Chapter 129| Thirty-Two Banners
The Ascension Tournament’s opening ceremony unfolded within a stadium that dwarfed every venue Allen had previously encountered, a colossal, gleaming structure erected specifically for the occasion on neutral ground outside Geneva, its capacity swollen further by the considerable broadcast infrastructure carrying the proceedings to what Flux Wave’s own promotional material claimed would be the largest simultaneous global audience in the platform’s considerable history.
"Two billion projected viewers," Myria reported, reviewing the broadcast statistics with characteristic, thorough attention as the group made their way toward the competitors’ staging area. "Across every major streaming platform, though Flux Wave holds exclusive primary rights, naturally."
"No pressure," Irene said, though her restless energy carried more excitement than genuine anxiety at the staggering figure.
The staging area buzzed with considerable, nervous energy as thirty-two parties gathered beneath their respective banners, and Allen found himself taking in the assembled competition with fresh, sobering clarity — Edward’s Golden Reckoning positioned with theatrical, deliberate prominence near the arena’s central approach; Seraphina Helion’s Fluxen Shore moving with disciplined, unified precision; Theo and Nadia’s Descenders maintaining their characteristic, understated composure amid the surrounding chaos.
Haruki found them shortly before the ceremony’s formal proceedings began, his usual boundless enthusiasm tempered by visible, considerable nerves.
"This is a lot bigger than I expected," he admitted, glancing around at the stadium’s overwhelming scale. "I mean, I knew it would be considerable, but actually standing here—"
"You’ll do fine," Allen said firmly, clasping his shoulder with genuine, reassuring warmth. "Trust everything we’ve practiced together. Trust your team."
"Trying to," Haruki said, managing a shaky, grateful smile. "Thank you, by the way. For everything these past few weeks. Whatever happens today, I wanted you to know that."
"You’re going to make it considerably further than the preliminaries," Allen said. "I believe that completely."
The ceremony began precisely on schedule, High Inquisitor Voss himself presiding over the formal opening — a considerable surprise given the WHRIB’s typically restrained public presence, though the Emperor crisis’s mounting public visibility had apparently shifted the organization’s calculated approach toward demonstrations of confidence rather than careful, cautious silence.
"Thirty-two parties," Voss announced, his voice carrying across the stadium’s considerable expanse through amplification that made even his measured formality feel appropriately momentous. "Representing the finest S+ rank talent this world currently possesses. You stand here not merely as competitors, but as demonstration — proof, to a world increasingly aware of considerable, ancient threats gathering at its margins, that humanity’s own capability remains genuinely, formidably worth celebrating."
The crowd’s roar at that carried a weight considerably beyond simple sporting enthusiasm, and Allen understood, watching the assembled audience’s fervent, hopeful energy, exactly what Myria’s earlier theorizing had correctly identified — this tournament existed as much for reassurance as entertainment, a considerable, deliberate counterweight to the mounting anxiety surrounding the Emperor’s reveal and Umbra Black’s shadowy, ongoing threat.
"The tournament format," Voss continued, gesturing toward the massive display screens now illuminating the stadium’s considerable circumference, "proceeds across eight distinct stages. Three preliminary rounds, testing individual capability through direct duels. Three intermediate rounds, testing coordinated team combat. A semifinal stage, and finally, the tournament’s conclusion — a knockout final, where the last party standing claims victory."
The bracket assignments displayed prominently across every screen, and Allen felt his stomach tighten slightly as he located Fallen Crown’s own preliminary assignment — a party called Thornwood Vanguard, their combat profile unfamiliar enough that Myria’s earlier research hadn’t yielded particularly detailed intelligence.
"Unknown quantity," Myria murmured, already scanning whatever fragmentary information the tournament’s official database provided. "Recently formed party, considerable individual credentials but limited coordinated experience as a unit."
"Manageable," Vivian said, confident despite the uncertainty.
Allen’s attention drifted toward Haruki’s own bracket position, and his earlier optimism dimmed slightly at the confirmation — Party Emberline drawn against Ironclad Vanguard exactly as Myria had projected weeks earlier, a considerably more experienced, better-equipped party that would test the young, underfunded team’s genuine limits from the very first exchange.
"They’ll manage," Everlyn said softly, following his gaze and understanding the source of his concern immediately. "Heart counts for considerably more than equipment, in my experience."
"I hope you’re right," Allen said quietly.
The ceremony concluded with a considerable, choreographed display of controlled ability manifestations from selected competitors, the assembled crowd’s enthusiasm building toward fever pitch as the tournament’s actual proceedings drew imminently closer, and Allen found himself, standing amid the considerable, nervous energy of thirty-two gathered parties, struck by the particular weight of everything riding on the coming weeks — not just Fallen Crown’s own considerable prize aspirations, but Hegeville’s continued development, Haruki’s fierce, underdog hope, and the world’s collective, desperate need for exactly the reassurance this tournament had been so deliberately designed to provide.
"Preliminary matches begin in one hour," the stadium’s announcer confirmed, and the competitors’ staging area erupted into fresh, focused activity, parties dispersing toward their assigned preparation chambers with the particular, controlled urgency that always preceded genuinely consequential competition.
Allen gathered his own wives close for one final moment before their own preliminary preparation demanded full attention, drawing quiet, grounding strength from their familiar, unshakeable presence.
"Whatever happens today," he said, "we’ve already proven considerably more than any single tournament outcome could measure. Let’s go show them exactly what that proof looks like."
His wives’ answering determination carried the same fierce, unified purpose that had carried them through every impossible circumstance since a cold car ride into Hegeville had first bound five broken people together, and together, they made their way toward the preparation chambers, ready to finally, properly begin.
Along the way, they passed Edward’s party making their own confident approach toward a separate chamber, and he paused just long enough to offer Allen a considering, calculating glance.
"Thornwood Vanguard," Edward said, apparently having reviewed the same bracket assignments. "Weak preliminary matchup, little brother. Almost feels like the tournament committee took pity on you."
"We’ll see," Allen said evenly, refusing to let the barb settle beneath his skin.
"We will," Edward agreed, something colder than his usual dismissive arrogance flickering behind his golden eyes before he turned and continued toward his own chamber, leaving Allen with a fresh, unsettled awareness that his brother’s earlier hints about Susan’s renewed interest carried weight he still didn’t fully understand.
"Don’t let him get to you," Myria said quietly, falling into step beside him.
"I won’t," Allen said, though the observation lingered regardless as they reached their own preparation chamber, the considerable weight of the tournament’s imminent opening settling into focused, deliberate readiness. "Let’s just focus on what we can actually control."
The chamber’s reinforced walls muffled the stadium’s mounting roar to a distant, steady hum, and Allen felt his wives arrange themselves around him with the same practiced, coordinated ease that had carried them through every previous crisis, five people bound by love and impossible circumstance, standing together at the threshold of whatever the Ascension Tournament’s considerable trials still had waiting to unfold.