Chương 141: Chapter 137: The Social Equivalent of Barking at Your Own Reflection

[Time]: Summer Break, Day 36 — 1: 15 PM [Location]: The Crown of Ovelia · Spirit Sea Venue · Eastern Courtyard"And you?" Cecilia asked softly. Liandra fell silent. Hathaway watched the youngest Milan'thirskaya's pale eyes drift sideways for a fraction of a second, finding Lin Zhaojun and the Absolute City delegation across the hall. Then the gaze returned to Cecilia.

"Well enough." No performance. No plea. The flat, factual answer of someone who had inventoried their own hand and arrived at the honest sum. But Hathaway caught the slight, lingering focus in Liandra's eyes as she looked at the Greed Umbrella. Hathaway's tactical engine couldn't parse if it was envy, relief, or simply the quiet observation of someone comparing unseen scars. Liandra shifted her gaze to the edge of the formation. To Victoria.

"You grew up," she said. Across the Greed Umbrella's perimeter, Hathaway's threat overlay registered a sudden shift. The compressed killing intent the pack had been holding at critical threshold didn't vanish, but its edge dulled in a single breath. They're updating their threat model, Hathaway watched the tension leave Karula's shoulders. A hostile predator trying to force a claim wouldn't pause to warmly acknowledge the little sister's growth.

The polycule just reclassified her from 'active threat' to 'old acquaintance.' The hackles lowered. Liandra gave a brief, final nod, turned, and stepped back into the crowd at the same unhurried pace she had arrived with. Then Rhode and Bella stood up. Rhode's hand shot out and closed on the back of Hathaway's collar in the same motion, hauling her forward like carry-on luggage she had absentmindedly forgotten to pack.

"Wait, cousins, what are we—cousins—" Hathaway hissed through her teeth. You two are max-level veterans, Hathaway hissed internally, her heels still executing a desperate four-limbed resistance operation across the polished Anser marble. You have the raw stats and the high-elo reflexes to walk directly into the aggro radius of five top-tier Witches, take a direct hit that would atomize me, and respond by rolling your necks.

I am a tragically underleveled artillery alt with a paper-thin shield and absolutely zero base HP for close-quarters engagement. This is a mathematically catastrophic party composition for a frontline taunt! The Greed Umbrella was twenty paces away. Fifteen. Ten. During the forced transit, Hathaway's despairing line of sight made direct contact with Victoria, standing rigid at the edge of the formation in her immaculate white gloves. Victoria looked back at her.

Specifically, she looked at Hathaway's undignified, partially airborne, entirely involuntary posture. The corner of Victoria's mouth gave a microscopic, involuntary twitch. The expression it produced was suspended with perfect precision between profound sympathy and profound exhaustion. Hathaway read it instantly: it was the look of someone who had predicted this exact outcome and derived zero comfort from being correct.

Don't, Hathaway thought, filling in the rest of that look with two months of cohabitation accuracy. Please don't look at me like you already know how this ends. Rhode planted her feet precisely three paces from the Greed Umbrella's front line. She freed one hand and pushed her dark welding goggles up onto her forehead with a single careless flick. The complex geometric light-patterns of the Ludwig ocular seal blazed to life at full output.

A hundred and fifty lumens of pure bloodline radiance, concentrated and deliberate: a localized flashbang aimed directly at Cecilia's position. It was technically a greeting in the same way a full-power mana flare was technically a greeting.

"Yo, Cecilia." Rhode's teeth showed.

"Long time no see, huh?" The killing intent that had just dissipated rolled back in at triple concentration. Wei Changqing's warm aura completely evaporated, though the polite curve of her lips remained. Karula's fingers settled over her ring. Flandmira went very, very still. Maria's amber eyes dropped instantly to sub-zero. Cecilia did not flinch against the blinding glare. The deep sapphire of her eyes remained perfectly, oceanically calm.

"Wellington," she said. One word. Hathaway noted the rhetorical parry: the weight of two ancient houses compressed into three syllables. Rhode's attempt at cheap intimacy had bounced off without leaving a mark. Rhode's jaw tightened. The grin did not falter.

"That time doesn't count," she said, her voice dropping into the rough rasp of someone who had been waiting years to say this specific sentence. The crimson eyes burned.

"I want the version of you that's actually paying attention." Cecilia looked at her. In those ocean-floor eyes, there was no anger, no rising volatility. Only the faint, genuine trace of annoyance belonging to someone who had considerably better things to do with their processing power. Karula spoke.

"Who do you think you are?" Rhode's grin widened. Perfect. Hathaway knew exactly what her cousin was doing. Rhode had come here specifically to rip apart the Greed Umbrella's information blackout, and Karula was the centerpiece: bench-warming through the entire qualifier, no public footage, no accessible records, a beautifully maintained intelligence vacuum. Rhode looked directly at the purple-eyed Witch.

"A runaway from a registered White City noble house who learned broomstick riding from the underground racing circuits," Rhode said, with the unhurried confidence of someone reading from a prepared dossier.

"Top-tier aerial Vanguard. High firepower, high mobility. A very uncomfortable killzone for anyone who wasn't expecting a broom-rider at this level. Your files are sealed. We opened them anyway." Hathaway watched Karula carefully. She was waiting for the flinch. The micro-contraction. The defensive pivot that confirmed a buried asset had been exposed. Karula did not move. What replaced the expected reaction was something considerably worse. The killing intent Karula had been projecting at Rhode did not spike.

It cooled. Hathaway watched the precise, quiet loosening of Karula's shoulders: the particular relaxation of a predator who had just confirmed that the trap they were afraid of was aimed two meters to the left. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Hathaway stared at Karula's completely unbothered face and felt a perfectly silent bomb complete its detonation sequence somewhere deep in her threat-assessment module. It's the surface-level secret designed to be found.

Rhode just burned the ammunition I gave her publicly, proudly, with maximum provocation energy, and it didn't trigger a single air-raid siren. Which means the actual killzone is somewhere Rhode and I haven't looked. Which means I stood at the briefing table and told the team I had found the answer, and I had found the question. Under Karula's entry in her mental threat profile, the tactical positioning data was silently, comprehensively crossed out and replaced with a single, massive red question mark.

Rhode, unaware she was firing blanks, pivoted to Maria without breaking stride.

"And the blonde actress," Rhode continued, already loading the next card.

"Compelling performance in the semi-finals. Very convincing collapse. But nobody accidentally solves a kinetic vector in a two-frame window just to trip over their own feet on the way out. An 80-frame delay to hide 2-frame dynamic vision is a very specific choice. Short wand, rush-down specialist. A scalpel dressed as dead weight." Maria looked at Rhode from her completely stationary position. The radiant, idol-grade smile she had redeployed specifically for this confrontation did not shift by a single millimeter.

Her amber eyes crinkled warmly. Her breathing did not change rhythm. The Ludwig Vanguard's jaw tightened. She turned back to Cecilia.

"Your bench looked comfortable," Rhode said, and this time there was a cold edge under the arrogance.

"Let me know when they're actually ready to show up." For the first time since Rhode had opened her mouth, something fractured in Cecilia's ocean-floor calm. Unnoticeable to anyone who hadn't spent the last twenty minutes cataloging micro-expressions at obsessive analyst range. But Hathaway caught it. Then Bella stepped forward. The terminal chuunibyou adjusted her lace eyepatch with two deliberate fingers, loading the gesture with theatrical gravity.

Her single uncovered eye swept first to Victoria at the edge of the formation, making the connection visible, and then locked onto Cecilia.

"Do not mistake this composure for strength, Heir of Wellington," Bella intoned, her voice dropping into the resonant, revelationary register she reserved for universal truths she was personally delivering to an ungrateful world.

"The only reason you stand here today in this performance of calm is the mercy of circumstance. Because after all." She let the silence ferment.

"Evangeline is not here." The courtyard vacuum-sealed. Cecilia's eyes changed. The gentle, placid blue froze solid, and what replaced it was a burst of killing intent so sharp and cold it tasted like copper in the back of the throat. Every assumption Hathaway had quietly built about Cecilia Wellington, composed and measured, the kind of person who would maintain reason and gentleness through anything, was being comprehensively dismantled in real time. The Greed Umbrella felt the shift in Cecilia's mana signature.

Hathaway watched them synchronize instantly. Karula's amethyst ring emitted a low, dangerous hum. Flandmira's fingers curled at her sides. Wei Changqing was still smiling, but the smile had calcified into a mask made of something considerably harder than warmth. Maria's perfectly maintained idol armor completely and silently shattered, revealing the absolute lethal edge underneath.

Even Victoria, who had spent the entire time since their arrival holding her neutrality in place with both hands, whipped her head around. The look she leveled at Rhode and Bella boiled with equally undisguised Wellington venom. Hathaway could not take it anymore. She had read Alice's manuscript. She knew Evangeline was the ultimate, terminal trigger word for the Wellington disaster. She was watching, in real time, the psychological dismemberment of an apex target by two cousins who thought they were being clever.

Driven by pure, overclock-level panic, Hathaway reached out from behind and seized the hem of Rhode's shirt in both hands. One hard, frantic tug. The message was encoded entirely in the grip pressure: abort, abort, we need to leave this exact location immediately. The gesture was decoded incorrectly by everyone present. The Greed Umbrella's eyes flicked to Hathaway.

She braced for the pitying disdain reserved for a cowardly substitute desperately trying to physically restrain her rabid Vanguard from getting them all killed. The lethal edge evaporated. Maria gave her a microscopic, almost conspiratorial nod. Flandmira's gaze carried a distinct, completely unearned sense of solidarity. Hathaway's tactical engine stalled hard. What is that look?! she screamed internally.

Why are they looking at me like I'm a tragic undercover mole sending a covert distress signal from behind enemy lines?! Why is there solidarity?! I am your opponent! I am the enemy benchwarmer! Before her brain could process the Greed Umbrella's bizarrely compassionate gaze, Hathaway looked up at Rhode. She watched her cousin's face light up with a profoundly, catastrophically different misunderstanding. No, Hathaway's soul screamed as Rhode magnanimously took a half-step back and to the side.

She thinks I want a turn in the spotlight. Rhode jutted her chin in an encouraging, generous gesture, completely and immediately exposing Hathaway to the unobstructed front line.

"Your turn." The spotlight swung with brutal force. Hathaway was standing at the absolute forefront. Directly in the field of fire. Facing the bizarrely gentle, encouraging gazes of the enemy polycule on one side, and the expectant, deeply proud, firmly encouraging gazes of both cousins behind her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, immediate survival math was running. Somewhere else, the radius of the ongoing disaster was being calculated with grim precision.

Her game-design analysis engine had gone completely silent. And Rhode was looking at her with the expression of a coach watching their star player step up to the line for the championship shot. Hathaway opened her mouth. Closed it. Her nervous system was executing a full emergency reboot.

Under the expectant gaze of her cousins, and crushed by the social gravity of an extended silence that was going to make her look like a complete failure of a witch if she didn't produce something, Hathaway closed her eyes, braced every conscious thread she had, and reached for the most devastating psychological strike she was capable of generating.

"Just... just you wait to be defeated by us in the tournament!" Silence. A five-second silence of genuinely unusual quality descended on the Eastern Courtyard. Everyone's expressions locked in place. Rhode's grin stiffened mid-position. Bella's theatrical pose arrested itself halfway through its completion. Even the soul-freezing precision in Cecilia's eyes suffered a momentary involuntary short-circuit as her threat-assessment module quietly, sincerely tried to categorize what had just been aimed at her.

The rules of social violence have a floor. It was the exact rhetorical equivalent of two mafia bosses deep in a before-the-deathmatch negotiation, blood already in the air, every word carrying lethal intent, and then a lackey popping out from behind one of them, face flushed, voice cracking at the critical moment, and yelling:"You're a big dumb-dumb!" The overwhelming, boiling killing intent the Greed Umbrella had been building had nowhere to vent. You cannot release lethal mana at something this harmless.

The way their eyes shifted as they looked at Hathaway, the specific taxonomy of that gaze, the particular quality of the ensuing silence: it was the exact, pitying bewilderment normally reserved for a golden retriever puppy who has just barked with complete sincerity at its own reflection. And then, catastrophically, their expressions softened even further. Hathaway's social-damage module spun violently, trying to translate the gaze. Why are they looking at me like that?

The sheer, tragic solidarity in Maria and Flandmira's eyes was unmistakable. A horrifying realization crashed into Hathaway's panicked brain. Do they think I did that on purpose? Do they think I deliberately made a fool of myself just to derail the confrontation and stop my rabid teammates from attacking them?! They think I'm a brave, dedicated little mole! Victoria stood where she was and watched the entire sequence arrive at its natural conclusion. The corner of her mouth gave a violent, uncontrollable twitch.

Then, with the robotic precision of an emergency protocol executing without hesitation, Victoria turned her head exactly ninety degrees to the left. She fixed her gaze on a blank stretch of Anser marble pillar on the opposite wall and held it there. Her rigid, unflinching posture was broadcasting a single, absolute, and irrefutable message to the entire courtyard: I have never met Hathaway von Ludwig in my life. We do not share a dormitory room. I am not affiliated with her. I do not know this person.

That emergency evasion protocol held for exactly three seconds. Hathaway watched the Wellington freshman close her eyes. She saw Victoria take a deep, stabilizing breath, visibly fighting a brief, brutal internal war between her fundamental aristocratic dignity and two months of shared dormitory survival. Roommate solidarity won. Victoria slowly turned her head back.

She looked directly at Hathaway's petrified, deeply flushed face, and the ice-cold third daughter of House Wellington offered a gaze of profound, tragic, almost unbearable gentleness. It was a look of pure, forgiving acceptance, silently transmitting across the courtyard: It's okay. We all make mistakes. I will not abandon you just because you are like this. Hathaway stood perfectly still in the crossfire. Receiving bizarre, conspiratorial solidarity from the enemy polycule was devastating.

But receiving a gaze of gentle, pitying forgiveness from her violently aloof, emotionally repressed roommate was a completely different magnitude of psychological damage. Somewhere deep inside Hathaway's core, her soul quietly detached itself from her physical body. The social death was absolute.