Chapter 252: The Starlight Banquet. (Kofi Donation Bonus)

The floating sky-island of the Ambassadors Academy did not merely host the Starlight Banquet; it transformed into an ethereal celestial palace.

As twilight yielded to deep violet night, the void chasm beneath the school’s suspended bedrock erupted into an ocean of soft luminescence.

Hundreds of thousands of light-weaving runes embedded into the underside of the continental plate pulsed upward, projecting shimmering auroras of silver, indigo, and gold across the cloud cover.

Strung between the towering marble observation spires were colossal banners of woven astral silk, rippling gently in the high-altitude winds and reflecting the light like cascades of falling liquid mercury.

Floating fountains, defying gravity entirely, drifted through the open skyways between the lecture halls and the grand residential districts.

Columns of enchanted, sparkling mountain water twisted into graceful spirals, filled with tiny, luminescent fish carved from semi-translucent elemental gems that left glittering trails in the air as they swam through suspended liquid arches.

Overhead, hovering drones shaped like miniature golden constellations glided silently, playing gentle, harmonic symphonies that resonated not just in the ear, but directly within the soul—relaxing the tense, battle-hardened nerves of the student body.

The atmosphere crackled with electric excitement. For seven straight days, the freshman cohort had known only the terror of the Gravity Basin, the brutality of dimensional theory, and the cold hierarchy of combat rankings.

Tonight, however, the armor had been packed away, the blood-slicked training grounds were locked, and the entire campus was buzzing with anticipation.

Down the broad, starlit boulevard leading to the Astral Grand Palace—the colossal, domed pavilion adjacent to Horizon Dome where official inter-bastion summits were held—hundreds of students were streaming forward in lavish processions.

"Look at the banners! By the ancestors, that’s genuine starlight thread!"

"Who cares about the curtains?! Look at the line at the gates! Even the second-year enforcers are wearing formal dress!"

"Is that a four-tier floating carriage from the northern mining syndicate?! Who allowed private transports on the sky-terrace?!"

Through the grand double archways of the pavilion, where columns of polished white meteorite supported a vaulted glass ceiling that peered directly into the endless expanse of the cosmos, the guests poured in.

The turn-out was staggering. Nearly two thousand students from all three academic years mingled across the polished obsidian ballroom floor.

The basic class had arrived in droves, eager to put aside the humiliation of their daily drills, while the elite class scions held court near the elevated crystalline balconies, nursing flutes of glowing dragon-grape wine and sizing up their peers.

Yet, the true spectacle began when the brass trumpets sounded from the palace’s elevated celestial dock.

"ANNOUNCING THE ARRIVAL OF THE ACADEMY APPOINTMENTS!" the herald’s voice boomed across the hall, amplified by runic arrays.

The murmuring in the ballroom choked into silence. Every single head—from the haughtiest freshman to the proudest second-year—snapped toward the grand marble staircase.

The Academy Appointments. The Top Ten Third-Years.

These were not just students; they were living legends, monsters who had spent three years exploring active high grade dimensional rifts, repelling Bastion-level beast tides, and holding command over the Hope Alliance’s vanguard units.

Descending the staircase first was Ryan Griffith.

The blonde third-year prodigy, who had overseen the chaotic entrance examinations at Parisia, wore a sharply tailored navy-and-black ceremonial coat with a golden cape slung over one shoulder.

His handsome face carried that same roguish, dangerously casual grin that made everyone both instinctively relax and mentally prepare for an ambush.

Flanking him were three other third-year titans: a towering warrior clad in midnight-blue plate mail that hummed with continental gravity, a slender woman whose silver dress seemed woven from living shadows, and the stern, cold figure of Victor Vance, the third-year representative of the House of Diamonds, whose aura alone felt like an unsheathed broadsword pressing against the hall’s collective throat.

Behind them came the Distinguished Alumni.

These were the invited celebrity figures of the Hope Alliance: high-ranking combat commanders from the Dimension Management Authority (DMA) sporting five silver stripes on their cuffs; famous champion duelists from the Zenith Rankings whose battles were broadcast across all five Tier 1 Bastions; and legendary syndicate moguls whose private fortunes could purchase entire floating sky-islands.

Among them was Lady Selene of the Obsidian Pavilion, draped in shimmering green jade silk, her eyes scanning the fresh crop of students with the calculating greed of an apex scout looking for fresh meat.

Then, the acoustic runes chimed with a heavy, rhythmic cadence that made the stone floor vibrate.

The instructors filed in.

Among them was Instructor Varien. The seasoned Gold-rank combat veteran wore his formal grey uniform, his three golden instructor stripes gleaming under the chandeliers.

His square jaw was set like granite, but his sharp, eagle-like eyes flicked subtly across the crowd, clearly looking for a specific golden-haired problem child.

And finally, descending on a hovering silver petal platform from the upper balcony, was Academy Director Kaien.

The Director’s hair was swept back like an ancient cliff that refused coastal erosion. His robes, dark as the void and lined with the blazing golden constellations of the Dawn Accord, dragged silently behind him.

He didn’t speak. He simply stood at the summit of the dais, his calm, heavy, and profound presence settling over the two-thousand-strong assembly like an impenetrable mountain range, instantly suppressing the ambient chatter into dead, reverent silence.

And yet, despite the presence of living legends and grandmasters, a loud collective gasp suddenly rang out from one of the entrances.

It occurred at the palace’s main western entrance.

The grand doors slid open with a whisper of pneumatic steam.

Two figures walked through the threshold.

On the left was Amara.

The icy, untouchable heiress of the Great Frost Bastion had completely discarded her combat uniform.

She wore a breathtaking, backless evening gown woven from frost-silk the color of a winter dawn.

The dress hugged her slender, athletic curves with absolute precision, splitting subtly along her left thigh to reveal her long, graceful leg as she walked.

Her silky blue hair, usually bound in a sharp combat ponytail, tumbled down her bare shoulders in loose, shimmering waves that framed her sculpted jawline.

Around her pale, elegant throat rested a simple sapphire choker that brought out the piercing, radiant sky-blue of her eyes.

She carried herself with the poise of an unshakeable queen, her chin tilted slightly upward, her hand resting lightly—almost possessively—upon the arm of her escort.

And her escort was Creed Walden.