"Don’t tell me you’re daft. I said you can’t touch me — after all, I own this school," Aaron said, calm as a man reading a weather report, his eyes never leaving Jordan’s.
Jordan’s face flushed. "Don’t be ridiculous. There is no—"
"There is a way I can own this school," Aaron cut in smoothly. "Either you’re chronically stupid or just spectacularly arrogant. You were clever enough to get me to pay for structures, but not clever enough to think I couldn’t buy the whole university." The words were polite; the knife was sharp.
Michael snorted beside him. "Crazy bastard. Comparing those two is like saying frozen chicken is the same as frozen turkey," he muttered, rubbing his temple in mock envy. "I wish my father would just drop dead so I’d be rich and insolent ." He was joking, but the sentiment rode a jagged edge.
"Buying the university can’t be that simple," Jordan protested, though the confidence had a crack in it now.
"Say what you need to say," Aaron replied, producing a slim packet of documents as if he’d merely remembered a receipt. He slid it onto the table with the casual flourish of someone announcing dessert. "But this is proof."
Jordan’s breath left him in a wet hiss. "Imp... impossible..." Sweat beaded at his temples; the color drained from his face. Around the council table, the senior members exchanged glances that had gone from smug to startled in a heartbeat. The oracle of their petty authority had been shown a mirror — and it reflected things Jordan had spent a lifetime hiding.
Aaron let the moment sit, measured, like a cat that knows the mouse is trapped. "Well then," he said, suddenly theatrical. "Since we’re all here and the drama’s delicious, why waste the day? Let’s hold a proper trial — with you as the accused."
"Jordan Hayes," Aaron announced, eyes cold as a coin. "You stand accused of abusing your position to accept bribes, of punishing innocents for your own gain, and of protecting your allies by sacrificing the students they harmed."
"You can’t try me!" Jordan bellowed, the old mask of authority snapping back on for a breath.
Aaron smiled that slow, unhurried smile. "Actually I can. I own the school, remember? If anyone wishes to testify against Jordan Hayes, the floor is open."
A hand went up — then another. One after the other, Jordan’s allies found themselves stepping forward, compelled by forces they didn’t understand to recount things whispered behind closed doors: late-night meetings, padded accounts, a pattern of favors in return for silence. Aaron hadn’t needed to threaten them; a soft nudge, a well-timed look, and the truth had begun to peel away.
Jordan’s face contorted when the shock finally became personal. "Edwin... how could you?" he screamed as his son rose from his seat. "Ungrateful bastard! I made you president. I covered for you! If not for me you’d have been expunged for nearly killing that student! Me — I kept you spotless, and you betray me?"
The senate chamber buzzed with a strange, intimate tension; even the stone walls seemed to lean in. Aaron folded his hands and let himself laugh once, light and a little guilty-sounding. "Family drama is oddly entertaining," he said, eyes on the spectacle. He had nudged the events with a quiet compulsion when the pieces were in place — enough to tilt loyalties, not to force them completely — and the resulting unravelling was its own kind of justice.
He turned to Professor Silas, who had watched the charade with that tired, protective expression he always wore when politics got messy. "Professor Silas, what punishment would you deem fitting?"
"The decision is up to you," Silas replied, voice gentle but firm. He had bribed neither side; he’d only ever tried to shepherd the school away from ruin.
Michael rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath, "How evil of you, Professor — letting this monster hand down sentences," amused and half-serious. He’d seen saints let monsters do work before; this was one of those neat, moral paradoxes.
Aaron’s verdict was clean and surgical. "Jordan Hayes and every accomplice will be relieved of duty with immediate effect. Ragnarok will sue for restitution. You’ll return every dime you pocketed and repair every stain you left on this institution’s name."
Jordan went pale, outrage hitched to panic. He made a lunge for Aaron — a last-ditch, graceless attempt. Aaron’s reply was calm and small: "Luck drain."
Jordan’s body seized with a terrifying, unnatural cramp that radiated along his muscles; the room heard him split into ragged groans. Whatever immunity his rank might have given him, was stripped away by the luck debuff. An awakened that was immuned of most ailments was ironically had a muscle cramp was hilarious to the watching audience.
Things didn’t get any better for Jordan. Aaron eager to allow Jordan suffer for as long as it may take without gaining an easy pass from suicide compelled him.
"Live as long as you can, Jordan," Aaron said, voice flat and winter-cold. "You will not be allowed to choose death. Your survival will be forced upon you as a penance. You will reflect, once a day, on the lives you harmed, and seek forgiveness."
Jordan writhed, chest heaving as he processed a reality where he lived long enough to watch the consequences of his deeds unfurl. People murmured, some with pity, some with cold satisfaction. Aaron stepped back, smoothing the front of his jacket with a practiced, human motion.
"Professor — about the test," Aaron said, the previous menace evaporating as quickly as it had arrived. He sounded perfectly reasonable, as if the last scene had been business as usual.
Silas gave him a small, wry smile. "I remember you acing it," he said, which, in that room, counted as a light, approving verdict.
Aaron inclined his head politely. "Thank you, Professor." The cruel grin and predatory tone were gone; in their place, the charming, easygoing student who could be everyone’s friend — until he decided otherwise — reappeared.
"Come on," Aaron said to Alice and Michael, his tone bright and almost apologetic. "Let’s go have some fun."
They left the hall like three kids escaping after setting off a prank. Aaron didn’t wait around for the mops to be passed out; he hadn’t created the mess, he’d simply shown the school how quickly messy things could be rearranged when someone with coin and will decided to rearrange them.
Outside, a low-slung sports car gleamed in the sunlight, impatient as a beast. "Where to?" Aaron asked, grinning.
"Twin Orcs Dungeon. A-rank," Michael suggested, unable to hide the thrill in his voice. "Let’s push ourselves."
Aaron laughed and climbed in. "You two take the passenger seats. I can’t touch you both and risk your domains doing me dirty" He flicked a look back at the school — a place in upheaval and, he suspected, a little bit better for it — then drove off, the engine a promise.
Back in his office, Professor Silas opened the staggering piles of paperwork Aaron had left him: approved blueprints for megastructures, contracts authorizing reconstruction, lists of staff to relieve and staff to promote, budgets that could turn Ragnarok from third-rate into a beacon. Every signature stamped, every directive final.
Silas stared at the tidy, terrible mountain of change and—exhausted, wary, delighted—let out a breath. For a long time he had dreamed of rebuilding the school into something real. Aaron had done it with the kind of casual ruthlessness only massive resources could buy. It was messy. It was sudden. It was exactly what the school needed.
Outside, the car impatiently ate the road. The three friends laughed, the city blurred past, and a school that had tried to punish a student had learned instead to fear the student who refused to be humbled.