The waiting rooms were not symmetrical.
That was intentional.
Some were wide and empty, designed to let thoughts echo.Others were narrow and enclosed, forcing proximity with one's own breathing.
No clocks.
No mirrors.
Just walls that absorbed sound and floors that felt slightly unstable beneath bare feet.
This was not mercy.
It was calibration.
Fire
The Pyraen delegate paced.
Back and forth.Back and forth.
Heat leaked from his skin despite suppression fields, flickers of flame crawling up his forearms before dying out.
"Earth," he muttered. "Slow. Defensive. Predictable."
He threw a punch into the air, imagining stone giving way.
But between motions, his shoulders tightened.
Too fast.Too eager.
Fire always burned brightest before it questioned itself.
Earth
The Gaiath representative sat unmoving.
Not meditating.
Waiting.
Hands resting on knees, spine straight, weight settled perfectly into the floor beneath him.
He had reviewed every possible opening Fire could take.
Every angle.
Every mistake.
And then he stopped thinking.
Because Earth did not plan to react.
It planned to remain.
Water
The Aquelis delegate stood with eyes closed, breathing slow, controlled.
Not rehearsing techniques.
Rehearsing responses.
He imagined losing.
Then winning.
Then neither meaning anything.
"What do I give up," he whispered, "if I adapt too much?"
The question lingered.
Water flowed—but it also drowned.
Wind
Seris Zephra leaned against the wall of her chamber, one foot braced casually, posture loose.
She smiled.
Lightning.
Fast. Direct. Violent.
Good.
She hated rigid opponents.
She rotated her wrist, feeling muscle memory without air to guide it.
"Speed isn't movement," she murmured. "It's decision."
The smile faded.
Wind did not like being cornered.
And lightning left no space.
Lightning
Kurogane stood still.
Not because he was calm.
Because movement felt dishonest.
He replayed the trials—not moments of strength, but moments of restraint.
Every time he had not acted.
Every time the system hesitated because he refused to respond as expected.
"They're watching for control," he said quietly.
Raishin did not answer.
Kurogane exhaled.
"They expect lightning," he continued. "So I won't give them that."
Silence pressed against him—not empty, but attentive.
For the first time, he felt it.
Not power.
Responsibility.
Observation Chamber
"Predictions?" Valen asked.
Analysts responded in clipped tones.
"Fire likely overwhelms early."
"Earth holds if initial burst fails."
"Water versus Wind is unpredictable—high variance."
"And Lightning?" Valen asked.
A pause.
"Outlier," someone said carefully. "Combat data insufficient."
Masako watched without comment.
"Outliers," she said at last, "are where history changes direction."
The corridors lit in sequence.
One fight at a time.
No overlaps.
No noise bleed.
No shared aftermath.
A signal chimed once—soft, unmistakable.
FIRST ENGAGEMENT PREPARE.
Fire rose to his feet, jaw set.
Earth opened his eyes.
Across the complex, Wind rolled her shoulders.
Lightning took one final breath.
Not in anticipation.
In acceptance.
"This isn't about winning," Kurogane thought.
"It's about what remains after."
Stone doors began to open.
Somewhere beyond them, an arena waited—not to celebrate strength, but to record truth.
And as the first duel approached, one unspoken certainty settled across every level of the academy:
After today, no one would be unknown again.