Chapter 237: A Hostage Situation With Floral Decorations! (Kofi Donation Bonus)

Inside Elite Hall 1, the morning lecture had concluded without further apocalypse.

Instructor Varien had spent the better part of two hours dissecting the fluid mechanics of dimensional energy dispersal, pacing back and forth before the floating obsidian blackboard like an executioner delivering a dissertation on the proper sharpness of an axe.

Creed sat through the entire thing with his chin propped lazily in his right palm, looking for all the world like a model student paying razor-sharp attention.

In reality, his mind had been running parallel simulations.

Deep within his meridians, the profound shifts from his twenty-four hours in the Path Resonator were quietly integrating.

Profound Realm Path of Freedom.

Profound Realm Path of the Mountain.

Peak Realm Path of Killing.

Stage 3 Spear Intent.

Every time he drew a breath, the ambient air felt lighter, sharper, more compliant. He didn’t have his system interface to tell him his exact combat rating, nor could he feel the lively, teasing consciousness of Lilith, Tierra, or Meredith through their dormant core links.

But he knew, with the cold certainty of an apex predator testing its claws against stone, that if he were tossed back onto the Apex Floor of the Pyramid of Dominion right now, he wouldn’t need a single second of foreplay to push Nicholas Grey off that throne.

"Class dismissed," Varien’s gravelly voice cut through the room. "Remember the foundational vectors. If I see anyone in the sparring rings flailing their Force like a broken sprinkler, I will personally tie you to the exterior hull of the academy for wind resistance calibration."

A collective shiver passed through the thirty prodigies of the Elite Class. Desks clattered, floating bags were zipped, and the room emptied with impressive haste.

Creed rose from his seat, rolling his shoulders until his spine gave off three crisp, rhythmic pops.

He adjusted the strap of the Pale Horizon spear secured across his back, smoothed the lapels of his dark blue uniform, and gestured with a flick of his chin.

"Move it, melon head," Creed said. "If we don’t hit the cafeteria before the third-years descend, the good beast-ribs will be down to gristle."

"A blasphemy! A crime against the gastronomic heavens!" Pascal gasped, scurrying out from behind his desk.

His round, polished bald head caught the artificial ceiling luminescence, gleaming like a divine golden orb. "Lead the way, O Noble Spear Lord! My spiritual vessel requires high-grade lipid reinforcement to maintain its peak draconic vitality!"

"You’re a basic-class freshman who failed to lift one hundred and sixty kilograms yesterday, Pascal," Creed sighed, stepping out of the lecture hall doors into the main transit promenade.

"The only thing your spiritual vessel is cultivating is high cholesterol!"

"Slander! Mere mortal slander born of envy for my perfectly aerodynamic cranium!"

Creed opened his mouth to deliver another scathing retort, but the words died in his throat as his boots hit the polished white flagstones of the central concourse.

The hallway was absurdly packed.

Normally, the skybridge connecting the Elite lecture wings to the central plaza was an orderly, somewhat haughty thoroughfare where high-born students walked with their noses pointed at forty-five-degree angles.

Right now, however, it looked more like the ticket lines outside the Azure Auction House.

At least two hundred students—freshmen in their blue-and-orange trims, second-years in dark combat vests, and a sprinkling of third-year elites leaning lazily against the marble balustrades—had formed a wide, suffocating semi-circle around the central fountain.

Whispers rippled through the crowd like wind through dry reeds.

"Is he really doing it here?"

"Right in the middle of the concourse? Man, the Basic Class Captain has no shame..."

"No shame? That’s confidence! He’s got the bloodline, he’s got the rank, and he passed the first trial with an automatic qualification!"

"Shh! Look, she’s about to answer!"

Creed paused, leaning one shoulder against a carved pillar, his eyebrows twitching slightly. "What kind of circus did we just walk into?"

Pascal instantly stood on his tiptoes, his neck stretching out like a curious turtle. "Oho! A romantic confrontation! A clash of hearts under the midday sun! The sacred drama of youth unfolds before our very eyes!"

In the center of the cleared circle, two figures stood opposite each other beside the dancing jets of the luminescent fountain.

The first was a young man of undeniable aesthetic perfection. He had swept-back, pale platinum-blond hair that looked as though it had been individually sculpted by an artisan who charged by the strand.

His uniform was not the standard issue; it was tailored from pristine, pearl-white combat silk, trimmed with delicate, frost-blue fur around the high collar. At his waist hung a slender, silver-sheathed rapier that radiated a gentle, bone-chilling mist.

He was holding a massive, ostentatious bouquet of crystalline Frost-Lilies—flowers that only grew in the sub-zero abyssal rifts of the Northern Bastions, each petal glistening with a faint, glittering chill that cost more credits than an average family in Section 7 saw in five years.

Creed’s eyes narrowed slightly. The face was familiar. The posture, the slight upturn of the nose, the unbearable aura of someone who believed the universe had been constructed specifically to serve as his stage...

’Wait a damn second...’ Creed thought, his memory instantly flashing back to the cold stone hallways of the Pyramid of Dominion. ’Is that... Alan Snow?’

It was. The very same Alan Snow who had used his Arena Lord authority on the first floor to dump half the floor’s energy into a ten-meter knight just to stall Creed.

The same Alan Snow who had sneered, talked about arts, and then gotten blasted through three frozen pillars by Creed’s three-path combination.

And according to the whispers in the crowd, this guy had somehow managed to swallow his pride after the pyramid, dusted off his winter coat, and clawed his way to becoming the Class Captain of the Basic Class.

Standing across from Alan was a girl.

She was petite, delicate, with long, chestnut-brown hair tied into two soft ribbons that fell past her shoulders.

Her skin was fair, her wide, honey-colored eyes framed by thick lashes, and her uniform bore the subtle silver stitching of a mid-tier noble house.

She held a leather-bound grimoire against her chest, looking down at the frosty bouquet with a mixture of embarrassment, distress, and profound discomfort.

Alan Snow smiled—a smooth, rehearsed, breathtaking smile that had probably caused half the girls in the lower bastions to faint.

"Lady Clara," Alan’s voice echoed across the quieted concourse, rich and melodious, carrying that crisp, noble cadence.

"The Starlight Banquet is only held once every three years to welcome the new academic blood. It is an evening where the stars align, and the future leaders of the Hope Alliance share their ambitions under the divine constellations. As the Captain of our class, it would be my greatest honor... if you would allow me to be your date for the evening."

He extended the frosty flowers, his posture dropping into a flawless, aristocratic bow.

The crowd erupted into collective gasps.

Several basic-class girls clutched their cheeks, practically trembling.

"He actually did it!"

"So romantic! Who could say no to the heir of the Snow Family?"

Creed stood by the pillar, his face completely blank. He glanced down at the girl, then at the flowers, then at Alan.

’Oh, brother,’ Creed thought, a heavy, exhausted sigh forming deep in his chest. ’A public confession in the middle of a school hallway with an audience of two hundred spectators? That’s not a romantic proposal, buddy. That’s a hostage situation with floral decorations!’

The girl, Clara, bit her lower lip. She didn’t take the flowers. She took a half-step back, her fingers tightening around the grimoire until her knuckles turned pale.

"I... I am deeply honored, Captain Snow," Clara began, her voice soft, trembling slightly under the weight of two hundred staring eyes. "Truly. The Snow Family’s prestige is renowned across the bastions. But... I must decline."