"Hmph, please don't overdo it," Emei said, sighing in resignation. She elegantly raised a hand, covering the lower half of her face with an ornate fan as they began to walk toward the entrance. She could only hope Su Bu Lang had actually listened to her. The wild, untamable look in his eyes, however, told a very different story.
A sleek, black limousine, longer and more armored than any other, pulled to a silent stop at the curb. The rear door was opened by an invisible attendant. Out stepped a man who stood at six-foot-two, clad in a tailored black leather coat. His hair was perfectly styled, and his face was a mask of utter disinterest as he glanced around, his lip curling slightly.
"So this is the place..." Fabio Alcaraz, the Spanish Gem, sighed. "Pathetic."
His attitude was insufferable, but the density of the aura that unconsciously radiated from him was enough to leave hairline fractures in the pristine pavement with every step he took. People instinctively gave him a wide berth, their bodies reacting to the threat before their minds could even process it.
---
The conference room was a vast, circular auditorium, designed to inspire awe. The ceiling soared overhead, and the seating was sectioned into blocs by nation, each with its own flag and insignia. At the very center of the room stood the speaker's podium, a solitary island under a single, brilliant spotlight.
In no time, the S-ranked players, along with their escorts, began to fill the room. The journey to their seats was a silent, tense affair. As Su Bu Lang swaggered towards the Asian bloc, his path inadvertently crossed with Fabio Alcaraz, who was moving with a predator's grace towards the European section.
They didn't speak. They didn't need to. Their eyes met for a single, electrifying moment. A slow, identical grin spread across both their faces—the smile of a shark recognizing another. The same thought bloomed simultaneously in their minds: I'd win anyway.
Once almost everyone was seated, a silent competition began. Su Bu Lang, from his seat, let a fraction of his power leak out—a wave of primal, bestial pressure that washed over the nearby delegates, causing a few to flinch. Not to be outdone, Fabio Alcaraz responded in kind, his own aura a cold, crushing weight of arrogance and refined power. The two forces pressed against each other, drawing the attention and concern of many players in the room.
They both retracted their auras with a smirk, having said all they needed to say without a single word, only to be instantly outdone by another. A new pressure filled the room, not brutish or cold, but vast and immeasurably deep. It was twice as dense as theirs, and it settled over everyone with the gentle, absolute finality of a descending ocean.
"That's the Netherlands' Rank One," the pink-haired Delvin murmured to his companion, his voice tight.
All eyes turned to the entrance. Emma walked in, graceful and unruffled, followed by Milo and a still-pensive Olivia. She moved to her seat as if unaware of the spectacle she had caused, her dress shimmering under the lights. She sat down, smoothed her dress, and let a small, satisfied smile touch her lips.
"Now," she said softly, to no one in particular, "that's much better."
The room became silent, the last murmurs dying out. The conference was truly about to begin. The head of the French delegation stepped toward the central podium, clearing his throat.
Until...
[LOUD LAUGHTER]
A sound so jarring and out of place it shattered the solemn atmosphere. It was chaotic, overlapping, and utterly without respect.
"Those bratz!" a French player hissed, his face red with anger.
Three similar-looking individuals, young men with matching mischievous grins and an air of barely contained anarchy, swaggered into the room as if they owned it. They were the Terror Triplets of France, born in Toulouse: Darren, Barren, and Allen. They pointed at various dignitaries, whispering and laughing uproariously amongst themselves, treating the most serious gathering on earth as their personal comedy show.
They noticed where they were to sit. In an instant, the air where they stood wavered. There was no sound, no flash of light. One moment they were at the back; the next, they were lounging in their assigned seats, legs kicked up, still laughing.
Teleportation.
The head of the French delegation, his face a thundercloud, slammed his fist on the podium, the sound echoing through the stunned silence.
"SETTLE DOWN EVERYONE! THE CONFERENCE STARTS SOON!