Twenty senior enforcers vaulted over the velvet railings of the third row, their heavy boots slamming against the marble stairs of Classroom #1 as they charged toward VIP Mock-Auction Box #1.
At the front of the pack, nineteen-year-old senior bully Zhao Hu—a burly Rank 7 Peak chosen one with a scarred brow and a brass ring gleaming on his thumb—raised his five-foot broadsaber overhead. Behind him, nineteen other sophomore and junior loan-shark syndicate members fanned out in a crescent formation, cutting off every exit from the stage.
Inside VIP Box #2, their boss Long Batian lay unconscious on the carpet, still clutching a fifty-million-stone lump of wet ditch mud and a pink laxative coupon.
“That twelve-year-old brat bankrupted our syndicate’s entire working capital!” Zhao Hu bellowed, his neck veins bulging like knotted ropes as he channeled his full Nascent Soul qi into his throat. “If we don’t chop his hands off and force his family to sign over their star-cruiser right now, Long Batian’s uncle will skin us alive!”
“Activate the Group Brawl Halo!” shouted a hawk-nosed junior beside him. “Everyone roar the sacred war-cry together! Stack the acoustic buff to three hundred percent!”
All twenty senior chosen ones sucked in a deep breath of star-qi, puffed out their chests, and threw back their heads.
