Chapter 116 - MORNING AFTER THE FINAL MATCH (Filler Story)

📍VATICAN GRAND STADIUM — MORNING AFTER THE FINAL MATCH

Time: 08:01 AM | Weather: Overcast with thin sunlight piercing through the glass dome

The skies had cleared, but the memory of last night's storm still lingered. The rain-slicked battlefield was gone — replaced by a spotless marble arena lit by golden lights and adorned with banners bearing the crests of the participating factions. Rows of seats filled steadily as morning crowds surged in, buzzing with anticipation.

Nine participants seated upon designated metallic chairs with armrests adorned in their zone's emblem.

"There they are!"

"The final nine!"

"Wait—look—it's Glacireine's tamer! That's the boy in the blindfold! That's CODE NAME: BLACK FEATHER!"

The crowd roared with recognition as flashes from personal Codex-cameras and photopads lit up. Cheers mixed with whispers. Spectators had arrived as early as dawn to witness this moment: the return of the competitors — warriors, allies, betrayers.

🔘 Stadium Seating for Participants

First Ring (Outer Zone Elimination) — Rows of chairs arranged in a semicircle, marked in white. Dozens of students seated quietly, some chatting with relief, others reflecting.

Second Ring (Mid-Zone Eliminated) — Smaller group. Fewer seats. Yellow-marked.

Third Ring (Final Phase Eliminated) — Only four chairs. Closer to the center. Red-marked.

Final Circle (Top 9 Survivors) — A crescent of nine seats, surrounded by glimmering light pillars. No fencing. Just silence and breath.

Each chair was slightly elevated, giving the crowd a clear view.

And seated slightly apart, in the farthest corner, was Jimmy.

He simply chose that edge.

His black coat still damp at the ends. Luna, in his mind's garden resting there. Jimmy's face, unreadable behind the blindfold, tilted ever so slightly toward the center where the prize podium now shimmered with faint holographic symbols.

🎙️ Vatican Arena Broadcaster | Live Commentary Feed

🎤 "Ladies and gentlemen, citizens of Kirim and beyond, and those watching from every part of the Concord Region… Good Morning from the Vatican Grand Arena!"

"I am your host, Vex Andolin, and what an arc this has been. From elemental storms to alliance collapses, we've arrived at the final nine!"

The crowd cheered again.

"You've seen them battle Whisps with everything from shadow-dust to electric hurricanes. You've seen betrayals. Sacrifice. Even storm dances."

"And now, as the sun rises above the cathedral towers—these warriors sit before you. Some tired. Some triumphant. Some changed forever."

A pause.

"In exactly 15 minutes, the prize ceremony will begin. Until then, coordinators from each zone are attending to our finalists for any last-minute assistance—refreshments, healing sprays, or communication links to families."

.....................................

Uniformed coordinators—each dressed in sleek silver-blue cloaks—hurried across the marble floor. Some offered towels, hydration vials, or Codex stabilizers. Others whispered updates to certain finalists. A few participants nodded; some ignored. Eola sat three chairs away from Jimmy, arms crossed, unreadable.

A gentle breeze drifted through the opened skylight above as a massive glass sun-dial projection turned faintly, signalling the passage of time.

A red-haired girl among the crowd snapped a quick photo of Jimmy — her lens lingering too long. She whispered something into her earpiece.

..........................

Among the seats:

Coaches — Quiet, analysing, murmuring into tablets.

Parents — Some nervous, others proud, reaching over the glass dividers to wave.

Scouts from Guilds and Factions — seated in roped-off VIP decks, holding clipboards or data screens.

Syndicate Representatives — less welcome, but present nonetheless.

Security drones hovered above like silent sentinels.

A young child pressed their palms to the glass:

"That's the boy who made lightning fall without speaking…"

His mother hushed him:

"Don't point."

......................................

Stadium Floor — Finalists' Zone | 08:07 AM

A soft breeze moved through the grand arena's open ceiling, stirring Jimmy's coat just slightly — the black folds resting like a shadow around his feet. He sat at the far end of the crescent row, his chair just inches from the white line that marked the limit between arena floor and the VIP path.

His hands were clasped together. His head lowered.

Then, from the other end of the corridor, a slow, deliberate tap-tap-tap of shoes.

"There he is," came a familiar, gravelly voice.

Jimmy didn't look up.

Uncle Goat — his wrinkled coat hanging looser than usual, stepped forward. There was no typical grin. No exaggerated joke.

Just quiet steps and a sigh.

He came to Jimmy's side and placed a weathered hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You're still standing," Goat said quietly, almost proud. "Even if you're sitting right now."

Still no answer.

Then came another figure — younger, in a pale indigo coat embroidered with silver feathers.

His class teacher.

He stood quietly for a moment behind him, unsure how to begin.

Then finally, with barely concealed emotion:

"Don't worry. It's okay. All of it."

"You did what you had to."

He didn't touch his shoulder like Goat. He didn't crouch down. He just… stood beside him. 

Two students came with him. Fellow students. Perhaps once rivals. Maybe even silent doubters.

But now, seeing him—blinded, silent, and strangely alone despite his ranking—they could say nothing but:

"You were… incredible, you know?"

"We saw it. What you did."

Jimmy didn't move. He stared downward at the polished floor, where faint reflections shimmered of Goat's brown boots, of the rising prize podium.

He simple signed "is peeko is okay?" Mr goat nods in yes and said "he is in room."

......................................

Two young reporters had been the first to spot him — their badges fluttering from their collars, hands gripping voice-capture tablets.

They approached, hesitantly, pausing a few feet from Jimmy's zone.

One raised her camera.

And then, slowly lowered it.

"He's not .......," she murmured.

The other nodded, and they turned away.

As if some unspoken rule had passed between them.

But that was only the beginning.

Within minutes, dozens of other journalists and media crews surged into the arena — long lenses, auto-microphones, broadcaster holograms following them like shadows.

Yet none approached Jimmy.

Instead, they gravitated to the shining faces of the other finalists:

A confident boy with a fire-themed Whisp, giving victory signs.

A girl wrapped in the flag of her faction, holding hands with her Whisp, smiling.

One duo posed mid-action, mimicking a combo they used in the match.

Still Jimmy sat alone.

Some feared him. His blindfold. The quiet power. Some hated him. For being 'strange.' For making their favourite lose. Some pitied him. 

And some… just didn't know how to handle him.

/// To be Continued...\\\