[Ti]: Day 35, 03:00 PM
[Location]: High-Altitude Research District · Sector 6 · Lab 606
"Paddy," Heidi breathed the na like a curse, her silver eyes darkening with genuine horror. "That feathered nace actually registered."
"Impossible," Nino stated flatly, her logical, academic mind imdiately rejecting the premise. "The Grand Masters requires a full, five-person roster. How could Paddy possibly find four Witches in this universe willing to endure her existence?"
Heidi's expression turned exceedingly grim. "Exactly. She couldn't. So she brought in a co-captain to help secure the rest of the team." Heidi took a deep breath, as if rely speaking the next na required imnse courage. "Her starting partner is Adeline."
The temperature in Lab 606 plumted.
For the first ti in recorded history, the two constantly bickering Lucent geniuses reached an absolute, unwavering united front—the profound dread reserved exclusively for cosmic-level disasters.
"The Twin Hazards of the Plud Dragons," Nino whispered, her voice laced with a rare, visceral disbelief. "Who in the na of the World Tree are the three spectacularly dood bastards willing to stand next to them on a roster?!"
Heidi let out a cold, humorless laugh. "Who do you think? The victims they've tornted so thoroughly over the years that their minds have inverted entirely. They no longer flee the source of their suffering. They run toward it."
Up in the shadows, Hathaway's [Mage Hand] violently jerked.
At the console, the crisp sound of Victoria's typing ceased entirely.
They didn't need the Lucent sisters to explain.
Hathaway's body rembered Adeline before her brain did. The na alone triggered a phantom sensation of free-fall—the visceral, full-body mory of skydiving without a parachute on her first morning in this world because of that woman.
And Paddy—Victoria's jaw tightened at the na. Fifty thousand Solars. Five hundred packs. A burned card. A grudge so deep it had already distorted her in-ga decision-making.
A team of those two. Together. Leading three thoroughly traumatized victims.
Stockholm Syndro, Hathaway's Earth-brain supplied, with the flat efficiency of a dical dictionary.
What kind of inhumane, Geneva-Convention-violating psychological torture do you have to inflict on soone to make it THAT severe?! She shuddered at the concept. To make them actively VOLUNTEER to enter a combat arena with those two anomalies?!
"I shudder to even imagine the ntal state of those three poor souls," Heidi rubbed her temples, her tone as solemn as delivering a eulogy. "I genuinely pray that Golden Iris does not run into them in the group stage. Winning isn't even the point. Fighting those two biological hazards requires at least six months of post-traumatic therapy."
"What good is praying?" Nino shot back coldly, though her eyes shared the exact sa disgust. "If the tournant committee had half a brain, they would designate that team as a Biohazard Level 4 quarantine zone before they even enter the arena."
Hovering above the conversation, a sudden, horrifying realization struck Hathaway like a physical blow.
Wait a minute. The Grand Masters.
Hathaway looked down at Victoria, who was sitting rigidly at her console, and felt a profound, suffocating wave of pity.
Didn't Cecilia Wellington just register an independent club for this exact tournant?!
Hathaway's gar brain rapidly calculated the matchmaking odds. Just six days ago, she had judged Cecilia's self-funded startup—[Greed Umbrella]—as a delusional vanity project fueled by academic arrogance and toxic codependency. She had originally assud those five folklore PhDs would rely get chewed up and spat out by desperate, amateur brawlers in the Regional Open Qualifiers.
True, Victoria's fierce, unwavering faith in her sister had made Hathaway briefly second-guess herself over the past week. What if I'm wrong? Hathaway had wondered. What if they actually are a squad of hidden masters? What if they sohow miracle their way through the regionals and make it to the main event?
But now? Hearing about the actual ecosystem of this tournant? A Super Team built for a blood feud, the Millennium Sovereign on a revenge tour, and a literal Biohazard Level 4 terrorist cell?
Even if [Greed Umbrella] miraculously survived the qualifiers, the difficulty spike was mathematically impossible. It was like stepping out of the tutorial village and imdiately aggroing three different Final Bosses at the exact sa ti.
"Slaughtered" was no longer the correct term.
They aren't going to get slaughtered, Hathaway thought, silently tracing a cross over her chest in the zero-gravity void. They are going to get vaporized into subatomic particles. Their cute little friendship bracelets won't even leave ash. I need to gently ask Victoria if the Wellington family has comprehensive life insurance.
Down below, the Lucent sisters' brief truce shattered. The topic naturally slid from tournant rosters straight into the abyss of personal attacks.
"Speaking of biohazards, look at yourself." Heidi frowned at Nino's soot-stained coat. "When was the last ti you ate a proper al? With actual at and vegetables?"
"Don't change the subject," Nino said coldly.
"I am not changing the subject. Your dark circles are at least two shades deeper than last week."
"That is the refractive error from the lighting in this sector."
"The lighting in Laboratory 606 has remained at a constant 4,500 Kelvin for the last three years, Nino. The lighting hasn't changed. You have."
"Did you co here to inspect my work, or to administer a physical?"
"Soone has to ensure you don't starve to death chasing a fraction of a percent!"
Hathaway, floating near the ceiling, was the only person in the room who possessed the master compiler for this encrypted dialogue. She was translating the entire conversation in real-ti.
Every irritable "Don't change the subject" compiled directly into: [Shut up, I don't want you to know I care about you.]
Every cold "You're embarrassing the family" parsed perfectly into: [If you don't sleep you are going to die, go to bed imdiately.]
It was a hyper-speed competition of "Who Can Pretend Not to Care More," and both players were operating at championship level.
anwhile, Victoria—whose worldview was currently undergoing a catastrophic ltdown—sat rigid at her console. The 10th Seat of the High Council got into petty squabbles about coffee stains and sleep schedules. The Lord of Glow could be needled. Could be annoyed. Victoria was too shocked to even adjust her gloves.
The argunt hit a wall. The air fell into an awkward silence.
They simultaneously looked away from each other, crossing their arms in perfectly mirrored gestures of stubborn pride.
A few seconds later, Heidi adjusted the collar of her trench coat, breaking the silence.
"The schedule is a ss this year," she said lightly, as casually as comnting on the weather. "But it doesn't matter. You shouldn't have to worry about us."
She offered a polite, devastatingly factual smile.
"Golden Iris will remain in the winner's bracket. So our paths shouldn't cross."
There was zero provocation in her voice. It was simply Heidi's highly objective, detached analysis. She genuinely believed Golden Iris would sweep to the finals, while the uncoordinated Royal Rosas would probably drop into the loser's bracket sowhere in the middle.
It wasn't a boast. It wasn't even a provocation.
It was worse.
Nino didn't argue. She didn't shout. She didn't make a dramatic declaration of war.
She simply stood there, one hand in her pocket, her grey eyes fixed on the diagnostic readout she wasn't reading.
But from her high vantage point, Hathaway saw a single, glaring detail with absolute clarity.
Nino's hand—the one buried deep in her lab coat pocket—violently clenched into a fist. She gripped it so hard that the heavy, blast-resistant fabric was stretched taut, forming a sharp, aggressive crease.
No shonen-manga roar. No dramatic "I'll prove you wrong."
Just that one, single motion.
Oh, you're dead, Golden Iris, Hathaway thought, a shiver running down her spine. She's going to weaponize her entire intellect just to prove you wrong.
"I'm leaving," Heidi said, turning toward the massive doors. She paused at the threshold, glancing back over her shoulder. Her silver eyes softened, just for a fraction of a second.
"Don't lock yourself up until you break, sister. Truth can never be fully researched anyway."
Nino kept her back turned, staring at the screen, saying nothing.
The heavy brass doors sealed shut. The moonlight left the room.
The dead silence lasted for exactly four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Thread 1, freed from the paralysis of Hathaway's full-attention spectator mode, resud scraping residue with the guilty urgency of a factory worker returning from an unauthorized break.
Then, without a word, without looking at either of her assistants, Nino walked to the workstation.
She untied the ribbon. She opened the pastry box. She selected one, ate it in two bites with a freezing glare directed at nothing in particular, and closed the box.
She didn't say "thank you." She didn't say "they were good." She didn't say anything.
She went back to the Leviathan.
The hatch closed behind her.
[Ti]: Day 36, Sunday, 02:14 AM
[Location]: Dormitory [Golden Bough] · Room 302
Hathaway’s quill scratched the final geotric node onto the parchnt.
She cross-referenced the alignnt. She verified the rcury stabilization thresholds. She double-checked the 'Cat' translation matrix.
It was flawless.
[Amora's Analytic Vision - Model Complete]
"Page 214. Done," Hathaway whispered into the dark, silent room.
She capped her inkwell, closed the heavy notebook, and didn't even bother taking off her boots before collapsing onto her mattress.
Tomorrow, she would test the materials.
On Monday, she would brew the potion.
And then, she would open her eyes to a brand new world.
A world where she could finally slack off properly. Once the Admin-Mode HUD was permanently installed in her visual cortex, scraping the Leviathan's hull would take a fraction of the effort. She could automate her manual labor, protect her sanity, and quietly rake in her lucrative 1,500-Solar paycheck with the profound, smug satisfaction of an employee who had just written a macro to do her entire job.
But as the heavy weight of exhaustion pulled her toward sleep, her thoughts drifted beyond the confines of Lab 606.
She thought about the upcoming sumr. The Grand Masters. A worldwide spectacle of magical violence, tactical genius, and deeply petty grudges.
To the rest of the freshn at Yggdrasil, the nas on those rosters—Lin Zhaojun, Nino, Rhode, Adeline, Paddy, and Heidi—were just lore. Untouchable idols sitting on thrones high above the clouds, docunted in textbooks and worshipped from afar.
But for Hathaway, looking ahead to that tournant brought a strange, wonderfully surreal sense of connection. They weren't distant gods to her. She actually knew them.
They were the sponsor who had signed her enrollnt papers. The Academic Tyrant who signed her paychecks. Her very own older cousin. The walking biohazard who had forced her to skydive without a parachute on her very first morning. The chaotic-evil Feathered Dragon who had casually bombed her own summoner. And the delightfully spoiled, remarkably oblivious young lady who had single-handedly saved her academic career with a casual napkin.
She knew firsthand that they were living, breathing, incredibly flawed people. They were younger sisters who built absurd Super Teams just to spawn-camp their rivals. They were older sisters who banged wrenches against reactor hulls just to steal attention. They were overpowered nerds who ford apocalyptic alliances, bickered over dark circles, and angrily ate expensive macarons when no one was looking.
They were gloriously, disastrously human. And because she knew them—because she had survived their eccentricities and seen the people behind the legends—she genuinely, desperately wanted to be in the stands when they finally collided on the biggest stage in the universe.
A soft, genuine smile touched her lips as the darkness finally claid her.
I can't wait, Hathaway thought, her gar soul buzzing with a quiet, absolute hype. Midsumr really is the best season.
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