Starbrews carried the same mild scent it always did — something warm and roasted, with a hint of vanilla syrup that lingered near the counter. It wasn’t loud, just occupied. Enough background chatter to keep things from feeling tense. Not enough to make the silence at their table go unnoticed.

  Josh arrived last, a little behind Rosie, tray in hand and bag slung low. Eight chairs, one round table, and a few too many eyes.

  Cruz leaned back first — like always. He had that habit of acting like chairs weren’t made for sitting properly. One leg crossed, crimson-highlighted fringe pushed slightly back. His drink sat untouched. The calm around him wasn’t comfort. It was stillness sharpened.

  Vera sat to his left, perfectly upright, perfectly distant, the condensation on her iced drink wiped twice already. Alma sat beside her, one leg tucked up under her, elbow on the table as she twirled her straw between her fingers like she was waiting for someone to ask her to start the conversation.

  Saem had the seat on the far side — quiet, hoodie up, phone out. His glasses were slightly fogged from the change in temperature, or maybe from how he hadn't spoken since sitting down. His shoulders were hunched forward, not withdrawn, just reserved.

  Leo was next, already seated at the edge of the group. He gave Josh a small wave, the kind that lasted half a second too long to be natural. His drink was untouched too, straw barely stirred. The default look of someone not sure if they belonged.

  Eshima was seated opposite Cruz. Perfectly straight. Back not touching the chair, arms folded, expression unreadable. She hadn’t ordered anything. Her ponytail, as sharp as her gaze, rested between the black collar of her jacket and the blonde strands pulled taut above it.

  And then there was Rosie — standing beside Josh now. Her hair, jet black and unassuming, hung smooth over the shoulders of her uniform. She had her hands clasped lightly in front of her. Calm. Not shy. Just quiet in the way people were when they were watching everything before speaking.

  Josh cleared his throat. “Alright… this is Rosie.”

  Alma leaned forward immediately. “Rosie! Cute name. I’m Alma. Support staff, kind of. Also the best at first impressions, clearly.”

  Vera didn’t look up. “Vera. Secretary and Analyst.”

  Rosie gave a polite nod. “Nice to meet you.”

  Cruz gave a short glance. “Cruz. Mid.”

  “Eshima,” the blonde said, eyes forward. “Top lane.”

  “Saem,” came the quiet voice. He adjusted his glasses slightly. “ADC.”

  Rosie turned slightly at that, processing it all.

  Leo cleared his throat gently. “I’m Leo. Substitute jungle… for now.”

  There was a short pause.

  “I’m support,” Rosie said finally, not quite loud, but firm. “I… main vision-heavy picks. I’m fine with engage or peel.”

  Josh glanced sideways at her. It was almost funny — how she sounded more comfortable saying that than hello.

  “Guess that makes us a full five,” Alma said brightly, glancing at everyone before clapping her hands together once. “Finally.”

  No one responded right away.

  Josh sat down.

  The chair scraped just slightly against the floor. No one spoke.

  Alma had that smile — the one she used when she was trying to keep a mood alive. But even she didn’t say anything this time.

  Then Eshima spoke, arms still crossed. Her gaze flicked to Alma, then Vera, then finally Josh.

  “So that’s what this is?” she said. “You’re forming your own Association?”

  Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the hum of Starbrews like clean wire. No judgment — just weight.

  Alma gave a small nod. “That’s the plan.”

  “And you’re all first-years.”

  “Not all,” Saem said, half-raising a hand. “Second-year. Sort of.”

  Eshima didn’t even look at him. “You’re a transfer.”

  “Still counts,” he muttered, adjusting his glasses.

  Vera leaned forward. “We’ve reviewed the structure. We qualify. We’re eligible for registration. The academy doesn’t restrict who can form one.”

  “That doesn’t mean they take you seriously,” Eshima said. “Associations aren’t made to be your project group.”

  Josh caught Cruz glance sideways, just for a second.

  “And what exactly is an Association?” Saem asked, glancing between them. “I mean, I get the general idea — team, staff, players — but how does it actually run?”

  His tone was open — not clueless, just curious. The kind of question you asked when you were still learning the ecosystem.

  Alma looked at Vera, then back at Saem.

  “You start with a minimum of seven,” she said. “Five players, two support staff. We’re already over that.”

  “Support staff being…?”

  “Secretary, Analyst, Coordinator, PR Officer,” Vera replied. “Trainer if you’re lucky.”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “The Academy gives every registered Association a monthly salary in AP — Academy Points,” Alma added. “That’s your budget. You spend it on salaries, tournament entries, gear upgrades, whatever. If you run out? You’re done for the month.”

  Saem frowned. “So it’s like real money.”

  “Exactly like real money,” Vera said. “Everything’s priced in points. Meals, equipment, repairs, even some classes. You get a semester stipend as a student, but it dries up fast. Being in an Association is how you stay out of the Red Zone.”

  Josh watched Saem’s brow furrow slightly. He wasn’t overwhelmed. He was taking mental notes.

  “And if the Association fails?” Saem asked.

  “You get evaluated every four months,” Eshima said. “Fall short on performance, you drop tier. Fail enough evaluations, you’re forced to disband.”

  “And good luck joining another one after that,” she added, more quietly.

  There was a silence after that.

  Then Saem tapped his fingers on the table again. “So… who are the top?”

  Alma smiled. “You mean the ones everyone’s terrified of?”

  He nodded.

  “The Four Pillars,” she said. “Celestial Vanguard. Nexa Dominion. Arcane Protectors. Elysian Sentinels. Founding Associations. Never been demoted. Ever.”

  “They’re not just at the top,” Vera said. “They are the top.”

  “You don’t get recruited by them,” Alma added. “You get studied by them. If they want you, you don’t say no.”

  Cruz shifted in his seat. His voice came low, like he was saying it more to the table than to anyone in particular.

  “Then Firepath left.”

  Josh looked over. He already knew the story — everyone who followed the competitive circuit did. But the way Cruz said it made the table pause.

  Saem glanced up, confused. “Left?”

  The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic — just a brief, weighty pause before Alma spoke.

  “Firepath,” she said, eyes flicking to Saem. “He was Celestial Vanguard’s rising star. Not on the main roster yet — second team — but everyone knew he was next.”

  “End of his first year,” Vera added. “He walked. Left one of the Four Pillars. Took other first-year prodigies from other teams — all groomed by one of the Four Pillar teams— and built his own.”

  “He announced they’d reach Elite in one year,” Alma said. “People thought it was a joke.”

  “It wasn’t,” Cruz murmured.

  Saem looked between them. “Wait — and they did?”

  “They won everything,” Rosie said softly. “Novice. Spring. Summer. Each split, each promotion. They qualified for Elite by the end of the year.”

  “And now they’re there,” Alma said. “Endgame Strikers. Firepath’s team.”

  Josh didn’t say anything.

  He remembered watching a clip of Firepath back in his second year. Not any game highlights — but an interview. Firepath standing in front of the Kings Academy emblem, hands in his jacket pockets, smile too calm to be arrogant.

  “The system breeds kings,” he’d said. “I’m here to dethrone them.”

  And for a moment, that silence returned — a different kind now.

  Like someone had spoken a challenge, and the room hadn’t caught up yet.

  Eshima leaned forward, arms still crossed. “That’s a nice story,” she said. “But Firepath didn’t have to start from zero. He had contacts. Training. Prestige. You don’t.”

  Her voice stayed even. No bite. Just fact.

  “And you’re not him,” she added.

  Alma didn’t flinch. “We know.”

  “Then let’s talk about this team,” Eshima said. “You’ve got eight people. Two of them second-years. No staff. No sponsors. Who’s managing what?”

  Vera responded, calm and practiced. “I’ll act as Secretary and Analyst. Alma is Coordinator and PR. We’re handling the budget, internal comms, match prep, and promotion between us.”

  “Contracts?” Eshima pressed.

  “Also me,” Vera said. “Month-by-month. No lock-ins. Standard Novice salaries to begin.”

  “Standard?” Eshima repeated, her tone sharpening. “I was in an Intermediate team last split. Five hundred’s a downgrade.”

  Josh felt the shift at the table. Not tension exactly — but something close.

  “We’ll handle individual contracts separately,” Vera said, not missing a beat. “This is just the operational structure.”

  Alma gave a quick nod. “We’re not handing out lowballs. But we’re not pretending we’re Elite, either. Provisional rates, scaling based on performance.”

  Eshima didn’t nod. But she didn’t argue, either.

  Then Rosie spoke.

  “Five hundred’s fine,” she said. “For me.”

  It wasn’t loud, but the words settled in the center of the table like they belonged there.

  Josh glanced at her. She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t nervous. She was just… in.

  That drew a small ripple of sound — not laughter, not quite agreement. Just the first real sign that the team might start to lean toward something like cohesion.

  Leo stirred beside her. “What about scrims?”

  “Friday nights and Sundays, right?” Cruz said, more a prompt than a challenge.

  Alma tilted her head. “Originally. But that’s not going to cut it.”

  Vera nodded. “We all get that one-hour Association block every weekday. That’ll go to daily prep — match review, targeted practice, sometimes internal matchups.”

  “And scrims?” Rosie asked.

  “Three evenings minimum. Four if we can secure them. Internal play Tuesdays and Thursdays. External weekends.”

  “And Saturdays?” she asked again.

  Alma smirked. “Optional.”

  Josh heard someone — probably Leo — let out a breath through their nose.

  “Which means mandatory,” Alma finished.

  It earned the faintest grin from Saem, who hadn't smiled all evening.

  Vera adjusted the cup in front of her, her gaze steady.

  “This won’t be a casual schedule. We’re starting at the bottom. If we want to move up, we work like we’re already halfway there.”

  “No egos?” Eshima asked.

  “No free rides,” Vera said again.

  There was another pause. Not from discomfort — just a natural settling.

  Then Eshima leaned forward again.

  “Alright. You’ve got your roles. Your contracts. Your scrim blocks.”

  She looked around the table — then back to Vera.

  “Now answer the actual question.”

  There was a beat.

  “Who’s leading this Association?”

  The question landed with that quiet kind of weight — not dramatic, just direct.

  Josh didn’t answer immediately.

  But no one else spoke, either.

  Cruz looked over — just once. No nod. No expression. Just looking, like he was waiting for Josh to step into something they’d already started building.

  So Josh did.

  “I am,” he said.

  His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried.

  “I came here knowing I wanted to start something. Not because I thought I could lead it better than anyone else, but because I didn’t want to wait to be told when I was allowed to care.”

  He paused, not because he lost his place, but because he meant every word.

  “I didn’t know who it’d be with. I just knew it had to be people who’d show up. Who’d take the game seriously — and take each other seriously.”

  Josh glanced up then, not at anyone specific, but at all of them.

  “And somehow, this group said yes.”

  The table was still.

  He sat back a little, hands loosely clasped in front of him.

  “I’ll lead,” he said. “And I’ll take the hit if things fall apart. But I’m not here to be the reason it works. We all are.”

  Cruz didn’t move much — just lifted his drink slightly, the barest trace of a grin in the corner of his mouth.

  Alma tapped hers against it with a soft clink. “Captain it is.”

  Rosie nodded once. Quiet. Firm.

  Even Eshima offered the smallest glance, her arms still crossed, but her silence now sounding a lot less like doubt.

  The mood lightened.

  Until Josh noticed the rest of Starbrews.

  People were looking.

  Not many — just enough.

  One of the baristas behind the counter had frozen mid-pour, eyes squinting toward their table. The music had dipped, mid-transition, just enough to make his last sentence echo a little more than he’d planned.

  Josh blinked.

  “…I think I got too loud.”

  The silence cracked instantly.

  Alma laughed first. Rosie followed. Cruz shook his head with that same half-smile. Even Vera gave an audible exhale, which by her standards was basically a belly laugh.

  The café resumed around them — soft music, low chatter, chairs shifting. But the table felt different now. Centered. Real.

  Then Saem, of all people, looked up from his drink and said, “So... do we have a name?”

  Everyone turned to Josh again.

  He didn’t hesitate.

  “Horizon.”

  It wasn’t shouted. Just said. Like it had already existed, and they’d finally caught up to it.

  A beat passed.

  Rosie nodded. “Alright then.”

  Cruz raised his cup one more time.

  “To Horizon.”

  This time, when they all joined in, it didn’t feel like a formality.

  It felt like the beginning of something real.