Markus's group acknowledged the thunderous stands, the tension in their shoulders finally snapped, replaced by the warm, heavy weight of relief.
This was their hardest-fought win to date, a tactical nightmare that had pushed them to the brink. In the quiet center of their celebration lay the cold, hard fact of the battle: without Markus to nullify the gravity well, the Military Academy's defense would have been impenetrable.
He had been the Key to an impossible lock, and as they waved, the team knew they had just survived a fortress that should have held forever.
**
Markus gestured toward the exit, already moving with the steady stride of a man who owned the city. "Steaks at the Royal Central Underground," he called back to the group, his tone brooking no argument. "I'm picking up the tab. Let's get out of these uniforms and into something that doesn't smell like dirt."
Markus crossed the threshold of Campeón, and the floor manager froze mid-instruction to a waiter. It wasn't just the uniform; it was the way the light seemed to bend around the young man, a subtle reminder of the spatial laws he commanded.
The manager recognized the silhouette instantly—the victor of today's "Iron Anchor" breach. He didn't wait for Markus to approach the podium; instead, he bypassed a line of waiting patrons, his heels clicking rhythmically against the marble as he moved to intercept the Blackwell with a low, practiced bow.
"Right away, Master Markus. Our premier private suite is yours," the manager declared, stepping aside to clear a path through the crowded foyer.
"I'll have the cellar master bring up the vintage reserves. A victory of this magnitude deserves a sanctuary, not just a room."
"No alcohol," Markus corrected, his eyes reflecting the soft light of the room. "We've got more matches on the horizon, and we can't afford a hangover. Let's stick to juices and sodas for the table."
"Of course—it was foolish of me. Focus is what won the day, after all," the manager said, bowing lower this time. He promptly abandoned the wine list and gestured toward a hidden corridor.
"Please, follow me to the Private Suite. It is our most secluded area, typically reserved for the High Council. I will ensure our finest sparkling botanicals and nutrient-rich infusions are brought to you instead."
The group followed the manager's rhythmic stride, eventually settling into a sprawling suite centered around a hand-carved mahogany table designed for twelve.
As the heavy, soundproofed doors sealed with a pressurized hiss, their posture finally collapsed. Finally, they had time to relax and shed the weight of the Empire's expectations, letting the adrenaline of the breach fade into the quiet hum of the restaurant's cooling mana-stones.
A rare spark of excitement lit up Markus's features as he leafed through the menu of Campeón.
He skipped past the appetizers, his focus narrowing on the seasonal specials. He found himself searching for something legendary—perhaps a marinated rack of lamb or a cut of wagyu that had been aged to perfection—wanting a meal that tasted as profound as the win they had just secured.
Each member of the team retrieved a sleek, slate-thin tablet from the recessed docks in the mahogany table. The screens flared to life with a soft, amber glow, displaying high-definition renders of the day's specials that looked almost tangible.
They began to navigate the interface with practiced ease, customizing their orders with a few taps—adjusting the sear on their steaks and the infusion levels of their drinks.
The room was silent save for the rhythmic thrum of the tablets and the occasional satisfied murmur as they locked in their selections for the victory feast.
**
Starters
[Chef Samuel's Meatball] x 2
[Charred Octopus & Calamari] x 2
[Hand-Stretched Mozzarella] x 5
[Jumbo Lump Crabmeat Crisp] x1
[French Onion Soup] x 5
**
[Market Oysters] 12 Pieces
[Toro Toro Roll] x 5
[Maine Lobster Roll] x 3
[Salmon Belly] x 2
**
[Slow Roasted Herb-Crusted Prime Rib] x 3
[Spaghetti Pomodoro] x 1
[Steakhouse Burger] x 2
[A5 Sendai Tenderloin] x 2
**
Sides
[Mac and Cheese] x 3
[Black Truffle French Fries] x 2
**
Drinks
[Coca-Cola] x 3 unlimited refills
[Watermelon Juice with Lime] x 1 unlimited refills
[Sugar Cane Juice with Lemon] x 1 unlimited refills
**
Five growing teens sat around a table built for twelve, yet the digital tally on their tablets suggested they intended to fill every square inch of the mahogany surface. It was a feast fit for royals.
Markus watched the order-tracker with a rare, boyish grin, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. The clinical "Lord of Space" had vanished, replaced by a victor who knew that the only thing better than breaking an impossible defense was the massive, multi-course indulgence that followed it.
The kitchen unleashed a masterpiece. Starters and sides hit the table in a flurry of heat and steam, turning the private suite into a sanctuary of salt and fat.
The team sat frozen for a heartbeat, their mouths watering as the scent of seared appetizers filled the air. Against the cold, polished backdrop of the marble floors, the steaming food looked like a miracle.
Rosanne's section of the table had been transformed into a glistening, edible reef. A foundation of crushed ice held chilled oysters that shimmered like pearls in their jagged shells, while nearby, a vibrant array of sushi rolls stood in precise, colorful ranks.
Beside them, the charred, purple-hued tentacles of grilled octopus curled artfully against the plate, providing a smoky contrast to the golden, airy rings of fried calamari. It was a chaotic, beautiful bounty of the deep, laid bare for her to conquer.
While the others sampled a bit of everything, Markus's focus remained singular and absolute.
Markus's portion of the table looked like a curated tribute to the flame. The A5 Sendai Tenderloin took center stage, its melt-in-your-mouth texture a stark contrast to the hearty, charred bite of the Steakhouse Burger beside it.
A side of savory meatballs provided an earthy depth, while the golden fries and a bubbling pot of artisan mac and cheese rounded out the feast.
This was the Blackwell version of "soul food"—a high-octane, heavy-hitting spread of beef and starch that promised to replenish every ounce of energy he'd left on the arena floor.
Donna, Jessica, and Mika had opted for a collaborative masterpiece, turning their section of the table into a vibrant Surf and Turf landscape.
"This is the most refreshing thing I've ever tasted," Rosanne declared, passing her glass around. The watermelon juice was crisp and light, a perfect antidote to the searing afternoon heat they had endured hours ago.
Mika chuckled, sliding her glass into the rotation as well. "The sugarcane is the real winner here," she noted, watching the ice clink against the side of her tumbler. "It's heavy, sweet, and hits like a physical boost."
Jessica and Donna exchanged a look of pure, unadulterated "order envy." Their sodas suddenly felt far too ordinary for a victory at Campeón.
"We definitely missed the mark on the beverages," Donna grumbled, her voice thick with mock-resentment as she caught the refreshing, floral scent of the watermelon juice. Jessica nodded in somber agreement, pushing her soda aside.
"Note for the semi-finals: fire the person in charge of the drink menu. Our bubbles just can't compete with the 'bottled sunshine' you two are hoarding."
When the digital tab finally flickered to life, the total was a staggering 620 credits—a figure that would have made a lesser squad go pale. However, as Markus reached for his payment ring, the manager stayed his hand with a respectful, knowing smile. "The house has taken care of the balance, Master Blackwell," he murmured. "In lieu of payment, we would be honored if you all would pose for a photograph with our staff. Having the pride of the capital within these walls is a credit to our reputation that gold simply cannot buy."
"The pleasure is ours," Markus replied, his voice regaining its smooth, aristocratic resonance. He stood with a fluid grace that betrayed none of the heavy meal he'd just consumed.
As the staff trickled into the suite—chefs still in their whites and servers smoothing their aprons—the room filled with a hum of hushed excitement. Markus signaled for his team to assemble, his calm demeanor anchoring the shot as the camera drones flickered to life, capturing the victors in the heart of their sanctuary.
The Campeón social media team didn't miss a beat, uploading the photos just as the team's silhouette vanished from the restaurant's view. The response was instantaneous—a vertical climb of likes and shares that broke local records within five minutes. By midnight, "The Blackwell Table" was the most searched term in the metro, as a sea of followers prepared their own pilgrimages to the sanctuary of the victors.