Chapter 253: The Starlight Banquet. (2) (Kofi Donation Bonus)

The collective intake of breath from the surrounding crowd was almost loud enough to disturb the chandeliers.

Creed was wearing the Astral Vanguard Formal he had claimed from Master Vane.

The midnight-navy starlight-silk caught the chandelier light, rippling with that deep, matte-black sheen that revealed subtle, frosted silver embroidery along his lapels—embroidery that, by pure coincidence or design, matched the icy hue of Amara’s sapphire jewels.

The high, crisp shoulders of the double-breasted jacket accentuated the broad, powerful frame he had forged in the rifts, tapering cleanly to a structured waist and sleek dark trousers that fell over polished boots.

Secured cleanly across his back, nestled between the hidden magnetic ports of his jacket, was the pristine, bone-white shaft of the Pale Horizon.

And tied across his forehead, casting a sharp shadow over his dark blue eyes, was a dark navy headband, hiding the silent brand beneath.

He didn’t slouch. He didn’t look like a nervous slum-kid who had scraped his way into high society.

He walked with a smooth, effortless, predatory stride—the silent, terrifying cadence of an apex monster who had just pushed a Gold-ranked instructor three paces backward and was currently attending an elite party purely for the catering.

"Look at him..."

"Is that really Walden?! He doesn’t even look like the guy who was dragging mud in the basin!"

"And Lady Amara is on his arm?! Since when do the Frost Bastion nobles associate with Hope Candidates from Section 7?!"

"Look at the way they match... damn it, he looks like an imperial prince!"

In the middle of the ballroom, standing near the champagne fountain, Alan Snow choked violently on his drink.

The basic class captain was wearing a clean new coat, but his face had instantly turned the color of an overripe plum, his fingers trembling so hard around his glass that the crystalline stem nearly snapped.

Beside him, Clara—the girl who had publicly rejected Alan in the hallway—was staring at Creed with wide, shimmering honey-colored eyes, her hand pressed against her cheek in open, starry-eyed admiration.

Creed, feeling two thousand pairs of eyes drilling into his collar, didn’t flinch.

Instead, he subtly leaned his head toward Amara, whispering through the corner of his lips while maintaining an immaculate, charming smile:

"I told you I clean up well. You owe me ten credits."

Amara didn’t drop her regal posture, but her fingers pinched the firm muscle of his bicep through the silk jacket with surprising force.

"Be quiet, Class Captain," she muttered through a radiant, camera-ready smile. "Everyone in the third-year delegation is staring at your spear.

Did you really have to bring an artifact weapon to a formal dance?"

"A spearman without his spear is just a target, my lady," Creed whispered back smoothly, unbothered by the pinch. "Besides, if someone tries to serve me cold steak, I need something long enough to skewer the chef from across the room."

Amara let out a soft, breathy laugh that caused three passing basic-class boys to trip over their own shoes.

Before they could take another three steps, however, a loud, pompous, and utterly catastrophic shout cut through the refined violin music from the eastern entrance.

"BEHOLD! THE HEAVENS PART FOR THE ASCENSION OF THE GOLDEN SOVEREIGN!"

Creed’s smile instantly froze. His soul groaned.

Striding down the red carpet with the dramatic swagger of an emperor who had conquered four continents was Pascal.

The round, potato-shaped boy was wearing his blinding, floor-length golden dragon robe, its oversized sleeves fluttering like bedsheets.

His bald scalp was polished to such an obscene, high-gloss shine that when a crystal chandelier passed overhead, a sharp, golden beam of reflected light beamed directly across the room, hitting Instructor Varien square in the forehead.

Varien blinked, visibly annoyed by the sudden beam of baldness in his eyes.

Pascal had no date.

But he was walking with his chest puffed out so far his buttons were straining, holding a golden silk fan in his right hand, fanning his own neck while bowing theatrically to random third-year girls who looked at him like he was a brightly colored citrus fruit that had gained sentience.

"Good evening, fair maiden!" Pascal declared to a horrified second-year assassin. "Do not be blinded by my celestial aura! It is merely the natural brilliance of a lone dragon surveying his kingdom!"

"Who let the butter stick in?" someone whispered in the back.

Pascal ignored the murmurs entirely, his eyes scanning the crowd until he spotted Creed and Amara.

His jaw dropped. His fan slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the marble floor.

"B-Bro...?" Pascal squeaked, his voice cracking violently. "ELDER BROTHER?! YOU ACTUALLY—SHE ACTUALLY—THE HEAVENS ARE UNJUST! YOU TOLD ME YOU WERE SHY! YOU LIED TO YOUR LOYAL TACTICIAN!"

Creed smoothly turned ninety degrees, using his broad shoulders to completely shield Amara from Pascal’s sightline.

"Keep walking, Amara," Creed murmured, his expression serene. "Don’t look at it. If you make eye contact, it thinks you want to buy its golden fan."

"Creed, that is literally your best friend," Amara snickered, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"I have never met that golden potato in my entire life," Creed replied without missing a beat.

Across the ballroom, near the grand arch of the eastern balcony, another couple caught Creed’s eye.

Nicholas Grey was leaning against a silver banister, looking like the absolute definition of aristocratic perfection.

He wore a tailored charcoal-and-silver three-piece suit, his silver hair neatly parted, sipping wine from a crystal flute. And beside him stood Emerald.

The lethal assassin was wearing an emerald-green silk gown with high slits, her dark hair pinned up with silver hairpins shaped like tiny daggers.

She looked stunning, lethal, and completely bored. When her sharp green eyes caught Creed and Amara, her lips curled into a tiny, appreciative smirk.

Nicholas simply raised his glass in a silent, conspiratorial toast, his gray eyes gleaming with that cold, shared understanding of what they had witnessed in the abyss.

Chime. Chime. Chime.

The great crystal bells of the Astral Grand Palace rang out in three deep, resonant tolls that silenced the entire hall.