Chapter 239: A Cross Tier Challenge! (Kofi Donation Bonus)

A few students in the front row choked on their spit, hastily coughing to cover their laughter.

Alan’s left eye twitched violently. He ignored the insult, drawing himself up to his full height, his voice projecting across the entire concourse with booming, self-righteous authority.

"You think you sit at the pinnacle because of an arbitrary entrance score," Alan sneered, his tone dripping with venom. "You think because the examiners gave you the temporary title of Hope Candidate, you are untouchable!

But the true students of this academy know the truth! In the planetary simulation a few days ago, you collapsed in the first hour! A summoner without his pets is nothing more than a hollow shell clinging to stolen glory!" ℯℯ𝘭.

Alan reached into his uniform coat and produced a sleek, silver rectangular card—an official Academy Monthly Challenge Token.

He held it high, the runes pulsing with dull gray light.

"Under Article 4, Subsection 9 of the Ambassadors Academy Charter! I, Alan Snow, Class Captain of the Basic Class, hereby invoke my monthly right of cross-tier challenge! I challenge you to an official, sanctioned duel! Today! To prove to the entire freshman cohort that the Elite Class is nothing more than an overhyped, hollow facade!"

The crowd went wild.

"A cross-tier challenge!"

"Basic Class Captain versus Elite Class Captain!"

"Holy shit, on the fourth day of school?!"

Creed didn’t even take his hands out of his pockets. He looked at the silver card, then looked at Alan’s furious face, and let out a long, wheezing sigh that sounded like a deflating balloon.

’I don’t have time for this,’ Creed thought miserably. ’I have a secret meeting with Nicholas at eight tonight to blackmail a Student Union secretary. My forehead brand is currently acting as a multidimensional radio receiver.

My summons are asleep in cocoons. And now I have to fight Snowflake because some girl with nonexistent melons looked in my general direction?

No. Absolutely not. I am declining. I am going to the cafeteria, eating ten pounds of beef, and taking a five-hour nap.’

Creed took a breath, his lips parting to deliver a calm, flat, utterly dismissive "No."

Before a single sound could leave his mouth, a small, round silhouette exploded forward from behind him.

"HE ACCEPTS!" Pascal roared at the top of his lungs.

Creed froze.

Pascal had leaped directly into the empty space between Creed and Alan, his short legs planted wide, his chest puffed out like a proud pigeon, both hands resting dramatically on his hips while his bald head gleamed under the chandeliers.

"THE HEAVENS HAVE HEARD YOUR CHALLENGE, FROST-WORM!" Pascal bellowed, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling like a broken trumpet.

"How dare a mere winter toad presume to gaze upon the divine dragon of the academy?! My elder brother, the peerless sovereign of the spear, the crusher of the pyramid, the breaker of hearts, accepts your pathetic invitation! We shall use your frozen tears to water our morning tea! PREPARE YOUR FUNERAL SHROUD!"

Alan’s eyes flared with savage, triumphant satisfaction. "Excellent! The challenge is sealed!"

The crowd cheered, already pulling out their datapads to broadcast the news across the student forums.

Meanwhile, the world seemed to slow to an agonizing crawl for Creed Walden.

He slowly, mechanically turned his head down toward Pascal. His eye was twitching so violently it felt like a telegraph machine tapping out an SOS.

’You bald, treacherous, potato-shaped son of a bitch,’ Creed screamed internally. ’I literally saved your virginity from an angry hammer-wielding senior two hours ago! Two hours! And this is how you repay me?! By signing me up for a public gladiator match on an empty stomach?!’

Creed slowly turned his gaze away from Pascal, away from Alan, and looked directly forward—not at the students, not at the walls, but straight into the empty air, staring directly at the invisible lens of reality itself.

He sighed, rubbed the bridge of his nose beneath his headband, and spoke in a quiet, deadpan murmur that only the cosmos could hear.

"Look, guys," Creed said, his voice flat with profound exhaustion. "I know. Alright? I know. You’re reading this right now, shaking your heads, thinking, ’Wow, Creed, really? The classic jealous young-master challenge in the school hallway because a girl looked at you? Could this plot possibly get any more cliche?’

And to that, I say: I am so, so sorry. I didn’t write the script. If I had a pen, I would have had this guy slip on a banana peel and fall off the floating island.

But the universe demands its tropes, and apparently, my bald mascot is contractually obligated to ruin my morning nap. Please don’t drop your ratings. I promise I’ll hit him really hard."

Pascal blinked, glancing over his shoulder with genuine confusion. "Elder brother... who are you talking to? Are you communing with the ancient spirits of the void again?"

"I’m communing with my desire to turn your scalp into a bowling ball, Pascal," Creed hissed through clenched teeth.

He turned back toward Alan, his expression darkening as he prepared to crush the whole farce.

"Listen, Snow," Creed began, raising a hand with cold authority. "I don’t know what kind of fantasy novel you think you’re living in, but I have zero interest in your monthly challenge. Take your flowers out of the fountain, take your wounded ego, and go—"

"Now, now, Class Captain Walden," a deep, amused voice rumbled from the lecture hall doorway, cutting through Creed’s dismissal like a heavy broadsword.

"It is poor form to deny the passionate ambition of your fellow freshmen."

Creed’s heart sank like an anvil dropped into an ocean trench.

The crowd parted once more, bowing their heads with instant, fearful reverence.

Stepping out from Hall 1 was Instructor Varien. The Gold-ranked combat instructor had his hands tucked behind his back, his sharp, eagle-like eyes gleaming with pure, unadulterated predatory excitement.

He looked like a man who had been promised a boring day of grading papers, only to stumble upon a dogfight in his backyard.

"Instructor Varien!" Alan instantly bowed, saluting with crisp military precision. "As Captain of the Basic Class, I have formally invoked Article 4!"

"I heard, Snow," Varien said smoothly, coming to a halt between the two youths. He glanced at Alan, then turned his gaze toward Creed, a dangerous, mocking smirk playing at the corners of his scarred lips.

"A cross-tier challenge on day four. Rare. Refreshing. The academy’s martial spirit has been far too dormant since the planetary simulation."

Creed stared at the instructor, his jaw set tight. "Instructor, with all due respect, this is a petty personal dispute—"

"There are no personal disputes in the Ambassadors Academy, Walden," Varien cut in, his voice ringing with absolute authority.

"There is only strength, and there is the hierarchy that reflects it. If the Basic Class Captain believes the Elite Class is resting on unearned laurels, the academy provides the stage to test that hypothesis. And as the overseeing combat instructor for the freshman cohort... I will personally officiate."

The students erupted into absolute chaos.

"Varien is officiating?!"

"An official Gold-ranked record duel!"

"To the combat wing! Clear the rings!"

Varien didn’t wait for Creed’s consent. He turned on his heel, his grey cloak billowing behind him. "Combat Wing, Hall 1. Arena Prime. You have ten minutes to stretch, gentlemen. Don’t disappoint me."