Chapter 8: DoomDash

Ares is the God of War, slaughter, and unbridled chaos. Naturally, his Awakeners are not known for their even tempers.

In the squad room on the top floor of the elite dorms, Bore stares at his phone screen. His crimson hair is literally sparking with aggressive divine energy. He reads his direct messages. Then, with a roar, he kicks a heavy mahogany chair straight through the reinforced glass wall.

CRASH.

"What the fuck is this?!" Bore bellows, his voice echoing like a cannon.

"Who stepped on our War God's precious ego?" a lazy, melodic voice drawls.

Philo—the Poseidon Awakener—leans over from the adjacent sofa. His vibrant blue hair catches the light as he tilts his head, catching a glimpse of Bore's screen. A permanent, arrogant smirk plays on his lips. Then, he bursts into a fit of ringing laughter.

"Oh, my gods. Are you serious? She didn't just ask for a sparring f*e, she practically demanded your entire inheritance! She isn't too scared to fight you, Bore. She's just trying to legally rob you."

"Bore," a cold voice cuts through the laughter.

In the corner, Vera meticulously wipes down her silver-plated longbow. As a Dark Elf, her deep purple eyes hold absolutely zero amusement.

"The freshman just awakened today," she says, her tone as flat as a frozen lake. "She cannot control her energy yet. If you crush an S-Class Awakener on her first day, Dean Nox will personally feed you to the Hellhounds."

"It's a shame," Philo sighs, kicking his chair into a slow spin, interlacing his fingers behind his head. "It'll take at least a year or two before she's strong enough to be fun. I'm so bored. So incredibly bored."

"If you're bored, go take a bounty," the Dark Elf says, standing up and slinging the heavy bow over her shoulder. "If neither of you are going, I'll take a solo infiltration mission."

Bore scoffs, running a hand through his fiery hair. "What's the point? There's not a single decent opponent left on the board. I'm sick of crushing weaklings."

Vera walks toward the exit. She pauses, looking back over her shoulder with an icy glare. "If you want a thrill, go challenge the top three on the Credit Leaderboard."

As the doors hiss shut behind her, Philo winks at Bore. "Vera has a point, you know. Raphael happens to be back on campus. Why don't you go pick a fight with him?"

Bore sneers, crossing his muscular arms and throwing his boots up onto the table. "You think I'm scared of him? What did that bastard bring back from his latest trip, anyway?"

"I heard he brought back a 99% Purity Werewolf. Feral thing. Acts like a rabid dog," Philo murmurs, a cruel, entertained smile playing on his lips. "Raphael didn't even bother enrolling him in the Academy. Just threw him straight into the underground hunting arenas to act as his personal attack dog. Truly...what an idiot."

---

Meanwhile, in room 306, I remain blissfully unbothered by the rage I just incited.

In the assassination business, you never admit you can't handle a hit. It makes you look weak.

Instead, you quote an astronomical, downright offensive price. It forces the client to back down while perfectly preserving your professional arrogance for future collaborations. Basic sales psychology.

Besides, fighting a Level 5 meathead as a Level 0 is essentially a death sentence. Charging a billion credits and a thousand Academy Points as a hazard f*e is perfectly reasonable, right?

Lying on my standard-issue bed, I stare up at the ceiling. For exactly two seconds, a brief flash of nostalgia hits me. I think of my clan of cold-blooded killers back home. Then, the feeling vanishes, replaced by a surging, intoxicating thrill.

Back home, I was just the "Young Boss." I was an heir burdened by old men and ancient rules, staring down a twenty-year wait just to actually take the throne. But here? I'm a blank slate. I can build my own empire from the ground up. I can be the Founder.

And since it's my empire, I get to name it. No more of my family's overly serious, traditional nonsense. I need something catchy. Something modern. Maybe I'll call it...DoomDash. Slogan: Delivering takeout, pain, and your soul to the afterlife in thirty minutes or less. Or maybe SkipTheLiving?

The ideas keep flowing, and the Chaotic Evil energy in my blood hums in response. I can't sit still. I hop off the bed and pace the room, my mind buzzing with business plans, pricing tiers, and monopoly strategies.

Needing some fresh air, I wander out onto my balcony and glance down. Directly below me, a mop of soft blond hair is leaning against the second-floor railing.

"Hey," I call out, leaning over the glass.

Arlo flinches, then looks up. His eyes are bright, clearly riding the same post-Awakening high that I am.

The arrogant elites might think his 20% Asclepius bloodline is an impure joke, but Arlo isn't stupid.

He's done his research. In the Academy's brutal history, there have been rare instances of Awakeners suppressing their dominant traits to force a secondary bloodline to flourish.

If he can mentally lock himself onto the Healer path before his divine energy settles—and pump himself full of high-grade genetic serums—he might just shed his useless Narcissus shell entirely and become a true God of Medicine.

The sheer possibility has transformed him. He doesn't look like a trembling victim anymore. He looks like a boy with a plan.

"Heading to the training room?" I ask.

Arlo nods eagerly. "Yes!"

According to the campus map on the forum, the Academy has multiple training facilities split into 'Free' and 'Paid' zones.

I need to test out my new Death God stats, and Arlo needs to figure out how to be a Healer instead of a flower vase, so we head straight for the primary Training Center.

The lobby is a sprawling masterpiece of white marble and sleek metal. But the front reception desk is completely empty.

I tap my fingers against the marble counter. A moment later, a tall figure walks briskly out of a back room, her face set in an expression of absolute, freezing indifference.

An Elf Awakener.

The Elf race is a massive faction in mythology, and the girl walking toward us is undeniably a Dark Elf. Her skin is a flawless, intoxicating shade of deep, silky obsidian. Her long hair is the color of midnight, and delicate, dark-silver cuffs trace the elegant, pointed tips of her ears.

She moves with the silent, lethal grace of an apex predator.

Then, without saying a word, she reaches under the pristine marble counter, pulls out a cheap, crooked plastic name tag, and clips it to her tactical vest.

[TEMP WORKER].

The contrast is so tragically funny I almost snort. I lean my elbows on the high counter, flashing her my most brilliant, shameless customer-service smile.

"Hi there, Darling! Could you explain the difference between the training zones for us?"

The Dark Elf pauses. Deep purple eyes sweep over me, then over Arlo. Her gaze briefly catches on the silver Freshman badges pinned to our jackets.

This is Vera. And she immediately recognizes us. We are the two gate-crashing rookies who just caused a massive earthquake on the forums and pissed off the War God.

Vera's eyes narrow slightly. I clearly don't look like a terrifying Death God to her. I look like a smiling, pint-sized scammer.

"The Free Zone is on basement level one," Vera says, her voice chillingly efficient, like she'd rather shoot me than speak to me. "It has basic physical conditioning equipment and F-Rank Divine Energy simulation fields. During peak hours, you have to fight for a spot."

"And the Paid Zone?" I ask.

Vera raises a slender hand, tapping her dark fingertips against the holographic screen built into the desk.

"Level One Paid Zone is on the first floor. It features E-Rank to D-Rank simulation fields and interactive Zerg swarm battlegrounds. It costs two credits per hour."

My eyes drift away from the hologram and land on a sleek, ATM-like machine sitting against the far wall. "What is that?"

"A recharge terminal," the chocolate-skinned Dark Elf replies coldly. "You can exchange outside cash for Academy points there."

Great.

After paying my tuition and Dean Nox's ridiculous gate-repair fine, my real-world bank account is basically on life support. Plus, there is a giant neon sign literally pointing at the machine, explaining exactly what it does.

I didn't actually need to ask. I'm just making small talk.

I'm broke, I'm bored, and my Chaotic Evil alignment is itching for some entertainment.

Beside me, Arlo shifts his weight from foot to foot. He is clearly wondering why I am stalling instead of hurrying down to the basement to train.

He watches in mounting horror as I casually shift my posture.

The marble counter is a bit too high for me, so I pop up onto my tiptoes, leaning as far over the desk as I can. I prop my chin on my hands, gazing up at the lethal, terrifying Dark Elf with wide, sparkling eyes.

"You know, sweetheart," I purr, my voice dripping with sweet, unadulterated flirtation. "Your skin is absolutely gorgeous. Like liquid obsidian. Can I touch your hand?"

Beside me, Arlo violently chokes on his own spit.

I hear him sharply inhale, stumbling a step back. I don't even have to look at him to know his face is pale with sheer, unadulterated terror.

Did you really just say that?! his expression screams. To a senior Dark Elf assassin?! Are you out of your mind?! Do you want us to die before dinner?!