The roar of the crowd rolled through the courtyard like a tide. Every cheer bounced off the brick and glass, every stomp of boots or clap of hands carried through the morning air until even the ash tree above the Arcadium seemed to hum with it. Lanterns swayed from their tethers, scattering gold light across rows of expectant faces.

  Jeremiah stood near Mani at the front of the stage, the hum of the crowd thrumming in his chest. The floating screens rippled as Mani lifted the mic again.

  “Alright, everyone!” Mani shouted, voice cutting clean through the noise. “It’s time for our first semifinal match! Give it up for Cindy Long and Reggie!”

  The audience erupted once more — a blur of voices and applause that made the wooden boards vibrate under Jeremiah’s feet. A group of mechanics near the front waved their hand-painted banner, and somewhere near the back, someone started a chant that fizzled out into laughter when the rest of the crowd couldn’t keep the rhythm.

  Reggie stepped up first, tipping his hat to the crowd with practiced flair. His cane tapped once against the floor as he bowed, his smile as wide and easy as ever. Beside him, Cindy hesitated, her hand tightened on her beetle’s carrier, knuckles white, as a flush of color spread through her cheeks. For all her rough exterior, Jeremiah doubted she thought she’d make it this far.

  Yet, he watched her draw a slow breath before her spine straightened, and she waved to the crowd.

  Mani, feeding off the energy, lifted his arm high. “Contestants, take your places!”

  The cheers ebbed, replaced by a buzz of anticipation. Cindy moved toward her side of the Arcadium, a determined spark in her eye. Reggie took his spot opposite her, the easy calm of a man who had done this a thousand times before.

  The air inside the courtyard seemed to thicken as the Arcadium’s runes flared to life. The inner ring of the miniature coliseum brightened until it was impossible to see through, a sphere of light that swallowed the center of the stage.

  When it cleared, the arena had changed.

  On the screens above, the audience saw what Jeremiah did: a cavern of green and rust. Twisting vines hung from the ceiling, leaves swaying in an unseen breeze. The floor was littered with broken scrap — rusted beams, twisted plates, and a half-buried frame of some unidentifiable machine. Pockets of dim light filtered through cracks in the canopy, catching the wet gleam of metal.

  Reggie’s calm voice spoke under the sound of the crowd. “Breathe, lass. You’ll do fine. Trust your friend; he knows what he’s doing, even if you don’t yet.”

  Cindy blinked, startled, before nodding once.

  Reggie chuckled softly. “That’s the spirit.” He raised one hand, and the Coiled Willow Beetle slithered down his sleeve. When it reached his wrist, it extended a single delicate leg to touch the Arcadium’s surface. The beetle dissolved into a stream of light that sank into the miniature world below.

  Cindy followed suit. She unlatched her carrier, lifting her beetle carefully into her palms. Jeremiah leaned forward unconsciously, his brow furrowing. The creature looked… different than it had yesterday.

  Where its shell had once been a rough patchwork of mismatched scraps, now it gleamed with true structure. Dozens of small aluminum scales overlapped neatly across its back, still flecked with paint from the donor material. Each scale bore a small, sharp spike that caught the light like brushed silver. Near the front, two hornlike spikes arched forward, tiny sparks of static dancing between them. Even its posture seemed surer — heavier, stronger.

  Jeremiah wasn’t the only one to notice.

  Reggie’s eyebrows lifted, and a pleased smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Oh-ho. He molted, did he? Quite the stroke of luck, young lady.”

  Cindy blinked at him, uncertain. “You know about his kind?” She had spent nearly three sleepless nights doing intensive research into the creature when she first found him, and even then, the information she could find had been sparse.

  “Aye,” Reggie said, amusement threading through his voice. “Scrapforged Beetles don’t shed their shells easily. Once they’ve built one, they tend to keep it until they’ve outgrown it completely. When they do finally molt, they will only do so in a place they feel completely safe. Its not just a sign of growth, but of trust. Most handlers have to plan years ahead to time it right.”

  The young woman’s face paled again. “I… didn’t do anything special. I just gave him some aluminum scraps from my workshop and welded some spikes on them. Did I—did I mess something up?”

  Reggie barked a laugh that echoed lightly across the stage. “Mess up? No, no. You did fine. If you’d tried to force a molt before he was ready, the ICBL would’ve had words with you. But giving him what he needs, letting him decide when to use it? That’s part of your duty — no different than food or shelter. Its the right way of it.”

  Cindy let out a slow breath, the corners of her mouth softening. The beetle in her hands shifted slightly, one leg tapping against her wrist as if in agreement.

  “If he was willing to molt, it means you’re doing well, less,” Reggie said, tone gentle. “It means he trusts you. Return the favor.”

  The young woman nodded, more firmly this time. She leaned closer to the Arcadium and held her beetle toward the glowing rim. The creature extended its front legs and touched the surface, then it too dissolved — drawn into the simulated world below.

  The crowd murmured, anticipation rising again. Mani’s grin returned, sharp and eager.

  “Alright, folks!” he called, raising the mic high. “Lets get this show on the road!”

  The floating displays flared white for a heartbeat before resolving into the cave view once more. A hush fell over the crowd.

  Then, the central screen hovering above the arena flashed.

  MATCH START!

  The crowd exploded in cheers.

  And just like that — the semifinals had begun.

  ——————————————————

  Inside the damp cave, water dripped from somewhere unseen onto metal and stone. Simulated sunlight cast thin beams and deep shadows over vines, rusted scraps, and the half-buried frame, until the world inside looked like it had been waiting here for years.

  The Scrapforged Beetle came in from the tunnel mouth, antennae twitching. It moved slowly, as if still getting used to its new heft. Aluminum plates overlapped down its back like fitted shingles, each one capped by a small spike that crackled with traces of static as it walked.

  It paused to test the grit underfoot, then made straight for a tumble of scrap in the center. A bright spark lit up one antenna and skittered across a corroded sheet. A small piece of rusted metal fell away. The beetle angled its body, tested the edge with a precise tap of a foreleg, rotated the shard to catch the dim glow, and tossed it aside.

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  Another spark. Another quick cut. Another rejection.

  Up on the cave’s crown, something uncoiled.

  Green rings loosened from a curtain of moss without disturbing it. The Coiled Willow Beetle flowed along a length of vine, each interlocking segment bending and twisting with the slight breeze from the cave mouth. It moved with the hush of a falling leaf, following the draft toward the pile below. When it reached the point above the Scrapforged’s shell — where the curve of the carapace blocked its view just so — the beetle paused and swayed.

  Outside the arena rim, Cindy braced her hands on the table's edge, her eyes locked onto the scene. Across from her, Reggie’s cane tapped against the table.

  The Coiled Willow struck.

  It dropped out of the green like a thrown spear, forelegs aiming for a seam where aluminum scales met chitin. A hair's breadth before contact, the Scrapforged flinched. Static crackled along the spikes on its back. The Scrapforged kicked sideways with a short, explosive shove that looked nothing like its earlier, lumbering pace. The spear missed by less than a finger’s width and slammed into the scrap heap, throwing a ring of rust flakes into the air.

  Reggie laughed, light and genuine. “Interesting. Those spikes aren’t just for show, are they?”

  He never looked away from the arena, voice low with admiration. “He’s using the static charge in his shell as an early warning system. Learned that trick in a single day, did he?”

  Cindy rubbed the bridge of her nose, a grin tugging at her mouth despite the heat rising in her cheeks. “He was already doing it,” she admitted. “I think he pulled something from the drone he was pulling apart when I found him. I just helped him… modify it a bit. The spikes help to keep the field stable — smaller discharge, better sensitivity.” Her gaze remained fixed on the battle below as well. “They work like miniature lightning rods, building a bubble of charge around him. When something breaks through, it sparks, letting him know where it’s coming from. Kind of like getting a shock off crumpled foil when the air’s dry enough.”

  Reggie’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Clever,” he said softly. “Very well done, lass.”

  Inside the cave, the Scrapforged turned in a slow circle, then pivoted, horns angled, antennae high. Little ghost-sparks skipped between spike tips. The beetle’s stance widened as it pushed its weight into its forelegs and tracked the ceiling where the Coiled Willow had struck from.

  What followed was a dance of brief, vicious exchanges. The Coiled Willow darted in for a feint, forelegs flicking with surgical precision; the Scrapforged answered with a sharp hop and a skirting turn, its horns slicing only air where the strike had been. The Willow dropped from the vines again, twisted mid-fall, and drove a spear-pointed foreleg toward the seam of its opponent’s shoulder — only to meet a brutal shove from the Scrapforged’s flank that sent the blow skidding harmlessly aside.

  The younger insect withdrew. There was no panic in the movement, but there was a new tightness in the coil when it climbed the wall again, as if it were growing frustrated.

  Cindy exhaled. Her Scrapforged paused, testing the air, then resumed its measured pacing. “Come on,” she said under her breath. “You’ve got this… Don’t give her any openings.”

  Above, the Coiled Willow paused and swayed in place. A drop fell from a root and splashed on the Scrapforged’s carapace.

  “Patience,” Reggie said, barely audible. He tapped, paused, tapped — directing his partner a handspan at a time with gentle taps of his cane.

  The tension in the audience had thickened into something almost physical, and even the smaller children had gone quiet, their eyes glued to the screen.

  Inside the simulated cavern, the Coiled Willow obeyed the rhythm the way it had in the square that morning. It drifted to a new perch and swayed until the motion of the leaves matched its own. Its movements became smaller, tighter, every shift of its body mirroring the subtle tapping. The Scrapforged, in contrast, held its ground with an almost statuesque calm. Faint sparks crawled along its spiked shell, the quiet sizzle of static marking the boundary of its invisible field.

  The two insects circled, one a ripple of green and brown, the other a patient bastion of dull metal.

  Reggie’s cane tapped twice.

  The Coiled Willow darted forward.

  It slid along a hanging vine, circling the Scrapforged, and dropped like a falling blade before it could fully turn to meet it. For a heartbeat, it looked as though it might land true — its forelegs spread, sharp and glinting.

  Jeremiah frowned as he watched. It was clear that the Coild Willow was faster and more flexible than the Scrapforged, but it kept trying for the same angle, and that made her predictable. They weren’t going to win like that.

  Sure enough, as every time before, the Scrapforged’s body twitched, then moved at the last second — its body pivoting out of the way as it deflected the blow by centimeters

  The Coiled Willow landed hard, its spear-like forearm bouncing off the other beetle’s shell and tossing them to the side. But instead of retreating as it had before, the Coilded Willow instead surged forward, it weaved its segmented body through the spikes atop the other beetle’s back..

  The Coiled Willow’s segments constricted, finding leverage between scales. As it neared segment where the Scrapforged’s head met its shell, the serpentine beetle raised its foremost legs, the sharp tips glinting in the light and ready to deliver a decisive blow.

  The crowd gasped.

  Cindy’s breath caught.

  A sharp, electric crack split the air.

  The Scrapforged whirled. One of the large metal horns atop the beetle’s head shot backward, slamming Willow’s midsection. A burst of blue-white static flared between them. The Coiled Willow shrieked, its body convulsing as the charge arced across every ringed plate. Sparks scattered through the cave like fireflies.

  The Coiled Willow thew itself off the sparking shell and hit the cave floor with a dull clatter. They twitched once before going still, smoke curling faintly from its body.

  Outside the simulation, Reggie’s hand rose in the same breath. “Enough,” he said simply.

  The Arcadium shimmered. The Coiled Willow dissolved into light, and text burned across the hovering display:

  ——————?——————

  Contestant Reggie has surrendered.

  Winner: Cindy Long!

  ——————?——————

  For a heartbeat, the crowd was silent.

  Then, the courtyard exploded with sound.

  Cheers, clapping, laughter, the scrape of chairs as people surged to their feet. The roar rolled through the courtyard, ricocheting off glass and brick until even the lanterns trembled in their tethers.

  Cindy stood frozen in place, eyes wide, mouth slightly open as she stared up at the hovering text. The words didn’t seem real.

  Jeremiah smiled faintly from the sidelines. Mani whooped into the mic, his voice half-lost in the noise.

  Reggie stepped forward through the light as the Arcadium dissolved back into its resting state. The Coiled Willow materialized in his palm, small again, its body coiled loosely like a ribbon, but utterly unharmed. He regarded her fondly before looking up at the young woman across from him.

  The crowd’s cheers softened as he reached the young woman’s side. She turned at the sound of his footsteps. The old man’s grin was wide and genuine, and seemed to hold no sting of loss. He extended his hand. “Well done, lass.”

  Cindy blinked, still dazed. Then, suspicion furrowed her brow. “You… didn’t go easy on me, did you?” she asked. “It’s obvious you’ve been doing this a lot longer than I have.”

  Reggie’s laugh rolled through the quiet like a low, warm note. “Perhaps a little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “But not as much as you think.”

  He raised his hand slightly, revealing the Coiled Willow nestled in his palm. The creature shifted, slow and weary, but otherwise unhurt. “She’s a talented little thing, but still young and inexperienced. Her kind aren’t built for drawn-out brawls. They strike, vanish, and strike again. Beautiful in their own way, but not built for endurance.”

  Cindy’s expression softened, her gaze flicking between the delicate coils and the gleaming plates of her own Scrapforged still resting in the Arcadium cradle.

  Reggie continued, his tone gentle. “Yours, on the other hand, was. Even if I’d pressed harder, she’d have spent herself before he ever broke. Sometimes, a match isn’t lost because you did poorly, lass — but because the fates dealt you a match you didn’t have the tools to win.”

  For a moment, Cindy only stared at him, processing the words. She frowned for a moment, lost in thought, then nodded slowly. “Thank you,” she said. The words came quiet, but certain.

  Reggie’s grin returned. “No need to thank me, lass. You earned it.”

  He extended his hand again, a smile creasing with warmth. “You’ve got talent, girl. Keep at it.”

  Cindy hesitated, then reached out and clasped his hand. Her grip was firm, the tremor in her fingers gone. The Scrapforged shifted on the display behind them, its shell catching the light like dull silver armor.

  The crowd’s roar swelled again, washing over them in waves — the chant of her name starting somewhere near the back and spreading until it filled the courtyard. Mani’s voice cracked over the mic above them, half laughter, half announcement.

  “And there you have it, people! Give a hand to our first finalist, Cindy Long!”

  Cindy turned, the noise and color of it all blurring around her. For a heartbeat, she looked back at Reggie. The old man had already stepped away, his Coiled Willow resting quietly on his shoulder. His smile was proud and untroubled, the look of someone who’d seen a hundred matches and still found joy in every one.

  The crowd thundered its approval, and the ash tree above the courtyard shivered in the echo of their cheer.