​Chapter 6: Back Off, Glow-Stick

The Executive Dining Hall of the Imperial Academy was a marble-and-crystal cathedral dedicated to pure, unadulterated snobbery. Velvet tablecloths, silver cutlery, and classical violin music echoed off vaulted ceilings, creating an atmosphere where students usually spoke in hushed, refined whispers.

Then Phoenix Wraith walked in.

Clad in her sweat-free workout clothes, she strolled straight to the VIP corner booth, slid into the plush leather seat, and unfolded her cloth napkin with the crisp efficiency of a seasoned general preparing a battle map.

Sitting across from her, Instructor Dan looked like he was about to suffer a fatal brain aneurysm. His massive, bear-like frame was squeezed awkwardly into the ornate chair, his face buried in his hands as the waiter placed the fifth massive tray of food on their table.

"Miss Wraith," Dan rasped, his scarred forehead resting directly against the mahogany surface. "I am a senior instructor on an officer's stipend. You have ordered three butter-poached lobster tails, a two-pound dry-aged ribeye, three bowls of truffle parmesan fries, and a bottle of sparkling nectar from the headmaster’s private reserve."

"And you are a man of your word, Instructor," Phoenix replied cheerfully, cracking open a lobster claw with a satisfying, crunchy snap. "A bet's a bet. You said if I beat your best Sentinel’s time, lunch was on you. Technically, I didn't just beat him—I put him in the infirmary with severe foot-in-mouth disease."

She popped a tender piece of lobster meat into her mouth, closed her dark brown eyes, and let out a soft, ecstatic sigh. Oh, sweet mother of mercy. After three years of chewing on dry protein bars, stale military crackers, and questionable canned meat in flooded subway tunnels, this tasted like heaven descended upon her tongue.

"Mmm. Exquisite," Phoenix purred, picking up her fork to spear a truffle fry. "You know, Dan—can I call you Dan? You really shouldn't look so miserable. You just witnessed history! An F-rank Guide beating S-rank Sentinels in endurance training! You should be writing a report, not weeping over your wallet."

Dan lifted his head, his dark eyes narrowing into a fierce glare. "How?" he demanded, leaning forward, the table groaning under his massive arms. "Guides don't have passive physical enhancement fields. Their muscle density doesn't scale with rank. You ran one hundred laps carrying forty pounds of iron without even breaking a sweat. Your heart rate barely hit a hundred and ten! How?"

Phoenix took a slow, deliberate sip of her sparkling nectar, letting the fine bubbles tickle her throat. She leaned in closer, her sharp Asian features softening into an expression of deep, confidential sincerity.

"It’s all about breath control, Dan," she lied smoothly, her dark brown eyes gleaming with shameless, unadulterated bullshit. "And a very intense, daily regimen of pure, unyielding hatred for my ex-fiancé. You’d be amazed how much cardiovascular efficiency you gain when every stride is powered by the desire to step on Travis’s toe."

Dan stared at her, his jaw twitching violently as he tried to discern if she was completely unhinged or secretly an ancient martial artist disguised as a teenager. "You're insane."

"I'm a survivor," Phoenix corrected brightly, spearing a slice of medium-rare steak. "There's a distinct difference. Now, pass the butter sauce, please."

Before Dan could reply, the heavy double doors of the dining hall swung open with unnecessary dramatic flair.

The entire room went dead silent.

In walked Travis, flanked by his usual squad of high-ranking sycophants, including Lionel. Travis’s face was still pale from the humiliation on the track, his golden hair slightly disheveled. He swept his eyes across the dining room, looking for a table, only to freeze dead in his tracks the second he spotted Phoenix.

Phoenix, who was currently holding a giant lobster claw like a victory trophy, caught his eye across the room.

Instead of hiding or looking sheepish, Phoenix grinned. She slowly raised her glass of vintage nectar toward Travis, giving him a luxurious, toast-like gesture before taking a long, exaggerated sip.

"Oh, look," Phoenix remarked loudly enough for the sound to carry across the quiet hall. "It’s the glow-stick and his backup dancers. Hey, Travis! Thanks again for freeing up my afternoon! Turns out being single comes with a side of free lobster!"

The surrounding noble students gasped in collective terror. Lionel looked like he was going to choke on his own tongue, while Travis’s face flushed from pale white to a brilliant, furious shade of crimson.

Travis marched toward their booth, his boots clicking angrily against the polished marble floor. "Phoenix," he hissed, slamming a hand down on the edge of the table. "Have you lost your mind entirely?! You made a complete spectacle of yourself on the track, and now you’re sitting here using school budget to flaunt—"

"Actually, it's Dan's budget," Phoenix interrupted, pointing her fork at the sweating instructor. "And I didn't make a spectacle, Travis. I made a point. Which, by the way, you missed completely because you were busy wheezing on lap forty."

"You—!" Travis choked, his S-class psychic aura flaring for a split second, sending a subtle shockwave through the air.

Clank.

Phoenix didn't even flinch. Before Travis’s aura could expand a single inch, she slammed her steak knife down, driving the point half an inch deep directly into the solid wood table right between his index and middle fingers.

The sharp, metallic ring cut through the room like a gunshot.

Travis froze, his eyes widening in pure shock as he looked down at the vibrating blade, just millimeters from his skin. He hadn't even seen her arm move.

Phoenix leaned forward, her dark brown eyes turning pitch-black with a terrifying, cold intensity that made the temperature in the room drop tenfold.

"Take your hand off my table, Travis," Phoenix whispered, her voice dangerously calm, dripping with the casual lethal aura of someone who had buried a hundred men in the dirt. "You're ruining my appetite. And if you disrupt my meal again, I won't target the table next time."

Travis swallowed hard, his throat dry. For the first time in his life, his Sentinel instincts—the innate, deep-seated survival radar bred into his bloodline—screamed at him to step back. This wasn't a weak, sniveling Guide begging for his affection. This was an apex predator marking her territory.

Slowly, carefully, Travis pulled his hand back, his fingers trembling ever so slightly.

"Good boy," Phoenix purred, her terrifying aura vanishing in an instant as she pulled the knife out of the table with a light, breezy chuckle. "Now run along. The kids' table is in the back."