Chapter 243: You Are Too Timid, Brother! (Kofi Donation Bonus)

The first week at the Ambassadors Academy had arrived like an avalanche and settled like an armed truce.

For the vast majority of the fresh intake, those initial seven days were an exercise in brutal, systematic humbling.

The romantic illusions of drifting leisurely between floating palaces, sipping high-grade energy teas, and being applauded as hometown prodigies had evaporated under the merciless heel of reality.

Between five-hundred-meter anti-gravity sprints, bone-grinding combat drills in the Gravity Basin, and lectures delivered by instructors who treated a shattered rib as a minor posture flaw, the freshmen were finally learning what it meant to stand on the vanguard of the Hope Alliance.

Yet, amid the groaning and the bruised pride, one name had become the absolute undisputed ghost story of the residential quads:

Creed Walden.

In the span of forty-eight hours, the rumors concerning the Hope Candidate had undergone a whiplash so severe it gave the gossip-mongers vertigo.

When he had collapsed out of the planetary survival simulation within the first hour alongside Nicholas Grey, half the student body had laughed. They sneered that a summoner stripped of his familiars was nothing more than an empty, hollow shell.

Then came the Gravity Basin.

He had dragged over six hundred kilograms of localized kinetic suppression up a sheer obsidian cliff face with his bare bones, stepping across the finish line on sheer, unadulterated grit.

And then... came the duel in Arena Prime.

The memory of that morning still caused involuntary shivers across the freshman cohort.

Alan Snow—the proud, untouchable heir of the Great Snow Family, the undisputed Class Captain of the Basic Class—had been granted a three-strike handicap by Instructor Varien himself.

Alan had poured his soul, his noble bloodline, and his life-essence into three catastrophic strikes that could have caved in a reinforced continental war bunker.

Creed hadn’t even blinked.

He had stood there with a hand in his pocket.

He shattered a forty-foot frost dragon with his bare shoulder.

He stepped out of an imploding spatial coffin without a speck of dust on his coat, and caught a light-speed blizzard lance between two casual fingers.

And when it was finally Creed’s turn to strike?

A single, silent, lazy thrust of his spear from thirty paces away had cracked the arena’s ancient wards, shredded the atmospheric barrier, and physically driven a Gold-ranked combat instructor back by three full paces.

Since that morning, Alan Snow had become a complete ghost.

The immaculate white-fur coat, the arrogant tilt of the chin, and the loud entourage of sycophants had vanished from the academy concourse.

Rumor had it the Snow Family prodigy had locked himself into the deepest seclusion chamber in the western wing, refusing food and visitors alike, his ancestral pride thoroughly ground into chalk.

Creed, meanwhile, continued to stroll through the academy with the exact same tired, half-dead expression he had carried on day one.

He wore his dark blue uniform half-rumpled.

The thick headband was still pulled down tight over his brow, hiding the non-Euclidean slave brand that throbbed in silent, icy rhythms beneath his skin.

He yawned through theoretical lectures, casually leaned against pillars during tactical briefings, and walked through the crowds like a man whose greatest existential struggle was choosing between chicken or beef for lunch.

Yet nobody laughed anymore.

When Creed walked down the central skyway, the loud-mouthed first-years lowered their voices.

When he entered a corridor, students instinctively parted like the sea before a storm.

They didn’t see an exhausted slum-kid from Section 7 anymore.

They saw a crouching tiger. A terrifying, unfathomable monster waiting patiently for someone foolish enough to step on its tail.

As the weekend bled into the start of the second week, however, the heavy, paranoid tension of the academy began to undergo a sudden, chaotic shift.

The air across the floating islands felt lighter, buzzier, charged with an intoxicating, spicy energy.

Banners woven from iridescent starlight silk were being hung from the balconies of the high spires by floating worker drones.

Holographic constellations drifted lazily through the clouds above the courtyards, projecting dancing silver auroras against the evening sky.

The Starlight Banquet was coming!

Held only once every three years to officially celebrate the incoming cohort, the Starlight Banquet was the academy’s premier social and political spectacle.

For one night, the brutal martial hierarchy paused—or rather, disguised itself in evening wear, fine dining, and velvet drapes.

And more importantly for a school populated by hormonal, hyper-competitive teenage combatants: everyone was expected to bring a date.

The entire campus had descended into an absolute scramble.

High-born youths were emptying their credit balances to buy rare cosmic corsages.

Girls were huddled in dorm lounges whispering over enchanted cosmetics.

Desperate boys were lurking near the martial training grounds trying to assemble pickup lines that wouldn’t get them blasted through a stone wall.

Even Nicholas Grey had participated, albeit in his own terrifyingly aristocratic fashion.

Just yesterday afternoon, near the marble balustrades of the Focus Hall, Nicholas had crossed paths with Emerald.

The silver-haired scion hadn’t brought flowers. He hadn’t stuttered or dropped to one knee. He had simply paused, leaned one shoulder against the balustrade with that maddeningly suave, untouchable smirk, tapped his datapad, and spoke:

"The banquet requires partners. You possess lethal tactical competence, and I possess enough social prestige to ensure no one bothers us at the buffet. Wednesday evening. Seven o’clock. Don’t wear daggers that clash with silver."

Emerald, the sharp-tongued assassin who usually greeted men with a glare capable of freezing magma, had simply paused.

She twirled a shadow-blade between her fingers, her eyes deadpan.

"If your conversation bores me, Grey, I’m stealing your cuff-links."

"A fair trade," Nicholas had replied smoothly before walking away.

It was effortless. It was cold.

It had sent half the noble girls on the upper terrace clutching their chests in quiet, suffocating jealousy.

And then... there was the cafeteria of Hall 1.

The central dining pavilion was packed to the brim. The rich aroma of roasted drake-meat, steaming dumplings, and sweet nectar pastries filled the vaulted space.

Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass arches, illuminating hundreds of students chatting animatedly about designer fabrics and invitation cards.

At a small, circular table near the rear trash receptacles sat Creed Walden and Pascal.

Pascal had his head resting flat against the polished tabletop, looking like a discarded bowling ball with ears.

His short arms were draped lifelessly over the edge, and every three seconds, a deep, tragic, world-ending sigh rattled from his chest.

"Twelve, Creed," Pascal groaned into the wood, his voice muffled by cosmic despair.

"Twelve maidens of peerless grace. Twelve heavenly beauties blessed by the divine light of the mortal realm. And every single one of them... cast me aside like a burnt scallion pancake."

Creed sat opposite him, holding a massive, double-patty prime beast-burger in both hands, casually chewing while staring at the ceiling.

"Did you open with the speech about your aerodynamic scalp again?" Creed asked around a mouthful of meat.

"It is not a mere scalp! It is the divine reflector of cosmic wisdom!"

Pascal jerked upright violently, his face flushed with tragic theatricality.

"I offered them destiny, Creed! I looked Lady Rebecca from Class 3 dead in the eyes and said, ’Fair maiden, the heavens have aligned our stars. Allow this humble dragon to escort your phoenix-like radiance beneath the stellar canopy!’ And do you know what she said?!"

Creed swallowed his bite. "She called campus security."

"She asked if I had a coupon for the hair-growth clinic!"

SLAM!

Pascal brought both chubby fists down onto the table, making their water glasses rattle violently.

"The superficiality! The sheer, unadulterated spiritual shallowness of this generation! They look upon my round, perfectly symmetrical physique and see only a potato, completely blind to the roaring draconic soul within!"

Creed reached for a fry, dipping it into red sauce.

"Pascal, you asked out a third-year senior who benches three hundred kilograms while holding a half-eaten hotdog. The fact that you left with your teeth intact is a miracle of modern diplomacy."

Pascal sniffled, crossing his arms and pouting like a deeply wronged toddler.

"You speak with great arrogance, Elder Brother, but look upon our table! What do we have? Nothing! We are two lonely wolves howling at a heartless moon!"

He leaned forward, waving his arms wildly.

"The Starlight Banquet is on Wednesday—three days, Creed! Three days! And while the other wolves feast upon romance, we shall be relegated to standing by the decorative pillars like two gargoyles in rented suits!"

Pascal suddenly paused.

His eyes narrowed. His expression shifted from agonizing despair to deeply condescending pity.

"I know your pain, Brother," Pascal whispered conspiratorially, reaching across the table to pat Creed’s forearm. "You do not need to hide it from me. I see through your mask of stoic indifference."

Creed blinked, a fry hovering inches from his lips.

"My mask?"

"Yes!" Pascal nodded solemnly, his bald head gleaming like polished jade under the chandeliers.

"You are the Class Captain! The conqueror of the Gravity Basin! The monster who made Alan Snow soil his silk trousers in front of a thousand spectators! By all rights, you should be swimming in floral invitations!

But you have asked no one. Not Lady Clara, not the fiery senior from the courtyard, no one! And why?"

Creed raised an eyebrow. "Because I don’t care?"

"LIES!"

Pascal gasped, dramatically pointing a chubby, accusatory finger directly at Creed’s nose.

"It is fear! Pure, paralyzing, maiden-induced terror!

Behind that terrifying spear-master facade beats the fragile, innocent heart of a shy country boy from the slums who doesn’t know how to speak to a girl without a weapon in his hand!

You are too timid, Brother! The mighty Creed Walden, terrified of a woman’s rejection!"

Creed stared at him for five unbroken seconds.