“Yep, and before you came in, I was just speaking to the class about it,” the teacher says.

  “Oh, sorry,” Gadeon replies politely. “Could you please repeat yourself?”

  “That’s okay,” the teacher says. “Hmm… actually, rather than me this time, who would like to explain the Battle Ma-qi Royale to Gadeon?”

  She scans the room.

  No one looks eager.

  “Do you really have to repeat yourself just because he missed it?”

  Gadeon turns his head.

  The voice came from Gage — the mantis-shrimp boy who attacked him earlier. Gage glares at him openly.

  Gadeon glares back.

  “Oh, don’t be like that, Gage,” the teacher sighs. “Since you spoke up, why don’t you summarise what I said about the Battle Ma-qi Royale?”

  Gage turns his head away, ignoring her completely.

  The teacher exhales.

  “Oh well, I’ll—”

  “I’ll do it, Miss.”

  A female voice cuts in.

  A hand rises.

  Gadeon recognises her immediately — the plant-men girl who stood beside Ami earlier during the fight.

  Tch. She did most of the talking out of all of them, Gadeon thinks, already irritated.

  “Perfect, Rotalia,” the teacher says, visibly relieved. “Please go ahead.”

  Rotalia stands and turns to face Gadeon. She makes no effort to hide the hostility in her eyes.

  “Since it’s your fault you’re late,” she says coldly, “I’ll keep this brief and not waste everyone’s time. If you were actually serious, you wouldn’t keep getting yourself into trouble.”

  “Pardon me?” Gadeon snaps, teeth clenched — but he restrains himself.

  “If you want more details,” Rotalia continues, unfazed, “I suggest you study on your own. Is that fair, Miss Lemon?”

  “Y-yeah… I suppose,” Miss Lemon replies awkwardly, forcing a smile to ease the tension.

  Rotalia nods once.

  “The Battle Royale — officially called the Battle Ma-qi Royale — is an event where five dojo tribes each nominate selected students. Altogether, forty competitors.”

  She pauses, eyes locking on Gadeon.

  “The rules are simple. Last one standing wins.”

  She folds her arms.

  “I’m assuming you already know all the dojo tribes, correct?”

  “Yes,” Gadeon replies flatly.

  “Then name them.”

  “I said I know them,” Gadeon says, irritation seeping through.

  “I understand,” Rotalia replies calmly, “but if I’m teaching this to you, I need to know you’re actually following. Otherwise, there’s no point.”

  “Teach?”

  Hearing that word, Gadeon feels insulted. It sounds condescending. He glances at the teacher and catches her forcing a faint smile, a nervous sheen of sweat on her brow.

  He exhales and gives in anyway — even though it hurts. Being told what to do scrapes against his pride.

  “There are five dojo tribes,” Gadeon says stiffly. “First, our tribe — Aqua. Then the Tribe of Flames, the Tribe of Soil, the Tribe of Gust, and lastly, the Tribe of Thunder.”

  “Well done,” Rotalia says.

  Well done?

  What am I, a child?

  “As I was saying,” Rotalia continues calmly, “the Five Tribes of Dojo will each nominate students from their dojos to participate in the Battle Ma-qi Royale.”

  “Okay,” Gadeon cuts in. “So that’s all I needed to know.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  “Fine. I’ll find out the rest later myself.”

  “No, you won’t,” she replies coolly. “Since I’ve already started, I might as well finish.”

  “But you literally just said earlier—”

  “What are the age requirements to be selected or participate in the Battle Ma-qi Royale?” Rotalia interrupts, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  Gadeon’s jaw tightens.

  “I don’t know,” he admits. “Isn’t there a range of different ages?”

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  “You’re wrong.”

  “How?” Gadeon snaps. “I’ve seen ten-year-olds fight. I’ve also seen fifteen-year-olds fight.”

  “Yes,” Rotalia says evenly. “That does happen.”

  “So I’m right,” Gadeon says, pride flaring as he prepares to savour it.

  “No,” she replies without missing a beat. “Because you’re implying that ten-year-olds fight fifteen-year-olds — which isn’t true.”

  “I never said that,” Gadeon snaps.

  “Well, it sounded like that’s what you were insinuating,” Rotalia replies.

  “Erm—please, you two, no more arguing,” Miss Lemon says quickly, forcing a smile as she steps in. “Rotalia, could you just explain it… nicely?”

  Rotalia exhales, clearly tired.

  “The Battle Royale is divided into age brackets,” she explains. “You have the Year 6 division — our age — and the Year 11 division, which goes up to age fifteen. The Battle Ma-qi Royale takes place in two separate arenas, each tailored to those groups.”

  “So what about students from Years 7 to 10?” Gadeon asks. “They don’t get involved at all?”

  “No,” Rotalia says. “The Battle Ma-qi Royale only happens once every five years. That means, as a child, you only get two chances in your entire life to participate.”

  She pauses, letting that sink in.

  “That’s why it’s strongly advised not to mess it up. You’re representing your dojo to the world. If you lose, your dojo gets mocked for the next five years — until the next Royale.”

  “I see,” Gadeon mutters.

  “Honestly?” Rotalia continues flatly. “The whole Battle Royale is meaningless. It’s just bragging rights.”

  “Don’t say that, Rotalia,” Miss Lemon protests gently. “That’s not true.”

  “Everyone claims it’s about ‘testing strength’ between the tribes,” Rotalia says, unfazed. “But really, it’s just a cover to say, ‘My Water Flexing is better than your Fire Flexing.’ There’s no real significance. You don’t even get paid.”

  “What?” Gadeon says, eyebrows lifting. “No rewards?”

  “That’s a lie!” Gage suddenly shouts from his seat. “You get glory! Respect! Everyone will know you’re the strongest — no one will mess with you!”

  “Why do you care what people from other tribes think?” Rotalia shoots back. “You’ll probably never see them again.”

  “Then at least I’ll be remembered as the strongest!” Gage yells.

  “Oh please,” Rotalia scoffs. “People have their own lives. You really think you’ll live rent-free in their minds forever?”

  “What?!” Gage shouts, half-rising from his chair.

  “Enough!” Miss Lemon says hurriedly, raising her hands. “Calm down, all of you.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with embracing our flexing alongside the other tribes,” Rotalia says. “But we’re taught from birth to never lose to them — to always be better. Is that why we’re based underwater, even though we can breathe above the surface too? Is it meant to isolate us from the rest of the tribes?”

  “Erm… Rotalia, let’s not get political,” Miss Lemon says quickly.

  “Anyway,” Rotalia continues, “it’s not like we’re trapped here. We can leave if we want. I’ll stop there.”

  “So how do you even enter the Battle Ma-qi Royale?” Gadeon asks.

  “So you—”

  “Ah, don’t bother answering,” Gage cuts in with a smirk. “There’s no way someone without Chi-Lungs could ever represent us.”

  “…True,” Rotalia agrees without hesitation.

  Gadeon closes his eyes and steadies his breathing, forcing himself not to react to Gage’s taunting.

  “But Gage is right,” Rotalia continues. “There’s never been anyone in history who entered the Battle Ma-qi Royale without the ability to use Chi-Lungs. It’s too risky. Tribes want to show off their flexing — if you can’t do that, they see it as meaningless to nominate you.”

  That does make sense, Gadeon admits silently.

  “However,” Miss Lemon interjects, “participation ultimately comes down to teacher referrals or nominations by the SLT.”

  “But how do they decide?” Gadeon asks.

  “Through tests against our rival dojo.”

  “They’re not our rival dojo,” Miss Lemon says sharply. “Don’t call them that.”

  “Oh. The Deep Current Dojo,” Gadeon says aloud — then thinks, The dojo Glace is from.

  “Actually,” Rotalia adds, turning back to Miss Lemon, “isn’t it about time we find out when we’ll be competing with the Deep Current Dojo?”

  “Erm… yes,” Miss Lemon hesitates. “That might be announced during assembly tonight.”

  “What? Since when do we have after-dojo assemblies?!” Rotalia snaps.

  The entire class groans in unison.

  “Calm down,” Miss Lemon says firmly. “This isn’t the time. I’ve heard this assembly is very serious — and it’s for your benefit. New rules will be put in place for your safety.”

  That shuts them up.

  Whispers ripple through the room as students speculate, but Miss Lemon gives nothing more away.

  Not long after, the entire Year 6 cohort gathers in the assembly hall, where like rest of the indoor rooms within the dojo — everyone breathing open air.

  On the stage stands Mister Alfred.

  Beside him is Gaedric.

  “Thanks for coming, Gaedric,” Alfred says quietly. “I think it’ll sound better coming from you… especially since you know more about the drug.”

  “No problem — as long as you give me free rein to say whatever I need to say to get it through their heads, I’m more than happy to help.”

  Something about the way he says that makes Mister Alfred uneasy.

  “Okay, Year 6,” Mister Alfred begins, stepping forward. “First of all, thank you for attending this assembly on such short notice. I know many of you are eager to go straight home, so I’d like to apologise for taking up your time.”

  He bows politely.

  He’s such a gentleman, Gaedric thinks.

  “I also want to say how proud I am of the progress I’ve been hearing about from your teachers,” Alfred continues warmly. “Please keep it up. And remember to rest, to take breaks — that’s part of being strong too. That’s how you grow into fine gentlemen and ladies.”

  Cheers and applause ripple through the Year 6 crowd. A few girls — clearly fond of him — cheer louder than the rest.

  Gaedric smiles, watching Alfred with quiet pride.

  “Lastly,” Alfred adds, his tone sharpening slightly, “this assembly does not excuse anyone from after-school detentions. If you have one, you are to report there immediately once this assembly ends.”

  He pauses.

  “Do not make me chase you.”

  Both Gadeon and Gage click their tongues quietly, annoyed — they’d hoped they’d slipped free.

  “Now,” Alfred says, stepping aside, “I’d like to introduce your Head of Pastoral Care — Sir Zebulun.”

  He gestures toward Gaedric.

  “Oh please,” Gaedric says casually as he steps forward. “Just call me Gaedric. Some of you call me Gaedric-sensei — that’s fine too.”

  The moment his name is spoken, whispers erupt.

  He can’t use Chi-Lungs.

  I heard he can’t WaterFlex.

  How did he even get onto the SLT?

  That’s dodgy.

  Gaedric clears his throat loudly.

  “Ahem.”

  The hall falls silent.

  “Your gossip isn’t wrong,” Gaedric says plainly. “It’s true. I can’t WaterFlex. I don’t generate Ma-qi particles. I don’t have Chi-Lungs.”

  Snickers ripple through the crowd. Some students grin smugly. Others look down on him openly, a few muttering how embarrassing it must be to admit that.

  Gaedric tilts his head, unimpressed.

  “It’s sad, you know,” he continues. “From the way you sound, you’d think this was adults gossiping. But you’re ten years old. Some are nine. Year 6. You should be talking about games, about seeing your friends after school — not tearing people down.”

  He pauses.

  “I don’t blame you. I blame our culture.”

  The room stills.

  “We’ve raised you to mature quickly. To adapt. That’s the Aqua way. But the cost of that is some of you don’t know how to act like children anymore. You take offence where none is needed. You rush to act grown before you understand what that actually means.”

  Gaedric’s expression hardens.

  “And some of you think adapting means pretending you’re already adults.”

  His eyes sweep across the hall.

  “But let me be very clear.”

  His voice drops.

  “If I put all of you together — every single one of you — none of you would beat me in a fight.”

  The silence is suffocating.

  “So shut up.”

  A few students flinch.

  “Because if you want to act like adults,” Gaedric says coldly, “then I’ll teach you like one.”