Rico entered the commentator booth like a conquering general who had discovered catering.
The league staff had tried, for reasons of professionalism and liability, to escort him through the side corridor in a calm and dignified manner. Rico, naturally, interpreted this as a parade route. He walked upright on his hind legs whenever cameras appeared, lifted one paw to the cheering crowd, then dropped back to all fours the moment someone offered him food. By the time he reached the broadcast platform, he had acquired two bags of roasted nuts, three packets of chocolate espresso beans, one canned coffee, one bottled coffee, one suspicious neon energy drink, a thermos from a fan who shouted that it was "raccoon-safe cold brew," and a small handmade sign that read RICO COMMENTARY SUPREMACY in glitter letters.
The armor made it worse.
He was wearing the medium armor the Greencap Bunnies had once gifted to Alex. The armor - enchanted - magically shrank to racoon size. The breastplate minified, the shoulder guards narrowed, the straps tucked themselves around his small body, and the whole thing settled into place with a dignified click.
To the public, it looked like Team Nemean had commissioned custom armor for their raccoon companion.
That detail alone almost crashed the fan feeds.
By the time Rico climbed onto the chair made specifically for him, the commentators were already smiling in the strained way professionals smiled when they knew this was a rare event. The chair had been raised, padded, reinforced, and equipped with a small adjustable desk so Rico could see over the broadcast table without standing on someone's notes. He placed his snacks in careful categories: sweet, salty, caffeine, emergency caffeine, suspicious caffeine, and "for emotional support." Then he lifted the canned coffee with both paws, cracked it open, and took one solemn sip while the arena cameras lingered on him.
"Rico," said Maribel Cho, one of the main commentators, "welcome back to the booth."
Rico nodded gravely. "The people demanded wisdom."
Beside her, Grant Ellis coughed into his fist. "They certainly demanded something."
"True. Nothing beat truth, drama, and bean-based enlightenment from the source." Rico tapped his armored chest. "Also, admire battle drip."
Maribel leaned into the chaos with the ease of someone who had learned not to fight the internet. "Viewers are asking about the armor. Did Team Nemean really have a custom set made for you?"
Rico looked directly into the camera. "Of course. There is a bike in the making as well— the holy finishing touch to the Kamen Rider vibe."
In the Tannenbaum clubhouse, Phong Tran stared at the Diver App's live stream and slowly lowered his coffee.
The main broadcast filled the center of his tablet: arena floor, commentator feed, team entrances, sponsor overlay, bracket graphics. But in the corner, a new window had appeared. It was small at first, then enlarged slightly as viewer reactions poured in, dedicated entirely to Rico in the commentator booth. The raccoon had his own co-stream / co-broadcasting camera now. A permanent small window labeled RICO CAM in bright gold letters.
Phong blinked.
"They gave him a window?"
Emma, seated beside him with her strategy tablet open and one earpiece in, did not look up. "Of course they did."
"Why?"
"Engagement metrics."
Phong stared at Rico, who was now arranging espresso beans into what appeared to be a tactical formation. "I hate how reasonable that answer is."
Jake, benched for this match and sprawled across the couch behind them, leaned over the backrest. "I would watch a Rico-only feed."
"You live with him."
"Yes, chaos I did not have to deal with."
On the broadcast, the pre-fight interview segment began.
Gia Định's Saviors entered first to a loud wave of cheers from their supporters and a sharper wave of noise from viewers who smelled controversy. They looked confident. More than confident, really. The handshake insult had not made them cautious. If anything, it seemed to have given them a story they liked better than the match itself. Andrew Nguyen walked at the front, team jacket open over his combat gear, expression polished for the camera while his eyes carried the same old coldness Phong had seen in the staging hall.
A reporter approached with a microphone. "Andrew, Gia Định's Saviors enter this match as the underdog by public ranking, but your team has been very vocal about not being intimidated by Team Nemean. How are you approaching today's fight?"
Andrew smiled.
It was a good smile for television. Clean, confident, controlled.
"We do not take Team Nemean as seriously as their media hype demands," he said. "They are strong, yes, but strength without roots is just noise. Anyone who lets a so-called 'descendant' sit beside them, guide them, and represent them has already shown poor judgment."
Phong heard the word and almost laughed despite himself.
Descendant.
It was such a strange insult in context, half exile politics and half accidental cultivation terminology, as if Andrew's grudge had stumbled into the dungeon's secret vocabulary without understanding the road beneath its feet. The irony would have been funny if it were not attached to someone else's family history.
The reporter's face flickered with professional panic, then delight. Controversy was dangerous in public relations and wonderful in broadcast.
Andrew continued before the reporter could redirect him. "As for Alex Vogel's popularity, it comes from being active on the weaker coast. She has been fighting in a pool where people overreact to a few spectacular wins. She has not faced real West Coast pressure yet, and she has not faced a Mind Blade who understands what our class is supposed to become."
The camera cut to Alex.
She stood with Team Nemean's chosen seven near the opposite interview line: Dominic at center, Alexei beside him, Séline quiet and focused, Tanya Holston with one gloved hand resting near the summoning bracelet that stored her puppet, Ron Takeyama relaxed in that theatrical samurai posture of his, Joanne spinning her revolver once before stilling it, and Alex herself standing slightly behind Dominic, calm enough to make Andrew's words look smaller by comparison.
Dominic glanced at her.
It was barely a look.
A tilt of the chin. A small shift of the eyes. The kind of silent communication that came from too many fights survived together. Do not reveal anything the world has not already seen. Do not let him buy your secrets with insults. Win with the hand they think they know.
Alex gave the smallest nod.
Her eyes flicked backward to Ron and Tanya. The new provisional members were watching too closely. Useful, maybe. Compromised, maybe. Either way, Alex had understood Dominic's warning on more levels than one.
In the Rico window, Rico stuffed three espresso beans into his mouth and leaned toward his microphone. "Bold strategy by angry team. Insult the lady who recently looked at a legacy boss and said, 'What if I kill it before it can kill me?' Very brave. Possibly short-lived."
Grant Ellis visibly fought a laugh. "Rico, as a commentator, do you have thoughts on the matchup itself?"
"Yes. Team Angry Flag has one big cannon and many smaller cannon holders. Team Nemean has Dominic, who is shaped like a wall that found religion. Important difference."
Maribel smiled. "And Andrew Nguyen's claim that Alex has not met real challenge?"
Rico looked offended on behalf of reality. "Farmer wife is scary."
The main feed cut back to Gia Định's Saviors, perhaps wisely.
Cuong Nguyen stood behind his son with the coaches, arms crossed, lips pressed into a line of approval so hard it looked carved. The old man did not speak into the microphone, but he did not need to. His presence made the ideological spine of the team visible. Andrew wore modern gear, media training, and a captain's polish, but Cuong stood behind him like a door to a room no one else was allowed to enter.
Another Gia Định member spoke next, one of the mages, saying they were prepared to expose Team Nemean's inflated reputation. A support diver added that history mattered, loyalty mattered, and people who forgot where they came from deserved to be reminded publicly. The youngest fighter grinned too wide when the microphone came near him and said he hoped the match would teach certain people to lower their eyes around real refugees.
Alex's face did not change.
Phong noticed because the camera held on her, probably hoping for a reaction.
The fact that she gave them none made his chest ache with pride and concern in equal measure.
Then it was Team Nemean's turn.
Dominic took the microphone.
That surprised some people. Alex was the obvious headline. Joanne was the best soundbite. Ron, newly added, would have given the broadcast elegant charm. But Dominic was the captain on the floor today, and when he stepped forward, the noise in the arena shifted. People liked Dominic. They trusted him. He looked like someone who had decided that a golden retriever should be built like Johnny Cage, and that image traveled faster than analytics, faster than memes.
The reporter asked the expected question. "Dominic, Gia Định's Saviors have made several personal remarks about your coach, Phong Tran, and his background. Does Team Nemean have a response?"
Dominic held the microphone for a second before speaking.
"Yes."
The arena quieted.
"We do not care about Phong Tran's background in the way Gia Định's Saviors seem to mean it," Dominic said. "We do not care what political story someone wants to staple to his family, or what labels they try to force onto him. We care about what he has done for us."
Phong looked down at the tablet.
For a moment, he could not blink.
Dominic continued, voice steady rather than heated. "Phong is our friend because of who he is. He is our coach because he sees things we miss. He is trusted because he has earned trust through action, not because he fits anyone's preferred narrative."
The camera cut briefly to Phong in the clubhouse.
He did not know they had access to that angle until his own face appeared in the corner of the screen.
"Oh, come on," he muttered.
Emma's tablet chimed. "The clubhouse consent clause allowed reaction shots. No audio though, so feels free to drop an F bomb or two if it make you feel better."
"I need to read more contracts."
"You don't need to read any more contracts, mr farmer king."
On the arena floor, Dominic looked directly toward Gia Định's Saviors.
"You might live a better life if you stopped making your whole life revolve around an old grudge."
The words landed cleanly.
They were not theatrical. That made them heavier.
Andrew's smile vanished.
For the first time that day, the polish cracked. His jaw tightened, and his eyes flashed with anger that belonged only partly to him. Cuong Nguyen's mouth moved in the background, perhaps a warning, perhaps approval, perhaps a curse the broadcast mics failed to catch.
Andrew stepped forward.
The reporter, sensing danger and ratings, did not move quickly enough.
Andrew looked at Dominic and drew one thumb across his throat.
A cut-throat gesture.
The arena erupted.
Half outrage, half cheers. Some boos, some chants. The broadcast immediately replayed the gesture from another angle because moral condemnation apparently required high-definition repetition.
In the Rico window, Rico literally jumped at the window, all fours paws spread out as far as possible. His tail spun like a rotor blade as he screamed at the top of his lung, clearly super-charged by caffeine.
"Oh! OHHH! He did throat slash at Dominic. Producers, zoom in on bad life choice. Enhance! Enhance the tactical stupidity!"
Grant Ellis said, "Rico, please sit down."
"Can't. History happening."
Maribel, trying and failing to keep a straight face, said, "Official warning may be issued for that gesture."
Rico peeled his face of the glass with a 'pop'. "Official warning? My brother in caffeine, that was a coupon for future dental rearrangement."
Phong closed his eyes for one second.
When he opened them, Alex was looking at Andrew.
This time the cameras caught it.
She did not glare. She did not summon storm. She did not even make a gesture back. She simply looked at him with the calm assessment of someone who had fought monsters, relics, bosses, parasites, and gods' shadows, and had just filed Andrew Nguyen somewhere below "urgent threat" and above "annoying paperwork."
That look spread through the crowd faster than Andrew's gesture.
Dominic handed the microphone back to the reporter.
"We are ready to fight," he said.
The reporter, wisely, took the escape route. "Then with that, the pre-fight interviews conclude. Both teams will now move to starting positions for the opening match of the double elimination stage."
Music surged through the arena, dramatic and overproduced, all drums, strings, and electronic bass designed to make bracket combat feel like mythology with sponsorship breaks. The floor opened into the selected arena layout: a wide rectangular battlefield with broken stone platforms, waist-high barriers, and three raised lanes connected by shallow ramps. Enough cover to make positioning matter. Enough open space for Andrew's psychic bombardment to threaten clusters. Enough verticality for Ron, Tanya's puppet, and Alex to create angles if they controlled tempo properly.
Emma leaned forward in the clubhouse.
Phong saw her eyes begin tracking the field immediately.
"Not ideal," she said.
"Bad?"
"Playable. Well, unless you want Alex to pull her bullshit out, then it would be a steamroll. Séline air stepping, Dominic Eyeless Heaven would be our trump card in early stage, I wager. Would allowing Alexei to use his wings aura an overkill?"
Phong nodded, though the roster could no longer hear them unless the coaching channel opened between rounds. This first exchange belonged to the fighters now.
On the main feed, Dominic rolled his shoulders and lifted Eyeless Heaven.
Alexei took position to his right. Séline stood slightly behind the tanks, loose and ready to intercept.
Ron's hand rested on his sword hilt as a faint yokai mask shimmered over half his face, there for a blink and gone again. Tanya flicked her wrist, and space beside her opened like a curtain.
A lacquered dueling puppet stepped out.
Joanne climbed the right-side platform, revolver in hand, head tilted as her new Celestial Skeletal gift let her split attention in a way the cameras could see but not understand.
Alex stood left of Dominic, storm held so tightly around her that it seemed like ordinary wind.
Across the field, Andrew Nguyen rolled his neck and lifted both hands. Psychic mana gathered around his fists in dense violet-blue light, then broke into small floating orbs that circled his body like angry moons. His teammates spread around him in a practiced formation, front line angled to shield his approach, mages behind barriers, support divers already glowing with buffs.
The referee's voice echoed through the arena.
"Opening match. Team Nemean versus Gia Định's Saviors. Seven-on-seven combat. Victory by surrender, incapacitation, or field elimination."
Rico adjusted his microphone, the permanent window catching him leaning forward with absolute seriousness ruined by a chocolate espresso bean stuck to one whisker.
"Ladies, gentlemen, and spiritually confused snack providers," he announced, "welcome to righteous violence with rules. In the left corner, Team Nemean, featuring Mr. Wall, Storm Fiancée, Bad Mouth Gun Menace, Soul Punch Lady, Shield On Legs, Yokai Theater Man, and Puppet Auntie. In the right corner, Team Historical Grudge, featuring Boom Fist Andrew and friends."
Maribel made a small strangled noise at how random and stupid those nicknames were.
Grant gave up hiding his laughter.
The referee raised one hand.
Phong sat very still in the clubhouse, his own reflection faint over the screen, caught between family history and battlefield present.
Andrew grinned across the arena.
Dominic lowered his shield into starting angle.
Alex's eyes stayed calm.
The referee's hand fell.
Rico shouted into the booth microphone with the joy of a raccoon who had been given caffeine and a war to narrate.
"Fight!"