into the crest of the Academy.

The plaza boiled with voices.

—

Back in their quieter courtyard, the group finally exhaled.

Kai kicked at a stone. "Well, there goes our plan."

Rowan rubbed his forehead. "I swear, if I get matched with that guy who fell asleep in Spirit Theory…"

Lyra sat on the fountain's edge, thoughtful. "We trained for synergy. But maybe… that wasn't wasted. We still have the Showcase. Also, if we can adapt quickly to each other, then adapting to strangers won't break us."

"Unless," Kai muttered, "they won't participate."

Seria's butterfly fluttered, its light pulsing faintly. "We'll manage. We have to."

All eyes turned to Aston.

He stood calm, Mirage perched on his arm, Gray curled at his feet. His gaze was steady, unshaken.

"They want unpredictability," he said simply. "So we give it to them. Don't waste time worrying about who you'll be paired with. Instead, be the one they'll rely on. The one who adapts first."

His voice was quiet, but the courtyard stilled at the weight in it.

Seria's lips curved faintly. Lyra drew in a slow breath. Rowan sighed. Kai grimaced, but didn't argue.

They had no control over the shuffle. But they could control themselves.

And sometimes, that was enough.

—

That night, the campus buzzed louder than ever. Students whispered about potential matchups, cursed the unfairness, or bragged about how they'd dominate no matter who they were paired with. The festival's lanterns cast long shadows across the dorm halls, and anticipation coiled in every step.

In his room, Aston sat cross-legged, Mirage resting above him, Gray curled tightly in sleep. His thoughts turned briefly to Shadow Ops—Lamia's words about visibility, Ichor's smirk about internal wagers.

Top three.

That was their demand.

The shuffle changed nothing.

He closed his eyes, exhaling once, and let the festival noise fade into silence.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.