Quex was an exceptional fighter. Maybe not on the same level as Rita, who had spent an entire year training day and night under the two battle masters, Lightchaser and GodDraw77, but still leagues above most apprentices. When the book monster's HP dropped below two percent, the entire arena fell silent. Every player attacked faster, desperate to land the finishing blow. Rain poured down over Quex's head. She pulled off her hood, letting the drops run freely down her face. Her pupils shimmered with arcane runes—and then, the rain itself shifted direction, converging on the fluttering book they were chasing. Rita, in perfect sync, darted ahead and intercepted the attacks from the other players trying to steal the kill. No words, no eye contact—just unspoken coordination built from the same instincts and strategy. Together they moved like a single mind. Since they were steal-killing rather than fighting straight up, their clear speed was almost twice that of Crab and NightFury's group. Movement skills didn't work on the blocks. Rita tried teleporting back to the stands with one, but the system denied it. So they had no choice but to escort the block the old-fashioned way. Thankfully, once Quex picked it up, no one else could touch it. When the block touched the gray brick of the same shape on their shelf, it dissolved into colorful smoke and merged with the gray wall. The brick took on color and sank down into place. Once the colored block appeared, they could manipulate it by hand without using the joystick. After two rounds, every player understood the mechanics. A new gray brick spawned every five minutes at random spots. To avoid getting overwhelmed, each team had to take down the corresponding monster and clear the block within that window. If the game's difficulty scale went from one to ten, this sat around a comfortable six or seven for Rita's team. They could handle it easily. But all of them had played enough Divine Games to know nothing ever stayed that simple. For Rita, though, the real difficulty wasn't the mechanics. She lifted her gaze across the circular arena. On the opposite side, at another shelf on the same tier, someone was staring right back—Maple Syrup. Her long crimson hair whipped in the wind, the tails of her combat coat snapping sharply. In her right hand, she held a black crystal rod that looked somewhere between a lance and a command staff. The sleeping form of her weapon—the crystal spear—slid through her left palm, its dense magic so strong it was almost tangible. From this distance, it looked less like a weapon and more like a scepter of authority. If you drew a line between them, it would cut straight through the heart of the circular coliseum. They were that far apart. Those tears she shed during the time-stop weren't just because of Mistblade's Endless Autumn on the Chessboard. Maple Syrup's unwavering resolve had been just as much a reason. When she first came to this world, the first person she met wasn't Mistblade—it was Maple Syrup. That red-haired girl sitting on the steps of the gemstone shop had been the one to lead her to Mistblade and Fat Goose. They'd gone to school together, shared the highest treehouse, the closest branches… Maple Syrup mattered to her almost as much as Mistblade did. Having both friends aim their weapons at her within such a short span—that was why she'd broken down back then. Maple Syrup probably knew that. But she pretended not to. Or maybe, she genuinely didn't care. And aside from her Nemesis… Rita tilted her head slightly toward the ninth tier at three o'clock. There, standing at the railing, was a tall, elegant figure watching her. A blood-mist blade hung at her waist, two fingers wide. Six white fox tails swayed gently behind her, the black tips of her tails and ears brushing with the wind. Mistblade, seventh-year captain of Moonlight Marsh—and once Rita's closest friend in Arisentna. When she told Lightchaser she hadn't been "tricked" by Mistblade's words, she'd meant it. Mistblade had waited at her door for at least six hours, but her explanation had been evasive, her reasoning unconvincing. Yes, compared to the whole of the Owlet clan, one person's friendship meant little to the Moonfox tribe. But was that really reason enough to try to kill her? Had Maple Syrup ever said she wouldn't ally with the Moonfox unless Rita died? Following that line of thought made it sound like she was forbidding Mistblade from ever raising a hand against her. Still, that strange feeling she'd had back then wouldn't leave her. Mistblade was hiding something—something crucial. Rita didn't deny that Mistblade's wait and her words had been an attempt to mend their friendship. She could feel the regret and affection there—the way Mistblade clung to their bond, patching it with clumsy lies. But that odd suspicion was confirmed later by GodDraw77. Endless Autumn on the Chessboard didn't just show how valuable someone was to your ideals—it also divided its results into positive and negative values. A positive number meant the person's worth while alive. Thıs text ıs hosted at 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⟡𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕥⟡𝕟𝕖𝕥 A negative one meant the value their death would bring. Rita's number must have been negative. Maybe something so extreme it made Mistblade strike without hesitation. She had truly meant to kill her—not just because deaths inside the Divine Game left unrevivable corpses, but because it was the only way Lightchaser wouldn't seek revenge. If she died in the real world, Lightchaser would destroy whoever was responsible. Mistblade had even thought that far ahead. So maybe she needed to ask it differently— Was Mistblade's ideal still Arisentna Mistblade's ideal? In the Fun Match, Maple Syrup had blurted out things—nonsense maybe, or maybe truth—that might've jogged Mistblade's memories. She probably hadn't remembered everything like Maple Syrup had. Otherwise, she wouldn't have looked so lost that evening at sunset. But Rita understood: lost or not, that wouldn't have changed Mistblade's choice. It wasn't betrayal. She had simply chosen loyalty to her own ideals. "You three done staring yet? Junior, that's starting to look a little romantic," Quex called from behind her. She'd been watching the triangle between Rita, Maple Syrup, and Mistblade for quite a while. Crab and Syntax had been watching too, but when the next gray block appeared, NightFury had kicked them both off the platform to go fight. NightFury herself stood on tiptoe by the joystick, neck stretched long to keep watching the drama. It did look a bit stupid. Rita tightened her expression, broke eye contact, and said seriously, "You wouldn't understand. We're observing our respective destinies." NightFury pulled a sour-grape face. Quex's expression wasn't much different—somewhere between disgusted and exasperated. "Let me guess," Quex said flatly. "You suddenly realized this might be showing on the big screen right now and decided to give your awkward staring some deeper meaning?" "Lies!" Rita snapped. A new block appeared. This time, NightFury and Quex went down to handle it while Rita stayed behind to guard the shelf. They switched up pairings often, trying to see which combinations worked fastest. Rita nudged the joystick, guiding the falling piece into position and letting it descend slowly. Then she pulled a handful of winter snow from her dagger and began shaping a small Summer Snowman. A ritual before every game. A small act of grounding. In seconds, the snowman's outline was done—but her movements slowed. She paused, eyes unfocused for a heartbeat, then moved the next block to the far right of the shelf frame before picking the snowman back up again. Mistblade was loyal to her ideals. Maple Syrup chose her truth outside the game. What would she choose?