A chime reverberated through the Golden Room’s purple-lit area as the machine before Ives and her masked opponent came to life.

The station host—dressed in a crisp tailcoat, silver bob gleaming under the low lights—offered a polite bow.

“Welcome to Archivist’s Answers!”

In direct response, an upbeat tune rang out, notes that livened the otherwise hushed atmosphere of the purple zone. Players at nearby consoles lifted curious glances, though most quickly returned to their own matches.

“You will be quizzed on your knowledge of the Eastern Continent, including the three main kingdoms: Zacriya, Adalan, and Wendimore,” the host said. “The content is taken from textbook materials used between preschool and third-year primary education. However, the machine may also throw in ‘fun facts’ requiring logical reasoning.

“The first to reach five points wins.”

Ives felt her brows pinch together.

If she recalled correctly, this trivia game had come into popularity after the Creatos War, when the kingdoms had finally regained peace. They’d designed it to honor the famed Archivist, who placed great importance on education. As a result, it’s questions were drawn from official academy textbooks and supplemental course material from the kingdoms’ Resource Faction.

Many academy students considered it a “mind exercise,” a routine mental practice.

A game like this was fitting to appear here due to its familiarity—yet Ives wasn’t a part of its audience.

After all, she’d never gotten the chance to go to school.

Still, the seven-year-old squared her shoulders, preparing for the first question. On the opposite end of the machine’s console, her masked opponent—”Miss Rabbit,” as the host had called her—sat quietly, exuding a peculiar calmness.

The host paused long enough for the contestants to settle, then flashed the first question on the screen.

QUESTION:

What kingdom is known for traditionally hosting the most wide-scaled Wulin Tournament?

Ives didn’t hesitate. She pressed the response button and recorded her answer, remembering that famed martial arts competitions had begun there.

“Adalan.”

The next moment, she heard Celio—watching behind her—inhale sharply, which made her heart catch.

The machine promptly flashed red, accompanied by a flat mechanical sound indicating an incorrect response.

“Unfortunately, your answer is incorrect,” the host said, voice tinged with a somewhat regretful tone. “The correct answer is Zacriya.”

“While Adalan was where the Wulin Tournament originally began,” Celio explained quietly. “The kingdom famous for taking it to wider heights and fusing multiple cultural influences was Zacriya, who took pride in its cultural diversity and fusion.”

“...I see.” Ives turned back to the screen.

A second beep indicated the opponent’s attempt—also incorrect. Apparently, “Miss Rabbit” had answered something else entirely. Ives blinked. If her own knowledge was patchy, at least the other side wasn’t any better.

She glanced at the scoreboard:

> 0 : 0

The next few rounds played out like a comedy of errors.

One question asked which year of the academy’s curriculum students learn the history of the Creatos Era. Ives guessed the second year, and Miss Rabbit guessed first. Both were incorrect—it was the third year.

Another demanded the name of the person who perfected the current recipe for Limberry smoothies. Ives took a wild guess, putting in some random figure, “Chef Maltis,” and remembering some stray rumor. Again, both gave wrong answers.

“The correct answer is The Archivist,” Celio said behind her with a sigh. “Well, more precisely, it was he who provided the recipe to Toren Zacriya, The Giver, after discovering limberries as an exclusive fruit of the Zacriya Kingdom.”

“Why does this guy have a part in everything?” Ives groaned.

It was mortifying. Ives hadn’t had formal schooling, so she was leaning on half-remembered stories told around campfires and bits of rumor people around her had offhandedly shared. Miss Rabbit—whoever she was—was clearly in no better shape.

The scoreboard remained locked at 0 : 0.

Finally, a question scrolled across the screen that made Ives’s eyes light up:

QUESTION:

What plant—commonly found on the Nolmes Forest’s outskirts—can soothe mild nausea if applied correctly?

She delivered her response with confidence:

“Snow gorse.”

For the first time since the game started, a chime of approval played, turning her corner of the scoreboard green. Across the screen, Miss Rabbit also received a correct chime.

Ives blinked twice, impressed. She cast a sideward glance at the scoreboard:

> 1 : 1

A reflection from the console revealed only the silhouette of her masked adversary, but Ives imagined a look of surprised curiosity mirroring her own.

Just who was this “Miss Rabbit”?

Snow gorses were considered herbs of quite a rarity, even among the Nolmerians. Ives had known that herb from scavenging in Nolmes, once using it to settle her stomach after an exhausting night. It was a bit of knowledge she never gleaned from any official classroom.

Something in Ives’s chest uncoiled, relief mingling with a hint of curiosity. The two sat across from each other, separated by the console, and for a moment, she wished she could see her opponent’s eyes. Whoever Miss Rabbit was, she shared more similarities with Ives than expected.

She frowned, unsure if this “survival knowledge” was something worth bonding over.

The next question popped onto the screen, and the game continued. Ives forced herself to focus, determined to avoid further embarrassment.

She wanted to win, but so, apparently, did her opponent. The hush of the Golden Room in this corner felt charged, as though her next slip-up might cost her more than just a point.

Somewhere behind her, Celio hovered, quietly rooting for her while also looking occasionally baffled. During the question-posing period, a barrier would appear between the player and the spectator, so he had no way of helping her out.

All he could do was root for the seven-year-old quietly, though his brow remained furrowed at each new question and each surprising wrong answer that followed.

“How could she be so knowledgeable about an herb question yet fail a standard timeline question?” He mumbled, then steered his gaze to the other end of the machine. “And how is her opponent the same?”

The host, undeterred, announced the next prompt in a crisp, cheerful tone. Ives braced herself, aware that the scoreboard was now one-to-one, and determined not to let the bizarre nature of this trivia test get the better of her. She hunched forward slightly, eyes trained on the screen.

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QUESTION:

What mythical creature is rumored to guard the Crystallised Chasm in the Wendimore Kingdom?

Ives felt a sudden wave of excitement; she knew this one well. She reached out and smashed the response button.

“The Elder Dragon.”

A chime of confirmation rang at precisely the same instant the console registered her opponent’s response. Both had answered correctly.

The scoreboard blinked to reflect the new score:

> 2 : 2

It seemed they were neck and neck whenever obscure lore or practical knowledge from rough living came into play. Whenever it veered into more formal territory, they stumbled together. Ives found her curiosity growing, wondering who exactly was hiding behind that rabbit mask, such that they shared such a parallel patchwork of information.

Rounds passed in a blur of near hits and near misses until, suddenly, the host announced that they were at match point. The scoreboard showed four to four; one final question would decide the victor. Ives adjusted her posture on the stool, the edges of the console bright in her vision, while Celio stood behind her, unable to mask his nerves.

QUESTION:

Which of The Archivist’s famously designed military strategies was carried out by The Roamer and The Giver to ambush the enemy’s supply convoys along the Midpont Ocean during the Creatos War?

The words glowed sharply across the screen, and Ives felt her breath catch. That question went beyond the typical elementary curriculum. It might appear in advanced history texts—or, in her case, a private conversation she once overheard.

She hesitated, hand hovering over the response button.

On the other side, the rabbit-masked figure was equally still, as though unsure of the answer or hoping to guess at the last moment.

The gentle hum of the machine seemed louder now, and time felt strangely distorted. She could sense Celio tense up behind her, though she could not see his face. Her thoughts spun in a momentary haze.

Perhaps it was the pressure; maybe it was the drive to win. But in a haze, Ives managed to recall a particular memory from the past two months.

It was during the morning after the full moon when Edris and Ace had helped her control her black mana.

On their way back, they’d stopped by a small pond for a break. She remembered standing on a wooden log, the breeze brushing strands of hair across her cheeks. Ace had been flipping through a battered old book he’d taken from the Nolmes Grand Library, the faint smell of earth and aged parchment in the air.

She recalled how Edris leaned against a post, arms crossed lightly, the crisp sunrise making the edges of his dark hair glow.

The two older men had been discussing it in a low murmur, pointing at diagrams of ships encircling a convoy line out on open water.

“They called this the Brilliance of Pholle and Zacriya,” Ace said. “The Roamer—Zed Pholle—and The Giver—Toren Zacriya—led an ambush on enemy supply convoys along the Midpont Ocean, orchestrating it with The Archivist’s plan.”

Edris leaned against a tree, speaking in that distinctly measured way he always did. “A masterful approach at the time, sure. But I find it… rather pathetic.”

Ives turned from the waters to study Edris’s expression. “But isn’t this book all about how great it was?”

Ace answered first, gaze skimming the text. “They sacrificed a ridiculous number of foot soldiers just to secure a handful of resources. Ambushing supply convoys on open water wasn’t easy; they lost more ships than needed. The strategy was effective, but it came at too high a cost.”

Edris nodded, hooking one thumb into his belt. “Efficiency and optimization, that’s where they failed. Having a brilliant concept is only half of it. If your narrow vision keeps you from adjusting to real-time conditions or human unpredictability, you end up throwing lives away.”

Ives’s gaze flicked from Ace to Edris. “What would you have done, then?”

At that time, Edris had hesitated. He then offered a rueful smile. A patch of cloud weaved over, momentarily blocking the sun rays flickering on the lakewater.

“I’d exploit two things,” he said, “the vastness of water and the human tendency to seek securement. Any good ambush would revolve around tipping your opponent’s confidence into fear.”

He gestured across the harbor, as though mapping out precise maneuvers on the water’s surface.

“First, I’d post decoys—small boats with minimal crew—far ahead of the real attack fleet, enough to catch the enemy’s eye. A sloppy blockade, I suppose, that’s what they’ll appear to be. Meanwhile, the true force circles behind, hugging the coastline under cover of night, or hidden by sea fog if luck favors us.”

He paused, the corners of his mouth tightening into a slight grin.

“By the time the enemy realizes what’s happening, their formation is stretched thin, half their resources committed to the wrong fight.”

Ace, who had been listening with folded arms, raised an eyebrow. “And if they catch on halfway?”

Edris’s smile curved a degree sharper.

“Then you orchestrate another misdirection. Maybe torch a hapless decoy vessel, let them think they’ve won the engagement, They’ll celebrate, or rush forward to eliminate the rest. In that confusion, the real ambushers slip behind the convoy line, sever escape routes.”

He let the wind blow a few strands of hair across his eyes before continuing.

“If we needed a show of force, we’d strike at the heart of the convey line—take out the largest vessel first, the one that ensures supply distribution. Let them see it sink. Morale breaks faster than hulls.”

Ives’s lips parted in surprise at the calm ruthlessness behind his words. “But… isn’t that risking a lot of lives?”

Edris nodded. “Surely, but not ours, if done precisely. We’d strike where it counts, fast and hard, rather than spreading out resources in multiple skirmishes. You aim for the lead ship—cut off the head, the rest soon follow.”

Ace closed the book, his gaze sweeping over the man. “You’d have to gamble on controlling panic before it spreads back to your own lines.”

“Certainly. But if you’re willing to take that gamble, you minimize your casualties. Their side, on the other hand…” He let the sentence hang.

A cool wind swept across the dock. Ives wrapped her arms around herself, staring at Edris.

“War is never clean,” he said. “But if you’re going to do something, do it right. The Archivist’s plan was brilliant for the era, but ironically short-sighted. Strategy should be about saving your people—and achieving the objective—by any means that minimize your losses.”

Ives tried to process all of this, her thoughts swirling. “So, you think they… failed to see the bigger picture?”

Edris’s tone softened when he glanced at her. “A ‘perfect plan’ does not equate practicality. Theirs was overshadowed by real-time adjustments. And paying in dozens of lives for a trick that only yielded a few battered supply ships?”

He let out a half-hearted chuckle.

“That’s not brilliance—just desperation.”

Ives had let his words swirl in her mind, feeling their weight linger even as they parted ways that morning.

And in the present moment, those very words returned to her with startling clarity.

Ives could hear the quiet reverberation of his words, how they rolled across the water in the thickening sunlight. In the midst of that memory, the name of the plan had flashed briefly on the page, printed in faint letters: Midpont Convergence Maneuver.

She snapped back to the present, heart pounding.

She wondered if Miss Rabbit knew or even guessed the answer. Beyond the console, the rabbit-masked figure was still as stone, betraying no clear reaction.

For a split second, Ives contemplated the risk of pressing a guess if that memory turned out to be wrong. But something about the distinctiveness of it reassured her that she was certain. It had to be that name.

Her hand hovered over the glowing panel. Then she tapped in her answer. A soft tone acknowledged the input, and a hush descended.

Ives heard her own heartbeat drumming, half expecting to see an error flash. Instead, the console dinged. The scoreboard updated instantly, accompanied by a burst of digital confetti.

> 5 : 4

She had five points. She had won.

She looked down and exhaled, pulse fluttering with lingering nerves. Across the holographic interface, the silhouette of her opponent remained quiet. Ives could not see the other girl’s face through the mask, but she sensed an undercurrent of tension that drifted like a cold current between them.

The image flickered, and the distant figure faded away. The final bell chimed once more, concluding the game with a fanfare that came off almost too bright, too cloying.

Celio exhaled in an audible rush behind her. The station host, wearing that perpetual courteous smile, offered a congratulatory bow.

“CONGRATULATIONS TO MISS BUTTERFLY AT STATION NO. 54 FOR WINNING THE UNBID MATCH!”

Pushing the thought to the back of her head, the seven-year-old allowed herself a small, tentative smile. Ives rose to her feet, then accepted Celio’s offered high-five.

“Let’s go find Edris,” Celio said, still brimming with excitement.

Ives nodded. They made their way through the milling crowd, passing the playful hum and clink of the purple machines.

But it wasn’t long before they sensed a shift in the atmosphere.

The lighthearted chatter receded into hushed whispers as they drew closer to the black machines. A crowd had formed near one of the machines, the onlookers craning their necks.

Something was happening.

Ives noticed a hush among the spectators, their attention fixed on a single machine.

She quickened her pace, a faint knot of worry tightening in her chest. When she slipped through a gap between masked bystanders, her eyes caught sight of their target.

He sat at a black-machine console, his dark hair falling forward, fingers pressed against his temples as though fighting off a headache. Opposite him, a man in a bear mask watched without so much as flinching.

She glanced up at the scoreboard overhead. The numbers corresponded to each side of the machine. For the current game, Edris was sitting on the right side.

Ives felt a twist in her stomach. She edged closer, catching Celio’s equally troubled look. Together, they could only stare at the large, bold numbers on display. The numbers glared back:

> 5 : 0

Edris was losing.

Badly.