Chapter 13 – Calculated Chaos
The arena was quiet, save for the low murmur of anticipation from the crowd beyond the stone barriers. Kael, Liane, and Ren entered as one, their expressions unreadable. Across the wide stone floor stood their opponents from the Custom Operations Division: Sareth, Mikael, and Tarn.
Sareth—narrow-eyed and lean—was already toying with a shimmer of light in his palm. Mikael stood calmly, his feet spread apart, fingers twitching like they were memorizing the terrain. Tarn cracked his knuckles and rolled his shoulders, a mountain of muscle barely restrained.
Ren broke the silence with a calm murmur. "Sareth leads with deception. Mikael supports. Tarn hits hard."
Kael responded without looking at either of them. "Liane starts."
"Understood," Liane said, already stepping forward.
The judge raised a hand. Then dropped it.
The match began.
Liane wasted no time.
She stepped up, summoned a sharp angular barrier, and launched a crackling bolt of lightning against it. The energy refracted and scattered forward in a wide arc, tearing through the air and smashing into the opposing team.
The effects were instant. Sareth's illusions disintegrated in mid-form. Mikael stumbled backward, clutching his arm. Tarn grunted as a bolt sizzled across his shoulder.
Tarn roared and charged.
Kael moved without hesitation, cutting in front of Liane and releasing a narrow burst of wind to deflect Tarn's angle. The hulking brute skidded sideways, crashing to a halt.
Mikael struck next, slamming his hand on the stone floor. The terrain beneath Liane shifted. She jumped back just in time, countering with a lightning pulse that scorched Mikael's outer leg.
Then came the mist.
Sareth, coughing and limping, lifted his hand. A dense fog rolled out, curling over the floor, devouring the arena.
Visibility dropped instantly.
And within the white blur—a second Liane emerged.
"Kael!" Ren called out from behind. "Which one is real!?"
Kael narrowed his eyes, scanning both figures. One stood still, composed, the other took a step forward, mimicking Liane's stiff posture.
She's missing it, Kael thought. The handkerchief. I gave it to her days ago. She never takes it off her left wrist.
He lifted his hand and blew out a concentrated blast of wind.
The mist cleared.
The fake Liane shattered like glass.
Sareth gasped, barely able to raise his head before a follow-up wind blast sent him flying into the wall.
Tarn barreled back into the fray, this time going for Ren. Liane intercepted, her lightning crackling into his chest. He stumbled, enraged, but she met his next charge with a double barrier, forcing him to slow—just long enough for Kael to slam a heavy wind burst against his side. Tarn hit the floor with a loud, painful thud.
Mikael attempted to retreat, dragging himself across the floor to reset. He never got the chance.
Liane stalked forward and struck him with a low-aimed spark that sent him spasming into unconsciousness.
Silence.
All three opponents—down.
Kael, Liane, and Ren stood upright. Barely bruised.
The judge lifted a hand.
"Match complete. Kael, Liane, Ren: victory."
Ren exhaled hard, then laughed. "We actually won. That was brutal."
He turned to Kael, eyes still wide. "Back there—how did you know which Liane was real?"
Kael didn't answer right away. He glanced briefly at Liane, then looked up at the sky, watching a slow-moving cloud drift.
"She was missing the handkerchief I gave her," he said simply.
Liane said nothing. Her face unreadable.
Ren chuckled, practically bouncing on his feet. "Still sharp as ever."
Kael kept his gaze upward. The sky was endless, open. His mind flicked back to the night before—to Noctis, to the shadows, to the spy left alive.
A quiet smile crossed his face.
Ren noticed and tilted his head.
Being in this group... really is fun, he thought.
Scene Two: The Report
A cold room—walls lined with etched stone, lit by glowing wall-crystals. A long table stretches through the center, occupied by every captain and junior captain. All divisions are represented.
At the far end sits Captain Drachmour—arms crossed, unreadable. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.
The door opens. A female spy enters—dirt on her cloak, a cut over her brow, eyes sharp despite exhaustion.
She bows once, then begins:
> Spy: "The attack was orchestrated by Volst. It was not a raid. It was planned. His people moved in coordinated patterns. They were ready."
A shift in the room.
> "But just after it began… another figure arrived."
She raises her head. Her voice hardens—not from fear, but from the weight of what she saw.
> "We don't have his name. No insignia. No known division."
> "He wore black—ragged cloak, high collar, face covered by a smooth, featureless mask. He walked through flames without slowing. The moment he stepped onto the field… the air turned wrong. Like the sky compressed."
She pauses.
> "His magic was… untraceable. No chant. No glyph. No catalyst. But it wasn't silent either. There was a sound—a hum that pulled deep in the chest. Then silence. Then force."
She looks at no one in particular.
> "He didn't arrive to help either side. He moved with surgical focus. Volst's elites—gone in seconds. He twisted wind and pressure like weapons. One moment, a man was running—the next, every rib in his body was shattered inward."
Another beat. Her voice lowers.
"And the worst part—he didn't falter. Not once. No hesitation. He didn't taunt. He didn't warn. He didn't even look at us. Just… acted. Fast. Precise. Clean."
The room is dead quiet now.
> "He turned the battlefield into a cage. And when it was over, there was nothing left to fight."
She stops. Her report is finished. She doesn't offer theories. She doesn't ask questions. She knows better.
One junior captain mutters under their breath, "That wasn't magic... that was something else."
But it's Drachmour everyone watches.
He hasn't said a word.
He hasn't moved.
Yet his gaze stays fixed—unblinking. That one detail, that one nameless figure... has his full attention now.
Then, without a sound, Drachmour stands.
And leaves the room.
No words.
No orders.
Just silence.
And the tension he leaves behind feels heavier than any spoken threat.