Chapter Text
The court looked bigger from the stands.
From the bench, too—wide open and alive with sound, with motion, with the sheer spirit of competition. But when Phainon stepped over the line, racquet clutched in his hand and sweat beading beneath his gloves, it all seemed to close in around him.
There was so much noise: The crowd roaring from the stands and the high pitched squeal of sneakers pivoting on the polished floor, the sharp clang of sticks against the ball and the ricochet of it as it passed against the wall.
He’d dreamed about this since he was a kid: First-year striker on a top-ranked NCAA Exy team. It was the type of opportunity people fought years for—the luxury to play at the championship game. But he’d earned it—every stat on his record, every high school game—his performances all said so.
Yet, the second his shoes hit that glossy court, the weight in his chest changed. This wasn’t the type of game you could win on talent alone, and no amount of experience as a player (that wasn’t even on the starting lineup) could’ve prepared him for it.
The Xianzhou Luofu Lions were in motion before he could properly gather his bearings, their formation so precise it was terrifying. They had signed an incredibly talented group of freshmen the previous year, and had proven themselves strong enough to make the starting lineup as sophomores.
Ren and Jingliu carved paths through UO’s midfield like they’d mapped it out beforehand, which is something Phainon wishes he’d paid more attention to. They moved together seamlessly; coordinated like it was the easiest thing in the world to them, passing the ball over the heads of UO’s dealers, and shooting risky moves at the goal that somehow lit it up every single time, the deafening sound of the buzzer adding another point to their score.
On the defense, Jing Yuan and Baiheng held their ground like an impenetrable wall at the backline, closing off every angle and avenue that would’ve allowed him to even see the goal itself. They read the game in real time, shutting down plays before they fully formed.
It was overwhelming, watching the Lions work together like a machine whilst he felt like a cog out of place, unsure of what to do but run. The weight of the ball in his net was all he could focus on, gripping the racquet a bit too tight, the frame vibrating faintly in his hands as he sprinted down the side of the court. The rubber soles of his sneakers shrieked against the floor when he cut right, aiming for an opening, raising his racquet to shoot—
And then Baiheng was there, stick extended, the ball ripped free before Phainon could plant his feet.
It didn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter. Mistakes happened, he’d gain possession of the ball and try again. And again. As many times as it took until he scored.
During his next possession he feinted left, darted through the center and— Jing Yuan swept in, racquet snapping into the ball’s path with a clean, flashy move, catlike smirk on his face.
When he caught the ball again, he cradled it in the net protectively as he pivoted sideways, looking for the next opening, but it was all wrong; it felt heavier, refusing to settle where he wanted it in the net, and as he raised his arms to release, the arc was off, just a degree too far to the right, missing the goal and landing in somebody else’s net.
He could feel his own breathing now, ragged and hot under the helmet, the thud of his heartbeat syncing with the constant flash of movement around him. His head knew what he was supposed to do, he knew he had to keep fighting, but his body wasn’t keeping up.
Every time the ball left his net, it ended up somewhere he didn’t want it. Every time he closed in, the backliners were already there, marking him and following him like a shadow he couldn’t shake. It felt like running toward the end of a hallway where the exit kept moving further and further the closer you got. It felt like drowning and trying your best to break the surface but consistently falling deeper.
A sharp whistle was the only thing to bring him out of his reverie.
He jogged off the court at the call, lungs burning, Exy stick hanging heavy in his hand. As he passed the next striker—that bold number 7 with white hair—he clapped her glove in automatic habit before dropping down onto the bench.
The padded seat did nothing to cushion the tight coil in his chest.
From here, this time, the game looked different. The court wasn’t as horrifyingly large as it first seemed, but it also wasn’t as stifling. Without the helmet muffling his senses, the sounds hit harder as they ricocheted throughout the Luofu’s Wardance Stadium. The dull thud of bodies colliding and the smack of the ball between nets was clearer, as was the bright red scoreboard overhead, much easier to read without the protective wiring blurring his vision.
In the wake of his failure, he told himself to watch—to learn. That’s what you did when you weren’t on the court. Being on the bench didn’t mean you weren’t still part of the team, and he needed to be prepared to sub in once more if necessary. But the moment he locked his eyes on the Lions’s backline, the truth started to sink in.
They had known him.
In their eyes, he wasn’t just a rookie with a slim chance of showing face at the championships. He wasn’t the small town boy that’d only barely gotten two hours on the court throughout his entire season. To them, he was Phainon; a player just as any other on UO’s lineup. They’d studied his clips, and they knew things he couldn’t even begin to image they’d be able to realize, such as his preference to pivot on his right foot, or his affinity for feints before accelerating down the side of the court to deliver a perfect shot at goal, or the way he tended to hold the ball a split second too long before a pass when hindered by his own uncertainty.
Every move he’d thought was instinct was already in their book, and he’d walked right into the trap he’d set for himself.
He’d been cocky, and it didn’t take being off the court for long to come to that realization. First year in the finals and he thought he could wing it, assumed his raw talent would carry him through the noise and the pressure and bring him to victory, but he failed to consider that these were the Xianzhou Luofu Lions—notorious for their strict discipline and consistent contenders for Top 3 in Class I Exy.
Now, sitting on the sidelines, the patterns were obvious. The openings he should have taken stuck out like a sore thumb in the replays running through his mind.
A pass to the left wing could have slipped under Jing Yuan’s guard. A quicker release might have landed a shot before Baiheng closed in. If he’d been sharper—hungrier—maybe he could have scored.
But it wasn’t really hunger that he lacked. He had it, and was abundant in his urge to win and prove himself. What he really needed was finesse… The ability to pay attention to the smaller shifts in formation, the tells the other players had before they moved around each other, the gaps in those seemingly perfect seams. He needed to look outward, instead of focusing all of his energy inward, and still—
The scoreboard changed again. 11-6.
The numbers ticked up tauntingly, every point the Lions scored buzzing low and mean in the back of his skull. He tried to focus on the play, on seeing the court as a whole instead of the tiny corner he’d been locked into, but it didn’t matter. Ren and Jingliu kept slipping through the gaps in the Chimeras’ own defensive line, their backs to the goal for only a heartbeat before driving the ball home.
12-6.
The clock dripped away, seconds clinging to the edges before falling. His racquet laid across his knees, useless apart from the familiar weight reminding him of what he’d failed to do.
13-6.
He imagined himself back out there, cutting the corners just a bit sharper, pushing harder, visualizing the pass before it opened. He saw the version of himself who didn’t panic, who didn’t miss the perfect shot due to a millisecond of inaction, who didn’t let the Lions pin him down like some rookie too afraid to fight.
The Chimeras pushed hard on the next drive, a fast break down the left side catching Ren out of position. The pass threaded clean through their striker, and the shot hit the net with a satisfying thunk.
13-7.
The rest of his teammates on the bench cheered, the air shifting lighter for a moment, but Phainon didn’t feel it. The point meant nothing. The timer was bleeding out in front of him, and the Lions were likely not done yet. He could sense it in the way their eyes hardened and their grips strengthened on their sticks—the way it looked like they were even more determined to rack up the score despite the fact that they were undoubtedly going to win, just to rub it thick in their faces.
Another reset at the midfield, and Jingliu scooped up the ball, firing it forward without hesitation. Ren caught it in stride, twisting closely past UO’s last line of defense, and slammed it into the goal before Polyxia could even react.
14-7.
The goal lit up in bright, blinding red, and the buzzer sounded shortly after, loud enough to make him flinch. The Lions erupted instantly, racquets raised high, gloves slapping against helmets and fingers knotting into the wiring, pulling each other close and colliding in a tangle of hugs and shouts.
Phainon could only watch them with a detached curiosity, and he shuddered as he caught an off-kilter, studying glance from a pair of amber eyes in the stands that was gone as fast as it appeared. It was the type of look that unsettled him, that told him that his efforts were futile, and that the Lions always expected to win in this finale.
The Chimeras stood in a loose huddle, the sting of loss softened by a well-spirited acceptance. There were still claps on the back, words of praise, and even smiles as they lined up and stepped forward to shake hands with their opponents during the post-game.
Phainon went through the motions, fiddling with the straps of his vacant glove in his free hand as he bid farewell with his bare one, and yet the weight in his chest never lifted.
They should have won.
Next year, they would. He’d make sure of it.
He would study the Lions until their playbook felt like second nature. He would learn every weakness, every moment of hesitation, every blind spot they thought they didn’t have.
And when the time came?
He’d beat them into the ground.
The road stretched on, an endless gray ribbon cutting through the flat countryside. Phainon rested his head against the window, eyes half-lidded as he watched fields and farms blur past in streaks of green and gold. It was a long trip—six hours to Aideen, six hours of bumps in the asphalt rattling up through the frame of the bus, six hours of trying and failing to let sleep take him.
He’d given up after the first hour. No matter how hard he tried, his eyes couldn’t stay shut for long enough for him to even take a nap. Sleep wouldn’t come, and the only thing that he could feel was the thrumming of a nervous energy under his skin.
So he sat in silence; the hum of the engine and the sound of his teammates chattering idly a constant drone under his thoughts.
The closer they drew to Penacony, the more the scenery shifted. The empty fields gave way to color and noise. There were billboards crowding the roadside, the gaudy splashes of colorful advertisements announcing various theme parks, casinos, concerts and festivals, virtually anything and everything designed to bleed money out of tourists. It was called the “State of Festivities” for a reason, Phainon reasoned.
It was fitting, therefore, that they would be the ones to host the Fall Banquet this year. He’d heard rumors of the Reverie Hotel, a grand building in central Aideen known to hold conferences and other events alike. The banquet would likely be one of the most eventful ones he’d ever attend in his career as a collegiate Exy player.
But his mind wouldn’t really stay in the present. It kept circling back, looping over the same memory he’d been carrying since his first year—that shameful, brutal loss against the Xianzhou Luofu Lions in his freshman year—the first and last time he’d ever been to Championships.
He could still hear the sound of movement on the court, still see the scoreboard ticking upward. He remembered the aggressive plays of their strikers and the impenetrable way the defensive line blocked him out from the goal like it’d only happened yesterday. The Lions played in a remarkably uniform fashion, moving around the court with the precision of a well-oiled machine.
Now though, one of theirs was his. Dan Heng—senior backliner—had transferred from UXL to UO this season. After three years as a reliable starter on UXL’s lineup, Phainon wasn’t sure what to make of him joining the Chimeras just yet. His style was sharp, but different. He was unique, and from what Phainon had been able to see so far, he loved to make last minute changes to throw the opposing team off during drills. It was miles away from the more disciplined playstyle of the Lions, and on UO’s court he stood out.
But the Lions must’ve known that about him. In the upcoming season, Phainon caught himself wondering if that difference would end up being their weakness, or their advantage…
He leaned his temple harder against the window, watching another billboard whip past, this one advertising a carnival with a visual of fireworks exploding behind the text in bright ink.
Regardless, all that mattered was the Championship.
For two years in a row, Castrum Kremnos University had claimed the cup. And in those two years, Okhema hadn’t even gotten close enough to try. He couldn’t rationalize what was worse—losing at the last mile, or being knocked out of the bracket before the spring season was even halfway through.
Beating UXL mattered. Beating everyone mattered—but beating CKU was personal. Not only because they were the biggest competition for the cup, but because CKU was historically known as UO’s rival. Far before the invention of Exy, or the establishment of the Universities themselves, Okhema and Castrum Kremnos were supposedly regarded as ancient enemies. There were tall tales of wars and bloodied battle grounds spanning the relatively small distance between the two cities, and that animosity had only twisted itself into petty sports rivalry between the schools as the years progressed.
At the center of CKU’s lineup was Mydeimos—third year backliner and the youngest captain in Class I Exy, with a cup to his name for every year he’d been on the court. The man was as elusive as they came: mysteriously signed on as a starter at 17 and never one to show his face on interviews or at the banquets. Although, word on the street was that this year he’d been forced to attend.
He wondered what kind of captain Mydeimos really was. Was he rough and commanding? Was he more laid back? Did he rely on his coaches? Did he—
A flash of movement in the corner of his vision tugged Phainon back to reality. He blinked, turning his head to find Stelle watching him from the seat beside his.
“If you weren’t ignoring me this whole time,” she said, silver hair catching the dim bus light, “We could’ve spent this entire drive planning how we’re going to infiltrate the other teams and dig up their plays for the upcoming season.”
Stelle sat there as if she’d been there the whole time, arms folded across her chest with that half-smirk she always wore on her face.
“You weren’t even sitting here,” he said, frowning. “You were in the back of the bus. Where did you even come from?”
"I was here the whole time,” Stelle replied without missing a beat, her yellow eyes blinking owlishly at him. “Are you really that out of it?”
For a second he believed her, stomach dropping with guilt. Had he been so deep inside his own head that he hadn’t noticed her sitting right next to him? He rubbed at his temple for a moment before responding. “…Wait. Really?”
Her face didn’t shift an inch as she deadpanned, “No. You’re so gullible. This is probably why we haven’t made it to finals.”
Phainon groaned, tipping his head back against the window with a soft thud. “You’re insufferable.”
“Thank you!” Stelle said lightly, already pulling her legs up to fold cross-legged in the seat, her knees digging into his thigh with the motion.
He tried to refocus, dragging his thoughts back to the same mantra that had filled his head the entire drive: he had to beat everyone. Every team and every captain that stood against him had to be defeated. The finals were all that mattered, and he wasn’t going to let Okhema watch another season pass them by as they stood on the sidelines. But if he was being honest, beating CKU and humbling the Gladiators by taking their cup from them was what he wanted most. He could already picture it, the way it would feel to stand on that court and watch them fall.
“…And he’s gone again.” Stelle’s voice cut into the daydream, level but still amused.
Phainon turned back to her with a scowl, lips pushing into a pout despite himself. “You’re so mean to me.”
“I’m keeping you locked in, Cap.”
Before he could retort, a quiet mutter floated from the seats behind them.
“You need to stop reading fanfic.” Polyxia whispered to her twin, her voice pitched low but not low enough. “We’re about to arrive.”
Phainon turned around just in time to see Castorice elbow her sister, lavender hair swaying with the motion, the white of her satin blouse a stark contrast to Polyxia’s black jacket.
“Shh! I told you not to say anything.” Castorice whispered back, clearly mortified.
Phainon leaned over the back of his seat, peering between them. “Reading what?”
Castorice stiffened, cheeks coloring fast as she tried to angle her phone away. “…Nothing important.”
“Uh-huh.” He smirked, tilting his head. “C’mon. What is it?”
Her blush deepened. “An… Enemies-to-lovers story.” Her voice was usually quiet, and he had to strain a bit to hear it over the sound of everybody else on the bus. “About cap—“
She didn’t get to finish. From the front of the bus, raised voices interrupted her sentence as they lapped over each other.
“—That’s not what I said.” Anaxa’s tone carried through the aisles haughtily.
“You’re impossible.” Aglaea replied, and though it was smooth there was a jagged undertone to it; the same quiet annoyance Anaxa was always able to instill in her despite her usually calm composure.
“Oh? So our golden assistant admits I’m right?”
“Don’t twist my words, Anaxa.”
“It’s Anaxagoras—”
Their voices bounced off the narrow walls of the bus, the argument climbing as quickly as the miles toward their destination decreased. Eventually the bus lurched, slowing with a hiss of brakes, and the noise in the cabin shifted as everyone felt the change in pace. Phainon straightened in his seat, eyes turning back to the window. Between the rows of other team buses pulling in, he caught his first glimpse of The Reverie.
The hotel rose like something out of a movie, sun shining down on the stone columns and details of the walls, shimmering against the hundreds of windows marking every room. Grand didn’t even begin to describe it—the walls reached higher than any building he’d seen back home. For a moment Phainon just stared, his chest tightening with something like awe. Even after four years in Okhema, with its skyscrapers and endless rush of noise, the small-town boy in him couldn’t shake the instinctive wonder of standing before a building so enormous. Aedes Elysiae didn’t have anything half this size—he almost laughed at the thought of the tallest structure in his home town, that old clock tower in the town square, being nothing in comparison to the hotel’s shadow.
Aglaea and Anaxa hadn’t let up in the meantime, their words finally untangling enough for Phainon to catch the thread of their fight: seating arrangements. They were arguing about the banquet tables, of all things.
“It’s completely impractical—“ Anaxa continued, tone sharp.
“You’re being dramatic. There is no reason to complain when it’s always been assigned seating.”
“It’s a matter of principle—“
Phainon pinched the bridge of his nose.
The aisle filled with shuffling bodies as his teammates rose to collect their bags. Cerydra’s bored voice cut through the noise. “You two are annoying. It’s assigned seating. It’s always been assigned seating. Stop acting like this is your first banquet, you’re both fifth years.”
Phainon turned in his seat, watching her make her way down the aisle, her pale hair brushing over her shoulders as though she couldn’t care less about the argument she’d just dismissed. Hysilens trailed behind her, lugging both their bags without complaint. It was a slightly comical sight; Hysilens towered over her by nearly half a foot, and yet she carried herself as if she was an attendant, following in Cerydra’s wake, silent and loyal. Phainon couldn’t remember a single time she’d seen her push back against one of Cerydra’s demands.
At the front of the bus, Coach Tribios rose, voice cutting through the chatter, her tone kind but authoritative. “We’ve arrived! Please grab your things in an orderly fashion.” She said, and with it her gaze snapped towards Aglaea and Anaxa. Both had fallen silent, though they still exchanged daggers with their eyes.
“Room assignments will be handled in the lobby,” Tribios continued. “After that, we’ll go over the assigned seating for the banquet.” The emphasis was pointed at the pair in front of her.
Everybody that hadn’t already made a move to leave got out of their seats, grabbing their bags from the storage overhead and moving to file out of the bus, the air resuming with chatter once more.
Outside, the parking lot was a mess of buses. Teams spilled out onto the pavement, and Stelle and Caelus had immediately fallen into step together, scanning the crowd with that eager, slightly reckless curiosity that always followed them when they were together.
“That one with the white hair is Robin from PSU, right?” Caelus whispered, tilting his head toward a girl stepping down from another bus.
“No, that’s Topaz from BU,” Stelle corrected instantly,her voice carrying that kind of certainty that was more bravado than accuracy.
Dan Heng, walking a few steps behind them, sighed. “Robin is helping set up the banquet. Topaz has a bob. That’s Hanya, from UXY.”
Stelle blinked, then grinned sheepishly. “Oh! Of course you would know.”
”Yeah!” Caelus chimed in, elbowing him. “Because you went to UXL!”
Dan Heng’s expression twitched, the faintest crease at his brow as he began to correct them. “That’s… Not the same—”
Phainon, despite walking just ahead, still caught the words. His stomach tightened at the mention of Dan Heng’s old team. He didn’t like where that conversation was headed; regardless of Dan Heng’s past, he was one of them now. He wouldn’t force the guy to talk about UXL unless he wanted to. Without slowing, he shifted his pace, dropping back just enough to sling an arm around Stelle’s shoulders and drag her forward.
“C’mon, Vice Cap,” he said with exaggerated cheer. “Aglaea needs us to hand out the room keys.”
Stelle made a noise of protest but let herself be pulled along, Caelus trailing after them with a puzzled glance. Dan Heng fell quiet again, and Phainon was relieved to leave the subject behind. Together, they crossed the lot toward the hotel’s gleaming doors, the looming shadow of The Reverie swallowing them whole as they stepped inside.
The lobby was a world of its own—the floor stretched wide in a polished marble, draped in velvet red carpets with gold accents. The check-in desks were in the middle of the large room, and red circular couches were scattered across the space in neat clusters, already crowded with athletes from other universities.
Phainon tilted his head back, gaze climbing upward. The hotel had an open-concept, with the lobby’s ceiling rising through the floors, the higher levels visible with balconies that surrounded the vast space. Above the main desk, and suspended somewhat curiously, was a massive cube—each of its sides bore a clock face, the hands ticking silently as great golden rings orbited around it in slow, deliberate motions.
Phainon couldn’t help the snort that escaped his mouth at the sight: PSU’s mascot was a slightly off-putting humanoid clock, and at least half the billboards he’d seen on the way there advertised parks and events themed around the thing too. Of course The Reverie had its own massive rendition of a clock as well.
The team clustered around one of the couches, some sitting while the others lingered at the edges with their bags at their feet. Phainon tugged Stelle along to the check-in desk, where Aglaea was conversing with the attendant and going over the necessary documentation.
“Finally,” Aglaea said as she spotted them approaching. She slid a neat stack of keycards into Stelle’s hands, and handed a single sheet of paper with the room numbers and assigned pairs to Phainon.
He glanced down at the list, scanning it quickly—Polyxia and Castorice, Caelus and Dan Heng… Stelle and Cipher, Hyacine and Cyrene—and himself with Anaxa. He resisted the urge to grimace at the last one; it wasn’t that he didn’t like Anaxa, but Anaxa most definitely wouldn’t be the happiest with the arrangement either.
Stelle busied herself distributing the cards, pushing her rare-but-effective vice captain voice out when people tried grabbing the wrong ones. Phainon cross-checked the list as she went, mentally ticking off names and ensuring everybody had what they needed.
When all of the cards were in hand and nobody was left keyless or complaining, Tribios appeared at Phainon’s side. She’d likely been dealing with the check-in the entire time.
“Everyone set?” She asked, scanning the group with a kind smile.
“Yes, Coach.” Phainon replied, giving the paper a finalizing flick.
“Good. Now go on up and drop your bags off. Be back in the lobby in about an hour, ready for the banquet!” Her gaze then lingered for a second on Aglaea and Anaxa, making sure no other arguments would come back up.
The team started moving again, shouldering their bags as they made their way toward the line of elevators at the far end of the lobby.
Phainon slowed his pace deliberately, waiting until the crowd thinned enough so that he could sidle up beside Cyrene. She had her head held high, short pink hair swaying with every step. A confident walk, much like Phainon’s had been when he’d been a freshman.
“You good to room with Hyacine?” Phainon asked. His tone was aiming for casual, but missed the mark and fell back upon that older-brother concern he couldn’t quite shake. “Need anything from me?”
Cyrene turned to face him, brows raising. “What, are you worried about me? Or… Are you worried about Hyacine?”
“What? Pfft!” Phainon barked a laugh, just a little too loud for it to be natural. “No. I’m just asking.”
Her answering look was far from impressed—it was the same type of look she’d given him countless times growing up, when he’d gotten on her nerves or became too invested in protecting her when she didn’t need it.
He sighed, dropping the act. It was pointless to argue when she’d see through him anyway. “Just… Don’t give her too much grief, alright? I know what you’re like.”
Cyrene’s laugh was soft and amused. “You’re so obvious when you’re worried, you know that? It’s just a banquet. I’ll be fine.” She gave him a nudge with her elbow. “Go do your Captain things. I can handle one night.”
Phainon lifted his hands in mock surrender at that, retreating with exaggerated defeat. “Okay, okay, fine!”
She smirked, already striding ahead toward Hyacine, who was holding the elevator doors open.
Phainon lingered only a moment longer before stepping in after the others, the doors sliding shut behind him, carrying them upwards toward their floor.
The Fall Banquet was a tradition as old as Exy itself. Every school in the district would send their full rosters for a night of celebration and niceties. All teams would be dressed in formal wear instead of jerseys, gathered in a single room to mingle instead of fight. On paper, it was a celebration of unity and a chance to remind the athletes that there was more to Exy than rivalries and trophies. In practice, however, it was an evening of sly smiles and the constant undercurrent of sizing each other up.
The Reverie’s largest event hall had been transformed for the occasion. White tablecloths spilled down long banquet tables, each one marked with a school’s banner draped proudly along the wall behind it. The air buzzed with low chatter and the occasional snarky comment, firm reminders that nobody there had forgotten why the other teams were their rivals in the first place.
University of Okhema’s banner gleamed a regal blue and deep gold near the center of the hall, their table split with Belobog University. Across the room, Phainon spotted Castrum Kremnos University sitting with Herta Space Institute of Technology, Penacony State University claiming a table of their own as hosts, and as per usual, University of Xianzhou Luofu and University of Xianzhou Yaoqing side by side as well.
He hadn’t paid much attention to the seating lecture back in the lobby. Banquet logistics were the last thing on his mind; he was busy brainstorming conversation starters that would yield the most information when it came to opposing teams’ strategies. He simply followed the flow of his teammates toward the table draped in Okhema’s colors and watched as Stelle wasted no time sliding into the seat beside Belobog’s number seven—a girl with light pink hair and a bright smile.
Phainon’s lips twitched upward slightly at the sight before smoothing it back into neutrality. He circled around the table, settling into an empty seat beside Castorice. She was leaned in close to a girl from Belobog with dark blue hair and round glasses—who Phainon recognized as their sophomore dealer, Pela—whispering something with her hand half-covering her mouth. Every so often Pela would nod enthusiastically, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose before responding.
Phainon didn’t bother to interrupt. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what they were talking about anyway—he caught the words ‘rivals’ and ‘secret training arc’ and ‘slow burn’, and suspected it was better left unconfirmed.
Instead, he let his gaze wander down the length of their table. Bronya and Gepard, Belobog’s Captain and Vice Captain, sat near the end with their heads bent in quiet conversation. Phainon groaned a little internally—it was unfortunate that they’d been paired with a team Okhema wouldn’t even face for weeks. There was no point dissecting their strengths yet when he’d forget it all in the upcoming weeks anyway.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, letting the murmur of Castorice and Pela’s conspiratorial chatter fade into background noise. He’d leave the obsessive early recon on BU to Stelle; if anyone was going to study their games before he even thought about it, it would be her. Not that he’d ever say it out loud, but he’d bet money that it wasn’t just professional interest driving her attention toward Belobog’s table.
At the same time, March laughed again at something Stelle said, and Phainon caught the edge of his Vice Captain’s grin in response. He would most definitely be asking her about that later.
He let his eyes slip past the banners closest to him, scanning the hall in searching sweeps. His gaze caught on the long table draped in University of Xianzhou Luofu’s red and teal colors, pushed up against University of Xianzhou Yaoqing’s green and white. They’d been paired together for the past few years. It made sense, as they were rival schools in name but allies in proximity.
What didn’t make sense was the scene he was looking at now.
At the center of the banquet table sat Jing Yuan, who became captain last year and was dubbed ‘The General’ by the rest of his team. And right beside him, practically glued to his side, was UXY’s captain Feixiao. The pair were laughing quite boisterously, Feixiao’s arm slung around Jing Yuan’s shoulders in a show of camaraderie that looked more like a reunion than a meeting of rivals. Jing Yuan smiled easily, as though this was routine for them. The two of them leaned toward each other as if there wasn’t a single sliver of bad blood between their schools.
Phainon’s brows knit together. He couldn’t imagine ever getting that close with his rivals. Not with Kremnos, certainly; not with the captain he hadn’t even met and already knew he wouldn’t be getting along with. Rivals were meant to be enemies, not friends. He’d rather fight them on the court than play house off it.
Still… Maybe UXL and UXY’s little “keep your enemies close” act was part of what made their games so interesting.
He dragged his focus away from the two captains and caught sight of the players sitting just beyond Jing Yuan. Ren and Jingliu were watching the room with matching sharp glares, glances flickering from table to table before they bent their heads together, whispering in quick, clipped words. Whatever it was that they were saying to one another seemed harsh and merciless, their judgements made by simple observations only.
Phainon suppressed a shudder. He remembered all too well what it was like facing them, how they somehow made it feel like he was cornered no matter how much room was left on the court. They were (and always would be) a pain in the ass to play against, but he’d still win. He had to.
Once again, his eyes shifted further down the hall, snagging on the banner belonging to the Herta Space Institute of Technology. He frowned, remembering that their first match next week was against them.
He’d played them before, and the memory wasn’t exactly threatening. Somehow they’d made it into Class I Exy, but their playstyle made their qualification feel undeserved. HSIT was an incredibly selective school, known for its academics and godawful acceptance interviews. Athletics had never been their focus until their captain Herta was admitted five years ago and made it her mission to create half a dozen sports teams, just to proclaim herself the captain of each one. She was a genius, but their plays as a team were a mess. The last time he’d faced them, they were disjointed and mechanical like the entire lineup was following a manual rather than the rhythm of the game.
Phainon shook his head, a sigh slipping past his lips. Genius or not, Exy required love to be played correctly. No matter how well they studied the rules, HSIT would never play the game with the same passion the rest of them had. The first match of the season would prove to be a rather easy one, he supposed.
He drummed his fingers lightly against the edge of the table for a moment as he thought, weighing the idea in his head before finally deciding he might as well make the most of the night. The point of his attendance at the banquet was to gather information, and even though HSIT wasn’t a threat—especially since their strongest players, Stelle and Caelus, had already jumped ship to Okhema a year go—it couldn’t hurt to see if anything had changed.
The thought of introducing himself to Herta made his stomach twist. He remembered the last time they’d spoken, if it could even be called a proper conversation. She’d spent the entire interaction calling him Neikos, with an expression that suggested she knew better than his own birth certificate. He was not doing that again.
So, Asta it was.
In truth, Asta had always been the more grounded one anyway. While Herta played captain for the other teams at HSIT, it was Asta who carried the brunt of the Exy responsibilities. She’d been starting striker her freshman year, and took the game more seriously than the others on the team. If he was going to start laying groundwork as Okhema’s new captain, making sure to leave a good impression with her before their game was a logical first step.
He stood, weaving through chairs until he arrived at HSIT’s table. Asta was easy enough to spot, with her dusty rose-colored hair and tablet open on the table in front of her.
“Hello!” He said as he stopped at her side, offering what he hoped was a professional-enough smile. “I’m Phainon, Captain of the University of Okhema’s team.”
Asta looked up, lips tugging into a polite smile. “Of course, I know who you are.”
The words should’ve been reassuring, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. Her attention flicked back almost immediately to the glowing screen in her hands, where endless rows of forms and charts passed beneath her quick-moving fingers.
Phainon leaned a fraction to the side, trying to catch even a hint of what she was reviewing—and promptly gave up. Whatever it was, it didn’t look like Exy. Schedules? Spreadsheets? Maybe something to do with classes? His brows pinched together. Technology school must be weird as hell if this was what counted as prep before a season.
He cleared his throat and tried again. “I just wanted to say hey, especially before our game next week. Good luck this season!”
“Mm.” Asta nodded once, distracted, fingers still tapping on the screen. She didn’t seem unkind, but she was definitely busy with whatever it was that she was dealing with.
After a few more polite exchanges that fizzled out almost just as quickly as they began, Phainon excused himself.
On the other side of HSIT’s table was Castrum Kremnos University.
CKU, as a team, was unmistakable. They barely filled half the table, no more than the bare minimum eleven bodies populating the seats. They stood out compared to the other teams filling the hall, small and isolated.
Phainon sidled closer to the nearest person, which happened to be a woman in a teal dress. She looked impassive and wasn’t talking to anybody else.
“Hey,” he asked, pitching his voice low as to now interrupt the rest of the conversations going on around them. “Do you know where the Kremnoan captain is?”
She turned her head toward him, expression flat and unbothered. After a moment she gave him a single, deadpan blink, and then lifted a finger, pointing wordlessly toward the far end of CKU’s side of the table.
Phainon nodded, fingers flexing at his side as he straightened to his full height.
He knew of Mydeimos. He’d be stupid to pretend he didn’t—the youngest captain the league had seen in years, and a backliner that could block out the goal with expert precision. It was impossible to make it to spring championships or keep up with Exy without hearing his name; to ignore the stats on his record and his prowess on the court. Impossible to pretend he wasn’t aware of the rumors about his father, the endless speculation and the weight of federal investigations that made for headlines louder than any petty drama the news tried to stir up otherwise.
None of that mattered here, not to Phainon. What mattered most was what happened inside the sterile lines of the court, and Mydeimos was an obstacle he intended to overcome.
So when he followed the pointed gesture to the other end of the table, the person waiting there startled him. The boy was younger than he expected, slighter, his posture shrinking rather than filling the chair. His hair was brown where he had remembered blonde, his expression wary as his eyes darted around the room. For a moment, Phainon wondered if the endless videos he’d studied had exaggerated the man's presence; if his reputation had built a myth larger than the truth.
Still, there was no reason not to set the tone. The Chimeras were going to finals. If the Gladiators stood in their way, then it was important to assert his resolve now, even in something as small as a greeting.
Phainon stepped forward with a sense of confidence, shoulders squared and posture straight as he extended his hand at the boy’s side. “Phainon.” He introduced himself evenly. “I’m the Captain of UO’s Exy team. I wanted to introduce myself before the season began.”
The boy blinked up at him, eyes wide and startled, like he hadn’t expected that Phainon, of all people, would be addressing him. His lips parted, but no words followed. Then he glanced at the offered hand before pulling back slightly, as though the gesture itself carried a threat. A faint tremor moved through him.
Phainon’s brows drew together. Was he really coming across so harshly? He’d been direct, perhaps, but nothing more than that. If this really was the captain who’d taken down all of the best teams in the league with ease, then the gulf between the perception of him and reality was staggering.
A quiet, deliberate hmph sounded behind him, cutting off his train of thought.
Phainon turned around, arm still suspended awkwardly in the space where his handshake had been refused.
He was met with a sight that was enough to stall thought all together—the man standing there was built in a way that left no room for doubt. Broad shoulders tapered into powerful arms, and his posture was so confident in a way that demanded immediate attention. His hair caught the banquet’s warm light, strawberry-blonde locks deepening into crimson ends that perfectly framed the measured line of his jaw and highlighted the sharp edge of his nose. Long, blonde lashes framed deep amber eyes that currently held Phainon locked in his place.
For the first time all evening, Phainon felt hesitant. His hand still hovered uselessly at his side, forgotten, as he stared into the face of someone who embodied every ounce of presence he had expected. His jaw slackened before he could stop it, mouth parting just slightly in an unguarded flash of awe. Up close, the man’s features only sharpened—a smattering of light freckles across his cheeks, and a beautifully done braid hanging on one side of his head.
But then, he started talking.
“Why are you bothering my junior? Does the Okheman Deliverer have nothing better to do with his time than to harass new freshmen?”
His voice was low, threaded with authority so natural it felt like it belonged there; more than the music or the murmur of conversation around them. The slight huskiness to it had Phainon’s gut knotting before his brain could catch up.
Beside them, the boy dipped his head in something between apology and embarrassment. The mistake crashed over him like a bucket of cold water; that was not Mydeimos at all.
Of course. Of course.
Gone was the fleeting thought of how absurdly pretty this stranger was. This wasn’t a stranger at all—it was the Captain of the Gladiators—and his first words had been laced with derision. Worse, he’d wielded Phainon’s court nickname like it was an insult, refusing to use his proper name as if that was below him.
Phainon straightened reflexively, shoulders stiffening. For half a second he tried to convince himself that maybe his earlier impression had been a trick of the light, or his lack of sleep from the bus ride over playing tricks on his mind. Looking at him again and eyeing those arms corded with muscle, or the breadth of his chest and legs, it was impossible to mistake him for anyone but the man who anchored CKU’s defensive line in every clip Phainon had studied. The commanding presence he had seen in footage was here right in the flesh, and no less intimidating than it had all made him seem.
Fucking HSIT, Phainon cursed inwardly. They’d pointed him at the wrong person, and yes it was mostly his fault for not thinking anything of it, but now they were also definitely watching him stumble his way through this humiliating conversation.
He clenched his jaw, refusing to flinch further, and forced his voice to steady. “I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but it seems you already know who I am.”
One golden brow arched, and a flicker of amusement curved Mydeimos’s mouth. “Of course I know who you are. It’s customary for a captain to know the lineup of other teams.”
The following pause was deliberate, just long enough for the jab to hit. Then, with that same infuriating smugness, Mydeimos added. “But I must say—I thought the Chimeras were known for their niceties.”
The smirk that followed was loud, coy lips unfurling to reveal sharp teeth as he crossed his thick arms across his chest.
Phainon’s eyes followed the motion for a moment before he rolled them in a falsely dismissive motion. The man was surprisingly cocky for how serious he outwardly presented himself, and it made Phainon want to sneer. It was exactly the kind of opponent he wanted to crush.
“Our niceties don’t apply to the enemy.”
Mydeimos didn’t even blink. His voice, when it came, was even and maddeningly calm.
“Is that not every team? How do you maintain such a reputation if you consider everyone an enemy?”
Phainon scoffed, the sound cutting out from him before he could temper it. “Every team in the league is somebody we have to beat. But you know just as well as I do that the rivalry between our teams runs deeper than that.”
Amber eyes studied him for a moment, the gaze so piercing it would’ve made a lesser man flinch. Then, Mydeimos tilted his head just slightly, hair swaying gently across his forehead as if amused at the suggestion. “You fall for such superficial folk tales. And, if we are discussing it historically, Kremnos won anyway.”
The words landed like a slap. Heat rose unbidden in Phainon’s chest, annoyance coiling sharp and hot. Superficial? He wanted to snarl. The rivalry was woven into the very fabric of their histories, a contest that had stretched on for years, each match carrying the weight of generations. How dare he act as though it meant nothing—and worse, have the arrogance to remind him that Kremnos had come out on top?
Phainon’s jaw worked, teeth clenching around the response. “So you do care?”
“No.” Mydeimos deadpanned, gaze unwavering. “At the end of the day, Okhema is as much an adversary as everybody else. It doesn’t matter—we will beat you all regardless.”
With that, he inclined his head in the barest gesture of acknowledgement, then turned, walking past Phainon without another word and taking the seat beside the brunette as though the conversation had never happened.
Phainon remained rooted in place, stunned by the abruptness of the dismissal. His first clenched tight at his side, nails biting into his palm in the shape of crescent moons. Rage and determination surged inside of him in equal measure. Mydeimos’s arrogance may have been deserved, but it burned in Phainon’s chest like fire.
They may have won the last two years in a row, but this year would be different.
He would make sure of it.