My Taboo Harem! - Chapter 245 - 245: Challenge: Phei Against the Team

The three basketball coaches had risen from their seats near the Council members. Two men and one woman—Coach Harrison, Coach Webb, and Coach Reyes.

Harrison spoke first, his voice booming even without a microphone—

“Now hold on just a minute. The basketball roster isn’t something that gets decided by—by announcements at assemblies. There are tryouts. Protocols. A selection process—”

“With all due respect, Coach.” Phei’s voice cut through Harrison’s bluster like a knife through warm butter, the Charm Speech making every word land with devastating precision—and making Harrison’s face turn the color of overcooked lobster. “When was the last time your ‘selection process’ chose anyone who wasn’t from a Legacy family?”

Silence.

Damning, deafening silence.

“Four Legacy kids on the starting five,” Phei continued, his tone almost conversational. Almost friendly. Almost reasonable—which made it worse. “Year after year. What a coincidence. What an amazing stroke of luck that the most talented players in the entire academy just happen to share last names with the founding families.”

More whispers. Louder now. Students looking at each other with expressions that said he’s got a point—and maybe we’ve all been complicit in the scam.

Coach Webb’s face had gone red—the red of a man realizing his “meritocracy” was about to be exposed as nepotism with better lighting.

“That’s—that’s completely inappropriate. The team is selected based on skill and—”

“Then you won’t mind if I prove my skills.”

The female coach—Reyes—stepped forward.

She was younger than the others. Sharper. Her dark eyes assessed Phei with something that looked almost like approval—or curious hunger.

“And how exactly do you propose to do that?” she asked. Not hostile. Genuinely curious—her curiosity made you wonder if she was thinking about basketball or something far more horizontal.

Phei smiled at her.

Not the dangerous smile. The other one—warm, slightly vulnerable, the smile of a boy who just wanted a fair chance. The smile that made women want to protect him even as they wanted to devour him.

Coach Reyes blinked. Swallowed. A faint flush crept up her neck—professionalism taking a sudden few seconds vacation.

“A challenge,” Phei said simply—voice calm, almost conversational, like he was ordering coffee instead of detonating a social nuke.

“Me against the starting team. If I can’t perform, you’ll never hear from me again. If I can…” He spread his hands, the gesture lazy, open, devastatingly confident. “Then maybe your ‘selection process’ needs some revision.”

“Absolutely not!” Harrison sputtered—face turning the color of an overripe tomato that had just realized it was about to be juiced. “This is—this is completely against protocol—”

“Why not?”

Everyone turned toward Reyes. She’d crossed her arms, chin lifted, something defiant in her stance—defiance that stepped from watching nepotism win for years and finally seeing a crack in the armor.

“If the boy has skills, let him prove them. Unless—” Her gaze swept across Harrison and Webb with thinly veiled contempt—the kind that could strip paint. “—you’re saying the team is only for the privileged. Not the ones with the best skills.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Because that’s what it sounds like.”

“Now listen here—”

“No, you listen—”

The argument exploded.

Harrison and Webb shouting about protocol and tradition and proper channels—voices rising in pitch like men realizing their kingdom was built on sand. Reyes firing back about nepotism and talent and the whole point of competitive sports—each word landing like a slap.

The Council members looking increasingly alarmed—like courtiers watching the king argue with the executioner about whose turn it was to swing.

The teachers frozen in indecision—wondering if intervening would save their jobs or just get them added to whatever list Phei was clearly keeping.

The students watching with the rapt attention of spectators at the world’s most entertaining tennis match—except the ball was made of privilege and it was about to burst.

Chaos.

Beautiful, useful chaos.

And then—

“Enough.”

The single word cut through the noise like a blade—cold, ancient, amused.

Vice Principal Ashworth had risen from his chair.

The old man moved with surprising grace for someone his age, crossing the stage with measured steps that somehow commanded more attention than all the shouting combined—like death walking in to remind everyone it had an appointment.

His white hair gleamed under the auditorium lights. His face was carved from decades of authority. His eyes—sharp, cold, amused—swept across the chaos he’d allowed to unfold and found it entertaining—the way a cat finds a half-dead mouse entertaining.

The coaches fell silent immediately—mouths snapping shut like they’d been trained.

The Council members sat straighter—spines aligning like good little soldiers.

Even Marcus, still standing near the podium, inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment—a gesture so small it was almost insulting, but coming from Marcus, it was practically a bow.

Ashworth stopped beside Phei.

For a long moment, the two of them stood there—the ancient institution and the rising dragon—while two thousand people held their breath.

“Mr. Maxton.” Ashworth’s voice was dry, precise, carrying easily without any need for amplification—the voice of a man who’d buried more scandals than most people had breakfasts. “You’ve made quite the entrance.”

“I try, sir.”

“Indeed.” The VP’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close—that made you wonder if he was amused or calculating how many bodies would fit in the foundation. “You’re claiming you have the skills to challenge our starting basketball team. The team that won regionals last year. The team that hasn’t lost a game in three seasons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bold.” Ashworth studied him with those cold, calculating eyes. “Foolish, perhaps. But bold.”

Phei met his gaze without flinching—purple against ice, dragon against institution.

“There’s a difference between foolish and confident, sir. I know which one I am.”

“Do you?” Ashworth’s eyebrow rose—slow, deliberate, the arch of a man who’d seen bolder boys break. “Then tell me—what makes you think you can compete with players who’ve been training since childhood? Who have access to the best coaches, the best facilities, the best everything that money can buy?”

Phei’s smile sharpened—sharpness that drew blood without touching skin.

“Because skill doesn’t care about your bank account or how long you’ve trained, how epensive that was.” His voice carried through the microphone, through the auditorium, into every ear and every mind—Charm Speech wrapping around them like velvet chains.

“Talent doesn’t check your family tree before it decides to show up. And hunger—” He let the word hang—heavy, promising. “—hunger beats privilege every single time.”

A beat of silence.

Then Ashworth laughed.

Actually laughed—a dry, creaking sound that seemed to surprise even him, like he’d forgotten he was capable of amusement—or that amusement could be this dangerous.

“Well then.” He turned to face the student body, arms clasped behind his back—the posture of a man about to deliver judgment. “It seems we have a—”

“PHEI! PHEI! PHEI!”

The chant started in the middle section.

Maya Scarlett was on her feet, silver hair catching the light, both fists pumping in the air as she screamed his name with the enthusiasm of someone who’d been waiting for exactly this moment—and was willing to burn the school down to make it last.

“PHEI! PHEI! PHEI!”

Three rows behind her, David—the academy’s most notorious gossip, the boy who knew secrets and spread them with gleeful abandon—shot to his feet. He started the rhythmic stomp-and-clap that every sports fan knew instinctively.

Stomp-stomp-CLAP. Stomp-stomp-CLAP.

His three constant companions joined immediately. Then the row behind them. Then the one beside.

“PHEI! PHEI! PHEI!”

Stomp-stomp-CLAP.

“PHEI! PHEI! PHEI!”

Stomp-stomp-CLAP.

It spread like wildfire.

Section by section, tier by tier, the chant consumed the auditorium. Students who’d never spoken to Phei screaming his name.

Students who’d once bullied him for years stomping their feet in rhythm—because even bullies knew which way the wind was blowing. Students who’d once dismissed him as nothing suddenly desperate to be part of something—anything that felt like this.

The Dominance Aura.

The Charm Speech.

Cool Aura.

All of it combining into a perfect storm of influence that turned two thousand individual students into a single, roaring entity—and that entity was chanting his name.

Phei stood at the center of it all, that dangerous smile playing across his devastatingly beautiful face, violet eyes blazing with something that looked almost like joy—or triumph.

This, he thought. This is what power feels like.

On the other side of the stage, Marcus watched with an expression of perfect indifference.

But his silver eyes missed nothing.

Ashworth raised one hand.

The chanting died. Not slowly—immediately. Like someone had hit a mute button on two thousand voices—or like the old man had reminded them who still signed the paychecks.

“It seems,” the VP said dryly, “the student body has made their opinion known.”

He turned back to Phei.

“A challenge, then. Tomorrow. You against the starting five.” His eyes glittered with something that might have been anticipation—or bloodlust. “But surely you don’t intend to face them alone?”

“No, sir.” Phei’s smile didn’t waver. “I’ll need two teammates. I rather hold back and not humiliate them so much.” The VP laughed together with the student, while the team in question ground their teeth.

Phei turned, letting his gaze sweep across the auditorium until it landed on a specific face in the crowd.

Derek.