The bracket announcement was scheduled for 1700 hours, but by 1630 the hall outside the digital boards was already shoulder-to-shoulder with competitors, coaches, media crews, and a growing wall of spectators. The air hummed with nervous energy — the quiet before the storm, heavy with anticipation and the unspoken truth that half of these teams would be gone within a day.
The boards themselves loomed high above, dark and waiting. Cameramen adjusted their tripods. Commentators murmured rehearsals into microphones. Players leaned together, some joking too loudly, others staring ahead in silence. It wasn't just a schedule reveal; it was destiny laid bare in glowing text.
Alex edged into the crush of bodies with Bravo Company at his side, the smell of gun oil, sweat, and plastic BB residue thick around them. He could feel the eyes of rival teams, some glancing at him with calculation, others not bothering to hide their curiosity. His Storm Front performance had been noticed. His name was no longer unknown in this room.
At exactly 1700, the boards flickered to life. The crowd hushed instantly, and the bracket tree unfolded with deliberate, suspenseful pauses.
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QUARTERFINAL MATCHUPS – NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP
Match 1: Apex Predators (1) vs. Tactical Edge (8)
Match 2: Elite Force (2) vs. Iron Ravens (7)
Match 3: Thunder Strike (3) vs. Vanguard Elite (6)
Match 4: Bravo Company (4) vs. Crimson Tide (5)
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The moment "Crimson Tide" appeared opposite their name, Alex felt his chest tighten. The crowd rippled with reaction. The West Coast champions had drawn the Southwest upstarts.
"Crimson Tide," Marcus said aloud, voice flat but heavy. Heads turned nearby just to hear him speak the name. "Three consecutive National finals. They've seen everything."
Jake exhaled a low whistle. "That's… not the draw you dream of."
Maya folded her arms, eyes scanning the board as if already analyzing. "No weaknesses on paper. Which means their weakness is in playstyle — not stats."
Sarah was already digging into footage on her tablet, her brow furrowed with the speed of her scrolling. "Roster includes Elena Vasquez, international competitor, hybrid marksman. Coach is Reynolds — designed half the scenario templates teams train on nationwide. They don't copy systems. Other teams copy them."
Alex's stomach coiled tighter. Crimson Tide wasn't like Storm Front, who had clear habits. They weren't like the regional champions Bravo Company had beaten earlier in the season. They were a blueprint — a team that thrived by dismantling others.
Rodriguez's voice carried weight as he stepped into their circle. "Crimson Tide doesn't dominate with one trick. They win by identifying what you do best… and breaking it. They'll have built countermeasures for Alex's precision game. They'll test Maya's recon angles, Sarah's tech timing, Jake's support flow, Marcus's leadership cadence. They adapt faster than anyone else. That's why they're finalists."
The truth landed like a weight in Alex's gut. He wasn't just being targeted anymore. The entire team was.
"What's the format?" Jake asked, glancing up from the bracket, hope flickering for something predictable.
"Mixed engagement," Rodriguez said grimly. "Indoor close-quarters phases blended with outdoor precision lanes. Dynamic transitions. No safe zones."
The words cut deeper than Alex wanted to admit. He was strongest when he could settle, measure, and work in precision. The rural ops scenario had been his element. Even the urban brawl with Storm Front had given him fixed sightlines to lock down. A mixed format would yank him from rifle to sidearms, from overwatch to close-quarters, often within the same phase.
Marcus skimmed the scenario brief as it came through on the team feed. His jaw flexed. "Indoor sections with line-of-sight under fifty meters. Rifle isn't king there. Alex — your pistols will carry weight."
Alex nodded slowly. His twin Tokyo Marui Hi-Capa 5.1 pistols — one engraved "A. Rivera – Regional Champion", the other "Para mi hijo – Love, Mama" — were tuned, tested, but never under championship elimination pressure. He could feel the shift — the match might demand instinctive snapshots over the careful precision he lived in.
"Crimson Tide's marksman is Elena Vasquez," Chen added as he joined them, his voice quieter but sharp. "She's as good as advertised. International podiums. Known for fast transitions — rifle to pistol, long-range to close-quarters. She'll mirror your role, Alex, but with more tournament hours behind her than you can imagine."
The name sank into Alex's thoughts. Elena Vasquez. He remembered watching a clip months ago — her breaking down a scenario with fluid transitions, tagging three opponents across mixed ranges without breaking stride. She wasn't flashy. She was clinical. Efficient. The exact kind of opponent that punished hesitation.
Maya frowned at the feed. "She's surgical. But not untouchable. She leans on rhythm — if we disrupt her flow, we can force mistakes."
Jake snorted. "Easier said than done."
"No," Marcus said, eyes narrowing. "She's right. Crimson Tide thrives when the match goes their way. We'll have to break their script, not just play ours."
Rodriguez folded his arms. "They will try to make you reactive. That's their hallmark. They create pressure until teams abandon their plan. If you bend to their rhythm, you're already losing."
The weight of those words lingered.
---
Tactical Preparation
The team retreated to their preparation bay — one of the last private sanctuaries in a venue now alive with the noise of cameras and analysis chatter. Tactical maps of the mixed scenario projected against the wall, showing alternating zones: tight interior corridors leading to outdoor courtyards, then back into warehouse-style rooms, then again to an exterior stretch with long, broken sightlines.
Marcus circled the map with a laser pointer. "Phase one is indoors. Corridors and stairwells. Shotguns, pistols, and compact rifles win. Phase two spills into this courtyard. Precision matters — Alex, that's your lane. Phase three swings back indoors — close again. Phase four is an outdoor run-and-gun with long cover lines. It alternates. Constantly."
Sarah zoomed her tablet, highlighting objectives. "Each zone has a control point. We need hold time on three of the four to win. We can't afford to over-commit to one phase. Versatility wins this."
Rodriguez studied the overlay. "They built this format for Crimson Tide. It favors their versatility."
"Then we turn it against them," Maya said firmly. "We stay disciplined. No panic shifts. We let them be the ones scrambling between indoor and outdoor."
Chen leaned on the table, eyes locked on Alex. "How do you feel about sidearms under this pressure?"
Alex hesitated, then answered honestly. "Solid in drills. Solid in training. But untested in brackets. My pistols aren't my rifle."
"Tomorrow they have to be," Chen replied. "Don't overthink mechanics. Trust your training. When you step into indoor, shorten the mental leash. It's instinct, not calculus."
Alex nodded, the weight pressing deeper into his chest but tempered by resolve.
---
Evening Prep
The rest of the evening bled into hours of footage review. Crimson Tide's last year of matches played on loop across the wall. They weren't flawless, but they were relentless. When they lost a player, they flexed instantly. When they lost an objective, they counter-rotated before the other team could even celebrate.
"They punish hesitation," Sarah observed. "Every second you wait is a second they're already moving."
"Then no hesitation," Marcus said. "We commit. Together. No single heroics."
Jake checked his gear crates, laying out magazines, batteries, spare parts. "All sidearms tested, all rifles zeroed. We can't lose this on malfunctions."
Maya set aside her recon kit, calibrating optics for both close-in and mid-range. "I'll feed angles as fast as possible. But we need Alex sharp on transitions. If he lags, they'll crush us indoors."
Alex sat apart for a moment with his pistols spread across the table. The twin Hi-Capa 5.1s gleamed under the prep bay lights — one carrying the title he had earned, the other carrying the love that had made it possible. They weren't just tools. They were belief, sacrifice, and memory forged into steel and polymer. He loaded, racked, tested, again and again until the motions blurred into rhythm.
He whispered quietly, almost to himself, as he holstered them:
"Champion… and Promise."
Names, at last. One for what he had already achieved. One for what he still owed to his mother, his team, and himself.
His phone buzzed once. A message.
Quarterfinals! Whatever happens tomorrow, you've already achieved something incredible. Compete with everything you have and trust your preparation.
Mom.
Alex exhaled, a small smile tugging despite the weight. That reminder grounded him. It wasn't about proving he was perfect. It was about competing with everything he had.
He holstered both pistols, checked his rifle one last time, and turned back to his team.
"Tomorrow," Marcus said, meeting each of their eyes. "We don't just play to survive Crimson Tide. We play to beat them. This is the test of whether we belong in the semifinals."
Alex nodded. His custom-built precision rifle with ballistic computer scope was ready. His twin Hi-Capa 5.1 pistols — Champion and Promise — were tuned and steady in his holsters. His teammates were sharper than ever.
Tomorrow wasn't just another match. It was the measure of everything they had built.
The ultimate test of tactical versatility was waiting.
---
Author's Note:
This chapter now highlights Alex's twin Tokyo Marui Hi-Capa 5.1 pistols — engraved with his mother's sacrifice and finally given names, Champion and Promise. Their emotional weight connects directly to the upcoming mixed scenario where they'll take center stage.
Crimson Tide represents experienced, adaptable opposition that will force Bravo Company to execute at their highest level across multiple tactical domains.
Your power stones fuel this championship journey! If you want to see how Alex wields Champion and Promise against Crimson Tide under National pressure, your support keeps the updates coming!