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When Russell arrived at the Battle Club, the other four main members were already assembled near the entrance, their casual conversation dying as he approached. The subtle shift in atmosphere told him everything he needed to know about their pre-meeting discussion.
"Sorry I'm late," Russell said, genuinely surprised by their early arrival. Most students barely managed punctuality for mandatory events, let alone voluntary ones.
Lucian shook his head with that practiced gentle smile. "No need to apologize. We just got here ourselves."
The lie was obvious—their relaxed postures and ongoing conversation clearly indicated they'd been waiting for some time. But more interesting was the flash of satisfaction in Sonny's eyes as Lucian delivered the polite deflection.
So it is him, Russell realized, cataloging the micro-expression. Sonny's been pushing Lucian to maintain distance, probably feeding those rumors about the battle's outcome.
Russell had a simple solution for the power play: during today's practice match, he'd let Artoria demonstrate her real power. Nothing silenced gossip like overwhelming displays of force. Any rational person would reconsider their position after witnessing her light cannon in action.
Just get through today's match, he told himself. Then I can focus on more important projects.
His mind drifted to future card development. The [Oni Mask · Ninjā] had proven invaluable for transportation and storage—more useful than many emerald or diamond-level cards in practical applications. But its combat effectiveness left much to be desired. Against bronze or silver-level opponents it might suffice, but facing genuine threats would require something with more bite.
The question was what direction to pursue next. [Seireitei] clearly indicated that collecting all three realm cards from the Soul Reaper system would unlock devastating combination abilities. His next creation could feature a character from either the living world or Hueco Mundo, setting up future synergies once he acquired appropriate field materials.
Though characters from other works deserve consideration too, Russell mused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The multiverse of fictional possibilities offered endless inspiration for someone with his unique advantages.
Coach Carter's arrival interrupted his strategic planning. The man emerged from the building with his characteristic blend of enthusiasm and casual unprofessionalism.
"Now that everyone's here, let's move out," Carter announced. "The venue for this match is their school." A sly smile spread across his weathered features. "So you don't need to hold back. If you break anything, they'll be the ones paying for repairs."
Russell couldn't help but curl his lips in distaste. The classic 'not my problem' mentality. How professional.
"Kid," Carter's tone carried mock reproach as he noticed Russell's expression. "This is called respecting your opponent. Even a lion uses all its strength to hunt a rabbit. You understand?"
Russell just curled his lips further and remained silent. No point arguing with someone who thought breaking other people's stuff showed proper respect.
"Alright, everyone in the car," Coach Carter said, gesturing toward empty space.
A faint shimmer filled the air, and suddenly a battered van materialized before the Battle Club entrance. The vehicle looked like it had survived several decades of questionable maintenance—rust spots decorating faded paint while suspicious stains marked the windows.
"I am the most powerful person in the world..."
Russell looked around in confusion as triumphant music seemed to play directly in his ears. The other four main members showed no reaction whatsoever, calmly opening the van's doors and climbing inside as if phantom soundtracks were perfectly normal.
What the hell? Russell thought, but followed their lead and boarded the vehicle.
The moment he settled into his seat, something hard pressed against his lower back.
"Something's digging into me," Russell muttered, reaching behind himself. His fingers encountered a steel blade wrapped in newspaper, tucked between the seat cushions.
Are you kidding me? he thought, staring at the concealed weapon. Young and Dangerous vibes much?
He quietly moved the blade to the floor, hoping to avoid whatever cinematic reference Carter was channeling.
"What's this about Young and Dangerous?" Carter asked from the driver's seat, adjusting his rearview mirror. "Make sure everyone buckles up."
Russell and his teammates dutifully fastened their seatbelts as the shabby van rumbled to life. The engine's sound was surprisingly smooth despite the vehicle's decrepit appearance, and they began rolling toward Southeastern University with unexpected efficiency.
Though I have to admit, Russell reflected as they picked up speed, the van worked pretty well. Despite looking like junk, it was fast and comfortable. If not for traffic laws, he suspected Carter could have pushed three or four hundred miles per hour without breaking a sweat.
When they arrived at Southeastern University's gates, the van's passengers filed out in orderly fashion. Russell found himself genuinely curious about one aspect of their transportation.
"Coach, is there something unusual about your car's interior space?" he asked, noting how the cramped-looking vehicle had comfortably accommodated five adult passengers plus equipment.
Carter nodded with obvious pride. "You know that saying about never being able to guess how many people can fit in a van? That was my design inspiration."
Russell had to admit the logic was sound. Despite its shabby exterior, the van worked pretty well and was surprisingly fast. If not for traffic regulations, he suspected Carter could have pushed three or four hundred miles per hour without breaking a sweat.
A welcoming committee was already waiting at the university entrance—a middle-aged man flanked by five students, all wearing Southeastern University's colors with obvious pride.
"Long time no see, old Carter!" the man called out, striding forward with an enthusiastic handshake.
Coach Carter touched his shiny bald head with characteristic self-consciousness. "What are you talking about, Coach Pascal? We literally met last week."
Pascal's friendly expression froze momentarily. "Don't you know anything about social pleasantries?" But his annoyance quickly transformed into smug satisfaction. "Old Carter, do you know why I agreed to this practice match with your Northgate Battle Club? We're definitely going to win this battle. Don't doubt me for a second. I can only say... I understand everything."
The cryptic declaration carried obvious implications. As longtime friends, Pascal had endured years of his program being overshadowed by Northgate's superior resources and results. Now something had changed—some development that made him confident enough to actively seek confrontation.
Carter's expression grew more serious as he processed Pascal's words. His friend might enjoy dramatic pronouncements, but he rarely made claims he couldn't back up. If Pascal was this confident, Southeastern must have acquired something significant.
Where does this know-it-all attitude come from? Russell thought, observing the interplay between coaches with growing interest.
Pascal led them across campus toward Southeastern's dedicated battle facility. Unlike Northgate's natural mountain arena, this was purpose-built infrastructure with professional maintenance and safety systems. As they approached the combat zone, Russell noted the advanced barrier generators positioned around the perimeter.
Proper gold-level containment fields, he observed with approval. They're taking this seriously.
Translucent energy barriers shimmered into existence, completely enclosing the battlefield and ensuring that collateral damage would remain contained regardless of power levels involved.
Perfect, Russell thought with anticipation. Now I can let Artoria cut loose without worrying about civilian casualties.
"Shall we begin?" Pascal asked Carter once the venue preparation was complete. "Who's going first?"
Coach Carter turned toward his students, clearly leaving the decision to their judgment. After a moment of contemplative silence, Lucian stepped forward.
"Let me go first, teacher."
Carter nodded without much interest, but Russell studied the exchange with growing understanding. Logically, sending reconnaissance fighters first would provide valuable intelligence about enemy capabilities. But Lucian's pride had been stung by recent events—probably Pascal's confident predictions combined with lingering questions about his battle with Russell.
A proud man like him can't tolerate being written off before the fighting even starts, Russell realized. He needs to prove himself worthy of his informal leadership position.
On the opposing side, Coach Pascal gestured toward his students. "Luke, you're up first."
A boy with black-rimmed glasses and a distinctive bowl-cut haircut nodded silently and stepped onto the battlefield. His movements carried the careful precision of someone accustomed to being underestimated—a dangerous combination in competitive environments.
This should be interesting, Russell thought, settling in to observe how his teammates performed under genuine pressure. Time to see what Southeastern thinks gives them such an advantage.
The real test was about to begin.
(End of this chapter)
THROW POWERSTONES.