The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

Chapter 202: 202 | The Unmarked Heir’s Guide to Algorithmic Thirst Traps

I watched Sloane disappear down the path toward her dormitory until her pink hair became a distant smudge against the morning light. The warmth from her Aspect lingered on my skin like phantom sunlight, and through the Devotion’s Echo I could feel her satisfaction settling into something quieter as distance stretched between us.

Time to get ready for whatever Steele had planned.

The uniform was waiting in my closet where I’d hung it after Percy’s recommended staggered pickup schedule yesterday. Navy blue athletic compression shirt with the Halloran crest embroidered over the left chest in silver thread. Matching shorts that hit mid-thigh and were cut closer than I expected from institutional athletic wear. The material felt expensive against my skin, some kind of moisture-wicking synthetic blend that probably cost more per yard than most people’s entire wardrobes.

I pulled the shirt over my head and caught my reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the closet door.

The Demigod trait had been doing its work overnight.

My shoulders looked broader than they had a week ago. The compression fabric clung to definition I was pretty sure hadn’t existed three months prior, outlining the ridges of my abs and the clean V-cut of my hips in a way that made the uniform feel less like athletic wear and more like a second skin. My arms filled out the sleeves without straining them, the muscles visible beneath the navy fabric in a way that suggested capability without screaming about it.

I flexed experimentally.

The bicep that responded was genuinely impressive. Not bodybuilder massive, but dense and defined in a way that communicated function over aesthetics. The kind of arm that looked like it could actually do something rather than just existing for photographs.

Although.

I flexed again, harder this time, and turned slightly to catch the light from the window. The shadow definition that appeared along my triceps was honestly ridiculous. Like someone had hired a professional photographer to optimize the lighting conditions specifically for making me look good.

Oh wait. That was probably the Ecchi Logic trait manipulating reality to generate maximum visual appeal in contexts where I might be observed by potential romantic interests.

The System had literally made me more photogenic through supernatural probability manipulation.

I should probably feel disturbed by that. Instead I found myself making faces in the mirror like a complete idiot. The smirk that curved my lips when I angled my jaw slightly downward. The way my eyes looked darker and more intense when I let my brows drop just a fraction. The effortless confidence that the Demigod trait had apparently hard-coded into my bone structure.

I looked like someone who belonged on a billboard.

Which gave me an idea that was either brilliant or incredibly stupid, and the line between those two things had been getting progressively blurrier since I’d woken up in this body.

Marketing.

The Hero industry ran on public perception. Rankings were partially determined by approval ratings. Sponsorship deals required brand recognition. Every successful Hero operated as both a combatant and a commodity, and the ones who understood that dual nature early tended to be the ones who climbed highest.

I was currently nobody. An unknown first-year with a fake Aspect and a cover story that wouldn’t survive serious investigation. But that was the point. Nobodies who stayed nobodies didn’t attract the kind of attention that led to inconvenient questions about medical histories and inheritance patterns.

Nobodies who carefully cultivated a public presence, on the other hand, could control their own narrative. Shape what people thought they knew before anyone started digging for what they actually knew.

I pulled out my phone and opened the app store.

Five minutes later I had a brand new Instagram account with zero followers and a username that was probably too simple to have been available but somehow was anyway. System probability manipulation at work, most likely. The Scumbag’s Path apparently extended to social media availability.

The profile picture was easy. I angled my phone, found the lighting that made my jaw look sharpest and my eyes look most intense, and captured something that looked professional despite being taken in a dormitory closet reflection.

The first post was harder.

I flexed one more time for the camera, letting the compression shirt do its work of highlighting everything that was worth highlighting. The morning light from the window caught the silver of the Halloran crest and made it gleam against the navy fabric. My expression was confident without being aggressive, approachable without being soft.

The caption took longer than the photo.

First day at Halloran Academy. Combat Operations Track. The beginning of something.

Simple. Direct. The kind of thing that wouldn’t mean anything to the millions of people who had never heard of me but might mean something to someone scrolling through Hero-adjacent content and stumbling across an unfamiliar face.

I posted it.

Zero likes. Zero comments. Zero engagement of any kind.

Exactly what I expected.

Building a following took time, consistency, and content that gave people a reason to care about someone they’d never met. I had none of those things yet. What I had was a starting point, a digital footprint that would exist when people eventually started looking for information about Lukas Belmont and finding whatever narrative I’d chosen to construct.

The long game.

I put my phone away and checked the time. Eleven forty-three. More than two hours until Steele’s mysterious assessment, which meant plenty of time to eat something, review the campus map, and mentally prepare for whatever combination of physical evaluation and psychological intimidation an A-ranked Hero considered appropriate for first-year students.

The common room had descended into chaos while I was upstairs contemplating my social media strategy.

Caden had apparently won the pancake debate through sheer persistence. The kitchen area was covered in a fine dusting of flour, several mixing bowls were stacked in the sink, and the smell of something that might have been pancakes or might have been a war crime against culinary tradition filled the entire floor.

Percy stood near the bulletin board with his notebook, alternating between recording observations and looking physically pained by the disorder surrounding him.

"This is not how I anticipated the morning developing," he said when I approached.

"Pancakes?"