The fund raising gala.

Organized by new principal Alex Miller who'd been making his own headlines recently, he'd, initially, been the sole supporter of the Next Gen project.

Which entailed, having awakened heroes out in the society before they were done with school or had been given their licenses.

Although no official in their right minds would accept such an unorthodox proposal.

But... After months of meetings, calls, bribes and pulling all the strings he possibly could, he finally got some of the most notable figures to attend the gala.

Unfortunately, he couldn't take all the credit. A big part of why there have even been discussions about this was when Aegon killed a renowned hitman.

Omniblade, a hitman who has about thirty confirmed hero kills and an unknown amount of suspected kills.

The director of valor would be in attendance, prominent figures in the caa, some benevolent heads from the private sector and of course, the Mafia.

It wasn't unknown, nor uncommon, for the Mafia families to insert themselves into certain public affairs.

After all, the Mafia needed capable awakened to ensure the smooth running of its businesses. Not all awakened students would go on to be great heroes, and that was where the Mafia came in.

They'd offer the rather subpar awakened compensative offers and the rest would be history.

But on this gala, it was rumoured that one of the main Mafia families—The Moretti's daughter, Ashlynn, would be in attendance tonight.

Alex pushed his thoughts aside as he straightened his tie, smoothened the sleeves of his blazer, extended the inner shirt and stepped out into the night.

He gracefully slid into his car and made way for the school— where the preparations should already have been made.

...

The night breeze blew into his front window as he arrived at the school.

The night was quiet except from the nervous shuffles from the caterers and workers. The Adept and Ascendent students were undoubtedly preparing and the Novuses weren't allowed to be there.

He stepped into the grand hall. A hall that cost about the amount to buy a small country.

The gala hall opens like a held breath.

It's massive—cathedral-wide—but disciplined, every inch curated to scream old money restraint.

The ceiling soars high enough to make you feel small on purpose, crowned with a constellation of crystal chandeliers. Not gaudy. Surgical.

Each prism catches the light and fractures it into soft gold and ice-white shards that drift lazily across the room like obedient stars.

The walls are where the real flex lives.

They're paneled in layered marble and dark lacquered wood, veined with thin, deliberate streaks of gold that look less decorative and more… ritualistic.

Between the panels, embossed patterns spiral and interlock—ancient geometry pretending to be art.

Tall arched windows line one side of the hall, draped in heavy velvet curtains the color of spilled wine. Beyond the glass on the upper floor, the city glows—distant, muted, irrelevant. Tonight, this room is the world.

The floor is polished obsidian marble, reflective enough to double the crowd.

——♬♫♪♩

Alex stepped forward. Every step echoes faintly, swallowed by the low hum of instruments and the slow, predatory rhythm of a live orchestra tucked into a raised alcove.

Violins glide. Cellos brood. The music doesn't entertain—it sets terms.

A grand staircase coils upward at the far end of the hall, split halfway like a forked tongue.

Its banister is cold metal etched with the same wall patterns, so people descending it don't rush. They arrive. Every entrance is calculated. Every pause, a statement.

Crystal tables float around the space—round, draped in silk so white it almost glows.

He closed his eyes and could envision the regal night already.

Glassware on the tables catches the chandelier light and turns it sharp. Champagne flows endlessly, carried by servers who move like ghosts: quiet, precise, invisible unless you're looking too closely.

And the guests—

Tailored suits darker than secrets. Gowns that shimmer like restrained violence. Jewelry worn not to show wealth, but to signal lineage.

Smiles are soft. Eyes are sharp. Every laugh is a transaction. Every handshake weighs more than it should.

...

And soon after it began, the prestigious guests arrived in clean suits that cost more than what people should've made a year.

The smiles were delicate and trained as every movement was precise as if planned weeks ahead.

Alex made his rounds, the main stars of the show were yet to attend and he'd soon know why, but before then he had his eyes set on someone important.

Anthony Jackson, the director of valor. And there the man stood, bathed in the chandelier light, nursing a glass of champagne between his fingers in poise elegance.

He tilted his head slightly to see Alex raising a glass in his direction.

With a light smile, he excused himself from his previous conversation and moved to Alex.

"You actually managed to pull it off." Anthony remarked as he sipped lightly.

"I haven't pulled it off yet," Alex replied. "So, don't jinx me."

"Awakened students in the hero sector—it'd curb the problem of rise in crime, ease the ever growing hero rate and..." He paused for a second, glancing at Alex. "Put a substantial amount of money in your pocket."

"Oh, come on." Alex threw his hands up in faux innocence. "I'm merely trying to make that heroes are in abundant supply—"

"And also enrich yourself in the process." Anthony cut in. "Can I ask a question of you?" His eyes swept across the room. "How much did all this cost?

Because last I heard this hall was in Aetherion, neither was the simulation building, nor several other architectures that'd somehow emerged since you took seat."

"A man can kill two birds with one stone, director." Alex smiled. "But we both know that's not why you came here."

"True." Anthony nodded subtly. "Aegon Dhalar, the main attraction in this zoo of yours, where is he?"

"Is there a reason the director wants to meet him?" Raising a brow, Alex asked. "Is he of any importance?"

"Don't play dumb with me, Alex." Anthony's expression completely soured. "You pinned a kid against Omniblade, he managed to survive and, now you're pitting him against every crooked hero in the city and you thought no one would notice?

Why the fuck do you think the Moretti's daughter is here?"

"..."

The silence lingered for a second, Alex swaying to the rhythmic glow of the orchestra.

He finally answered.

"Because even she can't resist a show." He set the glass down and the table. "Enjoy the rest of your night, director."

——CRASH!

The orchestra faltered, the conversations died down, the waiters flinched—trying to balance the trays in their hands after the sound from the outside.

Guests exchanged curious glances at one another before a certain figure stepped through the doors.

Sharp crisp suit that clung perfectly to every part of him, his golden blonde hair slick back for a formal appearance and his smile still as sharp as ever.

"Oh, come on." He said smoothly. "It's not a party without a Paragon."

Nightwalker was here.

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