While the ranking matches continued inside the academy walls—fierce duels, cheers, and silent standoffs captivating the crowds—something else was unfolding beyond the perimeter.
Something much darker.
A storm was coming.
Not the kind born from clouds or thunder.
But a storm nonetheless.
A man, early thirties, was behind the wheel of a large delivery truck barreling down the rural road that led toward the academy.
The vehicle tore through the landscape at a dangerous speed, its engine growling as if angry at the pavement. The trailer bounced with every bump in the road.
On the side of the truck, painted in bold green and white, was a logo: a stylized image of Earth wrapped in leaves.
In the center, neatly written, were the words: Green Earth Produce.
A harmless name.
A harmless disguise.
Inside the cab, the man gripped the wheel with white-knuckled hands. His jaw was clenched tight, eyes focused dead ahead. Sweat trickled down his temple, though the AC blasted cold air.
