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Helier grinned, a chilling expression of delight. He started bouncing on his toes, vibrating with the chaotic energy of the moment.

“Helier, get him off the stage quietly,” Tegula hissed, off-mic. “Neutralize him.”

“Neutralize him?” Helier laughed, the sound amplified by the speakers, echoing across the stadium. “Why would I do that? Look at him, Director! He’s hatched!”

Helier stepped closer to me, invading my personal space. He leaned in, sniffing the air around my neck, his nose brushing the bruise.

“You smell like gunpowder and sex,” Helier whispered, his eyes rolling back slightly. “You smell like an explosion waiting to happen. I love it! I want to watch it burn!”

His lips brushed my ear.

“You aren’t here to surrender, are you, pretty boy?” Helier whispered, his voice dropping so only I could hear. “You came here to start a riot. If I stop you, the show ends. If I let you go... the whole Academy goes to shit.”

He licked his lips, his pupils dilating.

“Burn it down, Cento. Make me cream my pants.”

He spun around, facing the crowd, and threw his arms wide.

“Look at this!” Helier screamed into the mic. “You wanted to see the King break? Now he’s come back as a monster!”

The crowd roared, thinking it was all part of the show. It made me sick.

Helier stepped aside with a theatrical bow, giggling as he faded back into the shadows.

I grabbed the microphone stand, my fingers tightening around the metal to hold me up. The world swayed at the edges of my vision. I locked my knees, forcing my body to obey one last time.

The feedback squealed, a sharp electronic shriek that sliced through the noise of the crowd. Silence slammed into the stadium. Sixty thousand faces looked down at me. The flashbulbs sparked like distant artillery fire.

I looked into the camera lens, straight at the millions watching from the slums, from the factories, and from the front lines.

I knew what I had to do, I had to play the role they craved. They didn’t want the polite athlete. They wanted the warlord who had crawled out of the grave to reclaim his throne.

“The Director told you we were a unit,” I said. My voice was scraping against the silence. It boomed through the stadium speakers, delayed by a split second, an echo like a god speaking from the clouds. “He told you we were forged in discipline, that perfection looks like that.”

I pointed a shaking finger at the official roster poster behind Tegula, Anatol in his clean uniform, the players stiff and manufactured.

“That’s not our lives.”

I stepped closer to the edge of the stage.

“Now look at us. Really look.” I swept my gaze over the crowd as if I could drag their attention into place by force. “See the bruises. See the broken bones.”

I paused, and let the silence stretch until it was almost unbearable. I locked eyes with a camera drone hovering three feet away.

“The Academy’s image is a lie,” I said, the sound carrying to the nosebleed seats. “What you see on the posters doesn’t exist when the cameras turn off.”

I grabbed Leander’s hand, pulling him forward. He stumbled slightly, his boot clunking on the stage, but he stood tall.

“This is not perfection,” I shouted, my voice rising. “This is survival! We went into the fire. We went down to the pits, to the places where you have to bleed just to keep breathing. And we didn’t break. We came back.”

The crowd was eating it up. I could feel the energy shifting.

“There is no National Team without us,” I declared to the world. “Because without us, you don’t have a team that fights. You just have a poster.”

I turned to the squad behind me.

“Sylla.”