​Chapter 11: Target Prioritization and Psychological Therapy

The Imperial Academy’s central amphitheater was packed to maximum capacity. Giant holographic leaderboards hovered above the crowd, glowing in blinding, unassailable gold:

[FIRST PLACE: SQUAD 'OUTCAST' – 4,300 POINTS] [SECOND PLACE: SQUAD 'APEX VANGUARD' – 200 POINTS]

The sheer numerical gap between first and second place was so grotesque it looked like a clerical error.

Instructor Dan stood on the main podium, clutching a velvet-lined box containing the keycards to the Imperial Vault. His jaw was so tight his beard was practically twitching. Behind him stood Headmaster Paul, a stern, ancient man whose wrinkled face looked like it was carved out of granite.

At the base of the stage, Travis and Lionel stood with their heads hung low, surrounding the rest of Class A like a squad of defeated pigeons. Travis had his arms crossed tightly over his crotch, looking deeply traumatized and refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

Then, the crowd parted.

Phoenix strolled down the center aisle like she was walking the red carpet at a premiere. She had traded her mud-splattered tactical jacket for her pristine white-and-gold academy blazer, her long black hair held up in a sleek, high ponytail. Trailing three steps behind her was Toby, looking ridiculously proud while pushing a squeaky metal handcart loaded to the brim with salvaged monster parts, copper wires, and a slightly scorched shock-pylon.

"Look at them," Phoenix whispered loudly to Toby, gesturing toward the stage. "They look like they're attending a funeral. Smile, boys! It's a celebration!"

Phoenix bounded up the steps of the podium, stopping right in front of Instructor Dan and offering him a crisp, totally insincere military salute.

"Squad Outcast reporting for duty, Instructor!" Phoenix chimed, her dark brown eyes sparkling with pure, unadulterated mischief. "We’ve come to collect our shiny keycards. Though, if you want to throw in another lobster lunch, I won't say no."

Instructor Dan let out a heavy, long-suffering sigh that sounded like air leaking out of a truck tire. He looked down at the velvet box, then at Headmaster Paul, who simply gave a slow, solemn nod.

"Miss Wraith," Dan grunted, handing over the golden keycard. "Congratulations on... an unprecedented performance. However, the academic board has raised several severe concerns regarding your tactics."

"Tactics?" Phoenix raised an eyebrow, snatching the keycard and spinning it between her fingers. "What tactics? I followed every safety protocol in the book!"

Lionel couldn't take it anymore. He burst out from the front row, pointing a trembling, enraged finger up at the stage.

"She violated an A-rank Dreadclaw Ursan with a high-voltage battery grid!" Lionel shrieked, his voice cracking violently. "It was crude! It was unsportsmanlike! It was sexually explicit monster abuse! The creature is currently in the academy beast-clinic receiving psychological therapy!"

The entire amphitheater gasped in collective horror.

Phoenix didn't even flinch. She slowly turned her head, looking down at Lionel with a look of profound, disgust-filled pity.

"Lionel, honey," Phoenix drawled, her voice carrying effortlessly across the quiet hall. "It’s called target prioritization. In a real apocalypse, when a twelve-foot monster with razors for hands is trying to turn your intestine into a necktie, you don't fight it with honor and chivalry. You hit it where it hurts. The fact that your first instinct is to feel sympathetic toward a monster’s backside says way more about your personal interests than mine."

Half the student body burst into hysterical, uncontrollable laughter. Lionel’s face turned three distinct shades of purple before he clutched his chest and dropped back into his seat, completely speechless.

Travis stepped forward, his eyes burning with pure, unbridled humiliation. "Phoenix! You think this makes you a real combatant? You're an F-rank Guide using cheap electrical tricks! Without that gear, you're nothing!"

Phoenix grinned, slipping the vault keycard into her breast pocket. She took three slow steps down the podium, stopping right at the edge, looming over Travis with a dark, predatory smile that made every Sentinel in the front row flinch.

"Travis," Phoenix purred, her voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl. "I ran a hundred laps in forty-pound weights without breaking a sweat. I stabbed a knife into a mahogany table three millimeters from your fingers. And I pinned a three-ton bear using a copper wire and pure spite."

She leaned down, her dark brown eyes flashing with lethal promise.

"If you ever question my combat ability again, I won't bother with a shock-pylon," she whispered, her gaze dropping deliberately toward his waist. "I’ll personally show you what an apocalypse veteran can do with a standard pair of blunt rusty scissors."

Travis’s knees buckled. He took two frantic steps back, slamming into Lionel’s chest, his face completely drained of color.

"Now," Phoenix announced brightly, straightening up and clapping her hands together with a crisp SNAP, "if everyone is done whining about my brilliant anatomical strategy, my engineer and I have a VIP vault to raid. Come along, Toby!"

"Right behind you, Boss!" Toby squeaked, hastily wheeling the clanking handcart up the ramp after her.

As Phoenix strutted through the double doors leading into the Imperial Vault sector, the crowd of dregs and low-rank students erupted into thunderous, deafening cheers.

Phoenix threw her hands in the air, giving her audience a dramatic, royal wave.

Rule number one of surviving the apocalypse, Phoenix thought, her lips curving into a triumphant, razor-sharp smile. Always take the loot, and never let them see you compromise.