They played three more matches.
Irina kept her pride intact, but barely. The first ga, she managed to hold parity—still leading in raw aggression, kills, tempo. But Astron never died. Not once. His assist count was ridiculous. His decision-making flawless. She tried to bait him into overextending, to draw him into chaos and see if he’d break pattern—but instead, he redirected it. Converted her wild instincts into exact, efficient skirmishes.
The second ga?
He carried.
And not passively.
By then, Irina wasn’t playing to see if he could keep up. She was playing to chase him. Match his tempo. Find the gap that wasn’t there.
The third match—close, brutal, and hard-fought—ended with both of them collapsing back on the couch, controllers dropped onto their laps, the final scoreboard still glowing on the screen.
Irina exhaled through her nose, still sprawled across the couch, one arm flung lazily over her forehead. Her other hand hung over the edge, fingers brushing the cool hardwood. "Fifteen kills," she muttered again, voice low with disbelief. "And I’m the one who set half of them up..."
Astron, sitting beside her with his usual composed posture, didn’t offer a boast or even a glance. He simply stood, brushing nonexistent dust from his coat sleeve. "You should watch so VODs."
Irina cracked one eye open. "What?"
"You need to watch so VODs," he repeated, voice matter-of-fact as he reached for his gloves.
She lifted her head slightly. "Wait—are you serious right now?"
Astron nodded. "That’s how I improved." His tone never changed, not even when he added, "The pro said they’re more important for support roles. Sothing about timing awareness and external field control."
Irina stared at him like he’d just told her to start reading dissertations for breakfast. "Astron. This is a ga. I’m not about to turn it into another lecture series."
"It’s up to you," he replied simply.
And with that, he slid the last buckle of his gear into place and moved toward the door.
Irina sat up a little straighter on the couch, watching his back with a mix of amusent and exasperation. "You’re impossible."
Astron didn’t respond.
She watched him reach the door. Pause. Adjust the collar of his coat. And then—without a word—he stepped out.
The door shut behind him with a soft click.
And Irina, still sitting in the faint echo of his presence, grumbled, "...VODs, huh?"
She leaned back, eyes narrowing at the blank screen in front of her.
"Fine. Maybe just one."
*****
The air outside Irina’s building was quiet—cooler than usual, laced with the drifting scent of evening mana stabilizers that shimred faintly from the periter wards. Astron adjusted his coat collar slightly, let the pressure in his lungs recalibrate with the shift in temperature, and then began walking.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t linger.
His steps were asured. Unhurried. But with purpose.
The campus paths were mostly empty now. The late-evening curfew would kick in soon, and most students were either finishing their last als in the dorm kitchens or settling into study lounges. But Astron’s stride didn’t veer toward any of them. He passed the glowing glass atrium of the north dorm complex without pause, stepped around the training hall shadows without a second glance, and turned down the secluded lane that led to his quarters.
The door recognized his presence instantly.
A soft hum. A faint click. And then the locks parted.
He stepped inside, scanned the room once—automatic, instinctive. The shelves were in order. The desk clear. His gear hung from the designated hooks in silent readiness. Everything was as he’d left it.
Still, he didn’t waste ti.
And within a few seconds, all of the were accounted for. While he carried most of his belongings in the undetectable spatial ring, it was still good to be cautious.
His fingers lingered over the seal flap just a mont longer.
Then—click.
He slung the satchel over his shoulder.
Turned.
And left.
****
The academy gates recognized his credentials the mont he stepped into range.
The embedded array pulsed faintly—white light diffused through arcane stabilizers as the reinforced border sigils flickered once, then dimd. The gate parted without a word.
Astron passed through with the sa unbroken pace.
No security officers stopped him. No automated queries. The Organization’s override seal embedded into his smartwatch cleared all outgoing clearance tiers. To the academy’s systems, he wasn’t a cadet for the next nine days.
He was an asset in motion.
And now—he was off-grid.
The city beyond stretched quietly before him. Arcadia’s upper districts shimred with late-afternoon brilliance. It was 4:02 PM, the sun still held high over the rooftops, casting long gold reflections across the district’s alloy walkways and glass-paneled towers.
Pedestrians moved in lazy rhythm along the public platforms. Mana rails humd softly in the distance. Couriers darted between channels. It all looked normal—ordinary.
But Astron knew better.
The world was bracing for sothing. And this calm? Temporary.
He walked two blocks from the academy’s outer gate before pulling his smartwatch into view. The interface flickered awake at his touch, registering his coordinates and recent clearance log.
--------------
Location: District Twelve – Outer Campus Sector
Ti: 16:04
Status: Cleared for Transit
Destination Input?
--------------
He tapped once—entered the coordinates.
| Target Destination: Arcadia Outer Zone
The device confird the request with a soft chi.
|Match Found – Civilian Transport Eligible
|ETA for Cab: 3 Minutes
Astron lowered his arm again, stepped beneath the shadow of a low-hanging sign post near the roadside, and waited.
He didn’t glance around. Didn’t shift his weight or check the ti again.
Just stood.
Still.
And right on cue, the transport cab shimred into view.
It wasn’t a flashy model—compact, hover-enabled, shielded with basic city-grade mana shielding. Civilian-tier. Nothing out of place.
The doors opened automatically as it slowed to a stop before him.
Astron stepped in without a word.
The driver—an older man with graying hair and a bored expression—glanced into the rear mirror once. "Destination’s locked, sir. Outskirts, south bend. Quiet zone." He scratched his neck. "Kinda rare for academy folk to head that far, huh?"
Astron didn’t respond.
Not a nod. Not a glance. Not even a subtle shift of acknowledgnt.
His gaze remained forward, angled toward the glass as if the world outside the window held more aning than the present mont.
The driver blinked once. Then shrugged to himself and tapped the console, settling his hand back on the directional glyph. "Right, then," he muttered under his breath, not irritated—just used to being ignored.
The cab slid smoothly into the lane, hovering into rhythm with the outer traffic flow. City lights drifted past in quiet gradients, gleaming off the polished barrier walls and layered transport lanes overhead.
Outside, Arcadia was moving in its usual order—serene and brilliant in its design. But as the streets gave way to lower traffic density, the mood began to shift. The glass beca steel. The towers beca warehouse blocks. And soon, they passed into the transitional district that led toward the southern edges—where the polished grandeur of Arcadia gave way to outposts, tech corridors, and finally... periter stabilization zones.
Astron watched it all pass.
The change in rhythm.
The subtle increase in field towers.
The drop in civilian signage.
’The city is brewing.’
Indeed.
--------A/N----------
Apparently, I need to write a 10-page report for my project. It is really nice of our professor to give us the notice just today morning, making the deadline tomorrow night.
Our professor forgot to include the report part in the description, oopsie....
She said.
College is such a nice place.....
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