Chapter 471: This Conversation Happens in Private

"You’re first place entirely by accident and institutional chaos. The Sentinels slipped because Julian’s too busy being a sociopathic control freak to actually lead. The Vipers are deliberately coasting because they’re playing the long game. The Strikers genuinely don’t care about rankings. And the Phantoms are just waiting patiently for all of you to get comfortable and complacent so they can eat you alive in the arena when it actually matters."

"We won’t get comfortable."

"Good. Excellent. Because Reyna Cabana is about to make every single one of you extraordinarily uncomfortable in ways you can’t even begin to imagine." Braxton pulled out his battered tablet, tapping through screens with the efficiency of someone who’d done this briefing too many times. "She issued a formal challenge through official Academy channels. Crucible Arena. Wednesday at 1800 hours. The entire Academy population will be watching. Every instructor. Every administrator. Every guild recruiter currently on this island. It will be a complete shitshow."

The room went absolutely silent.

Jacob’s fingers froze mid-type on his keyboard.

Juan’s eyes actually opened.

Even Maki stopped purring, which was legitimately concerning.

"It’s an obvious trap," Isabelle said with the kind of clinical detachment that came from years of tactical analysis. "She’s using the formal duel structure as legitimate cover to expose whatever Satori is actively hiding from official registration. This is an intelligence-gathering operation disguised as personal vendetta."

"Obviously it’s a fucking trap." Braxton lit his perpetually-present cigarette with practiced ease. "That’s precisely why all of you are going to help him not die spectacularly on live broadcast."

"How?" Natalia’s voice had gone arctic. "Reyna’s been receiving professional S-Rank training since she was five years old. She has access to Olympic-level coaches. Custom professional-grade equipment. Corporate sponsorship. And her Aspect is specifically designed to hard-counter close-range fighters like Satori."

"Then he shouldn’t fight at close range. Problem solved."

"Incredibly helpful advice, Professor. Truly groundbreaking tactical innovation."

Braxton’s grin was absolutely feral.

"You’ve got three days to figure out the actual details. Use them wisely and try not to accidentally kill each other during training." He pointed directly at me with the kind of focus that made my survival instincts scream. "You. My office. Right now. This conversation happens in private."

Fantastic.

I followed him down the hallway to his legendary disaster of an office, stepping over stacks of paperwork and what appeared to be several weeks’ worth of takeout containers. He closed the door behind us with deliberate care, then locked it with an audible click that made my paranoia spike immediately.

Then he turned to face me with an expression I’d never seen before—serious, calculating, and completely devoid of his usual lazy charm.

"You’re not what you seem, kid."

Not a question. A statement of observed fact.

"No one is what they seem. That’s basically the human condition."

"Don’t play fucking games with me." He sat on the edge of his cluttered desk, cigarette smoke curling around his sharp features. "I’ve been doing this specific job for fifteen years. I know exactly what it looks like when someone’s hiding significant power. I can smell it."

"Everyone hides power to some degree. It’s basic survival strategy."

"Not like you do." He took a long drag, eyes never leaving mine. "You moved considerably faster against that Hydra-Lich than your officially registered stats should physically allow. You absorbed Raphael’s hits this morning like they were gentle love taps instead of attacks that should have shattered bone. And your combat recorder data from the Arboretum Gate shows abilities that don’t remotely match your registered Aspect classification."

Shit. Fuck. Goddamn it.

"What exactly do you want from me, Professor?"

"The truth would be nice for once. Novel concept, I know."

"Can’t give you that. Not yet. Maybe not ever."

"Then give me something I can actually work with." He leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Because right now, I’ve got a supposedly C-Rank student preparing to fight an internationally recognized A-Rank prodigy in front of every instructor, administrator, VHC representative, and corporate guild recruiter currently stationed on this island. Live broadcast. Permanent record. And if you lose badly—which statistical probability suggests is extremely likely—it reflects catastrophically on me, my teaching methods, and this entire guild’s credibility."

"I won’t lose badly. That’s a promise."

"You sound remarkably confident for someone who should be shitting themselves right now."

"I’m not confident. I’m clinically delusional. There’s an important difference."

He actually laughed at that—a genuine bark of surprised amusement that transformed his entire face.

"At least you’re brutally honest about your own mental state." He stubbed out his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray. "Fine. Keep your secrets for now. But understand this fundamental truth. Reyna’s not just good. She’s better than good. She’s been systematically groomed for S-Rank status since before you learned to walk. Professional training. Corporate backing. Media management. And she fights like someone who’s literally never experienced loss."

"Everyone loses eventually. It’s mathematically inevitable."

"Not her." He stood, stretching with audible pops. "She’s seventeen wins and zero losses in officially sanctioned matches. Eighty-three wins and zero losses in recorded training bouts. And she’s never even been knocked down. Not once. Not ever."

The numbers hit different when spoken aloud like that.

"So what’s your actual tactical advice here, Professor?"

"Cheat." He opened the door with absolutely zero ceremony. "Cheat better than she does. Because she absolutely will. She’s been trained by professionals who wrote the book on exploiting technical loopholes."

I walked out, mind already racing through possibilities.

Back in the common room, everyone was waiting with varying degrees of obvious concern and poorly concealed panic.

Natalia grabbed my arm the absolute second I reappeared, her grip tight enough to leave marks.

"What did he say? Exactly. Word for word if possible."

"That I should cheat more effectively."

"That’s actually excellent tactical advice."

"You think so?"

"I know so." She pulled me forcefully toward the couch, basically manhandling me into sitting. "Eat. Now. Then we’re training until you physically can’t move anymore."

"I can barely move right now. My everything hurts."

"Then we’ll make you move better through applied suffering."