Far below Imperial City, in a chamber of lightless steel,
a young man stood still — calm, deliberate — as he turned a page in his children's book and smiled faintly.
> "They're all so predictable," he whispered. "Give them comfort, then shame, then purpose… and they call it growth.
But all I see are puppets learning to dance."
Behind him, Crassus knelt, expression unreadable.
> "Your orders?"
The young man didn't look up.
> "Deliver the offer," he said softly. "Let greed finish what guilt could not."
---
Later, as Crassus left the villa, he couldn't help thinking about what had just happened.
He had sponsored the offers himself — read them, approved them, delivered them.
And yet, a question haunted him.
If he were in the students' shoes… would he accept?
His answer was no.
But if that man had orchestrated everything, then perhaps even he wouldn't notice when his will began to bend.
He exhaled slowly. "It is done," he said into his comm.
Back underground, the young man's calm voice answered.
"You did well, Crassus. I'll be in touch. It's done — we can celebrate."
He turned toward Cairn and Melissa, who were training nearby.
Cairn's sword halted mid-swing, Melissa's spear frozen in the air.
"What is done?" Cairn asked.
The man closed his book and smiled faintly.
"Everything. The pieces are in place. The game is over."
Melissa frowned. "You mean the competition—?"
"Exactly," he said coldly. "There is no longer competition.
Because victory," he added, "only exists when there are no opponents left."
---
At the villa, the students finally opened their documents.
Each page shimmered with gold ink that read:
'Glory can be earned. But greatness… can be bought.'
Below was a crimson seal — the insignia of Belmore Devon, wealthiest man on the planet.
Each document promised something different:
Trisha: A villa in Imperial City, abundant resources, and a guaranteed shot at knighthood.
Slitah: Clearance to restore his father's reputation, full scholarship in Law and Diplomacy, and automatic placement after graduation.
Leonard: The location of all remaining members of House Falken, alongside resources to rebuild his lineage.
Velibrum: Entry into the Imperial Patrol Force, a peaceful life, permanent residency in Imperial City.
Eghosa: A private villa in Imperial City, choice of any discipline, and lifelong employment in her chosen field.
Dean Ancelot: Full sponsorship for the University of Candor — if he convinced his students to forfeit the competition.
They froze.
Because the offers didn't just tempt them — they knew them.
"How…" Eghosa whispered. "How do they know?"
No one spoke.
Training continued — harder, faster — but now their focus was divided.
Every motion carried doubt.
Would effort be enough?
Or could success truly be bought?
Dean Ancelot saw it in their eyes — the quiet war between ambition and integrity.
"You can't fight what you can't name," he murmured.
"And I can't protect what refuses to see the blade."
He raised his voice suddenly.
"Stop!"
The courtyard froze.
"I wanted to pretend this never happened," he said. "That none of you received these offers.
But that would've been selfish of me. So I apologize."
He took his own document, tore it cleanly in half, and looked each of them in the eyes.
"I made my choice the moment I saw it.
Now it's your turn. Go back to your rooms — think. Don't act out of emotion. Tomorrow, decide."
In their rooms, each student wrestled with their heart.
Slitah thought of his father — a good man ruined by false accusation.
The dream of restoring the family's name and ending the cycle of injustice pulsed through his mind.
A decision formed quietly in his chest.
Velibrum pictured peace — a quiet life, a family, no battles or burdens.
He could retire young, raise children, fade into comfort.
His hand tightened around the paper.
Leonard remembered screams — the night House Falken burned.
The feeling of helplessness.
Now, with one signature, he could rebuild everything.
The document trembled in his hand.
Trisha looked at her paper, unimpressed.
A villa, a title — meaningless next to her dying mother's disease.
Still, a whisper in her heart told her she might be selfish to reject it.
She stared at the page, torn.
Eghosa, restless and uncertain, left her room.
She knocked softly. "Sir… may I come in?"
Ancelot sat on a mat, not his bed. Even surrounded by luxury, he chose simplicity.
He looked up calmly.
"What is it, Eghosa?"
"I wanted to ask for your comm," she said. "I need to make a call."
The dean frowned.
"You know calls don't go through here. The system's restricted."
"I saw you use one yesterday," she said softly.
The air froze.
His presence darkened, voice low.
"What did you hear?"
Eghosa flinched. "Nothing, sir. I only saw you speaking — I didn't hear."
After a pause, Ancelot handed her the device.
"Your time starts now."
She dialed quickly.
"Hello? Who's this?" came a familiar voice.
She broke into tears.
"Brother… it's me."
"Eghosa? What happened? Are you hurt?"
Hearing his voice — full of worry and warmth — shattered what composure she had left.
"No, brother. I'm fine. I just needed to hear you."
He listened as she explained everything — the villa, the comfort, the offer.
When she finished, silence lingered.
Finally, her brother spoke gently.
"I understand, Eghosa. But listen to me: if you take it, you're right.
If you reject it, you're also right. There's no evil in wanting peace — only in losing yourself to it.
Whatever happens, you have me. I'll bear the burden. You focus on growing, not surviving."
She cried harder — not from fear, but from relief.
They talked until the signal broke.
Eghosa returned the comm.
"Thank you, sir."
He nodded quietly.
When she left, his gaze lingered — unreadable, heavy with thought.
Back in her room, Eghosa looked at the golden paper again.
And for the first time since arriving, she smiled faintly — confident in her decision.
The next morning, Crassus returned.
All were gathered — students and dean alike.
He entered slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
"Well," he said with a calm, eerie smile, "you all know me by now.
So I'll spare you the pleasantries."
He looked at each of them, one by one.
"Tell me," he said.
"What are your decisions?"