Despite the first breaths of the incoming Imperfect Winter were forcing the hundreds of students on the wooden bleachers to wrap themselves in leather clothes, their enthusiasm burned as warmly as the sun of a Romantic Summer as they celebrated the knights upon the emerald grass beneath, warriors who would soon stain crimson the dirt track encircling them.
Like any modern metropolis, Miraval’s City proudly sported its own Circus Maximus on Colosseum Island, but that great structure was reserved exclusively for official matches of the Imperial Miramble League—the ’IML’—leaving students to settle down with an amateur hippodrome on Academy Island, just a few hundred meters beyond the Academy’s walls. Although it lacked a parking lot, a speaker system, and the dozens of food vendors that defined a proper stadium, it at least adhered to the standard 3.7 km circumference of an official oval, but only hastily made markings distinguished the three game areas—cheaply painted stripes of blue, red, and green stretched awkwardly across the grass.
”DRAIG! DRAIG! DRAIG!” EE-Class ’Fisherman’ Llywelyn Ap Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch breathlessly waved a flag three times his size to support the Dragesque students and their coach now parading onto the field.
The Dragon Crushers were clad in dark-green Plated Gear, proudly bearing Draig’s emblem over their hearts—a crimson insignia depicting a sheep’s horned head clashing with a dragon’s. Each player rode a white horse whose overgrown fur resembled wool, and combined with the metal crowns shaped like longhorns that adorned their heads, the beasts reminded everyone of a bygone age when Dragesque Knights were permitted to ride sheep at Miramble. At the front of the cavalcade rode their Quarterback, haughtily holding the team’s banner—BB-Class ’Hot Head’ Hywel Ap Lleanghofiediglbletreulioddrhyfelwrcoolidgeiffydd.
“Guys! Guys! Guys! He waved at me! This is the best day of my life!” Llywelyn rejoiced, furiously increasing the speed of his flag-waving until the large symbol on it blurred into a spinning mass of red.
“Oh, shut up. Whether your team wins or loses, nothing is going to change in your life, so stop wasting your time,” EEE-Class ’Technocrat’ Roir Lothar scolded, irritated by his teammate’s uncontainable enthusiasm.
“You’re right. The only important thing is having fun!” EE-Class ’Refrigerator’ Spurdo Sparde reminded, beaming as he witnessed the joy on the faces of the crowd surrounding him.
“If this makes Llywelyn happy, we should support his team too, shouldn’t we?” EEE-Class ’Cat’ Eudoxia Zenlanya gently smiled, enjoying the event far more than expected—she couldn’t even remember the last time she had hung out with friends.
”DRAIG! DRAIG! DRAIG!” However, the ’Fisherman’ heard none of his friends’ words, too absorbed in his nationalism to care about anyone else’s opinions. His eyes were fixed with awe on the twelve starting players, all wearing the same hornet helmet of their horses, as they paraded beneath the tribunes to salute the future Emperor before taking their positions at the southern one of the Ellipse’s Foci.
Shortly after, knights, clad in rough shards of obsidian embedded into their pitch-black Plated Gear, made their entrance atop their Hell’s Trotters—black horses with manes of will-o’-the-wisp flames, bulging crimson eyes, and, due to a fault in their respiratory systems, each breath forced the creatures to twist their sharp-toothed mouths into sneers, resulting in a sound that reminded all an eerie and mocking giggle—all bearing the Lava-Ambered Nixie Cross upon chest. As they advanced toward the grandstand, they placed skull-like emmet helmets over their heads—ones that resembled more human skulls than metallic-white masks—and upon reaching the tribune, their Quarterback—B-Class ‘Moonless Night’ Basarab Soflare—order each of his Knight to stab their own heart as tradition demanded, then throwing their bloodied knives at the feet of their Scion. Only then did they proceed to their starting position—the north one of the Ellipse’s foci.
”It must be a good feeling, having such loyal subjects, mustn’t it?” Astary chuckled, watching the prince beside her as he calmly gathered the twelve bloodied weapons and wiped the floor with his Leech Cloth.
”It’s an outdated and unhygienic tradition, forcing our players to invest in gear with a mobile plate near the heart that more often than not breaks after just two or three hits. I’ve lost count of how many matches we’ve lost because of that handicap.” Despite the evident irritation in his words, Astary heard only calm whispering, and no cracks were visible on his stern expression. ”By the way, where’s Pingvindræber? I thought you wouldn’t have left him alone,” he asked, not wanting to let the conversation die now that it had finally started. However, Anicet’s enthusiasm was soon crushed as a sudden flash of sheer rage engulfed Astary’s large eyes, petrifying the Scion of the Evernightmare Kingdom more than anything he had ever experienced before.
Why did I say that…it’s too personal…now she’ll think I have a morbid obsession with her
Anicet despaired, but as a true Nixie gentleman, he accepted his fate with quiet dignity.
Nevertheless, it was a short but good dream…
”Absolutely, I would have brought my baby with me today,” Astary yelled, her glow shifting to a fiery red. ”But the Academy forbade it! They dared to claim that my cutie is a threat to the ecosystem and banned Pingvindræber from ever leaving my room—this is animal abuse!” Her light grew so intense that the sleeves of her dolphin-leather jacket caught fire. ”Those damn bastards! Anicet, hear my words—they’re going to regret everything, and no plea will stop my revenge. Can I count on your help?” Anicet’s heart skipped violently, his pulse skyrocketing from one beat per minute to three—he had never witnessed a woman death-threatening someone with such vehemence.
”Okay…” was all the ’Nostalgic Reactionary’ managed to whisper, accompanied by a small nod of approval. Nonetheless, that alone was enough to make the ’Shining Star’ beam with a crystalline light.
”Lady Syrmashy is here!” Despite the vast majority of his body was still broken and anchored to a wheelchair, E-Class ’Recruit’ Armen Kiljin found the strength to wave at the highness of his fiefdom, the Quarterback of Armedia’s Dreamcatchers—DDD-Class ‘Lost Translation’ Azhura Syrmashy, Lady of Erazavan, de jure Scion to the title of Queen-of-Queens of Outerdune, and bearer of the title of Shushan—the most beautiful flower of the Oasis.
That title wasn’t granted by a beauty contest, but traditionally reserved for the oldest unmarried female member of the Syrmashy family. Nevertheless, that distinction would’ve been hard to explain to the countless male gazes now submerging Azhura from every corner of the stadium. Her bronze hair flowed like silk in the wind, her lips as plump and curved as the arches of a colosseum, and her ruby eyes shimmered with the same enigmatic allure as a sentence written in a lost language—New Oasis had long been known as the City of Fables, and that princess was the living proof.
“Pfft! What’s so exciting about her? She looks weak. I bet I can ruin that pretty face with one finger,” scoffed SS-Class ’Fullmetal Maiden’ Bradamanthe Rolandsson despite being in a wheelchair, visibly disgusted by the amount of attention on such a petite figure.
“How many times have I told you not to move? You still haven’t recovered,” Chad scolded his twin sister. “Yesterday, Lady Syrmashy made a surprise visit to the hospital, and after an outstanding speech, she announced Armen’s investiture as New World’s Knight, gifting him a set of armor, a lance, and a Pegasus. As you can see…” He gestured toward Armen, pointing at the awe in his eyes as he admired his highness. “…he’s still pretty excited about it.”
”You’re lying! LYING! The little boy promised to be my Knight, not hers!” Bradamanthe shrieked, thrusting her arm backward in an attempt to grab her brother by the neck, but the prince had good reflexes.
”You didn’t know because you were the last to wake up. Now that I think about it, that’s also why I’m your big bro,” Chad taunted, smirking at her raging expression. This time, the ’Fulllmetal Maiden’ tried to punch him, but she stopped mid-swing as a sharp pain paralyzed her back. ”Oh…interesting.” Realizing how vulnerable she really was, her brother began tickling her, relentlessly, and the more she screamed for revenge, the more he laughed, savoring every helpless expression that formed on her face.
“YOU ARE DEAD!” However, the Imperial Princess had had enough. Ignoring the pain, she launched herself at him, wrapping her muscular arms around his neck in a crushing chokehold. Chad writhed and gasped as his sister clung to him like a vengeful necklace, until he stumbled to the edge of the bleachers and toppled off, plummeting hundreds of meters and crushing face-first on the ground. Down there, the battle raged on as Bradamanthe refused to release her crushing embrace.
“It seems your boyfriend will lose the succession war,” the Nixie Prince pointed out to the Starfolk lady, who facepalm out of shame.
The brotherly moment stole the general attention, but only for a few moments. As soon as the twelve Armed Knights, clad in red Plated Gear adorned with golden forget-me-nots, rode their Unicorns toward the starting line, the audience held its breath as the show was about to begin.
”Welcome, freshmen, to this friendly match between Nixieland, Draig, and Armedia, organized in your honor!” S-Class ’Everlasting Spring’ Aoife Sinclair shouted through a megaphone, her booming voice reaching every excited soul seated throughout the stadium. ”If you’re a Class C or a Class B too broke to own a griffin, and you like what you’re about to see, we strongly encourage you to audition for your national team and become a Scramble Knight, just like the warriors beside me!” The red-haired professor wore thigh-length leather garments, oversized aviator sunglasses, and a thick cigar amid her cherry lips. Then, theatrically, she spat the cigar onto the ground and crushed it beneath the heel of her leather boots.
Oh, Please, for the love of Adam—stop wishing to be that cigar!
Himself begged Derserk, who immediately denied everything and blasted the loudest music he knew inside his head to drown out his bodymate’s voice.
”Why is she cosplaying Coach Thompson?” AAA-Class ’Raging Hornet’ Esteban Diaz asked, perplexed by the sudden change in Aoife’s style.
”You probably don’t know, but before becoming a Class S, Aoife and Eliza were mortal rivals, both Quarterbacks of their respective teams.” S-class ’Fortunate Son’ Xoán Al Córdoba got caught by a severe case of nostalgia. ”The feats they accomplished during their final of the Miraval Bowl still echo today.” Unlike the ’Raging Hornet,’ the ’Fortunate Son’ had never missed a single match of Miss Sinclair. ”By doing this, she’s giving the freshmen a foretaste of their future Formation Fight professor.”
”Typical of her. If she refuses to grow up—it’s not my problem.” Esteban shrugged as flashbacks of their countless past debacles played across his mind, and in every single one of them, the ’Raging Hornet’ had objectively been in the right. ”Oh, wait.” Suddenly, he remembered he had a job to do. ”Where are Connor, Katrina, and Jacques?” Class F students weren’t allowed on the bleachers. Instead, they were confined to small benches next to them, including their professor.
”Connor would never join any social event, Katrina’s up in the grandstand having her fun with the rest of the elites, and no idea about Jacques—nobody’s seen him since his brain surgery,” reported F-Class ’Tin Blade’ Sahel Ibn-Al-Shin.
He’s not worth my time. If anything happens to him—good—I’m gonna blame Gus.
Esteban smirked to himself before his attention, along with that of the entire stadium, was captured by Aoife’s skillful juggling, who bounced the ball blindly with her baton as her sapphire eyes fixed on the wristwatch.
”Quarterbacks! Are you ready?” The three team captains raised their Mirâtons, prompting Miss Sinclair to launch the ball high into the air and strike it with her own truncheon. The now-curved object shot through the air at incredible speed, nearly impossible to follow with the naked eye, until it was intercepted moments later by Azhura’s bat, magnetically locking onto it. ”From now, you have one minute of Calibration,” announced the red-haired referee to the Dreamcatchers.
Without wasting time, the eleven Armed Knights encircled their Quarterback, who quickly passed the ball to her Deputy, who immediately returned it with a fast strike. Azhura then passed it to the Knight next to him, who threw it back at her, and so on for each member of the team. Any new pass became faster and more precise, until their movements and thoughts synchronized to perfection.
”What…now?” F-Class ’Copper Blade’ Oshira Ibn-Al-Shin asked, confused by how seriously the Chaotians were treating what she assumed was just a game.
”That is a crucial warm-up,” Mr. Diaz explained. ”Letting the ball fall without interference from other teams results in an Incompetence Foul—which means a one-point penalty.”
”Another rule is that passes are only allowed from the Quarterback to another player, while player-to-player passes are strictly forbidden and also count as an Incompetence Foul.” Xoán added. ”That’s why the Quarterback is the heart of the formation—the hero who’ll lead their team to glory or the one who’ll take all the blame for its failure.”
Once the time ran out, Miss Sinclair extracted her Tigress, shooting a white bolt in the sky, and after a powerful explosion, thousands of birds appeared in the sky, spreading through the bleachers as the Dreamcatchers rode towards their glory.
”What…now?” Oshira asked, confused by the sudden clustering of horses at the edge of such a massive field.
”Shira, do you see those lines drawn across the field?” Asked FF-Class ’Ego Witch’ Carmen Asturias the bronze-skinned girl nodded, who nodded her answer. ”The field, which is named Ellipse, is divided into three oval zones. The innermost part is called the Arena, the outermost is the Circuit, and the middle zone is the Strip. The team currently moving is called the Chargers, and their objective is to complete a full lap of the Circuit without losing the ball. If they succeed, they win the round and earn one point.” She gestured toward the center of the field where the other teams waited. ”The two teams positioned inside the Arena are the Pursuers, and their job is to intercept the Charger and steal the ball. If one of them succeeds, they become the new Charger.”
On the field, the Chargers had just completed the first straightaway, but as their formation began to thin in preparation for the first curve, Hywel gave the signal and his Dragon Crushers regrouped into an edge formation, charging straight at the Dreamcatchers—the Armed Knights at the center of their formation flinched at the sight of the gigantic arrow coming at them. However, just seconds before impact, all the Pursuers swerved with superhuman precision, narrowly avoiding collision, and now, the two teams were racing side by side through the Ellipse’s Northern Crown.
”You’re forgetting the most important thing—the formation,” Mr. Diaz added, his tone full of emphasis. ”Miramble can be summed up in one sentence—the formation shall not be broken. Every Knight on a team must be part of the same organism—eleven organs of a single, inseparable body, with the Quarterback as its mouth, heart, and brain.”
From above, the two teams resembled clashing half-moons with the green one pressing against the red, trying to push it beyond the boundaries of the Ellipse. In the chaotic brawl that followed, the Draigesque horses fenced with the Unicorns, both using their horns, while their riders swung their Mirâtons at enemies beside them, each side struggling for dominance in the power struggle.
Riding a horse in formation, avoiding collisions with teammates, and navigating through dust clouds that obscured the view from all sides, all while defending yourself from the enemy’s blows, clearly required an immense amount of discipline and training. Nevertheless, the glory of your triumph justified it all—one of the few paths through which a plebeian’s life could eclipse that of a noble’s.
”I was getting to that!” Carmen snapped at his professor. ”If the Pursuers break their formation, they’re forced to return to the Arena to regroup, but the Charger, on the other hand, is allowed to split into two groups. In that case, the Deputy becomes the Sub-Quarterback of the sub-team. Nevertheless, any further divisions are punished as an Incompetence Foul.” She paused so Sahel could keep up with the translation. ”In the end, choosing the right formation is 90% of the game—as fluid as water, able to adapt to any possible scenario—Miraval Scramble juxtaposes the chaotic violence of brute force with the cold logic of tactics." Growing up surrounded by dozens of brothers had allowed the Suzerain lady to passively absorb far too much knowledge about the so-called most popular sport in the world.
The Draigesque Knights were renowned for fighting with beast-like fury, reflecting their deep-seated desire to be acknowledged by an Empire that had always snubbed them. But this time, they faced a talented opponent who knew that the best way to deal with a wild beast was to test its patience. Lady Syrmashy ordered rapid positional swaps, constantly shifting her Knights’ positions to disrupt the enemy’s rhythm, and every time the Draigesque regained momentum, another change shattered it, dulling any hope of a breakthrough.
Frustrated, Hywel changed tactics, ordering his Knights to rush forward in a full-charge assault. A move that, strangely, Azhura didn’t challenge. Instead, she adopted an unorthodox strategy—once the enemy’s entire formation was ahead of them, she signaled her Deputy to split the formation, forming a piercing arrowhead sub-formation that shot straight into the rear of the Dragon Crushers.
That’s a bait and low-quality one, too.
The Draigesque Quarterback thought, clouded by way too many doubts. Still, he took it, letting the arrow pass before trapping the six Armed Knights in his own formation, where they were immediately hammered from all sides by a relentless storm of blows from their Mirâtons.
“It doesn’t look it, does it?” Growing up on a farm, F-Class ’Scarecrow’ Casimir Piekazt had rarely witnessed such grand spectacles and knew little of the refined strategies involved in this sport.
“And it’s about to look even worse.” Mr. Diaz pointed toward the twelve Nixie Knights, who were finally on the move, aiming at the second group of Armed Knights—the encirclement was complete.
Derserk, move your ass and bet all your money on the demon girl!
Himself urged his bodymate. “Mr. Diaz, if you’re so sure, how about a little bet? A hundred Marini that Lady Syrmashy wins this round.” The professor unhesitatingly shook his hand, wearing an expression that blended mockery at the ’Gravedigger’s’ foolishness with the foretaste of a sweet reward.
”Ruben, take it!” In an unexpected twist, Azhura passed the ball forward to her Deputy, who was trapped inside the enemy formation. Then, seizing the moment of confusion among the Dragon Crushers, she ordered her formation to charge forward, easily overwhelming the three Draigesque Knights guarding the rear—the Dreamcatchers were reunited. ”Ruben, pass it!” she shouted, loudly enough to ensure everyone heard. The Deputy obeyed, but instead of intercepting the pass, Lady Syrmashy swung her Mirâton and smashed the ball mid-air. ”Ruben, get down!” The Deputy instinctively let himself drop halfway off his horse, narrowly avoiding the incoming projectile, which soared past him and crashed into the only thing left in its path—the large head of the ’Hot Head.’
*CLAAANG!*
The impact stunned him while the ball bounced back to Azhura’s bat, completing the pass.
”NOOO! YOU CAN’T BREAK THE FORMATION! STOP! STOP! STOP!” The ’Fisherman’ screamed in terror as he watched his Quarterback ride aimlessly in dizzy circles. The formation crumbled as his confused teammates scattered, trying to follow his irregular trail. Sadly, it was too late, and when the horn of Ashura’s unicorn struck the butt of Hywel’s horse, the enraged animal uneated its Knight, officially breaking the formation. ”NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! WHY?! WHY?! WHY?!” Llywelyn cried out in anguish, tears streaming down his face as he grabbed the Roir by the collar of his office shirt.
”L-Leave…m-me…a-alone!” The ’Technocrat’ pleaded in vain because Llywelyn’s heart was too broken to listen, and, consumed by sorrow, he materialized his [WIRE], using it to asphyxiate his teammate—by far, the LEAST emotional person in Draig.
According to the rules, once a formation is broken, its players are prohibited from interfering in any way. Thus, with no obstacles left in her path, Lady Syrmashy rushed toward the finish line, and despite the best efforts of the Impalers behind her, she effortlessly secured the first round. Armen wept tears of joy, while Mr. Diaz ones of despair over the money he had just lost. Nevertheless, this was only the beginning.
In an official Miramble match, there are three sets of twelve rounds each—plus a supplementary round in case of a draw. However, since this was a friendly match, the teams had agreed on only one set. That meant there were still eleven rounds to go.
