AGAINST THE RULES: their scentless omega Chapter 61: Ryven vs Timothy

Lucian paused by the microwave, the soft hum filling the small apartnt as the cup of ran slowly rotated inside. The scent of artificial chicken and spices began to leak into the air, warm and familiar, grounding him for a second. His eyes, however, never truly left the tablet propped against the counter.

On the screen, the map pulsed with colored dots, each one a rider, a decision, a risk.

"So far Orange Team has sacrificed five bikers just to invade Blue..." he murmured under his breath, watching the replay clip roll again. Five icons had rushed the open terrain like a wave, only to disappear one after another. Wiped out. Clean. Efficient. Spike alone had taken down most of them, his bike weaving like a blade through cloth.

A notification popped up on the side: Purple Team – 3 Eliminated.

Lucian exhaled slowly.

"Three from Purple tried their luck too..." His thumb hovered over the screen as he zood in on Blue’s spawn point. Open field. Barely any cover. Strategically, it was the worst location on the map, exposed from almost every angle.

And yet.

They’re holding.

"Looks like the Blue Team, despite having the lowest number and their spawn point being completely open, contains one of the strongest line-ups," he thought, analytical gears turning in his head the way they always did when bikes and competition mixed. "Spike... Bulldozer... even the other four look pumped. Their aura alone is intimidating."

The microwave beeped, snapping him back. He opened it, steam fogging his glasses for a split second. He blinked it away, grabbed the ran, and walked to his desk, setting it down beside scattered tools and scribbled notes from earlier chanical sketches.

His gaze drifted back to the screen.

"The Reagents really made a bold move," he muttered. "Putting the strongest team in the weakest spawn point... they’re forcing everyone else to waste stamina early."

An hour had already passed. The tir in the corner blinked 01:02:17.

And the ga was only getting fiercer.

On screen, dust clouds rose as two bikes clashed near a ridge. The comntators’ excited voices overlapped, shouting strategies and statistics, but Lucian tuned most of it out. He watched the movent patterns instead, the hesitation before a turn, the confidence in acceleration, the slight wobble that revealed exhaustion.

"This isn’t just about strength," he thought as he stirred the noodles absently, barely tasting the first bite. "It’s endurance... survival... resource managent. Whoever burns out first loses, even if they’re the strongest."

(Purple spawn point)

Timothy sat astride his bike beneath the thin shade of a crooked tree, boots planted firmly on the ground while the engine idled in a low growl beneath him. Dust drifted lazily across the purple-marked zone, the flag fluttering above them like a silent reminder of what they were ant to protect. His visor was lifted halfway, just enough for his eyes to scan the holographic map projected from his wrist device.

"Three mbers already eliminated..." he muttered, tongue clicking against his teeth. The purple dots on the map had dimd into grey, gone before they had even made a dent. "And they thought charging Bulldozer’s team head-on was a good idea."

He scoffed under his breath.

"So stupid."

Around him, the remaining riders shifted restlessly on their bikes. So revved their engines to bleed off anxiety, others kept glancing at the open terrain beyond their boundary line, as if expecting Blue Team to storm them next. The air slled of fuel, hot tal, and tension.

Then the speakers crackled overhead, the announcer’s booming voice echoing across the entire arena.

"Good day, teams! How are we feeling in this ga?"

A ripple of irritation passed through Timothy’s expression.

"We can already see eight mbers eliminated, what a rough start for Orange and Purple!" the presenter laughed theatrically. "But now, to make things more interesting..."

Timothy’s brows drew together.

"Each team will now choose a leaderm a representative who will make the key decisions! Choose wisely!"

A murmur spread through the purple zone. Riders turned to one another, uncertainty flickering in their helts and stiff shoulders.

"And one more thing!" the announcer added with a delighted chuckle. "You are now allowed to get off your bikes, but only within your spawn point. You have ten minutes to decide. The countdown begins now!"

A loud digital tir appeared on every rider’s screen.

10:00

Timothy exhaled sharply through his nose. "Great. Now they want politics in the middle of a battlefield."

Timothy rolled his shoulders after stepping off the bike, the stiffness in his neck cracking softly as he stretched. Around him, the remaining purple riders gathered in loose clusters, helts tilted toward one another as whispers began to circulate.

"A team leader... who’s it going to be?"

"I think Timothy should take it."

"Of course. He’s a top dog, it will be guaranteed win right?."

"And he’s already skilled."

Their voices weren’t loud, but they didn’t need to be. Timothy heard every word. The corner of his mouth curved upward, a quiet, self-satisfied smirk forming as he pretended not to listen.

Already advocating for ... that’s cute.

He let the silence stretch just enough for their anticipation to build, then sauntered toward them with lazy confidence, gloves tucked into his belt. "Now, now," he drawled, voice smooth as oil, "no need to mumble among yourselves. It’s already obvious who the team leader is going to be."

A few helts nodded instinctively.

"I’ll be the team lea—"

"I decline."

The words cut through the air like a blade.

Timothy’s head snapped toward the source. The smirk froze on his lips, then slowly hardened into irritation. Who the hell—?

From the edge of the purple boundary, where the shadows of the ridge swallowed the light, a figure stepped forward. Ryven. His expression was as neutral as ever,no challenge in his eyes, no arrogance in his posture. Just calm. Too calm.

The murmurs surged again.

"Who is that guy?"

"I rember seeing him in the last event..."

"Did he just refuse Timothy being leader?"

Timothy exhaled sharply through his nose and turned fully to face him. "And why," he asked, tone asured but tight, "did you refuse being team leader?"

Ryven stopped a few paces away. Dust drifted between them, the countdown tir reflecting faintly on his visor before he lifted it just enough for his eyes to be seen, steady, unflinching.

"Because," he said simply, "I’d be a better leader... than a low skill mber who bought his way into the top-dog rank."

The air shifted.

A collective intake of breath rippled through the team. Soone’s bike engine sputtered as its rider instinctively gripped the throttle too hard. Timothy’s jaw flexed, a vein rising at his temple. The words didn’t sound loud, but they landed heavy, accusation wrapped in indifference.

Bought?

For a split second, sothing dangerous flickered behind Timothy’s eyes. Not anger alone, exposure. The kind that cos when soone speaks too close to a truth you never wanted aired.

He took a step forward, boots crunching against the dirt. "Careful," he said, voice dropping. "You don’t even know ."

Ryven didn’t move. "I know enough."

The tir blinked above them.

04:31

The team shifted uneasily, glancing between the two. This wasn’t the decisive unity they needed, it was fracture, forming in real ti.

Timothy let out a short laugh, humorless. "You think leadership is speed and silence? This isn’t an art exhibit. This is a battlefield."

"And you think noise equals control," Ryven replied. "Leadership is decision, not reputation."

Another second ticked away.

03:58

The purple flag snapped violently in the wind overhead, as if urging them to choose before the ga itself chose for them. So riders looked at Timothy out of habit. Others, now, looked at Ryven out of curiosity.

Two centers of gravity.

Timothy’s smile returned, but this ti it was sharp. "Fine," he said. "Then prove it. One wrong call, and this team falls with you."

Ryven’s gaze didn’t waver. "One wrong ego, and it falls with you anyway."

The countdown kept bleeding seconds, indifferent to pride, to rivalry, to the quiet war forming before the real one had even begun