The chambers were quiet save for the low hum of healing wards. Attendants moved silently, laying fresh salves across bruises, mending scorched armor, and refreshing beasts with gentle waves of essence. Team Eleven sat in a rough circle, the weight of the coming finals heavy in the air.

Gray sprawled across Aston's lap, purring faintly but keeping his sharp eyes on the others. Mirage perched overhead, wings folded close, her feathers gleaming faintly in the chamber's light.

Aston's gaze was steady, his words low. "I've been watching Team Seven carefully. They don't just rely on Tristan's cheetah and serpent. Their spread covers almost every angle—defense, aerial pressure, debuffs, and raw power. If we don't account for each beast, they'll drown us in coordination."

Marcellus leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. "So… we punch straight at Tristan? Or cut the edges first?"

Aston shook his head slightly. "Neither. If we hit straight on, we'll be buried. If we chase their supports blindly, we'll lose the field. What matters is disrupting the rhythm that Tristan forces."

He let that linger. Ivy's eyes flickered as she thought through it. Brennar tapped his construct with a faint grin. Selene sat silently, her dove's soft glow brushing against her teammates. One by one, they nodded. They didn't need every detail. It was enough that Aston had a plan.

—

Across the arena grounds, in another chamber, Team Seven sat in equal silence. The contrast was stark—where Aston's group radiated quiet trust, Tristan's exuded sharpened aggression.

Tristan stood, arms folded, his beasts coiled near him like shadows waiting to pounce. Zoom's crimson runes glowed faintly, paws twitching, while Scylla's coils gleamed with prismatic scales.

"They've been carried this far by that trash's brain," Tristan said bluntly. "But brains won't save them when they're crushed from every angle." His eyes narrowed. "The owl will try to scout, the kitten hides a secret, the rest of them back him up. Break the supports, corner the leader, and the rest will collapse."

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His enchantment teammate's tortoise shifted its runed shell, the symbols flickering like muted embers. The alchemist's basilisk coiled tighter, hissing smoke into the air. The scout's falcon perched with eyes sharp as lightning, while the engineer's gorilla cracked its fists against the ground.

Tristan's squad didn't need to argue. They knew the plan: keep their formation strong, keep pressure relentless, and let Tristan's beasts finish the job.

—

The gong tolled across the academy grounds, deep and resonant. The announcement followed immediately, carried by essence into every chamber:

"Finalists of the Team Arena—Team Eleven and Team Seven—proceed to the coliseum!"

The air inside Aston's chamber tightened. Gray leapt from his lap, landing in a fluid motion, fur bristling with quiet anticipation. Mirage glided down from her perch, wings brushing cold air across Aston's shoulders. Around him, his teammates rose one by one, their beasts falling into step with an instinctive seriousness.

When the chamber doors swung open, the light of the coliseum spilled in—brilliant, golden, and deafening with the roar of thousands.

Team Eleven walked out together. The crowd's cheer rose like a wave, calling their names, chanting, marveling that the "ragtag squad" had fought their way to the very peak.

But when Team Seven entered opposite them, the noise shifted. Tristan Graves led with his chin high, every step dripping with the arrogance of certainty. Zoom, the Infernal Fang Cheetah, prowled like a streak of fire, while Scylla, the Wavecrasher Serpent, coiled with slow menace. Behind him marched his squad, beasts gleaming, the picture of a perfectly balanced arsenal.

The stadium shook with divided voices.

"Rhyner! Rhyner!"

"Tristan! Tristan!"

At the arena's center, the referee raised his hand. "Final match of the Grand Neophyte Festival's Team Arena—Team Eleven versus Team Seven! Victory will be decided by complete elimination!"

The roar almost drowned out his words.

Tristan smirked across the distance, his voice carrying even without essence amplification. "Try not to embarrass yourself, Rhyner. You won't have shadows to hide behind this time."

Brennar and Ivy exchanged a brief glance.

Neither spoke. But Aston caught it. Just barely. A flicker in their essence threads. He ignored it—at least, he doubted that thought.

The referee's hand sliced downward. "Begin!"

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