As practice wound down and the match loomed just hours ahead, night had fully settled in. The dorms were alive with an electric buzz, a blend of anticipation and nerves that crackled in the air.
High schoolers and middle schoolers mingled freely. Uniforms were neatly laid out. Gears gleamed, freshly polished. Discussions hummed through the common space: pitch conditions, last-minute strategies, and mental game plans.
The highschoolers occupied the sofas and couches, some replaying highlights and clips from previous matches, others deep in conversation with the middle schoolers about grip techniques and seam positions.
On the couch, Alan lay half-sprawled, one eye lazily opening to glance across the room where only moments ago, an intense conversation on striking positions had suddenly dissolved into mayhem.
A full-blown pillow fight was underway.
"You hit me first!" Adam yelled, swatting Azazel.
"Huh?! Me?! What about you? Acting like the victim now?" Azazel shot back, glaring, clutching a pillow with righteous fury.
Feng stepped in, hands raised in peace. "Gentlemen, perhaps we could settle this like—"
SMACK! A pillow hit him square in the face.
"Don't interrupt!" Adam and Azazel shouted in unison.
Feng's brow twitched. And, he joined the fray without another word, turning chaos into a warzone.
In a corner, Ezekiel and Heber sighed in unison, game controllers dangling from their hands, screens paused, "Can we continue the game already?"
Alan blinked, his expression somewhere between tired amusement and mild disbelief.
Seraph shook his head mid-reading while Cassiel rolled his eyes like a weary older sibling. Nearby, Poseidon and Xavier shared a laugh, their smiles warm. The highschoolers glanced toward the ruckus, some with indulgent sighs, some pretending not to care, while others couldn't resist and got pulled into the madness.
It was noisy. Energetic. Unruly. Yet, deeply comforting.
"Too much energy for a few hours before a crucial match, don't you think?" Helios teased, handing Alan a warm glass of milk.
Alan sat up slowly, hair tousled like a pillow fight survivor himself. He took the glass, sipped, and let out a sigh. "Yeah… it really is." But then his lips curled into a smile, "Still… I like it."
Gabriel, seated beside him, raised an eyebrow, "What do you like about it?"
Alan's answer was quiet, sincere, "The company. At least… it's not silent."
Helios and Gabriel exchanged a glance before turning back to him.
That single sentence lingered in the air like an echo of something deeper. Loneliness. A past full of quiet nights. And now, this warm, chaotic, brotherly noise, something Alan had grown to cherish.
"Anyways—" Elias's voice drifted in from the highschoolers' room. The third years perked up. "Sleep early, okay?" he reminded.
"Yeah." Seraph replied with a grin.
"Wait, where's Kenzo?" Ryan asked, pausing mid-action as he changed the rubber grip on his bat.
"Huh? Kenzo?" Xavier and Poseidon glanced around.
The name turned heads. Feng's expression shifted immediately, "Don't tell me… he's still practicing?"
Alan's brows furrowed, concern flickering in his eyes, "That idiot…"
Seraph sighed, gently closing his laptop and setting aside his glasses. Zachariah, silent at the table, checked his phone without a word as a quiet understanding passed between Senri, Ren, and Kazuna.
"I'll go get him," Feng announced, already heading toward the door.
"Hey, wait! I'll come too," Adam offered.
"Yeah, me too," Azazel followed next, but Feng turned with a small smile, "Don't. I'll bring him back."
Adam blinked, a little surprised, then turned to Cassiel, who reached over and gave his hair a ruffle, a common gesture of affection and quiet reassurance. "Don't worry," Cassiel said softly, "He'll be back soon."
But Adam didn't look convinced. His brows furrowed as he stared toward the door Feng had exited through. "…Is something going on with Kenzo?" he asked at last, his voice low, edged with unease. His question pulled attention like a thread snapping taut.
The middle schoolers, Ryan, Ezekiel, Azazel, Heber, and even the ones who had been mid-play all turned toward him, their faces suddenly serious.
Adam swallowed and went on, "He's been weird lately. Just a few days ago, he played rock, paper, scissors with me, argued like usual. But now… something's different. He's still talking, still showing up, but it doesn't feel like him. I don't think… I like it."
Ryan and Ezekiel exchanged glances. Azazel looked to Seraph and Helios, their faces unreadable. The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was heavy with thoughts no one was ready to voice.
Until Heber finally spoke, his voice unusually sharp, "I thought so too. We've been around His Highness long enough to read through his mask." His eyes narrowed slightly as he addressed Alan and the third years directly, "Something's off. Either he's not telling us… or you're hiding it."
All eyes shifted toward Alan and the third years. They didn't speak. But their silence said more than words.
---
Feng sprinted through the quiet night, breath tight in his chest, until the silhouette of the practice ground rose before him. One solitary floodlight burned through the darkness, enough to show him where Kenzo was. He stopped at the gate, chest heaving.
Under the pale cone of light, Kenzo stood alone within the practice net, encircled by three bowling machines ticking on a merciless timer. On the crease, he was drenched in sweat, his breath shallow, shirt clinging to his back.
His normally spiked hair now hung heavy and damp, strands falling to the nape of his neck. The wicket lay shattered behind him. A silent evidence to the last delivery he failed to meet. His bat trembled in his injured right hand, the muscles strained, knuckles tight with pain.
Feng stood frozen. Was it awe? Was it anger? He couldn't tell. Was he witnessing the stubborn brilliance of a boy trying to overcome his limits… or the reckless desperation of someone forcing himself to break?
Kenzo slowly turned his head, noticing the shadow at the edge of the net. A faint grin curled on his lips. "You're stunned speechless, huh?" he said casually, walking over to the machines to switch them off one by one.
Still, Feng said nothing. He clenched his fists tightly at his sides, helplessness burning behind his eyes.
Kenzo looked at him again, smile still lingering, "What? Too shocked to scold me?"
Feng gave a small, disbelieving laugh, eyes dropping to Kenzo's hand. The one holding the bat. It was shaking. "Honestly?" he finally muttered, "I'm not sure whether I want to punch you or cry for you."
Kenzo ignored the comment, gaze distant. "Just half an hour more," he murmured, not really asking for permission. "If… if I can't get out of this irritating sealing ability by then… I'll come back."
Feng's jaw tightened, "Just half an hour, huh?"
Kenzo nodded, wiping the sweat from his brow, "You have this king's word." He turned again, flicked the machines back on, and took his stance at the crease.
For a long while, Feng simply watched. Ball after ball fired. The simple ones, Kenzo hit back with effort. The harder deliveries: unpredictable bouncers, reverse swings, crashed into the stumps behind him, again and again. Each one felt like a silent blow. A genius batsman reduced to this- haunted by a skill he could no longer overcome yet still trying to act like the wicket didn't exist behind him.
Feng exhaled, then turned away, footsteps slow as he left the ground. His expression unreadable. His thoughts loud. He didn't look back.
Kenzo, lungs burning, swung cleanly through a cover drive, the bat slicing through the air with practiced precision. He barely had time to exhale before the next ball screamed in low. He dropped into a backfoot defense, gritting his teeth.
Another, a bouncer, came up high and fast. He ducked. It slammed into the netting behind him with a vicious smack. The fourth came in straight toward his abdomen. He braced and blocked it, the impact rattling his injured hand.
"Damn it!" he cursed under his breath, slamming the end of his bat onto the ground in frustration. "Just come back already…" he muttered, voice hoarse, desperation cracking through.
Still, his ability didn't return. Nothing. The seal on his abilities remained unmoved, indifferent to his struggle. More balls came. He countered one, but the next two clipped the wicket, toppling what was left of the already shattered stumps.
Kenzo laughed dryly, bitterly, almost incredulous before stepping off the pitch. His bat clattered to the ground. His right hand, red and trembling, hung limp by his side. He lifted his face to the sky, breath harsh, lips parted as sweat ran down his temple.
Each breath felt heavier than the last. Behind him, the machines continued. The dull thuds of balls striking the empty stumps echoed around the field like a ticking bomb. Each hit felt like an insult. A chorus of failure reverberating in his skull.