The Sky Isles of Lioaratheia

Sharp as a strike, the signal horn blared across the arena.

 Windmere moved—their formation shifted like a scattered flock, shapes drifting more than flying. No urgency. No unity. Just the motions of a team that had already lost the point in their minds.

 At centerfield, Kael twisted midair and flicked the Hovergem toward Ava, a textbook pass with clean precision.

 Ava didn't see it.

 The Hovergem sailed past her outstretched arm—unnoticed, unclaimed.

 It dipped into a slow arc.

 Then—

 Ren Verras of Caldrith Vale streaked forward, catching the gem clean from the air. His boots hissed with thrust as he cut sharply toward Windmere's ring, leaving arcs of wind in his wake. The crowd roared, sensing another point. And Windmere?

 They hovered.

 Windermere didn't chase. A hush crept over—not of silence, but of resignation. Even the air seemed to brace for the point.

 Ren neared the ring, arm cocked to throw.

 And then—

 Something darted beneath him, a blur slicing through the air like a thread yanked taut.

 Ren jolted.

 His balance snapped sideways as his right foot spiraled off, twisting wildly. His eyes widened. The Hovergem slipped from his grasp, spinning end over end.

 His gaze followed it—and caught a glimpse of the Windmere player who had streaked below him.

 Ardyn.

 Not flying with brute speed or brute force. Flying clean. Controlled. Focused.

 And in his hand: the Hovergem.

 Ardyn didn't hesitate. He tucked the gem against his side and burst forward, slicing through the open field in the opposite direction.

 Ren stared, stunned—then blinked in realization.

 Ardyn had done it mid-move.

 He had pressed the release latch on Ren's right boot as he passed. A silent, precise disarm.

 Ren wasn't falling. But he wasn't flying right either. His form tilted unevenly, struggling to recover.

 And Ardyn?

 He was already gone.

 The crowd erupted, a burst of sound that wasn't just cheering—it was a confused, electric roar. Laughter mingled with cheers, gasps overlapped with shouting.

 Something had happened—a move no one had ever seen in a Skytest match.

 Ardyn veered upward and passed the Hovergem clean to Pimri, who caught it mid-drift, his eyes wide in glad disbelief.

 He knew that move.

 Pimri's expression lit up—half grin, half awe—as if realizing this was no lucky stunt. Ardyn meant it. The crowd's roar dimmed behind the pulse of his own blood as hope surged inside him.

 He pressed forward.

 Wind peeled around his shoulders as he launched into a sharp dash, tucking low and fast. From the corners of his vision, two Vale players closed in—one high, one low.

 He saw the intercept coming.

 But before they could collide—blue streaks crashed into them from the sides.

 Doma. Sedge.

 Shoulders hit shoulders. The Vale players spun off-course, wind flaring as they fought to regain control. Pimri didn't even flinch. He shot through the gap like an arrow in a gale.

 Two more Vale opponents swept forward—but Pimri didn't hesitate. He flicked the Hovergem with perfect timing.

 Kael caught it.

 His body twisted in midair, one boot kicking a spiral in the air, then—

 Threw.

 The Hovergem sliced forward like a comet, curving in an arc past Thorne Revic—

 Straight through the ring.

 "Goal! One point for Windmere!" the announcer boomed.

 The Windmere crowd exploded. The sound of a story shifting.

 As Windmere regrouped, Ardyn heard it—Thorne's voice, sharp and furious, cutting across the arena.

 Ardyn hovered into position, still catching his breath. Beside him, Pimri let out a laugh—breathless, almost disbelieving.

 "Man," he said, flashing a grin. "Didn't expect you'd actually use that move."

 Ardyn gave a half-smile, the wind still curling softly around him.

 With renewed fire and focus, they played not just harder—but smarter.

 Formations tightened. Passes flowed. Every move carried purpose.

 The Hovergem blazed through the ring thrice more in favor of Windmere—once from Sedge, once from Ava. Then a third from Pimri followed in a fast-break dash.

 Windmere surged ahead.

 Four to three.

 Both teams took their positions.

 The Hovergem was placed in Caldrith Vale's hands, clutched tightly by Thorne at center. Around him, Vale's formation coiled like a spring—tight, tense, and agitated. Eyes narrowed. Jaws clenched. Shoulders high with frustration.

 They weren't just ready.

 They were angry.

 Across the field, Windmere spread into a looser formation—alert, but not rigid, their breaths were steady. Their eyes clear.

 Caldrith Vale launched forward like a storm, formation snapping wide as they surged across the field.

 As Doma cut in to intercept, Brant Coil broke formation, dropping low and raising his gauntlets. A rapid barrage of wind pulses burst from his Galegear, spiraling through the air with sharp, concussive blasts.

 Doma raised his gauntlets, elbows tucked tight, shoulders squared mid-air. As the first wave neared, he tilted sideways, deflecting the gust with a sharp cross-block. Another followed—he shifted again, arms catching the brunt and redirecting it outward, wind curling around him in spirals.

 "Stay sharp!" Kael's voice rang out. "Looks like Caldrith Vale is agitated."

 And he was right.

 The arena suddenly felt like a storm cloud had burst—not with rain, but with waves of windfire, each blast aimed with ruthless intent.

 Windmere scattered—dodging, blocking, weaving between the onslaught. Ardyn veered under a pulse, the wind crackling past his cheek. Kael spun through a gap and shouted quick commands, trying to anchor their defense.

 "They're not just pushing forward—" Sedge ducked a blast and nearly flipped midair, recovering fast—they want us down!"

 Kael and Sedge broke formation in bursts, trying to strike back between waves. They darted in low and high, feinting through the barrage with sharp turns and sudden dives, but Caldrith Vale was sharper. More seasoned. Their control of the air was ruthless, honed by countless matches in harsher arenas.

 Every attempt to counter was met with swift disruption—Windmere was holding, but barely.

 "Someone has to intercept!" Pimri shouted, breath ragged as he pivoted through a blast. His eyes tracked the shifting lines—then froze. "Above!"

 It dawned on them all at once—while they had been blocking and weaving, Ren Verras had slipped free, rising through the chaos like a silent arrow. High. Undetected.

 He was already arcing toward the ring.

 Ardyn twisted, scanning too late. Ava shifted her footing and launched upward—but Ren was already there. His form dipped, perfect and clean, and the Hovergem spun from his hand with a sharp flick.

 The ring flared with light.

 "Goal! Four points for Caldrith Vale!"

 The Caldrith Vale crowd went wild—cheering, stomping, waving their banners in a frenzy of celebration. Their voices surged through the arena like a crashing tide.

 "Is that… allowed?" Ardyn asked, breathing hard as Windmere regrouped into position.

 Kael nodded, eyes fixed ahead. "Yes. As long as no one's seriously injured, it's fair play."

 "But someone could be," Ardyn muttered. "If one of us takes a direct hit—"

 "They're taking that risk," Kael cut in, voice even.

 Ardyn opened his mouth to press further, but the signal blared before he could speak.

 Caldrith Vale surged forward again, wind roaring at their heels.

 As they neared the center of the arena, the barrage resumed—rapid-fire gusts and crushing arcs of wind hurled in tight formation. Waves collided like drumbeats, one after another, relentless.

 Kael and Sedge darted in between, striking back where they could, testing weak spots with quick counter blows. Doma stayed steady at the front, arms raised, parrying again and again. The Hovergem moved fast—passed between Pimri and Ardyn in tight rhythm, the Windmere team trying to outmaneuver rather than overpower.

 "I'm almost losing energy!" Sedge barked, pushing back another blast.

 "Me too!" Doma echoed, his posture slightly lower now, one boot faltering in its hover.

 Without a word, Ava flicked her gauntlet toward Sedge. A pulse of soft blue light shot across the space and struck him square in the chestplate—his Galegear blinked once, then steadied. Ava veered off immediately toward Doma, aiming another quick burst of restoration his way.

 "How come they aren't losing energy?!" Sedge called out to Kael as he recovered. "With that barrage, they ought to be drained by now!"

 Kael's eyes narrowed, scanning the field. "Their Aethermender!" he snapped, pointing upward.

 There, hovering near the center of Vale's formation, floated Solmi Dae—Caldrith Vale's support. His presence was calm, controlled, almost unmoving. The Galegear on his chest glowed in steady pulses, each wave rippling outward toward his teammates.

 Every few seconds, a thin arc of energy passed from his core to one of his team. Boots flared brighter. Gauntlets surged stronger. Solmi wasn't attacking—but he was keeping them alive.

 Ardyn closed his eyes.

 He drew a breath in—steady, deliberate—and let it out through his nose.

 When he opened them again, the chaos faded to the edges. Movement blurred. Noise dimmed.

 And there it was.

 A small gust of wind—barely visible—twisting across the air ahead.

 It wasn't part of the match.

 Too subtle. Too sharp.

 It moved like a thread through the sky, darting fast toward a floating hazard: an Aether Storm Pocket.

 Then it vanished.

 The realization hit him in that instant.

 His eyes flicked left—just in time to see the glint of gem.

 Pimri had passed him the Hovergem.

 Ardyn caught it clean and broke into a forward dash, veering toward the drifting Aether Storm Pocket as bursts of wind lashed at him—strikes from Caldrith Vale's players. Each one sliced through the sky with force and precision, meant to knock him off balance or send him spiraling.

 "Two Aether Storm Pockets equals…" he muttered under his breath.

 Spinning mid-drift, he flung it toward a second Pocket floating nearby.

 "Short circuit!" he shouted.

 The two pockets collided midair.

 Then—rupture.

 They exploded in a spiral chaotic light, crackling with wild, uncontrolled Aether. A shockwave blasted outward in all directions. Across the field, every Aerolith pulsed once—then flickered. Galegears sparked, hissed, and disengaged one by one.

 All across the arena, players faltered.

 Some spun, some dropped, others flailed to regain control as their equipment sputtered or went dark. The neat formations crumbled. Balance was lost.

 But not for Ardyn.

 He hovered steady—arms out, chest low, one foot braced behind the other. For some reason, it had worked just as he'd planned: one Aerolith in his Galegear boot was still active. His right boot flared weakly, barely enough to keep him aloft. His left leg leaned against it for support, weight shifted just right. The Hovergem was pressed tight between his knees.

 The crowd erupted—but not all at once.

 From the Caldrith Vale side came confusion, scattered voices rising in disbelief. Some shouted for penalties, others gawked at the flickering field, unsure if the match was still real.

 Windmere's side surged in a wave of stunned cheers and half-held breaths—a roar caught somewhere between panic and amazement.

 The officials didn't call it. The match continued.

 In the upper tier, the Windmere crew was no longer seated. Every one of them was on their feet, leaning forward—not cheering, not shouting, just watching. Eyes wide. Bodies tense. As if any movement might break the fragile moment unfolding below.

 Roe stood with one hand braced on the railing, the other curled into a loose fist at his chest.

 His gaze locked on Ardyn—hovering steady, gliding inch by inch toward the goal.

 "That's right, kid," Roe muttered under his breath. "Lean slightly forward… like what you did in the workshop…"

 A smile tugged at his mouth, equal parts awe and disbelief.

 Ardyn moved slow but deliberate, each breath measured, his body steady in the air.

 His single active Galegear hummed faintly beneath him—barely enough, but just enough.

 From the corners of his vision, he caught flashes of motion—players from both teams flailing midair, still struggling to regain control as their Aeroliths sputtered or sparked. Some spun. Some hovered unevenly. The field was chaos.

 Then—a sound began rising.

 At first a few voices, then more. A chant, ragged and growing.

 "Ardyn! Ardyn! Ardyn!"

 It echoed across Windmere's side of the arena—louder, faster, filled with rising hope.

 He steadied his breath. Then leaned forward.

 And soared.

 With a single Galegear, he pushed forward—one sharp burst of wind carrying him faster. The ring was still far, too far for comfort. But he saw it. And he knew.

 Then, all around him—a pulse.

 He felt it in his bones. The Aeroliths.

 Reactivating.

 A surge of energy rippled across the sky as players began to recover, their Galegear snapping back to life. The threat was back—and closing fast.

 Ardyn adjusted midair, no time left. He locked his eyes on the ring.

 It was now or never.

 He drew in a breath, arced his arm back—

 and threw the Hovergem with everything he had.

 The moment it left his hand, a violent wave of wind slammed into his back.

 The impact tore through him like stone—shock and pain erupting down his spine. His breath left him in a ragged gasp as the world tilted. His vision blurred.

 Then he fell.

 The descent was fast, spinning—wind rushing past his ears—and then the sudden jolt of impact as he crashed into the safety nets far below.

 Pain flared through his back, sharp and searing. He lay there, breath caught, head heavy.

 The crowd roared above—a wave of noise crashing over him.

 His vision flickered—but from the dark bottom of the net, through the blur and haze, he saw the scoreboard blink to life.

 "Goal! Windmere wins!"