NOVPUBWilliam's stretcher wheels creaked against the stadium floor, the sound scraping through the grass like a dying animal.
His figure — battered, limp, and strapped tight — was slowly devoured by the stadium's shadows as the medical crew hustled him toward the exit.
The other students watched him go.
Some stood rigid, jaws clenched tight enough to crack. Others shuffled awkwardly, like they weren't sure if they should be staring or pretending they weren't scared.
The last glimpse of William's bloodied boots disappearing around the corner seemed to snap the spell.
Murmuring broke out, scattered and low.
"…no way anyone else is beating that guy…"
"Bro, you'd have to be suicidal…"
"…I mean, shit, William got folded like a deck chair, and he was supposed to win this whole thing…"
It wasn't loud — it didn't need to be. The cracks in their resolve spread fast, quiet like mold.
**Hooonk—**
The stadium horn blared, flattening the whispers into silence.
Then the announcer's voice rolled through the space — too bright, too formal, like a mall cop trying to direct a riot.
"The first match is concluded. Candidate Don Bright is now open for challenge once again. Should no one step forward, he may choose to continue or step down."
The words dropped like a stone into the middle of a lake. No ripples. Just sinking dread.
Idol Points: 600 → 1,050
Aura: 2,734 → 3,534
———
Aura Milestone Achieved: Aura Gaze (Passive)
Your gaze now triggers subconscious dread.
Weaker individuals are 40% more likely to submit, fear, or avoid direct confrontation.
———
Don blinked once, the world sharpening slightly.
He could already feel it.
Students looked his way — then away — as if just meeting his eyes could pull the floor out from under them. Even the ones pretending to be brave had their muscles locked stiff, like animals hoping the predator would lose interest if they just didn't move.
He passed a girl clutching a tablet to her chest — she flinched so hard she almost dropped it.
Another boy near the exit fumbled his footing just trying to sidestep out of Don's way. 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝒑𝙪𝒃.𝒄𝒐𝙢
He didn't spare them a glance.
The fact half of SHU already considered him a murderer didn't bother him.
Seeing him up close — feeling the aura bleeding off him — that sealed the deal.
To everyone's relief, he left the field without fanfare.
The students didn't so much relax as they deflated — like punctured tires barely holding shape.
The announcer's voice sputtered to life over the speakers:
"With Don Bright stepping down, we will be moving on to our next candidate."
It didn't sound triumphant.
It sounded like someone trying to convince themselves the day wasn't already over.
Inside the VIP booth, luxury warred against reality.
The chairs were plush enough to swallow lesser men whole.
The champagne still sparkled under the overhead lights.
And yet…
The atmosphere felt like a funeral without the courtesy of a corpse.
Several board members sat stiffly, faces twisted into complex expressions of fury, shame, and economic anxiety.
One particularly red-faced man squeezed the armrest of his chair like it was a Latina's ass — desperate, greedy, but ultimately powerless.
Another tapped his polished shoe against the marble floor.
Even Dean Sanchez — the human embodiment of corporate bootlicking — had abandoned his usual cheerful grovel for something approaching a frown.
They were all thinking the same thing.
William was supposed to be the ticket.
The poster boy. The champion.
The clean, marketable success story they could stamp on brochures and sponsorship deals. The kid they could turn into a pipeline of bonuses and networking dinners.
Now?
Stretched off like a bag of broken bones.
Humiliated.
Useless.
Sure, William would still get offers — but not the golden ones. No parent wanted to send their kid to a school where the "best" student got erased live on broadcast.
No sponsor wanted their logo stitched onto a walking cautionary tale.
And worst of all?
The new "best" wasn't even owned.
Don Bright didn't wear their badge.
Didn't cash their checks.
Didn't owe them a fucking thing.
If he and Charles got cleared after the casino incident...
The floodgates would open.
Other institutions would fight to throw contracts at them — and SHU would be remembered as the idiots who had them first and did nothing.
Salt in the wound didn't even begin to cover it.
It was a full surgical incision.
And as if summoned by their collective rage—
**Clink**
Charles Monclaire set down his empty champagne flute on the side table with a delicate finality.
The sound was small, almost polite. But felt louder than a gunshot.
He rose from his seat, smoothing his white jacket with a graceful flick of the wrist. Not a single hair was out of place.
Not a single emotion shown.
"Well, gentlemen," he said, his voice syrupy and unbearable, "this has been lovely. But I have other business to attend to."
He gave a languid smile — the kind that said he enjoyed every second of their suffering — and added:
"I'm sure you understand how troublesome calculating profits can be."
Dean Sanchez, to no one's surprise, tried to bolt upright like a trained dog catching a scent.
But Charles beat him to it, already stepping away.
"No need to see me out," Charles said, not even glancing over his shoulder. "I know the way."
