Only the red glow of the holographic scoreboard lit the faces of six people sitting around a circular table.
Each face carried weight, the kind of presence that whispered of power, influence, and danger.
On the hologram, the final score flickered:
GODS — 92 | RAPTORS — 50
And beside it, another tab blinked softly:
VORPAL BASKET – STANDBY
Jerry adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses, his grin slicing through the dimness like a knife.
"As expected... the Gods still win."
His voice was smooth, sharp, too pleased with the outcome.
Beside him, Ron, dressed in a gray blazer, crossed his arms. Calm, dangerous, unreadable.
"Efficiency. No wasted motion. They didn’t even need to use full capability."
He spoke like a man describing a well-built weapon not a team.
Drew, with his maroon suit and unsteady smirk, slammed his fist lightly on the table.
"Hah! Still boring! I wanted blood! I wanted a fight not another divine sermon!"
His laughter cracked the silence, jagged and hollow.
The voice that silenced them was that of Madame Vena — her tone was sharp, authoritative, carrying the weight of control.
Her dark red lipstick barely moved as she spoke.
"Your chaos amuses no one, Drew. The match gave us exactly what we needed: confirmation. The hierarchy remains intact. For now."
She turned to the hologram and flicked her fingers.
A second image appeared — the faces of Ethan Albarado and his teammates from Vorpal Basket.
The light reflected in her cold eyes.
"But the Vorpal Basket... that unknown variable is still there."
Her voice dropped a degree colder.
The bald old man, their leader had remained silent all this time.
His face was unreadable, carved from stone and time itself.
Finally, he leaned forward, the weight of authority pressing down like gravity itself.
"We can’t interfere directly," he said, his voice low and steady. "Not after what happened with Pastor Delrio."
At the mention of that name, the room froze.
Even Jerry stopped smiling.
Madame Vena’s gaze darkened. Drew slouched in his chair, half-drunk, half-insane let out a low whistle.
Ron adjusted his gray blazer, watching the reflection of the bald man in the polished marble.
The old man’s eyes shifted toward Cloud.
"Because of a certain someone." he said quietly.
Cloud’s head turned, slowly. His blue eyes glowed faintly like lightning behind ice.
"I told you,", he said, voice flat but deadly. "You can touch anyone. You can move your pawns however you like."
Then his tone changed softer, darker.
"But not my Ethan." The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the NovєlFіre.net
The way he said my sent a chill down the spine of even Madame Vena.
Jerry scoffed, tapping his glasses back into place. "Your Ethan?" he said mockingly. "Don’t tell me you’re still holding on to that—"
He didn’t finish the sentence.
A thin fracture ran from Cloud’s fingertips to the center of the marble, the runes flickering violently before dimming. The energy in the room shifted thick, electric, suffocating.
Cloud’s gaze didn’t rise, but his voice was calm, cold, and trembling with control.
"You touch him again," he said, "and I’ll erase you before you even realize you’ve died."
Jerry’s grin faltered. His hands dropped from the table, trembling slightly.
The bald old man’s voice broke through the tension.
The energy vanished instantly, sucked away by the authority in his tone.
"Cloud," the old man said, "your sentiment clouds your judgment. We act with purpose — not emotion. Pastor Delrio’s death caused unnecessary attention. We cannot afford that again."
Cloud looked up slowly.
His expression was unreadable.
"I didn’t kill him," he said. "I warned him."
Ron, calm and unbothered, finally spoke up for the first time.
"Warned him?" His voice was quiet, almost serene. "His church burned to the ground. His body was found in the ruins. That’s a peculiar way to warn someone."
Cloud turned his gaze to Ron — slow, deliberate.
"And yet you’re still talking," he said softly. "Be grateful I don’t warn you next."
Madame Vena sighed, pressing her temples.
"This is getting us nowhere. The boy’s team — Vorpal Basket — has become a media storm. If we can’t touch them directly, we should at least understand what fuels them."
The old man nodded slightly. "Agreed. But we’ll proceed carefully. Observation only."
He looked at each member in turn, Ron, Drew, Vena, Jerry, and finally Cloud.
Then his tone sharpened.
"But remember this, if that boy stands in our way, I will remove him myself."
Cloud’s chair scraped back slightly, the sound sharp against the marble floor.
He stood, casting a long shadow over the glowing table.
"Try it," he said simply.
The bald old man didn’t respond, he only stared at Cloud, unreadable as always. But the room seemed to hold its breath.
Drew, unable to resist chaos, finally laughed breaking the tension with a grin that was all teeth.
"Man, I missed these meetings," he said, leaning back. "You know what’s fun? Watching gods like Humans fight Ordinary humans... but watching family fight over them? That’s something else."
Cloud’s gaze flicked toward him.
"You won’t find it fun when you’re on the wrong side."
"Wrong side?" Drew grinned wider. "There isn’t a side, Cloud. There’s only survival."
The old man rose, signaling the end of the meeting.
"Enough," he said again. "Return to your duties. Watch. Wait."
He turned his back, his voice dropping low.
"The balance between Geniuses and Prodigy is breaking again. And this time... the world won’t survive a second rebellion."
One by one, the council members faded into darkness, their forms dissolving into smoke, whispers, and echo.
Only Cloud remained, staring at the image hovering above the table a still frame of Ethan Albarado walking toward the locker room after the loss.
He reached out, brushing the hologram with his fingers.
"Ethan," he murmured, voice almost tender. "You don’t even remember who you are, do you?"
A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips.
He closed his hand, and the image shattered into golden fragments.
The chamber went dark except for the faint echo of his final words.
"This time... I’ll protect you. No matter what it costs."