With a chime announcing that ship activation had reached 80 percent, every vessel in the harbor let out a low, resonant horn.

The students still in the city streets and alleyways immediately abandoned their scuffles and sprinted toward the docks. Too late.

Whatever their reasons—whether they had wanted to prepare longer, or had grown careless when the ships stayed still—it no longer mattered.

The port city vanished in an instant, along with everyone who had failed to board. Wiped away, like a smudge from a painting.

Every ship launched at once, the world shuddering as all were thrust onto the open sea.

But the horizon was no true horizon. At the edges, vast walls of water cascaded upward like four boundless waterfalls, enclosing the ocean on every side.

And at each corner, just above the sea's surface, round black voids slowly yawned open, their destinations unknown.

Some ships began to creep forward, searching for clues about the treasure.

Motor's voice cut in: "We can't move. Our ship won't respond."

Rita glanced toward Pine Bloom's massive vessel. Motionless as well.

Her stomach sank. So it was the ships with the companion balls that couldn't sail on their own?

That was brutal. And if these so-called pets were alive, why weren't they doing anything?

They could only watch as the other, unburdened ships began drifting apart. Even if their speed was pitiful—barely a meter or two per second—they were still moving.

Rita tried another spark of fire at a nearby vessel. Again, nothing. No damage, no boarding. And when others tested the same on their yacht, the results were identical.

Five minutes passed. Mistblade had already started fiddling with fishing gear when the eastern waterfall stirred.

Clouds surged. A colossal figure formed from the mist, humanoid but faceless.

Every eye turned as the giant lifted a long staff, pure white cloud, and rested it on the sea.

Almost instantly the entire arena grew frantic. Anyone whose ship could move scrambled to get out of the line of the strike.

The loudest panic came from Pine Bloom's vessel. Their hull glowed faintly red, and the cloud staff was angled directly at them, the giant measuring its shot.

They were the cue ball.

Her squad was desperately layering protection spells on the hull—something only ships with companion balls could do. But every shield collapsed after three seconds.

They had guessed right. The sea itself was a billiards table, their ships the balls. And those who had purchased the "pets" were destined to be struck first.

Rita soared upward for a better look. Sure enough, Pine Bloom's helm bore a white ball. She dropped back down. "She lied. They're the one-ball."

Maple Syrup's eyes narrowed. "Pine Bloom, right? The green-winged one? That's her?"

"Exactly."

Mistblade, threading bait on a hook, peered over the side. "So it goes in order? That makes us number seven?"

"Looks that way," Rita said grimly. "What, planning to fish for the ball?"

Mistblade gave a calm nod. "If the shot doesn't hit us directly."

On the neighboring ship, the deer-headed mage cursed as yet another shield was wasted—the cloud staff retracted at the last second, almost mockingly.

And then, without warning, it snapped forward.

The blow hammered Pine Bloom's ship like a cannonball, sending it careening into the cluster of smaller vessels.

The sea rang with the crisp crack of wood on wood. Bang, bang, bang—nearly a hundred ships collided in a chain reaction.

From above, Rita and Maple Syrup watched the chaos. Hulls splintered. Some decks collapsed outright.

And more:

"They can fight now," Rita realized aloud.

Any vessel that Pine Bloom's ship touched was suddenly fair game. Crews were boarding each other, blades flashing, spells exploding. But the effect didn't spread—only the directly struck ships were opened to combat. Secondary collisions were still safe.

Rita landed and shared what she'd seen.

Mistblade sat cross-legged on the deck, casting her line. "Lively out there."

"…Does she do this in class too?" Rita muttered to Fat Goose. "Always this laid back, even in the middle of war?"

Fat Goose, kneeling to help thread bait, shook his head. "Not at all. Watching matches, she used to get excited. Sometimes even egg people on."

Rita's eyes narrowed. "So she picked that up from Orfa."

Mistblade shot her a glare, then sniffed. "My teacher calls it elegance."

Rita: "…"

...

This year's broadcast was different. Not one screen, but one hundred and eighteen.

The first hundred showed the current kill leaders. The remaining eighteen were special.

Seventeen of them displayed the ships with companion balls—Rita's team among them.

And one was an overhead view of the entire sea. Every vessel clearly visible. Seventeen ships, glowing red.

Mistblade's languid remark had not gone unnoticed.

Her fellow disciples of Orfa, scattered across the viewing stands, responded as one.

Mistake Answer: "Heh."

Berrento: "Heh."

Wail: "Heh."

GodDraw77, biting her tongue, stayed silent. Of the group, she was the newest. And truth be told, her mannerisms weren't so different from Orfa's. Safer not to add fuel.

Golden Hills' headmaster, Vorang, turned to the Deep Sea Mine headmaster beside him. "I've always wondered. Just how many students has Orfa taken on? She turns up in my life far too often."

The Deep Sea Mine headmaster chuckled. "I once suggested she open her own academy."

Mistake Answer, Wail, Berrento, and Cinders all answered in perfect unison. "Please don't."

Vorang blinked. "Why?"

Not one of them said another word.

...

Until a ship was struck, it could neither move nor attack. The crews could only wait.

Mistblade fished. Motor tinkered. Rita focused entirely on observing every detail she could.

The cloud giant remained vague, no distinctive shape. Certainly not one of the eight mysterious beings from the Old Quarter.

Every two minutes, a strike. And not always from white cloud—sometimes the staff was gray, woven from stormclouds.

Two teams, then. Odd-numbered balls struck by white. Even-numbered by gray.

When Mistblade finally reeled in her first fish, the white staff lowered again.

And this time, it was pointed squarely at them.