Chương 74: Unlocking the Max-Level Guild Hall

[Time]: Day 47, Thursday, 03: 30 PM [Location]: En route to Royal Rosas Club Headquarters The transition from "overworked lab assistant" to "VIP tournament substitute" happened with the jarring abruptness of a server maintenance announcement. By 3: 30 PM, Nino Lucent had reached a hard stop on the Leviathan project.

Thanks to a week of Hathaway's unreasonable [Analytic Vision] sweeping the crystal residue and Victoria's hyper-efficient, zero-latency data sorting, they had finally untangled the "chaotic variables" of that cursed 0. 2%. They had the mathematical solution. But forcing the Leviathan's massive physical core to adapt to the new logic matrix required an automatic, autonomous 'Aether-Resonance Calibration'. For the next three weeks, the reactor had to sit in absolute, zero-interference isolation to process the update.

It was, essentially, a twenty-one-day unskippable loading screen. To a normal person, this was a well-deserved vacation. To Nino Lucent—who had been running on fumes, pure spite, and a deeply unhealthy obsession with that missing 0. 2%—this was salvation. The oppressive, tyrant-level atmospheric pressure that had suffocated Lab 606 for the past week simply... evaporated.

"It is compiling," Nino whispered. Her hoarse voice was completely devoid of its usual manic edge. She stared at the glowing 100% diagnostic hologram with the profound, spiritual exhaustion of a war veteran who had just heard the ceasefire sirens.

"The variables are closed. The itch is gone." Nino slowly stood up from her terminal, her eyes glassy.

"By Witch Law, my summer break begins now. I am going to the Club's private island. I am going to commandeer a premium high-density mana spa, and I am going to sleep until I forget how to do basic arithmetic." Nino suspended the reactor with cold, institutional efficiency.

She updated the master spreadsheet, snapped her fingers to cast a silent [Prestidigitation] that instantly vaporized the grease on her cheek, and smoothly transitioned her entire personality from "Collapsing Academic Tyrant" to "Comatose Vacationer." With the Leviathan officially locked into compile mode, Victoria's data-entry duties were also suspended. Every active diagnostic hologram surrounding her instantly shattered into fine data-dust.

It was a brutal, synchronized severance of her neural link—a silent, absolute shutdown that felt uncomfortably like a dropping guillotine. She picked up her pristine white bag, the ambient temperature around her still hovering just below freezing. Before turning toward the heavy brass doors to head back to the dormitories, Victoria paused and looked back at Hathaway. Her blue eyes were completely devoid of human warmth.

"Since the lab is on hiatus, Ludwig, I will be utilizing my newly acquired free time to finalize my term project," Victoria said smoothly.

"And to mathematically prove that your cousin's crude kinetic force can be bypassed by conceptual spatial severing." Victoria's gaze dropped to the VIP lanyard hanging from Hathaway's neck.

"I understand your new role involves managing their locker-room sustenance. If you should happen to 'accidentally' substitute your cousin's electrolyte beverage with industrial-grade Basilisk venom..." Victoria adjusted her white lace gloves with terrifying elegance.

"I will personally guarantee your passing grade on Nino's term project." Hathaway had swallowed hard, nodding mechanically. A blatant offer for contract killing disguised as academic tutoring. And sweet merciful mana, the offer is actually tempting. Hathaway's status shifted accordingly. From Daily Laborer to On-Call Asset.

Since Rhode had dropped a metaphorical nuclear device in Lab 606 and completely forgotten to leave an actual address, Hathaway had no choice but to trail her terrifying professor across the high-altitude transit lanes of Yggdrasil Academy. They flew in silence. Nino glided ahead, her posture rigidly perfect, enveloped in a seamless aerodynamic wedge of deep violet mana that sliced through the air resistance without a sound. No broom. No staff. Just pure, optimized, oppressive efficiency.

Even in her "vacation mode," a Lucent's baseline for commuting was still terrifying. Hathaway trailed two meters behind her. She had pulled her prized [Scarlet-Valkyrie GT] out of her spatial bag, but riding a high-performance racing broom behind Nino felt profoundly humiliating. The GT's engine was practically purring in frustration, forced to coast at absolute minimum throttle just to avoid rear-ending her professor's terrifyingly silent, vehicle-less trajectory.

The shift from "Boss and Assistant" to "Teammate and Teammate" had resulted in a net change of zero degrees in Nino's warmth. She isn't commuting, Hathaway thought, squinting against the wind. She's just relocating her zone of oppression. [Location]: Royal Rosas Club Headquarters · The Floating Island They broke through the final cloud layer, and Hathaway's broom almost stuttered. She had expected a training camp. A gymnasium. An esports arena.

What she got was a private, meticulously manicured floating island suspended in the bright gold of the mid-afternoon sun. It looked as though the club's sponsors had casually purchased a set of premium sky-coordinates and copy-pasted a five-star luxury resort into the stratosphere, simply because they refused to share the same elevation as the general public. Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

It was an architectural flex that had been doing bicep curls on an infinite budget since the day the club was founded. The primary construction material was, of course, the Milan'thir dynasty's signature Absolute White stone. There were no simple brass nameplates or welcoming banners here. Instead, three massive holographic crests dominated the sky above the main archways, aggressively broadcasting the DNA of the club's primary shareholders.

As a former game designer, Hathaway couldn't help but automatically parse the visual language. It was environmental storytelling at its most obnoxiously wealthy. To the left, the Milan'thir Crest cast a blinding, orderly light over the plaza. An impossible Penrose triangle framed a Prime Prism, constantly refracting raw cosmic chaos into pure, organized white beams. Beneath the prism, a holographic Void Dragon thrashed eternally in heavy chains. Translation: We own the laws of physics.

The dragon is purely decorative to show we can afford exotic pets. In the center, hovering directly above the entrance, was the Lucent Crest. A deep violet shield bearing a vertical, lidless silver diamond pupil. Twelve black quills radiated outward from it like ink-dipped lashes, constantly twitching as if transcribing the air itself. Translation: To observe is to record. To record is to control.

We know everything, we have already mathematically calculated your defeat, and we are silently judging your life choices. And to the right, bleeding a rich, heavy crimson glare onto the pristine white marble, was her own bloodline. The Ludwig Crest. A magnificent golden lion roaring silently, luxuriantly entombed in a continuously blooming sea of red and white roses. Thick, pale briars formed a majestic, shifting underlay, cradling the apex predator in an atmosphere of suffocating, old-money opulence.

Translation: We are the apex predators, and our idea of a 'floral arrangement' reflects our bank account. We will destroy you, but we will make it look like a high-budget Renaissance painting. The roses are not ironic. Antique magitech lanterns lined cobblestone paths. Real sea-flowers drifted through the warm air, sustained by a localized humidity spell. The decorative rivers glowed with circulating fluorite powder, the water sparkling as though someone had liquefied a galaxy and decided to use it for landscaping.

Running along the island's perimeter were massive, retracted void-shields, currently folded open for guests but clearly designed to seal the entire landmass for deep-space transit at a moment's notice. Hathaway landed on the immaculate white marble of the reception plaza, her knees slightly weak. This isn't a sports club, her inner game designer concluded, running asset calculations. This is a max-level Guild Hall built by server-topping whales who ran out of things to spend their infinite gold on.

They didn't build a facility. They built a biome. Hathaway sighed, rubbing her temples. I am walking into a building funded entirely by control freaks, absolute monarchs, and violent narcissists. What could possibly go wrong? Nino touched down without ceremony, without commentary, and without a single backward glance. She walked directly past the grand entrance arch and disappeared down a side corridor before Hathaway could even open her mouth.

"YO! PIPSQUEAK! UP HERE!" Hathaway looked up. Rhode von Ludwig was leaning over the railing of a massive, slowly-rotating panoramic glass structure overlooking the island's central lake. She was waving a half-eaten crab claw the size of a small forearm.

"You made it just in time!" Rhode yelled, completely unconcerned about volume or dignity.

"The deep-fried lobster is PEAKING!" [Location]: Royal Rosas Club · The Revolving Restaurant The "staff cafeteria" was a five-star panoramic restaurant staffed by a small army of culinary Witches in pristine white chef coats, moving with magical efficiency and the serene competence of people who had never once heard the phrase "budget constraints." Hathaway stood at the entrance with a gold-rimmed plate, scanning for a card reader. A point-deduction terminal. A cashier. Something. Nothing.

She flagged down a passing chef.

"Where do I swipe my bank card?" The chef looked at her with the patient, faintly incredulous expression of someone who had just been asked where to park a horse.

"Swipe, Miss? You're on the roster. You just... eat." Free. The word detonated inside Hathaway's skull with the warm, nuclear gentleness of supreme confirmation. Her savings were healthy now, yes. The era of the 5-Solar cafeteria set meals had technically passed. There would be no more mathematically agonizing over whether she could afford a single post-dinner dessert. None of that mattered.

The ancient, pre-rational part of her brain had already received the signal, processed it, and made a completely unilateral decision about the next thirty minutes. She sat down across from Rhode. Her plate was a structurally precarious architectural achievement of premium protein and carbohydrates. She began to eat. Not nibble. Not taste. Inhale.

She descended upon the truffle lobster, the deep-sea abalone cream risotto, and the paper-thin Drake steak with the focused, devastating efficiency of a starving wolf that had just found the keys to a slaughterhouse. Rhode rested her chin on her hand, watching her younger cousin annihilate a forty-Solar steak in three bites. The chaotic Vanguard didn't look disgusted. She looked profoundly, almost maternally validated.

"That's the spirit," Rhode grinned, actively shoving another massive platter of lobster tails across the table toward Hathaway.

"Eat up. You're a growing lion. Did they even feed you in that windowless dungeon? Or did you spend too much time with Wellington and forget how to chew? I swear, that girl thinks she can photosynthesize off Earl Grey tea and condescension." Hathaway gave a thumbs-up around a mouthful of risotto. Different aesthetics entirely. Same Ludwig DNA. The gene for opportunistic greed and familial protectiveness is clearly dominant. It was, after all, a mathematical sin not to eat until physically incapacitated.

She was performing a moral duty.

"Where's Professor Nino?" Hathaway finally asked, after surfacing.

"Nino?" Rhode snorted, cracking open a crab leg with casual, terrifying ease.

"She doesn't eat in the main hall. She took a floating tray of artisanal spirit-fruit tarts and a pot of concentrated espresso into a private tactical suite." Rhode shook her head, biting into the crab meat.

"She swore she was going to sleep for three weeks while her reactor compiled. But the second you two landed, she booted up thirty holographic tournament brackets."

"She claims her physical body is officially 'on vacation' in a luxury recliner, so it completely doesn't matter what her brain is doing," Rhode grinned around a mouthful of crab.

"And what her brain is doing is utilizing 100% of its processing power to calculate the exact, mathematically optimal path to violently eliminate her sister's team in the winner's bracket.

"The woman is running on pure caffeine, undiluted spite, and a terminal case of sibling inferiority complex." Right, Hathaway remembered, a phantom shiver running down her spine as she recalled the argument from a few days ago. Heidi's polite, devastatingly factual smile. Golden Iris will remain in the winner's bracket. So our paths shouldn't cross. And the way Nino's fist had clenched so hard inside her lab coat pocket the blast-resistant fabric had nearly torn.

Consistent, Hathaway thought, sipping her post-dinner mint tea with the deep inner peace of someone who had temporarily bankrupted a club's weekly grocery budget as a form of self-actualization. Only a Witch driven by a weaponized sister-complex could find a legal loophole in her own vacation. Physical immobility equals rest; therefore, mentally orchestrating a marathon revenge-plotting session doesn't violate Witch Labor Laws.

She was mechanically chewing through master-crafted desserts without tasting a single bite, treating them as basic metabolic fuel for a war machine. Sister-complex truly is the ultimate productivity hack. Rhode tossed a completely decimated crab shell onto a designated disposal rune and stood up. She stretched her arms above her head until her spine popped like a series of small, satisfying firecrackers.

"Alright, Coach. Calorie loading is complete," Rhode grinned. She looked down at Hathaway with the specific, manic energy of a tour guide about to show off a very expensive, very dangerous zoo.

"Let's go walk it off. It's time to show you the armory, explain the loot system, and introduce you to the rest of the circus." Hathaway patted her comfortably full stomach. Loot system? Her gamer instincts instantly overrode her food coma.

"Lead the way," she said.