January 2028, Florida

  The parking lot outside Ben Hill Griffin Stadium had transformed into a small city of boats

  It was the afternoon of Week 1, the season opener for college Flying Aces, and the faithful had gathered in force. Dozens of spiritual vessels were docked in the parking lot, their hulls painted to declare their loyalty. Blue and white for Yale. Orange and blue for Florida.

  The boats ranged from yachts to full-sized barges, their decks crowded with grills and coolers and folding chairs. Smoke rose from every direction. The smell of burning hickory and charring meat hung thick in the humid Florida air.

  "This," Tom said, spreading his arms wide, "is tailgating."

  Leo looked at him. "People bring boats to Flying Aces games?"

  Tom grinned. "It's tradition. Goes back to the early days when cultivators would fly their boats to away games and camp overnight for the best seats. Now it's basically a competition to see who can throw the best party before kickoff."

  A cheer erupted from somewhere to their left. Someone had dropped a rack of ribs and was being mercilessly mocked by his friends.

  "My uncle's boat is this way," Tom said, leading Leo through the maze of vessels. "He's been doing this for thirty years. Never missed a Yale opener. He flew his boat all the way from Connecticut for this."

  They passed a Florida yacht where someone had mounted a giant inflatable gator on the bow. The gator wore a chef's hat and held a spatula in its inflatable claws. Two men in orange polos were arguing about their opinions on their head coach while their wives pointedly ignored them.

  "Your uncle flew a boat from Connecticut to Florida," Leo said. "For a party."

  "For tailgating." Tom said the word like it was sacred. "You don't understand. The game is important, sure. But this..." He gestured at the chaos around them. "This is where you make memories. Where friendships are forged over cheap beer and overcooked hot dogs."

  "Overcooked?"

  "Well, not on my uncle's boat. He'd rather die."

  They rounded a massive Florida vessel whose deck was packed and found themselves facing a large cultivation boat painted in deep Yale blue. Gold trim lined the railings. A flag bearing the Yale bulldog snapped in the breeze. The deck was set up with three separate grilling stations, a wet bar, and enough seating for a small army.

  A man in his late fifties stood at the largest grill, tending to a slab of meat the size of a flak shell. He wore a Yale baseball cap, cargo shorts, and an apron that read "Pit Master" in gold letters.

  "Uncle Ray!" Tom called out.

  The man looked up. His face split into a grin that matched Tom's almost exactly.

  "Tommy! Get up here!" He waved them toward the gangplank. "And bring your friend. I've got something to show him!"

  They climbed aboard. Uncle Ray pulled Tom into a crushing hug, then turned to Leo with an appraising look.

  "So you're the Chen kid." He extended a hand. "Ray Wheeler. Tom's told me a lot about you."

  Leo shook his hand. The grip was firm, calloused. "Good things, I hope."

  "Mostly about how you don't know anything about BBQ." Ray laughed. "Don't worry. We'll fix that today."

  The deck was already crowded with people Leo didn't recognize. Cultivators decked out in Yale colors, holding drinks and plates of food, talking and laughing with their old friends.

  A massive television had been mounted on the cabin wall, currently showing pre-game coverage. The ESPN logo spun in the corner of the screen.

  "First things first," Ray said, leading Leo toward the main grill. "You're gonna learn how a pit master works."

  "I'm really more of a..."

  "I don't care what you are. On this boat, everyone learns the craft." Ray pointed at a large steel smoker positioned at the stern. "This is where the magic happens. Offset smoker. Burns real wood. Hickory today, because we're doing brisket."

  Leo studied the smoker. Thin wisps of pale blue smoke curled from the chimney.

  "The key," Ray continued, "is smoke. Real smoke. From real wood. Low and slow, two hundred and twenty-five degrees for twelve hours minimum." He jabbed a finger at Leo. "You know what the enemy of good barbecue is?"

  "No?"

  "Liquid smoke." Ray spat the words like a curse. "The devil's own marinade. Some people think they can just brush that garbage on a piece of meat and call it smoked."

  He shook his head with genuine disgust. "Those people are going to hell, Leo. Straight to hell, where they will be forced to eat their own liquid-smoked abominations for eternity."

  "That seems harsh."

  "It's not harsh enough." Ray opened the smoker's firebox and added a chunk of hickory. "Real smoke works its way into the meat over hours. Forms a bark. Renders the fat slow and even. Liquid smoke just sits on the surface like a lie."

  He closed the firebox and turned to Leo. "You can taste the difference. Anyone who says they can't is either a liar or has destroyed their taste buds with too much liquid smoke."

  "Is there a support group for liquid smoke victims?"

  Ray stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed. "I like this kid, Tommy."

  For the next twenty minutes, Ray walked Leo through the fundamentals of smoking. Maintaining consistent temperature. The difference between dirty smoke and clean smoke. How to read the color coming from the chimney to know if your fire was burning right.

  "Uncle Ray takes this very seriously," Tom said, handing Leo a bottle of water. "He competed on the circuit for years before he retired."

  "The circuit?"

  "Professional barbecue competition. It's a whole thing. Prize money, rankings, sponsorships. Uncle Ray was top ten in the country for brisket back in his prime."

  Ray waved dismissively. "That was a long time ago. Now I just do this for fun." He handed Leo a slice of brisket. "Taste."

  Leo bit into the meat. Tender enough to fall apart on his tongue, smoky and rich, with a peppery bark that crunched between his teeth. It was the best thing he had ever eaten.

  "This is incredible," he said.

  "Damn right it is." Ray beamed. "Now, let me show you the ribs."

  The afternoon wore on. Leo learned about the different types of wood and their flavor profiles. Hickory for beef. Apple for pork. He learned about things like dry rubs, marinades,and the proper way to wrap a brisket in butcher paper versus foil.

  At some point, someone handed Leo a plate piled with pulled pork, coleslaw, beans, and cornbread. He ate it on the deck, watching the flow of people across the boat and the parking lot beyond.

  Cultivators moved between vessels carrying plates of food like trick-or-treaters on Halloween. A group from the Florida yacht had wandered over to trade samples of their smoked mullet for slices of Ray's brisket.

  The pre-game coverage droned on in the background.

  "And that brings us to the question everyone's asking," one of the announcers was saying. "Yale is ranked number three in the country. They've got Leo Chen, the hero of Boston Catacombs, arguably the closest thing to an NFL-caliber flyer in collegiate athletics. So why aren't they number one?"

  Leo glanced at the screen. His own face stared back at him, a photo from last season's championship game.

  "The answer," the second announcer said, "is two words. Mateo Thandril."

  The image shifted to show Mateo. Grey eyes, perfect features, and a classic smile. He was wearing Harvard crimson and holding a greatspear.

  "Harvard's Divine Child reached Foundation Establishment over the summer. Sources say he can manifest divine pressure. Meanwhile, Leo Chen remains at Qi Refining. That's a full major realm of difference."

  "Last year, Chen beat Thandril at the High School Championships. But that was when they were closer in cultivation. Now?" The first announcer shook his head. "It's hard to see how Yale competes."

  "Which brings us to the other factor. Texas A&M at number two. They've announced that their players will be wearing additional protective armor this season."

  "Additional armor? Over their uniforms?"

  "That's right, Jim. The rules were amended this summer specifically to address the Mateo Thandril situation. Any team can now equip their players with supplementary defensive formations, provided those formations are specifically designed to resist divine pressure."

  "How is that fair? That's giving some teams a massive advantage."

  "The argument is that without it, any game against Harvard would be a cakewalk. Mateo's divine pressure can disable Foundation Establishment cultivators at range. The armor is meant to level the playing field."

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  "But how do they verify that teams aren't slipping in additional formations? Offensive enhancements disguised as defensive gear?"

  The second announcer laughed. "Well, there's a reason Texas A&M is ranked number two this year. Let's just say... expectations are high."

  "You're saying people expect cheating."

  "I'm saying that when the rules are changed, some things slip through the cracks."

  Ray appeared at Leo's side, watching the broadcast.

  "Don't let it get to you," he said. "Those talking heads don't know anything. They've never been on a field. Never felt the pressure of competition."

  "I'm not worried," Leo said. "I'll figure something out."

  A horn sounded from somewhere in the parking lot. Leo turned to see a fifty-foot yacht descending toward an empty space beside Ray's boat. It was painted bright orange and blue, with a massive Florida Gators logo on the sail. The name on the hull read 'Swamp King.'

  "Oh hell," Ray muttered. "Here we go."

  The yacht touched down with ease. A gangplank extended, and a man roughly Ray's age strode out onto the asphalt. He wore a Florida polo, orange shorts, and an apron that read 'Real Pit Masters Smoke Gator'.

  "Wheeler!" the man bellowed. "I heard you were here!"

  "Dawson." Ray's voice was flat. "Fancy seeing you."

  "Fancy nothing. I tracked your boat registration." Dawson grinned. "Wanted to make sure I could defend Florida's honor on our home turf."

  "Defend it from what?"

  "From that brisket I can smell overcooking from here."

  A murmur went through the crowd. People were emerging from nearby boats, drawn by the obvious tension.

  Ray's eyes narrowed. "You want to say that again?"

  "I'll say it louder if you need me to, old man." Dawson crossed his arms. "My smoked gator puts your beef to shame."

  "Gator isn't even real barbecue."

  "Neither is that dried-out hockey puck you're serving."

  For a long moment, the two men stared at each other.

  Then Ray smiled. It was a dangerous smile.

  "Challenge accepted."

  The next thirty minutes were chaos.

  Ray and Dawson set up parallel grilling stations between their boats. Each had thirty minutes to prepare their best work. Ray went with his competition brisket and racks of ribs. Dawson countered with smoked gator tail and something he called "swamp wings" that appeared to be alligator arms prepared like buffalo wings.

  A crowd gathered. Someone produced folding tables. Paper plates were distributed.

  Leo found himself pressed into service as one of the judges. He sat at the hastily arranged judges table with two dozen other people, waiting for his food.

  "This happens every year," Tom said. "Uncle Ray and Mr. Dawson have been doing this since before I was born. They act like they hate each other, but they're actually pretty good friends."

  "They have a strange way of showing it."

  "That's barbecue rivalry for you."

  The portions arrived. Leo examined his plates. Two slices of brisket on one plate, two chunks of gator tail on the other. The brisket was clearly Ray's, with that distinctive bark. The gator was lighter, with a citrus-tinged glaze.

  He tried the brisket first. It was exactly as good as he remembered. Rich, smoky, tender.

  Then the gator. The meat was firmer, almost like chicken but with a cleaner flavor. The glaze had caramelized beautifully, adding sweetness that balanced the smoke.

  Both were exceptional.

  Leo cast his vote and dropped his ballot in the collection box. Around him, other cultivators were doing the same, half of them already going back for seconds and thirds. Cultivator metabolism could handle the volume, and nobody was holding back.

  More food started to be brought out and placed all around for everyone to enjoy. There were hot dogs, hamburgers, pulled pork sandwiches, smoked chicken, grilled corn, beans, coleslaw, potato salad, mac and cheese, and at least four different types of cornbread. Someone had brought a deep fryer and was making fresh hush puppies. Someone else was distributing slices of pecan pie.

  Leo lost count of how many servings he went through.

  At one point, Tom tried to grab a beer from the cooler. An older woman, one of the alumni, slapped his hand away.

  "You're sixteen," she said.

  "I'm old enough to fight in the Catacombs," Tom pointed out.

  "And young enough to need a permission slip for a field trip." She handed him a Coke instead. "When you're twenty-one, you can drink on my boat."

  Tom looked at Leo as they walked away. "The country lets us die for them but won't let us have a beer. Make it make sense."

  "It sounds like such an injustice."

  "I totally agree."

  The votes were tallied. Ray won by three votes. He and Dawson shook hands, exchanged insults, and then sat down together to share a plate of each other's food while pretending to gag.

  The sun began to sink toward the horizon. Someone started a countdown to kickoff.

  An older man in a Yale sweater vest approached Leo.

  "You're Leo Chen," he said. "Saw you play last season. Hell of a championship game."

  "Thank you, sir."

  "So tell me." The man leaned in, eyes bright. "This is the year, isn't it? We're going all the way?"

  Leo thought about Mateo. About the Heart of Flesh Technique he couldn't understand.

  "We've been practicing hard," he said. "Every week. But Harvard is a worry. Mateo's a Divine Child."

  The old man waved a hand. "Harvard's always a worry. But you beat him once. And Coach Williams will figure something out. He always does." He clapped Leo on the shoulder. "That man's got a plan for everything. Trust in the process."

  Leo nodded. "Yes, sir."

  The man wandered off to refill his plate.

  Tom caught up with Leo. "Ready to head to the locker room? Coach wants you there in twenty."

  Leo took one last look at the parking lot full of boats. The smoke rising against the orange sky. The laughter and arguments over plates full of food.

  It struck him how quickly America had moved on. Although Operation Scorpion was declared a great victory, it came at a great cost. Just weeks ago over half a million people had died in the twenty seven Catacombs of America. Flags had flown at half-staff.

  And now here they were, arguing about brisket and gator tail, cheering for their teams, living their lives as if the war was something happening to someone else, somewhere far away.

  Part of him wanted to be angry about it.

  But watching Ray and Dawson trade insults over their food, watching families laugh together, watching strangers become friends over shared meals and shared passion, Leo found he couldn't muster the outrage.

  Maybe this was how it had to be. Maybe the ability to set aside grief and fear, to carve out moments of joy despite everything, was what let people keep going.

  The war would still be there tomorrow. The Cults would still be waiting. But today, there was barbecue and rivalry and the simple pleasure of community.

  The Heart of Flesh Technique spoke of tuning your pulse to the Great Will.

  Leo looked at the crowd. At Tom grinning beside him. At Ray and Dawson arguing. At the old alumnus heading back for his fourth helping of ribs.

  Maybe this was what that looked like.

  "Yeah," he said to Tom. "I'm ready."

  ---

  The stadium roared.

  One hundred twenty thousand voices crashed against Leo as he rose above the field on Moonrider. The Florida faithful filled the stands in a sea of orange and blue.

  They were doing the Gator Chomp. Arms extended, hands snapping open and closed in unison. The motion rippled through the crowd in waves, section after section joining the rhythm as one organism.

  Leo had thought the high school playoffs were loud. He clearly was not prepared for this.

  This was college Flying Aces.

  "Form up!" Harry's voice cut through the noise, carried by the microphones embedded in his helmet. "Diamond pattern, standard rotation!"

  Leo slotted into position behind and to the right of the captain. Vicky took the left flank. Ellie and Jimbo filled out the rear points. Five flyers moving as one, their flying swords humming in unison as they began their circuit of Yale's half of the field.

  The Yale section was smaller. Maybe fifty thousand fans clustered in the visitor's stands. But what they lacked in numbers they made up for in volume. They screamed and stomped and waved their banners with desperate energy.

  Harry led them through a barrel roll.

  The crowd loved it. Yale's section erupted.

  "Again!" Harry called. "Inverse this time!"

  The stadium lights blazed against the evening sky. Formation arrays embedded in the architecture projected the team names in letters fifty feet tall. Mascots flew overhead, a bulldog and a gator engaged in an eternal chase around the stadium's perimeter.

  The announcer's voice boomed across the stadium.

  "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE WELCOME YOUR YALE BULLDOGS!"

  The Yale section surged to their feet.

  "YOUR STARTING FLYERS: ROCKEFELLER! WALTON! CHEN! MEDICI! PARK-SINCLAIR!"

  Each name brought a fresh wave of cheers. Leo heard his own name echo off the stadium walls, strange and surreal.

  "AND YOUR STARTING DEFENDERS: WASHINGTON! ROBINSON!..."

  The announcer's voice faded into background noise as Leo looked to his right.

  There was Jimbo. A few weeks ago, they had fought together on the same transport. The man had watched Leo nearly die.

  Now he was grinning like a kid at a carnival.

  "Beautiful night for Flying Aces!" Jimbo shouted over the microphone. "You feel that humidity? Perfect for bow work. The moisture makes the arrows more accurate."

  "Is that actually true?" Leo asked.

  "Nope! But it sounds good!"

  Harry led them into a climbing spiral, gaining altitude until they hovered near the upper boundary of the playing field. From here, Leo could see the full scope of the arena.

  The two forts at opposite ends. The defensive positions where DeShawn and Darnell were already coordinating their units. The Florida flyers assembled on the far side, their orange uniforms bright against the darkening sky.

  "AND NOW, YOUR HOME TEAM, YOUR FLORIDA GATORS!"

  The orange section exploded. One hundred twenty thousand Gator Chomps, hands snapping in predatory unison.

  "YOUR STARTING FLYERS: WEBB! ASHFORD! SANTANA! CABOT! KELLER..."

  The Florida flyers rose from their side of the field. Five figures in orange and blue, trailing spiritual light as they climbed into formation. They flew in a tight, defensive group.

  Leo studied them as the announcer moved on to the defensive roster.

  Webb flew point, a heavyset man whose tower shield was dark enough that it seemed to drink the stadium lights. Ashford and Santana flanked him. Ashford carried a circular bronze shield, and Santana wore a bracer set with dark stone. Cabot hung back with a silver straight sword, and Keller brought up the rear wish a coiled black chain wrapped around his torso.

  They moved well. Crisp. Coordinated. The home crowd's energy seemed to lift them higher.

  "Listen up," Harry said. "I know we've all had a rough few weeks. I know some of us are still processing what happened in the Catacombs."

  The formation tightened slightly.

  "But that's not what tonight is about. Tonight is about starting our legendary championship run." Harry paused. "We've earned this. All of us. So let's enjoy it."

  Vicky laughed, spinning her spear in a lazy circle. "You're getting sentimental in your old age, Harry."

  "I'm twenty-two."

  Leo smiled. This was what he had missed out on at Exeter. He had been an outsider there, a mysterious transfer student who appeared from nowhere to dominate their sport. Here, he was just another member of the team. Another flyer who had trained and fought alongside them.

  Ellie drifted closer to Leo's position, her sword trailing wisps of flame. "First college game. How does it feel?"

  "Loud," Leo said. "Very loud."

  "Wait until we score. It gets louder." She grinned, that playful expression he had come to recognize during practice. "Try not to faint from the excitement."

  "I'll do my best."

  Harry raised one fist to the Yale section.

  The crowd responded in kind, roaring in approval.

  "Alright," Harry said, lowering his arm. "Let's show them what we've got."

  The starting horn sounded.