CHAPTER 36: ALL PIECES IN POSITION

Kairon’s Room — No 5

Kairon stood still for a moment, then slowly turned to the window.

The wind stirred gently through the curtains, brushing past his hair. His eyes, half-lidded and distant, reflected the campus lights outside — but his thoughts were buried far deeper.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm... disturbingly calm.

"Meira..."

He murmured her name like a line in a script.

"You’re just another piece on the board."

He exhaled, not with regret, but with observation — as if dissecting a theory mid-experiment.

"Use affection to establish emotional dependency... create the illusion of closeness. A touch here, a whisper there. Make her feel seen. Needed. Different."

He turned from the window and walked to his desk, eyes brushing across the lined spines of books, anatomy journals, and volumes of warfare strategy.

"I said something about her pulls me in... not because it’s true, but because it makes her ask why. That question will eat at her. She’ll chase it. And in chasing it—"

He tapped the spine of a thick book.

"She walks exactly where I need her to go."

He picked up one of the books and flipped through it absently, eyes not reading the words, but thinking far beyond them.

"It’s not in textbooks anymore," he muttered.

"Not the kind of manipulation that matters. Not the type that gets you control."

He stopped flipping.

"Some knowledge," he said softly, "requires experience. And love... romance... they are tools—blunt, unreliable tools—but when used properly, they bend people in ways logic never could."

He looked at the now-empty spot on the bed where Meira had sat.

"She’s a test case. A trial. An emotional simulation."

Then, his voice hardened — a sharp drop into something cold.

"When her purpose is served... when I’ve seen all there is to see..."

He stepped back toward the window.

"She’ll be discarded like every other pawn. A decoy to attract the enemy’s attention. A disposable lure for prey."

His reflection stared back at him in the glass — unreadable. Unfeeling.

The wind gusted again.

He didn’t blink.

"Everyone..." he whispered, his breath ghosting against the windowpane.

"...is expendable."

And with that, he closed the curtain.

Training Field – Evening Before the Sports Festival

The field was quiet, bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun. Most students had long left, but one figure remained — moving with relentless focus.

Kei.

His arms trembled slightly as he pushed up from the ground again — his hundredth rep. Sweat dripped down his brow, soaking into the grass below. His breaths were ragged, muscles tight with exhaustion... but he didn’t stop.

Not yet.

One more.

And then, finally, he rose to his feet — chest heaving, face flushed from exertion. He reached for the towel around his bag and slung it over his shoulders, wiping his face.

The wind brushed against him as he looked to the horizon, the sky burning in streaks of orange and red.

He clenched his fists tightly.

"This still isn’t enough..." he muttered, jaw tensing.

"Tomorrow is the sports festival."

His fingers curled even tighter around the towel, knuckles white.

"I have to stand out."

His voice was low. Strained.

"It’s always him... always Kairon..."

He looks down at the court where Class D trains — as memories of Kairon at the center, calm and quiet.

Kei’s eyes narrow.

"I’ll show them I’m not just a shadow."

He turned back toward the dorms, shadows trailing behind him — long, narrow, and sharp.

Tomorrow, everything would change.

At the Locker room—Late at Night

A shadow opens a locker as it holds a running shoes in his hands — the ones he always laces with perfect precision.

He whispers

"You’re good at everything, aren’t you?"

His fingers tremble slightly as he pulls back the insole and slides something in.

"Let’s see how far your composure takes you when you’re limping."

He slips the shoes back neatly.

"This is my race. Mine."

Sports Grounds— The Next Morning

The morning sun rose like a silent drumroll over Crimson Vale Academy, casting long shadows across the freshly trimmed fields. The once-ordinary training grounds had been completely transformed.

Bright banners waved in the breeze — scarlet, gold, and deep indigo — each representing the four ranked classes of the academy: A,B,C and D. Streamers were strung from tower to tower, and colored flags lined the track, fluttering like they too waited for the starting bell.

Rows of white tents stood on either side of the central field, decorated with class insignias and stocked with refreshments, first-aid kits, and name boards.

Staff and faculty moved briskly through the grounds with clipboards and megaphones, fine-tuning equipment and assigning roles. The smell of freshly painted track lines, dew-touched grass, and something sweet from the vendor stalls filled the air.

The energy was quiet, restrained — not the roar of chaos, but the silence of something about to begin.

Students poured in by class rank, dressed uniformly in the academy’s official sports attire: a clean white shirt traced with navy blue lines at the sleeves and collar, paired with fitted navy blue trousers. The insignia of their class shimmered faintly on their sleeves, stitched in gold or silver.

Groups huddled in circles — stretching, whispering, joking nervously. Some jogged to warm up. Others simply looked around, taking it all in.

Class D stood a little separate from the rest. Riven tied his headband with quiet precision. Aria stood arms folded, scanning the other teams. Meira adjusted her gloves. Caden and Torin exchanged exaggerated grins while Ivy stayed silent, gaze sharp.

But not everyone was laughing.

Kei stood alone at the far end of the field, eyes dark beneath his bangs. His fingers twitched slightly by his sides as he watched Kairon from a distance.

And Kairon?

Kairon stood at the edge of the field — hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but distant.

He wasn’t looking at anyone.

He was looking at the sky.

The clouds drifted slowly, lazily. Blue bled into gold.

Then — softly, to himself — he spoke.

"The sports festival begins."

And the wind carried his words across the field like the opening move on a chessboard.

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