When their ship lit up with a red glow, their squad received the system prompt.

Just as they had observed before, being the designated cue ball meant they could cast defensive skills on their vessel, but each shield lasted only three seconds.

And once the strike landed, they could no longer shield the ship at all.

Rita had been watching carefully every time another ship got struck. The pattern was clear: if a defensive skill landed in that exact split second of impact, the hull took no damage. Collisions afterward still hurt, of course.

But if the shield failed, the ship warped violently on the hit, and judging from the pale faces of the students on board, the backlash wasn't just cosmetic.

Even so, if you asked the players, nine out of ten would still choose to be a cue ball.

Because the striker's goal wasn't to smash them apart, but to use them as tools, slamming other ships into the pockets—the black whirlpools at the corners.

Cue-ball ships couldn't move. They were battered directly, over and over. But unless someone really hated you—or you were shattered beyond use—you weren't likely to be pocketed.

Rita and Fat Goose braced themselves on deck, eyes fixed on the looming staff as it feinted closer, then slid away.

Maple Syrup gripped her weapon at the stern, ready to leap to the nearest enemy deck the moment of impact. Rita, as the strongest, would hold the helm; the others rotated as strike teams.

By the seventeenth fake-out, Rita's voice cracked in outrage. "Do they not have a time limit?! Are we just going to sit here forever while you pretend?"

The staff jabbed forward. Rita snapped up Frost Armor, her last defensive spell aside from Nebula Bubble.

And the blow stopped, half a meter from the hull.

Both she and Fat Goose, who had blown another shield too early, were flushed with fury but didn't dare curse. One lapse, one flicker of attention, and the next strike could crush them.

They held their breath. The staff slowly drew back again.

Rita used School Rule No. 801, resetting every protection spell she had just wasted.

...

"How long is Foolishness going to wind up?"

"No idea. I'm not asking. What if he smacks BS-Rita on the head out of spite?"

"He wouldn't. Too childish."

"I think he would."

"Impossible. Don't slander him. I'm a demon, you're a demon—who understands demons better?"

"…"

"…"

"See? He would."

...

By the thirty-first pullback, Rita was trembling with suppressed rage.

She muttered, "Can you hit properly or not? If not, get someone else! Half the fleet's gone already, you useless hack. Which side are you on, anyway? You even on our team, or just griefing us?"

The staff darted straight for her skull.

She reflexively snapped another barrier over herself and screamed, "Ship!"

Spectators blinked in confusion. But Fat Goose, her classmate through countless SSS training drills, understood.

He ignored Rita and slammed a shield over the yacht instead.

The staff smacked Rita hard enough to send her tumbling twice across the deck, then yanked back and slashed the bow at an angle.

The yacht spun violently, skidding in a wide arc toward the seven o'clock sector—straight into a cluster of ships, dangerously close to one of the whirlpool pockets.

Above the helm, a bar appeared: \\[Durability: 96%]

Fat Goose clung to a railing, shouting, "Why would you provoke it?!"

Rita growled back, "Don't act innocent! You and Maple Syrup were cursing worse than me in team chat!"

Motor shouted, "Wait, we can steer! The impact gave us control!"

Mistblade frowned. "But do we even know if getting hit is good or bad?"

Maple Syrup snapped, "He started it! We're not backing down. Nice work, Rita!"

The yacht hurtled into the swarm, dragging dozens of smaller boats with it, sliding across the unnaturally slick sea like pucks on ice.

The ocean was rigged. On their own, ships crawled at a snail's pace. But once struck, the friction vanished—momentum carried them like missiles.

Chaos erupted. Dozens of crews spun their wheels in panic, desperate to avoid the whirlpool.

Six ships slammed headlong into Rita's yacht. No bounce, no cushion—just raw force that shoved them only a short distance apart. Two of the crews instantly fled in the opposite direction, trying to escape the zone before it turned into a slaughterhouse.

At the helm, Rita gripped the wheel with one hand, floating above deck to stabilize herself. With the other, she hurled pumpkins that blossomed into glowing hats on her teammates.

Maple Syrup, Fat Goose, Motor, and Mistblade all launched themselves toward enemy decks.

\\[Maple Syrup]: I got a prompt. Range limited—cannot go more than 10 meters from our ship.

\\[Mistblade]: Same here.

\\[Motor]: Goose, cover me. I'm looting repair tools.

Rita split into two. Her true self guarded the helm and the seven-ball, while her shadow form danced at the bow and stern, cutting down anyone who broke past to target the yacht.

She wasn't Lightchaser. Not yet. Despite her double champion title, other students still believed she could be killed. They didn't freeze up at her presence the way they would with her teacher.

Her daggers flashed, afterimages in the air. The burning wings at her back drove panic into every opponent that dared close in.

She noticed the water. In earlier skirmishes she had heard splashes, but from this distance, blocked by other ships, she hadn't seen what happened. Only the gasps of onlookers.

Now, with enemies surging up the deck, she grabbed one caught in Brief Hibernation and hurled him overboard.

The duelists hesitated, their eyes drawn to the sea.

The boy sank slowly, his health ticking down at two thousand per second.

Rita didn't stop fighting, but she counted the numbers in her head.

One kill. Two. Three.

Her blade ended another student, and she looked back again. By now, that first boy should have shaken off the sleep effect.

The water bulged. Something was breaking the surface.

It was him.

But what broke through first was his face—twisted with terror.