Chapter 240: A Frosty Coupon! (Kofi Donation Bonus)

The main combat facility of Hall 1 was an architectural monstrosity.

Designed specifically to accommodate the destructive capabilities of hundreds of awakened freshmen, the chamber spanned over three square kilometers beneath a soaring, vaulted ceiling of reinforced hexagonal force-fields.

In the center of the hall sat Arena Prime—a massive, circular dueling platform two hundred meters in diameter, carved from solid slabs of gray granite that were enchanted with high-tier kinetic dispersion runes.

Ringing the arena were elevated spectator tiers, and within five minutes of Varien’s announcement, every single seat was filled.

Word had traveled across the academy networks like wildfire. Several hundred students—freshmen, second-years, and several bored upperclassmen who had skipped their morning weapon drills—were packed into the stands, their murmurs creating a low, rumbling hum that shook the air.

In the front row of the elite section, Nicholas Grey leaned back against the silver railing, his arms crossed over his chest, his datapad quietly recording the platform below.

Beside him, Emerald sat silently, her sharp green eyes locked onto Creed’s silhouette, her fingers lightly tapping against the hilt of her hidden daggers.

On the opposite side of the ring stood Alan Snow.

He had shed his pearl-white combat silk coat, standing now in a sleek, sleeveless dark tunic that revealed pale, wire-corded muscle. His silver rapier was unsheathed, held in a relaxed low guard.

The cold mist rolling off the weapon was so dense it created a faint, hovering cloud around his boots, frost patterns creeping across the granite floor in beautiful, lethal fractals. His face was a mask of icy, absolute focus.

And in the center of the opposite side stood Creed Walden.

He hadn’t taken off his uniform jacket. He hadn’t unbuttoned his collar. He had simply unstrapped the Pale Horizon from his back, resting the pale, bone-white spear lightly against his right shoulder, his left hand still buried casually in his trousers pocket.

His headband was tied tight, his blue eyes half-lidded, looking for all the world like a man waiting for a late bus in the rain.

Standing between them on the central crest was Instructor Varien.

"The rules of the official duel are standard," Varien announced, his voice amplified by the arena’s acoustic formations, booming across the tiers.

"Combat ends upon ring-out, incapacitation, surrender, or instructor intervention. Lethal strikes to vital organs are prohibited unless the participant demonstrates sufficient defensive measures. Weapons, arts, paths, and domains are permitted."

Varien raised his right hand, ready to drop the signal.

"Wait," Creed called out lazily.

The entire arena paused.

Varien’s hand hovered in mid-air, his brows knitting together in sharp annoyance as he glared at Creed. "What is it, Walden? Looking to forfeit your seat before the first strike?"

Creed took his left hand out of his pocket and casually gestured toward the instructor.

"Instructor Varien, let’s be real for a second," Creed said, his tone carrying that smooth, maddeningly informal swagger that made noble instructors want to tear their hair out.

"I already hold the Class Captain seat. I won it fair and square last morning under six hundred kilograms of your localized gravity. If Alan wins this duel, he gets my title, my villa, and my prestige.

But what do I get if I win? The satisfaction of beating up a guy I already tossed through three ice pillars in the pyramid? That’s a terrible return on investment."

Alan’s teeth ground together so loudly the front row could hear it. "You insolent—"

"Quiet, Snow," Varien barked, before turning his eagle-like gaze back onto Creed, his lips twitching with dangerous curiosity. "What are you proposing, Walden?"

Creed smiled—a wide, sharp, shamelessly merchant-like grin that he had perfected back in the rifts of the Infernal Ice Bastion.

"Simple," Creed said, pointing the tip of his spear toward the ceiling. "You forced me into this ring, Instructor. So if I win this match—convincingly, without letting him touch a hair on my head—I want another twenty-four-hour block in the Tier 1 Path Resonator under your personal clearance."

DEAD SILENCE.

The entire three-kilometer combat hall went utterly, completely, terrifyingly silent.

In the stands, Nicholas Grey nearly dropped his datapad. Damien Blackthorne choked on his water. Several second-year students stared at Creed as if he had just demanded the Academy Director hand over his personal bank accounts.

A twenty-four-hour block in the Tier 1 Path Resonator?!

That was a facility reserved for Gold-stage breakthrough candidates and top-ten elite seniors!

Even a Gold instructor like Varien only received six or seven days’ worth of discretionary allocation per month from the high council!

Creed had already taken one full day this morning, and now the greedy bastard was standing in the middle of a freshman ring, shamelessly trying to shake down his own teacher for another twenty-four hours?!

Varien stared at Creed for five long, agonizing seconds.

The instructor’s face went through three distinct shades of red before settling into a cold, terrifying sneer.

"You little slum-rat," Varien growled, though a dangerous, twisted spark of amusement flashed deep within his pupils.

"Your skin is thicker than the outer hull of a dimensional carrier. You think Path Resonator time grows on trees? I have four days of personal allotment left this month, and you want a quarter of it for swatting a fly?"

"A fly that you caught and put in my soup, Instructor," Creed retorted without missing a beat, leaning casually on his spear. "If you want a show for the crowd, you have to pay the actor. Otherwise, I’ll just step off the platform right now, hand him the badge, and go eat breakfast.

I’m sure the Director would love to hear how the Hope Candidate quit because the school couldn’t afford a proper incentive."

Varien let out a short, sharp bark of laughter—a sound like two iron plates grinding together.

"Fine," Varien said, his voice dropping into a low, predatory purr that promised unspeakable violence. "You want another twenty-four hours in the Resonator, Walden? I’ll give it to you. Under my personal name."

Creed’s eyes lit up. "Deal—"

"HOLD ON," Varien roared, holding up a single, massive finger.

The instructor’s grin broadened into something truly sadistic.

"You said you’d win convincingly. Well, beating a peer in a normal duel isn’t convincing enough to warrant a Gold-tier cultivation voucher. If you want those twenty-four hours, Walden... you will fight under my conditions."

Creed raised an eyebrow. "What conditions?"

Varien turned slightly, sweeping his gaze across the thousand spectators, his voice booming like thunder through the force-fields.

"You will not attack. You will not thrust, you will not slash, and you will not unleash a single offensive Art.

You must allow Alan Snow to attack you three times—completely unhindered by offensive counters—before you are permitted to make a single offensive strike!"

BOOOOM!

The spectator stands exploded.

"THREE ATTACKS?!"

"Without countering?!"

"Is Varien insane?! Alan Snow has Stage 2 Ice Intent and an elemental Art! Three full-power strikes against an opponent who can’t hit back is a death sentence!"

"He’s going to get frozen into minced meat!"

On the opposite side of the ring, Alan Snow did not look pleased.

His face was burning. A deep, humiliating, violent crimson flushed up his neck and cheeks.

He wasn’t an idiot. He knew what this condition meant.

In Instructor Varien’s eyes—in the eyes of a Gold-ranked combat veteran who had evaluated both of them—Alan Snow, the proud heir of the Snow Family, the genius who had passed the first trial with an automatic qualification, the Class Captain of the Basic Class... was considered so utterly, overwhelmingly weak compared to Creed Walden that Creed needed a three-strike handicap just to make the wager fair!

It was the ultimate, soul-crushing insult.

Alan’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth like escaping steam.

The silver rapier in his grip trembled violently, white frost exploding outward from his boots, freezing thirty meters of the granite platform in a single breath.

"Instructor!" Alan shouted, his voice cracking with pure, humiliated rage. "I do not need—"

"Shut your mouth, Snow," Varien snapped without looking at him, his gaze fixed entirely on Creed. "If you don’t like the terms, prove me wrong and put a hole through his chest on strike one. Well, Walden? Do you take the bet, or are you taking that nap?"

Creed stood in the center of the ring.

He looked at Alan, whose eyes were burning with genocidal fury. He looked at the frozen granite creeping toward his boots.

He felt the dense, unyielding weight of his newly mastered Profound Realm Path of the Mountain resting within his bones. He felt the weightless, untethered freedom of his Profound Realm Path of Freedom humming in his tendons.

Three attacks from an early Silver-stage swordsman who relied on frozen space?

To the old Creed—the Creed who had entered the pyramid with raw stats and borrowed summon power—that would have been difficult.

To the Creed who had just survived the psychic crucible of the ancient slave brand, who had stood beneath the plasma bombardment of cosmic warships and felt the tectonic weight of dying worlds...

Alan Snow wasn’t a threat.

He was a coupon for twenty-four hours of free cultivation!

A frosty coupon!

Creed slowly rested the butt of the Pale Horizon against the granite floor with a soft, resonant clink. He looked directly into Instructor Varien’s sadistic eyes, and his lips curved into a lazy, razor-thin, utterly terrifying smirk.

"Three attacks, huh?" Creed murmured, his voice smooth as silk and cold as obsidian.

He raised his left hand, tucked his fingers into a loose pocket, and tapped the shaft of his spear once.

"Deal. Tell Snowflake he can have four if he asks nicely."

Varien grinned, stepping back toward the boundary line, his arm snapping down like a falling blade.

"MATCH BEGINS!"