Zane caught the water bottle mid-air and downed it in one go. After crushing the bottle and tossing it aside, he let out a long, satisfied yell.
"Yaaahoooo! This feels amazing!"
Shelby joined in with a loud cheer.
"Hell yeah! Nothing beats the feeling after brutal training!"
The two burst into wild laughter, howling and mimicking animal cries—unleashing all their tension in a chorus of madness and release.
"Little girl!" Shelby shouted between laughs, "Why don’t you join the mont? This kind of high doesn’t co every day! You’ve got to go all out while you can. This place is private. No one’s watching. Co on, join us!"
Their cheering continued as they basked in the full spirit of their "Josh mont."
Erlin was almost swept away by their contagious energy. Almost.
But she snorted and turned her head with a pout. "Boyz..."
What’s seriously wrong with them? she wondered. There must be a reason they’re acting so clumsy and loud.
This wasn’t her first ti witnessing this kind of behavior. Back when they were riding the Corrupted Beast through the skies, both of them had acted the sa way—as if they’d been liberated, throwing away every care in the world.
She turned her eyes back toward them, thoughtful.
And she was right.
Shelby was the one encouraging Zane to open up, to let loose, to experience monts of reckless freedom.
But when Shelby looked back at her with a fleeting seriousness, that carefree glint in his eyes vanished.
He knew too well how Zane had been raised. He knew the weight of the bla, the curses, the expectations that had crushed the boy’s heart for years.
No amount of laughter would heal all of that. Not entirely. But maybe, just maybe, monts like these could help Zane navigate through the darkness... even if only a little.
Shelby clenched his jaw.
I still don’t want him to go down the path of revenge... not against that bastard father of his.
Zorro Carter is a lost cause, he thought. Whatever he did—whatever he touched—always ended in disaster. I don’t want you to end up like the masked lady, boy. I don’t want you bitten by the sa snake.
This thought rang in Shelby’s head every ti he saw that flicker of sadness hiding behind Zane’s confident face.
He never managed to say it aloud.
Boy, you’re the most stupid, stubborn fool I’ve ever t... and yet...
Even without words, Erlin could sense sothing was off. Her sharp eyes caught it—the lingering emotion Shelby didn’t show, the pain Zane pretended not to feel.
Sothing’s amiss, she thought. Even my Zane is hiding sothing from .
She didn’t plan to push him.
Instead, she made up her mind — she would ask Shelby when Zane wasn’t around.
anwhile, inside the Fresher et Village, the man of the hour — the current Head of the Academy — Director Aaron was enjoying his evening tea.
Facing him sat a broad-shouldered figure, equally focused on his cup. It was Pudge Mordinga, the newly appointed dean and the owner of the Rusty Mug tavern in Whistler Town.
The way they sipped their tea was steeped in cultural elegance — refined, deliberate, ancient.
Other than the occasional tink of porcelain or the soft pour of tea, the room was silent.
For hours, not a single word passed between them.
Director Aaron finally drank the last drop and murmured,
"I thought you wouldn’t co."
"Why wouldn’t I?" Pudge replied, his sharp eyes glinting as he sipped again — his gaze as piercing as a sword.
Only Director Aaron could remain unfazed under that pressure.
Even in silence, they had been clashing — law against law, tension beneath the surface. The sharpness in Pudge’s gaze wasn’t ordinary; it carried a law of its own. And Aaron, for his part, was neutralizing it effortlessly.
Hidden in every syllable, every motion, every pour — their battle of laws raged unnoticed.
To the unaware, they looked like two old friends enjoying tea.
But in truth, it was a duel veiled in etiquette.
"Why wouldn’t I?" Pudge repeated, gulping down his sip. "This is an outrageously expensive and damn fine tea. Only a fool would reject such an honorable invitation."
His voice shimred with hidden force — a subtle law laced into his tone.
Director Aaron lifted the kettle and poured more steaming tea into Pudge’s empty cup. Even the sound of the stream hitting porcelain carried a counter-law, breaking the rhythm of Pudge’s.
"You’re good with your laws," Pudge said, accepting the refill.
"So are you. How many have you developed?" Aaron asked with a faint smile.
"Not sothing I’d share. Just like you won’t tell yours."
He leaned forward, his voice firr. "Anyway, it’s been hours. Let’s cut to the point."
"I thought you ca just for the tea."
"I ca for the big announcent."
"The one about your acquisition of House Drakon?"
Pudge nodded.
"Well then, are you prepared to give your speech?" Director Aaron grinned, showing his sharp white molars.
"Always ready. Now tell —how much of a share do I get?"
No preamble. No gas. Just raw, direct power.
Aaron chuckled and replied evasively, "Quite a generous portion. You had the funds, and House Drakon lacked sponsors. A good acquisition."
"I want the exact number."
Aaron sighed.
"After the big battle, you’re entitled to 75% of House Drakon’s shares. All in your na."
Pudge’s brow furrowed.
"Only 75%? Why? Did every coin in my account dry up just to buy out a crumbling faction like House Drakon?"
This ti, the laws embedded in Pudge’s tone and gaze weren’t friendly — they pressed harder, more forcefully than before.
The Director calmly took out his glasses and slid them on.
"Hardly," he replied, effortlessly countering the oppressive laws with his own.
He added, as new waves of law energy continued pressing in on him, "Forget the assets. I doubt even a quarter of the money on that card was actually spent to secure those shares."
With a faint smile, he reached into his pocket and tossed a card toward Pudge.
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