Mustang and Shade stood before the ruined slab of metal that had once been the cabin's door. Shade stared at the dented stainless—baffled, like someone trying to solve a simple riddle—while Mustang planted himself a step behind, arms folded, a mountain of patience and menace.
"You dented my damn rookie. After you fix the dent, I'll make you run fifty miles without a break," Mustang said, voice low and flat as an order.
Shade cocked an easy grin. "That's fine with me. Question: how do I un-dent a door?"
"Hit it back into shape," Mustang replied, blunt as a hammer.
Shade blinked at the metal for a few heartbeat-long seconds, then shrugged with a comic sort of epiphany. "Why didn't I think of that?" He stepped forward and flicked a quick jab at the door—too quick, too hard—and punched a clean hole straight through the steel.
"Don't hit it that hard, ya dumbass!!!" Mustang roared. He snatched Shade by the collar and, with a single, effortless motion, flung him skyward. Shade yelped as he flew, a human comet trailing a scream.
"Dammit, I bought this steel door for the purpose of replacing the old one! Now I need to get another door." Mustang ripped the dented slab from its hinges like it was tissue paper and ball-folded it in his hands as if crumpling a soda can. Shade came jogging back, dazed but intact.
"You threw me far!" Shade panted.
Mustang didn't dignify the complaint. He spun and chucked the compacted steel right at Shade's skull. The metal met Shade's dome with a sick, resonant thunk; Shade toppled backward, blood seeping at his forehead where the blow had opened a bruise.
"Ouch!" Shade grunted as he sat up.
"You're a pretty tough rookie. If it were anyone else, that would have broke their skull," Mustang observed plainly.
"Were you trying to kill me?" Shade demanded, rubbing the sore spot.
"Most definitely. Killing is allowed in the off-season, and I want to make sure all of my fighters are strong enough for the Faulty Tilt," Mustang said, unblinking.
Shade puffed his chest a fraction. "I can guaranteed you, I'm one of the toughest around."
Mustang's voice went softer, carrying a memory. "I miss being young and cocky. All it takes is one good fight in the Tilt, and you'll be brought back down to earth."
"My master says the same thing, but he thinks I'll do differently," Shade replied.
"Who is your master?" Mustang asked, curiosity and skepticism braided tight.
"Bryn Foldin," Shade answered.
Mustang stood very still, the metal of his helmet catching light as he processed the name. "Bryn Foldin... is YOUR master?" The words came out like a test.
"Yup," Shade said, simple and proud.
Mustang remained motionless a long beat longer. Finally, he broke the silence. "You're lying."
"Nope." Shade palmed his fist like it was nothing. "False Weapon Style: Bullet!" He snapped the air so hard that a small, violent ball of compressed air shot from his hand and punched through a nearby window.
"STOP DESTROYING MY CABIN!!!" Mustang bellowed.
"Sorry," Shade offered, sheepish but grinning.
Mustang's voice settled into a mix of incredulity and grudging respect. "So, you really are his student. That bastard really did leave heaven."
"Yep, his one and only!" Shade crowed.
Mustang's eyes—hidden under metal—seemed to narrow like someone recalling old fights. "I remember when he was still in the Faulty Tilt. I was a young rookie when he made his championship run. I faced him in the finals as a rookie; he kicked our ass by himself."
Shade's face lit up with reverence. "I know, he was just amazing, wasn't he?!"
"New fighters don't give him as much credit as he deserves. Not many people become champions sophomore year in the league. Just look at me," Mustang muttered, more rueful than proud.
Shade's grin never dimmed. "Well I'm a big fan of you too! You're one of the strongest players ever!"
"I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still one of the strongest players ever. I bet I could still wreak havoc in the Faulty Tilt. All the perks of having a gimmick that only gets better the older you are," Mustang replied, a hint of the old swagger returning.
"And that's why I'm so excited! I have a hall of fame coach! I'm just excited to train alongside you!" Shade gushed, enthusiasm bubbling like youth.
Mustang's tone softened with a rare warmth. "Well, I appreciate you being here. Our team for the past couple of years... haven't seen a ton of victories. I'm afraid to say it—the Faulty Tilt has gotten stronger since the prime days. I'm not even sure you and the other three rookies have what it takes to carry us to the top."
Shade bristled with protest. "I'm pretty strong, Akarui is too! Shi Ji can be molded into a great warrior with enough training, and I'm not so sure about that girl..."
"It's my job as a coach to give all of my fighters the best growth possible. I don't think you have what it takes to take us to the top this year, but maybe in five years' time, you'll be an excellent contender," Mustang said, measured and honest.
"Don't downplay my abilities. By the end of this season, I can guaranteed you that you'll see The Promise!" Shade snapped, confidence burning bright.
"Such confidence. I like it. I used to be like you, until I realized I was alone on my team." Mustang paused at the mouth of the cabin and, over his shoulder through the helmet, glanced back at Shade. "But I don't see the same problem with this team, so I'll take your word on it, rookie. Bring us to The Promise."
"You got it, coach," Shade answered, chest swelling with the promise of glory.
Mustang pushed through the doorway and into the room beyond. "Come on, get back in here, I have things to talk about with the team," he called, and Shade fell into step immediately, eager and slightly battered but undeterred.
They stepped into a room that looked like a war zone painted with cards and rage.
A long table lay overturned, splinters and sticky plates scattered across the floor. Dozens of razor-bright pink and purple knives jutted from the tabletop like a malignant crown. Amor stood on the far side, breathing hard and incandescent with fury, her hands wrapped around a sword that bled an impossible, unrelenting red. Miriam hovered farther back, statue-still, eyes wide and vacant at the horror. But the sight on the wall—Matthew—stole the room's air: a massive, glossy orange spear impaled him through the stomach, the weapon's shaft glinting cruelly as blood slid in dark ribbons down to the floor. Matthew lay as if life had bled out of him through the wound; his mouth trickled red.
Behind the flipped table the rookies and Prius crouched: Shi Ji wide-eyed and trembling, Akarui sweating but wearing a thin, wry smile, Prius himself grinning with the kind of smugness that belonged to someone who'd just watched a good show. Shade, for reasons none of them could quite read, smiled wide—teeth bared like a predator's appreciation.
"YOU DAMN BASTARDS WORKED TOGETHER TO KNOCK ME OUT OF THE GAME!!!" Amor's voice tore the air, a war-cry that rippled with personal betrayal.
"You made yourself an easy target—" Akarui began, peeking around the wreck of the table.
The reply came without thought: Amor hurled the red blade. It screamed through the air and Akarui only just managed to twist away; the sword raked through the table, snapping a jagged chunk free as if the wood were paper.
"Looks like someone got a little mad over a simple child's game." Prius peered over the top of the upturned table with theatrical calm. Amor answered with a green fist-sized solid ball that hit Prius square in the forehead and flattened him onto his back.
"He's knocked out!" Shi Ji cried.
Miriam's smile was brittle and thin—nervous laughter leaking like steam from a kettle.
Akarui jabbed a finger toward Lana. "Look what you did Lana."
"WHAT DID I HAVE TO DO WITH ANY OF THIS!?" Lana snapped, voice sharp with hurt and denial.
"You did play a plus 2... that stacked up into a plus fifty for Amor." Shi Ji's words landed like accusation.
"ITS NOT MY FAULT THAT YOU DIDN'T JUST TAKE THE PLUS TWO!!!" Lana snapped back.
"Well that's why you're both hiding behind this table." Akarui said, blunt as a ledger.
Mustang stepped forward and rested a heavy hand on Amor's shoulder. "Amor, calm—" he began, but the sentence broke as Amor's fury found another outlet. She swung, picked Mustang up, and tossed him like a discarded sack across the wrecked table; the whole thing split and gave way under his weight.
"Oh—Coach!" Amor gasped, immediately contrite.
Mustang pushed himself upright, dusting off the impact with a grunt. "It's fine. Stop this."
"Hmph, yessir." Amor's voice softened—and, as if on command, the colored blades that had stabbed the table shattered, their ghostly edges collapsing into harmless light. The orange spear loosened from the wall and Matthew's body slid free, thumping to the floor in a sodden, grotesque heap.
Shi Ji stumbled over, horror and hope tangling in his throat. "Is he... DEAD?!"
Prius rubbed his forehead where the attack had landed and snapped, "Relax."
Matthew, dreadful and impossible, sat up—his stomach still punctured in a way that should have been final. The wound knit itself closed in front of them, flesh knitting like thread, until there was nothing but intact skin where a hole had been moments before.
"HE'S ALIVE!!!!" Shi Ji screamed, the word more a sob than a shout.
"He's undead, he really can't ever die again." Prius said flatly, as if reading an entry from a roster.
Shi Ji froze, every color leaving his face. "HE'S A ZOMBIE?!!!"
"Jeez, stop screaming, I'm right in front of you," Prius snapped exasperatedly.
"Sorry." Shi Ji's apology was small.
Matthew rose, slow and deliberate, and picked up his wooden staff. He moved like a man who'd been through worse than any of them yet still carried a steadiness that made the room inhale.
Mustang—cleaning his helmet with a motion that was both lordly and exasperated—laid out orders. "I want these people to come with me. Matthew, Amor, Miriam, and the three rookies who arrived today."
"Where are we going?" Amor demanded, still trembling with adrenaline.
"You'll figure it out on the way there." Mustang turned and started for the door.
"Sweet, I get to stay behind for once!" Prius crowed—briefly. Mustang's glare pinned him, and the grin melted.
"Not exactly. I want this room spotless by time I get back, got it?" Mustang snapped.
"Yessir..." Prius muttered, chastened.
One by one Mustang led Shade, Akarui, Shi Ji, Amor, Matthew, and Miriam out of the cabin. The party threaded down an old, rutted dirt path until it opened onto an empty stone colosseum—a hulking relic of another age. The amphitheater rose in concentric tiers, weather eating into the old stone. Wind moved through its gaps like breath. It sat silent, ancient, and waiting—an arena without an audience, primed for the next kind of contest.
The colosseum yawned before them—ancient stone rings hunched under a gray sky, a hollow amphitheater waiting for conflict. Dust rose in the wind like an audience of ghostly hands. Mustang's voice cut clean through the hush.
"I have a little test for the three new fighters, and for you three veteran fighters. This will determine your places on our team."
Faces shifted. The moment snapped tight with focus. Shade's grin thinned into an edge; it was still there, but tempered. Amor's jaw hardened, eyes narrow and bright with ire. Akarui's lips curled into a small, confident smirk that didn't quite betray the seriousness beneath. Shi Ji tried to knot worry into resolve; Miriam wore a quiet, measured seriousness; Matthew's features were a blank, unreadable mask.
"A small series of 1v1's shall do. Though I've heard only slight reports and seen a couple videos about the rookies, I can already see their clear strengths and weaknesses. So what I'm going to do is simple," Mustang continued, each syllable metered like a bell. "I'll each pair you up with opponents that I think would challenge you on both sides of the spectrum."
Amor snapped back, indignation flaring like a blade. "Coach! I'm literally an all-star!"
"And someone here has potential all-star capabilities. I could make you a back up one that comes off of the bench if you fail," Mustang replied, calm but iron-lined.
Amor's scoff was short and furious. "You can't be serious... there's just no way ANY of these rookies has what it takes to replace me on this team."
"You won't be replaced, you'll be on lower priority. You'll still be an all-star, just a lesser one," Mustang said, and the correction landed harder than any insult.
"Tch—" Amor's dismissal was a small, biting sound.
They moved into the arena itself. The field felt enormous underfoot—stone slabs worn smooth by years of feet and fury. Mustang laid out the rules as plainly as a scoreboard.
"The rules are simple. It's a 1v1, first to knockout wins."
Shade's hand rose, all brash enthusiasm folded into a single question. "So, who do you want up first?"
Mustang scanned the ring like a coach balancing chess pieces. "Let me see... Akarui and Matthew up first."
Akarui and Matthew exchanged a look—measured, sizing, the kind of glance that can be a thousand quiet decisions.
"Everyone else, wait in the stands with me." Mustang's command was final; it was the kind of order that settled the air.
The group dispersed—some with nerves warmed, some with practiced indifference—until only the two chosen stood in the center of the arena, circling the old stone like gladiators of a new age. Above them, the stands hunched silent, as if the world itself were holding its breath for the first strike.