For Class 1-C, the qualifier revealed its weaknesses. Zhang Wei charged into a bottleneck and was met with Gao Ming's earthquake stomp; his stone armor cracked from the impact and he tumbled like a boulder rolled from a slope. Mei Ling still attempted to bend the overgrowth into a tunnel of cover, but every attempt was met with a response from a senior: fire from Huo Tian, telekinetic shields from Bai Xuan, or Lin Shu's targeted sweeps. Daiki pushed his sonic pulses to the breaking point to banish illusions and hidden drones; the vibrations rang through his skull, and his pulses grew sluggish as the sun rose and timed exhaustion caught up with him.
Luo Yan's chains were elegant until Shen Qiu — a speedster among the seniors — waltzed circles through his wiry strands and shattered them with expert feints. Han Bo's smoke, that fine screen once, was ripped by wind blades and dissolved too early under Lin Shu's precise edgelight. Fei Min kept trying the high leaps that had succeeded once; older hands caught him in midair and turned his momentum into a harmless roll. Nara Kei's illusions were clever until Bai Xuan's telekinesis made the ground move under her fake images; her phantoms bled away into nothing as seniors forcibly rearranged the battlefield.
Guo Fen's insects tried to crawl into a drone's vent and failed when Lin Shu cut the intake with a clean arc; the little swarm scattered, haltingly regrouping like an army learning to fear. Even Chen, whose iron skin had transformed him into a living battering ram, was wrong-footed; he spurred a flag and ran headlong into Huo Tian's thermal belt. The heat scorched his protective Qi; he gritted his teeth and yanked a flag free but felt hollow when he dropped it off at base moments later and suffered the sting of not having seven.
The freshmen bled points and energy chasing flags seniors took by right. Xia was the exception: she wove through the fray, a lightning shadow. Her style was a dance of curves and feints, blazing honors blurring her into a streak. She made aggressive, economical grabs, then melted into a ghost on Nara to deflect any counters. She ran around like the storm itself and had gathered more than enough flags by the time Lian stopped to catch his breath in a veil of ferns and count his spoils. Rui, of course, was in her element amidst the mayhem. He targeted the prized flags — the seniors wanted, the other students neck-brroke over — and first-years who tried to get in his path were cut by invisible whirlwinds.
As noon approached Lian had five flags tucked in his mesh harness — not seven, not yet. He heard shouts in the valley, the metallic clang of Senior Lin Shu slicing through a chain, the strange scream of fear when a person vanished beneath force fields. A flag lay on a cliff-face above him, nearly within arm's reach but under the guard of Bai Xuan, who leaned on her hand and was bored. Lian's instinct for peril kicked up to where it was a creeping bug up his spine: an incoming pressure wave, the subtle tightening of the telekinetic field as Bai Xuan prepared to tear the wind out of the hands of anyone who tried to get past.
He considered crawling through the underbrush to the base and banking the five, but the rules were merciless — seven flags, at a minimum. Anything less, and he'd be scrapping for leftovers. He needed two more. He eyed a flagged cluster near a toppled watchtower: three flags, but Lin Shu had laid claim there, sword-blue Qi curling like hair.
A soft pop and a murmur of motion to his rear signaled that Chen had moved up. The large man's iron shoulders blocked fields of view as he rasped, "Want a split? I'll take the tower—create a diversion. You take left flank and grab the canopy.".
Lian squared his shoulders. He had not wanted to rely on open cooperation — alliances had been prohibited by the Headmaster — but a discreet nod between friends did not equal an agreement. It was a lifeline.
They moved forward. Chen dived straight into Lin Shu's path, cutting wide, surgical curves that split the ground. Lin Shu's eyes narrowed and his sword circled with a predator's menace; he encountered Chen's iron shoulder and delivered a blow that would have sent most juniors stumbling back. Chen reeled but continued to batter, his skin ringing, his face a scowl of determination. With Lin Shu's attention narrowed on the visible peril, Lian used a spider-silent pattern to climb a lattice of vine and snag the lowest of the trio of flags. The second was a whisper, a flick of the finger and a web that closed in upon itself, the flag burning and folding into his harness.
"Two more," Lian breathed into his comm. His father's sense burned like a red blot, warning: movement from above. Rui. His breath caught — he saw the glint not from Rui, but Huo Tian, plummeting from a hot cloud toward the base of the tower with theatrical menace. Huo Tian's thermal columns distorted the air; attempting to cross them would burn skin and melt web adhesives.
The mountain of problems was small and sudden: Lin Shu's blades catching Chen's end-breath, Huo Tian's heat converging, Bai Xuan's pressure field starting to fold the canopy lines, and somewhere behind them the soft whisper of Rui's wind, hungry and close.
Lian's palms were damp. He tightened a webline around his harness and, for the first time all tournament, felt the bitter, searing stab of real fear. Not for himself — for the back of Chen as a blade sliced near it, for the sudden, focused manner Bai Xuan's eyes tracked him like an arithmetical beast.
He had five flags. He needed two. He had friends who would throw themselves into danger for him. He had enemies who loved to cut. The canopy above the watchtower trembled as Huo Tian's heat sought to carve a path, and from the ridge Rui's shadow detached and dove.
Time compressed into a single decision-spark. Lian took a breath, allowed his peril sense to bloom into cold, rational logic, and shot a web toward the far cliff where a flag, unguarded previously, was now half-concealed by steam. He'd make a try for it — a risky, long swing, a quick drop, and a race to the base. If he fell, he'd provide Chen with a chance to fall back. If he succeeded, it might be the edge that saved him.
He let go.
Behind him the world exploded into motion: Gao Ming's footing thudded like a drumbeat, Huo Tian poured heat like paint, Bai Xuan's field crested, Lin Shu's blade sang, and Rui's wind screamed like a blade. Lian's web whistled through humid air, trees blurred in streaked green, and the flag ahead snapped its bright tail like a torch.
He felt, rather than saw, the tension in the canopy alter — a telekinetic tug, a heat blast, a blade-strike in the air. His body responded because it had to: reflex, string, breath, and a prayer tied into muscle.
He snatched the flag. The material fluttered in his hand, warm. He slashed back towards base, the ground rushing up to greet him, and heard Chen shout and the distant roar of Rui laughing like blade-hunger.
Two flags left to gather.