The underground tunnels, usually cold and echoing with a somber silence, were now alive with the girls' frenetic energy.
They moved through the subterranean passages like a streak of lightning, their voices overlapping in a chaotic, joyful blur of tactical post-game analysis and pure adrenaline.
The smell of burnt obsidian still clung to their hair, but it was drowned out by their laughter. As they marched back toward the Academy, the shadows of the tunnel seemed to retreat before them, unable to dampen the radiance of four stars who had finally found their own light.
Markus stood in the heavy shadow of the tunnel, his pride a silent, immovable force. They had done exactly what he'd expected—and then some.
But as the echoes of their laughter drifted away, his mind was already miles ahead, dissecting the upcoming schedule.
Tomorrow's semi-final was merely the final rehearsal. The real storm lay beyond: the Light and Shadow Twins.
They were the true antithesis to the girls' synergy, and as Markus turned to follow his team, his expression was a mix of a mentor's satisfaction and a general's grim anticipation for the war to come.
The familiar silhouette of a Swiss Guard materialized at the tunnel's exit, his presence commanding an immediate silence. Unlike his usual stoic demeanor, there was a faint glint of genuine respect in his eyes as he looked at the four exhausted, glowing girls. "A message from her highness," he declared, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
"The Princess is hosting a dinner celebration in honor of today's masterclass. She requests your presence at the Table tonight—an invitation rarely extended to students."
Markus didn't hesitate, his voice carrying the calm, immovable weight of his lineage. He inclined his head just a fraction—a gesture of respect that remained perfectly balanced with his own status.
"We are honored by the invitation. Please, convey our sincerest gratitude to Her Highness for her grace. We shall attend as requested." The guard nodded, recognizing the flawless etiquette of a man who was as comfortable in a palace as he was on a battlefield.
**
The team dispersed with a shared sense of urgency, retreating to the sanctuary of their private quarters.
The sharp, metallic scent of ozone and the fine dust of pulverized obsidian were washed away under steaming currents of water, replaced by the delicate fragrances of expensive oils and soaps.
This was a different kind of preparation—a transformation from exhausted warriors into refined guests. They traded their scorched combat silks for tailored garments of velvet and high-grade mana-thread, each piece of attire carefully selected to meet the crushing weight of royal expectations.
The air in the dining hall was thick with the scent of white truffles and aged butter, a sensory prelude to the evening's true masterpiece.
Presiding over the galley was none other than Joël Robuchon, the "Chef of the Century," specially summoned from the frost-rimmed northern reaches of the Valerian Empire.
His presence was a silent thunderclap; to have a man of his legendary status flown across the continent for a single banquet was an imperial gesture of the highest order.
Clad in his iconic, sharp black chef's whites, he moved with the same surgical precision the girls had shown in the arena, his very presence turning the dinner into a historic occasion.
Tonight, Robuchon was orchestrating a culinary symphony across two distinct planes of power.
At the Primary Table, the air was thick with the weight of statecraft; there sat the Valerian Emperor himself, engaged in low-toned, sharp-edged dialogue with Ambassador Lee, the representative of the Asian Coalition. They were surrounded by the Empire's most distinguished guests—generals and ministers who dictated the fate of nations.
In a separate room sat the Second Table, a vibrant contrast of youthful potential and royal favor. Here, Princess Rosalind presided over her personal guests: Markus Blackwell and his squad.
By placing the tournament favorites so close to the throne, the Princess wasn't just hosting a dinner—she was declaring that these first-years were now friends of the imperial family.
As the first course of lobster medallions settled onto the table like edible jewels, the room's ambient mana spiked. The Emperor entered, a figure of obsidian-draped authority that made the flickering candlelight bow in his wake.
The first dish was a delicate symphony of chilled, golden Osetra caviar resting atop a vibrant crustacean gelée.
It is a test of pure freshness—the briny "pop" of the caviar melts into the velvet gelée, waking up the palate for the complexity to come.
It was followed by a cold appetizer, Le Homard Bleu au Poivre de Tellicherry. It was Poached Blue Lobster from the Northern fjords, sliced into translucent medallions. It is served with an acidulated turnip carpaccio and a light ginger-lime emulsion.
The sweetness of the lobster burst into Markus's mouth, balanced by the sharp, aromatic bite of rare Tellicherry peppercorns, reflecting the crisp, cold air of the Northern reaches.
For Markus, this was yet another calculated display of the Imperial family's reach. It wasn't just about the rare vintage or the legendary Chef; it was about the atmosphere of absolute exclusivity they curated around him.
It was an extraordinary experience, but one that tasted of velvet-wrapped power and the subtle pressure of royal expectation.
The signature entree, L'Œuf de Poule Frit au Caviar et à l'Oseille. Was a perfect egg, soft-boiled and then encased in a delicate, golden-fried kataifi nest. When pierced, the yolk flows like liquid gold into a pool of smoked sorrel purée.
This is a Robuchon hallmark. The technical precision required to fry a soft egg without overcooking the yolk mirrors the "Shell-Breaker" spell the girls performed earlier that day.
The main course, La Caille au Foie Gras et la Fameuse Purée de Pommes de Terre. Was a free-range quail stuffed with rich foie gras and caramelized in a honey-soy glaze.
It is served alongside the world-famous Robuchon Pommes Purée—a potato purée so buttery and aerated it defies the laws of solid matter.
The richness of the quail is secondary to the potatoes. For the girls, eating this purée is a lesson in alchemy: turning a humble root vegetable into a substance that tastes like silk and light.
And lastly, Le Chocolat Sensation et Or Noir, the closing dish of the night. A dark Araguani chocolate crémeux beneath a fragile, hand-painted cocoa-butter shell. It is adorned with edible 24-karat gold leaf and served with a tart raspberry-white-port coulis.
As the warm chocolate sauce is poured over the top, the shell collapses in a "thermal fracture" similar to the obsidian walls of the arena—a final, delicious tribute to the team's victory.
The dinner was a flawless reflection of the glory they had seized in the arena.
To celebrate the Academy's rising stars, Robuchon had poured his legendary Northern discipline into every detail, ensuring the experience would remain etched in the group's memory long after the tournament concluded.
From the temperature of the crystal to the complex layering of the foie gras, nothing was left to chance. For Markus and the girls, this wasn't just a dinner—it was their formal induction into the Empire's inner circle, served on a silver platter by the "Chef of the Century."