He made his way past the sea of murmuring students, their whispers a dull hum. The entrance to the Genius Class corridor beckoned, a quiet promise of solitude. He wanted to get there, but a sudden flash of movement caught his eye. The older girls, the ones who had stared at him moments before, now approached.
"He's mine!" A sharp voice cut through the air.
Andrew paused. He recognized her. One of the girls from the Matriarchy checkout, her dark hair a severe frame around her angular face.
Then another voice, equally commanding, joined the fray. "You wish! Such a treasure belongs to the Dizen Family." This girl, perhaps thirteen, wore the distinctive crest of the Dizen Family on her pristine blue robe. Her eyes, sharp and assessing, fixed on Andrew.
"The Hammed Family has first claim!" A third girl, a year or two older than the Dizen girl, stepped forward. Her voice dripped with an air of inherited authority. Her dark skin shimmered against the sun, a rich contrast to the other girls' paler complexions.
"Don't make me laugh," the final girl scoffed. "Everyone knows the Kerman Family is the strongest. He'll be ours." This one, the oldest of the four, had a glint in her eyes that promised trouble.
They surrounded him, their voices escalating into a cacophony of possessive declarations. Each claimed him as a prize, a potential mate, a future servant to their powerful families. Their bickering grew louder, drawing the attention of other students. Andrew felt a familiar annoyance prickle. He had no time for such trivial displays.
"Quiet!" His voice, though young, carried an unexpected weight. The bickering stopped, replaced by surprised silence. He met their gazes, one by one. "I will choose myself."
A ripple of laughter followed his statement. The Hammed girl, her head tilted back, let out a particularly derisive peal.
"You'll choose yourself?" the Dizen girl, the thirteen-year-old, smirked, stepping closer. Her voice dropped, a predatory murmur. "I'll be forging my bones soon. What will you do if I simply take you by force?" A glint of challenge, raw and unflinching, sparked in her eyes. The implication hung heavy in the air.
A woman from the academy, a senior representative in robes of deep violet, had been observing the commotion from a distance. She now approached, a knowing smile playing on her lips. Her eyes held a flicker of amusement, a silent appreciation for the unfolding drama.
"He is halfway through forging his organs, young one," the academy representative stated, her voice quiet but piercing. The words hung in the air, a sudden, chilling revelation.
The laughter died. The self-assured smiles vanished. The girls, their faces suddenly blank, stared at Andrew, then back at the academy representative, then at Andrew again. A prolonged silence descended upon the courtyard, broken only by the distant chirping of birds. Their mouths hung open, their initial bravado deflated, their expressions dumbfounded. The concept of an eight-year-old forging his organs was unfathomable. It was a level of cultivation that few achieved before their teens, let alone a mere child. The weight of her words settled over the crowd, stilling every whisper, every movement. The air crackled with a new kind of respect, tinged with a healthy dose of fear.
"I would consider you my sworn enemy," Andrew said, his voice flat, his gaze unwavering. He had no time for empty threats. The Dizen girl's jaw went slack. The flush on her cheeks deepened, an angry mottled red. Her eyes, wide with disbelief, flickered to the academy representative, then back to Andrew. Her composure, so meticulously crafted moments before, fractured.
A low, insistent hum, imperceptible to anyone but her, vibrated in her ear. Her eyes darted away from Andrew, a sudden deference in their depths. The academy representative, a faint, knowing smile still playing on her lips, observed the exchange.
The Dizen girl swallowed hard. Her head dipped, a subtle, reluctant acknowledgement. She bit her lip, rage still simmering beneath the surface, but a thread of caution now intertwined with it. Her gaze drifted back to Andrew, no longer predatory, but speculative.
"I choose myself," Andrew announced again, his voice now ringing with newfound authority. He swept his gaze across the faces of the four girls, then at the gawking students. He saw confusion, curiosity, and a reluctant admiration. He was used to being underestimated, being seen as a child. No more. Not today.
The girls, accustomed to a world where men were things to be acquired, used, and discarded, stared at him. Their grandmothers, mothers, and aunts had all built their power on the subtle art of extraction, draining men of their semen, then setting them aside. They had seen men bend, break, and beg. Never had they encountered such unyielding resolve, such raw, untamed masculinity from someone so young. This boy, barely more than a child, spoke of choice, of self-determination, concepts alien to their ingrained worldview. The power dynamic, so clear just moments ago, had shifted irrevocably.
The Hammed girl, her earlier laughter now a distant memory, unconsciously tugged at the hem of her opulent robe. Her mouth, usually quick with a sarcastic quip, remained shut. The Kerman girl, the oldest, her eyes still sharp, now held a flicker of surprise, bordering on respect. The fourth girl, the one who had first proclaimed ownership, looked as if she had swallowed a mouthful of sour fruit.
Andrew turned, dismissing them all with a decisive movement. He began to walk towards the Genius Class corridor, the murmur of the crowd rising in his wake like a tide. He expected to hear protests, more claims, but they remained silent. He heard only the whispers, low and awed.
He reached the entrance to the corridor. The academy representative, her robes swishing softly, followed him. She stopped just inside the arched doorway, her gaze sweeping over the silent crowd.
"This young man," she declared, her voice carrying across the courtyard, "has demonstrated exceptional talent. He will be joining the Genius Class. Any further… negotiations regarding his future will be conducted through official channels, with due respect for his accomplishments." Her tone was light, but the underlying warning was clear. The unspoken threat, the power of The Matriarchy, hung heavy in the air. The girls shifted, their faces a mask of sullen obedience. The crowd dispersed, their whispers now carrying a new tale.
Andrew entered the quiet corridor. The heavy oak door swung shut behind him, muffling the last remnants of the chaotic morning. The silence was a welcome balm. He had made his statement. He had asserted his will. He had, for the first time, truly chosen himself.
The new students, a small group of six, followed the academy representative through the labyrinthine corridors. Their footsteps echoed on the polished floors, a rhythmic counterpoint to the distant sounds of the academy. Andrew walked at the tail end of the group, his senses alert, absorbing every detail. The corridor opened into a spacious classroom, bathed in the soft glow of natural light filtering through tall arched windows.
Around twenty girls already occupied the tiered desks, their forms small and intent. A few empty seats dotted the room. Andrew's eyes scanned each face, a quick assessment of his new classmates. Most returned his gaze with an open curiosity, some with blatant interest. Seven girls had vacant seats next to them.
He spotted two girls, however, who actively avoided his stare. One had her head buried in a book, a shield against the new arrivals. The other, her back ramrod straight, stared intently out the window. Her cheeks, though, held a faint pink hue, a telltale sign of concealed awareness. She was pretty, with long, dark hair tied back in a neat braid. A spark of amusement ignited in Andrew.
He strode towards her, ignoring the expectant looks of the other girls with empty seats. The rustle of his clothes, the soft thud of his steps, seemed amplified in the quiet room. He reached the vacant chair beside her. He pulled it out, a soft scrape across the floor, then settled in. The girl's blush deepened, spreading across her neck. She squeezed her eyes shut for a brief moment before opening them again, still staring resolutely out the window. Her fingers, fine and delicate, fiddled with the edge of her pristine white tunic.
"Why did you choose her?" a voice cut through the silence.
Andrew turned his head to see a girl, a few rows ahead of him, her hair a wild cascade of auburn curls, her eyes sharp and direct. She sat beside an empty seat, her posture radiating an open invitation. Her voice held a hint of indignation, a challenging note.
Andrew met her gaze, a faint smile playing on his lips. "When you understand the answer to that question," he replied, his voice soft, yet clear, "I will sit beside you."
The girl's challenging expression faltered. Her eyebrows drew together, a frown creasing her forehead. She opened her mouth to retort, then closed it. A wave of confusion washed over her face. She exchanged a quick, bewildered glance with the girl next to her, who just shrugged, equally perplexed. The other girls in the class watched the exchange, a buzz of low whispers starting to ripple through the room. They, too, sought meaning in Andrew's cryptic answer, trying to decipher the unspoken logic behind his choice.
The girl beside him, the one with the rosy cheeks, remained motionless, her eyes still fixed on the world outside. Only a faint tremble in her hand, as it continued to smooth the fabric of her tunic, betrayed her agitation. She seemed to hold her breath, as if any movement, any sound, might shatter the fragile silence between them. Her blush intensified, a deeper crimson painting her face. It was a silent affirmation, a response to his words, even if unspoken. The attention of the entire room now focused on them, a palpable weight in the air.