I sat in a small, windowless room with five other students, the air heavy with a mix of tension and curiosity. The chairs were arranged in a loose semicircle, all of them facing the woman standing at the front of the room, the same teacher who had stopped me in the hallway earlier.

  Her name, she had introduced, was Ms. Aston.

  She was the faculty advisor of the disciplinary committee.

  That alone told me this meeting wasn’t going to be about grades.

  Ms. Aston stood with her hands clasped behind her back, posture straight, eyes calmly sweeping over each of us as if committing our faces to memory. The room was quiet for a few seconds too long, until one of the students finally broke the silence.

  “You want us to deal with gangs from other schools?”

  The voice belonged to a second-year student seated near the wall. He was broad-shouldered and thick-necked, his uniform straining slightly around his arms. His buzz cut only made him look more intimidating, and the skepticism in his tone was unmistakable.

  Ms. Aston didn’t flinch.

  Instead, she nodded once, as if this were the most reasonable thing in the world.

  “Yes,” she said simply.

  She began explaining the situation in a calm, professional tone. Over the past week, there had been a noticeable surge in violence throughout the surrounding region, fights, harassment, intimidation. The common thread was that it all happened outside school grounds. That technicality severely limited how much the faculty could intervene without overstepping their authority.

  In short, their hands were tied.

  Which was where we came in.

  Her offer was straightforward: the six of us would deal with the hostile student gangs operating in the area. In return, we would be granted exemptions from classes, leniency on attendance, and protection from internal disciplinary action, as long as we didn’t bring the fighting back onto school grounds.

  I stared at her, trying to decide if she was serious.

  Personally, I had no idea how this arrangement was supposed to work. I wasn’t even sure if it was legal. But this was a story-world, and the plot convenience in this one was doing some heavy lifting.

  Ms. Aston had carefully selected us, two students from each year.

  I was one of the first years. The other was a girl I didn’t recognize, sitting quietly with her arms crossed, eyes sharp and observant. She hadn’t said a word since I arrived, but something about her presence felt… dangerous.

  The second years were hard to miss. One was the bulky guy who had already spoken up. The other was tall and athletic, with long hair tied loosely behind his head. He leaned back in his chair, expression relaxed, but his eyes never stopped moving.

  The third years stood out the most.

  One was a short-haired woman who had brought a kendo sword with her, resting it carefully against the wall beside her chair as if it were completely normal. The other was a bald man wearing glasses, his posture composed, hands folded neatly in his lap. He looked more like a teacher than a student.

  “Why us?” the bulky second year asked, crossing his arms. “There are plenty of violent students in this school.”

  Ms. Aston met his gaze without hesitation.

  “As violent as you all are,” she said evenly, “you do not blindly seek out fights. You act with intent. With restraint. Compared to the others, you are… controllable.”

  That answer didn’t sit well with everyone, but no one argued.

  Despite the absurdity of the situation, I found myself nodding.

  This wasn’t much different from what the system had already been pushing us toward anyway. The story wanted escalation. Territory. Conflict.

  I accepted her offer.

  A familiar panel materialized in front of my vision.

  Subtask added: Defeat hostile gangs

  The objective was simple enough.

  Deal with the gangs of student thugs from neighboring schools. Groups that had been harassing our students, and the locals living in the area, with increasing boldness.

  Simple on paper.

  I had a feeling it wouldn’t stay that way for long.

  There were two subtasks tied to defeating gangs from other schools, but the distinction mattered more than I liked. The task given by Ms. Aston only counted if the gangs were operating within the immediate area surrounding Goliath High. If I dealt with them farther out, it would still contribute to the broader objective of defeating school gangs, but not to her request.

  That meant efficiency mattered.

  Either way, I already had my first targets.

  The alley reeked of cigarette smoke and damp concrete. Seven students loitered near a stack of rusted trash bins, some sitting, some leaning against the walls like they owned the place. None of them wore proper uniforms, ties missing, jackets altered, shirts untucked, but one detail caught my attention immediately.

  A stitched lion emblem on the back of a jacket.

  Nemean High.

  Good. That saved me the trouble of confirming affiliations.

  “Shouldn’t you be in class?” I asked casually as I stepped into the mouth of the alley.

  The group froze for half a second, then laughter broke out.

  One of them, taller than the rest, shoulders broad, face already hardened by too many fights, pushed himself off the wall and flicked his cigarette to the ground.

  “You picking a fight?” he asked, cracking his neck as he started marching toward me.

  The others straightened up, spreading out instinctively. No hesitation. No confusion.

  Experienced thugs.

  I exhaled slowly.

  “Something like that,” I replied.

  He didn’t bother with another word. His fist came swinging in a wide arc, sloppy but heavy, clearly meant to end the fight in one hit.

  My body moved before my thoughts caught up.

  Demonic Instincts kicked in.

  I stepped inside his reach instead of backing away, letting his punch graze past my shoulder. My own fist drove into his ribs, right beneath the arm. I felt cartilage give way under the impact.

  The air left his lungs in a sharp, ugly gasp.

  Before he could even collapse, I grabbed the back of his collar and slammed his face into the brick wall.

  Once.

  Twice.

  He went limp.

  The alley went silent.

  “Shit-!”

  Two of them rushed me at the same time. One aimed low, probably going for my legs, while the other swung a metal pipe he must’ve been hiding behind his back.

  I sidestepped the pipe, letting it clang uselessly against the wall, and brought my knee up into the charging thug’s face. Blood sprayed as he crumpled to the ground, clutching his nose and screaming.

  The one with the pipe recovered quickly, swinging again, faster this time.

  I caught the pipe mid-swing.

  The impact rattled my arm, but my grip didn’t loosen. I twisted sharply, wrenching it out of his hands, then smashed the pipe across his forearm.

  Bone cracked.

  He dropped instantly, howling.

  The remaining three hesitated.

  That was their mistake.

  I lunged forward, closing the distance before they could regroup. One tried to backpedal, I kicked his knee sideways and heard the joint give out. He collapsed with a shriek.

  Another threw a wild punch. I ducked under it and drove my elbow into his throat. He fell clutching his neck, wheezing desperately.

  The last one tried to run.

  I grabbed him by the hood and yanked him back, spinning him into the wall. My fist slammed into his stomach once, twice, three times, until he slid down to the ground, retching.

  Seven students.

  All down.

  I stood there for a moment, breathing steadily, scanning the alley for movement. No one got back up.

  A translucent panel appeared in front of my vision.

  Subtask progress: Defeat hostile gangs (1 group cleared)

  I glanced at the lion emblem again, now smeared with dust and blood.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “So that’s how it’s going to be,” I muttered.

  This was only the beginning.

  And if Nemean High thought they could push into Goliath’s territory unchecked, they were about to learn otherwise.

  “Can’t say I expected this,” Giselle murmured as she leaned back in her chair, eyes fixed on the layered projections floating in front of them.

  The viewing room was alive with overlapping feeds, dozens of perspectives from inside the event, yet the mood inside the room was strangely subdued. Around one hundred and forty silver-ranked and below bookkeepers had entered the event chasing the promise of grand rewards. Blueprints. Rare records. Items that could redefine their paths.

  Most of them had already slammed headfirst into reality.

  “Overconfidence,” Giselle continued calmly. “That’s what crippled them.”

  On one screen, a group of participants was being chased out of a school courtyard by a handful of elite students. On another, a silver-ranked bookkeeper lay groaning on the ground after being beaten unconscious by a third-year boss.

  Without their usual records, without magic, artifacts, or overwhelming abilities, many of them simply weren’t ready.

  “They handled the small fry just fine,” Zoey said, resting her chin on her palm as she watched another feed. “Random thugs, low-level gang members… those went down easily.”

  She flicked her finger, switching to a different projection.

  “But the elites?” she continued. “They barely slowed them down. Some of these kids in the story are monsters.”

  A clip replayed of a participant being sent flying across a hallway, crashing into lockers hard enough to dent metal.

  “And don’t even get me started on the ones who rushed the school bosses,” Zoey added with a grimace. “They’re going to be stuck in recovery for weeks.”

  Giselle nodded slightly. Even with safety measures in place, injuries inside a story-dive had consequences, especially when the system deemed them the result of reckless decisions.

  “Thank god the silver event I had wasn’t this hard,” Zoey muttered. “I had prior training with a sword, sure, but even then…” She shook her head. “This would’ve been brutal.”

  Neither of them could participate now. As gold-ranked bookkeepers, they were restricted to higher-tier events. All they could do was watch.

  Giselle’s attention narrowed to a specific feed.

  “There,” she said quietly.

  The projection expanded, centering on Jayden as he moved through a familiar alleyway, bodies of defeated students scattered around him. His movements were efficient, controlled, almost clinical.

  “He seems to be doing well though,” Giselle observed. “That’s the fifth gang he’s dealt with.”

  Zoey raised an eyebrow. “Fifth already?”

  “Yes,” Giselle confirmed. “All within Goliath High’s surrounding area. Clean clears, minimal damage.”

  She paused, eyes narrowing slightly as she analyzed the system data layered beside the footage.

  “That should be enough to qualify him for a bronze-grade record as a reward. Possibly better, depending on hidden conditions.”

  Zoey whistled softly. “Not bad for someone operating with almost no usable records.”

  “I’m more surprised by what he hasn’t done,” Zoey added after a moment. “He hasn’t challenged the school boss yet.”

  Giselle allowed herself a faint smile.

  “To be fair,” she said, “in his first two story-dives, Jayden never rushed the strongest characters either. He prefers clearing the periphery first, extra villains, side threats, destabilizing the environment.”

  She gestured to the feeds. “By the time the elites notice him, the board is already tilted in his favor.”

  Zoey chuckled. “A hunter that lets the prey come to him.”

  “Exactly.”

  Zoey swiped her hand again, pulling up another feed. The projection shifted to a darker room, students gathered around a desk, tension thick in the air.

  The school boss of Nemean High stood at the center, arms crossed, fury evident even through the screen.

  “He’s not going to get that luxury for long,” Zoey said, tone sharpening. “Looks like Nemean High finally noticed what’s been happening.”

  The feed zoomed in as the boss slammed a fist onto the desk.

  “They’re blaming Goliath High,” Zoey continued. “And more specifically, him.”

  Giselle’s gaze hardened.

  “Well,” she said calmly, “that was inevitable.”

  She leaned forward slightly, interest clearly piqued.

  “It looks like Jayden’s next opponent won’t be a random thug or a roaming gang,” she added. “He’s about to step onto the main stage.”

  Zoey smiled, eyes gleaming.

  “Let’s see how he handles a real boss.”

  Nemean High bore the symbol of a lion.

  Leviathan High carried the mark of a dragon.

  Grove High wore a sprawling tree as its emblem.

  Those three symbols had become strangely familiar to me over the past week.

  I’d encountered them again and again while cleaning up wandering gangs around Goliath High’s territory. To lower the chances of being caught by teachers or local security, the gangs avoided their own campuses and loitered near rival schools instead. Alleyways, abandoned lots, empty parks, places where no one would ask questions when fists started flying.

  Unfortunately for them, that habit put them directly in my path.

  Each encounter ended the same way: bruised bodies, broken pride, and another quiet update from the system acknowledging progress. From what I’d heard through whispers and half-formed rumors, my seniors weren’t nearly as active in dealing with off-campus gangs. Most of them stayed cautious, focused on consolidating their own schools.

  That suited me just fine.

  More gangs meant more subtask points. More subtask points meant better rewards. Simple math.

  I was cutting through a side street not far from the border between Goliath and Nemean territory when a voice rang out behind me.

  “Hey! Are you Jayden Brise?”

  I stopped and turned.

  A group of students stood several meters away, blocking the mouth of the alley. There were six of them, all wearing track suits instead of proper uniforms. Embroidered on their chests was a golden lion, its mane flared as if mid-roar.

  Nemean High.

  I let my shoulders relax and smiled.

  “One and only,” I said lightly. “You must be fans.”

  The air shifted.

  They didn’t charge immediately like the thugs I’d dealt with before. Instead, they spread out slightly, forming a loose semicircle. Their stances weren’t sloppy either, feet planted, weight balanced, eyes sharp.

  That alone set them apart.

  “So this is the guy,” one of them muttered. He was broad-shouldered, with taped knuckles and a nose that had clearly been broken more than once. “Doesn’t look like much.”

  Another laughed. “He’s just a first year.”

  I felt it then, a faint pressure in the air. Not mana. Not anything supernatural. Just… presence. The kind that came from bodies that had been pushed, trained, and tested far beyond what normal students should endure.

  These aren’t random thugs, I realized. They’re closer to elites.

  “Let’s not waste time,” the biggest one said, cracking his neck. “Boss wants you taught a lesson.”

  I exhaled slowly.

  “Fair warning,” I replied. “I don’t go easy on visitors.”

  They moved.

  Two of them rushed me at once. Fast, faster than the previous gangs I’d faced. One aimed low, sweeping for my legs, while the other threw a straight punch at my face.

  Good coordination.

  I stepped forward instead of back, twisting my torso just enough for the punch to graze past my cheek. My knee came up sharply, slamming into the low attacker’s shoulder before his sweep could finish. I felt bone jolt under impact, solid and dense.

  He grunted, but didn’t go down.

  That surprised me.

  The second attacker recovered instantly and followed up with a hook. I raised my forearm to block, the impact rattling my arm harder than expected.

  Yeah, I thought grimly. Definitely stronger.

  Demonic Instincts kicked in fully then. The world sharpened, movements slowing just enough for me to read muscle tension and intent. My body adjusted on its own, shifting weight, correcting posture.

  I drove my elbow into the hook thrower’s ribs. He staggered back with a sharp breath, but again, he stayed on his feet.

  Behind me, footsteps thundered.

  I ducked just in time as something heavy whistled through the air where my head had been. I pivoted and caught a glimpse of another Nemean student bringing his leg down in an axe kick, cracking the concrete where I’d been standing.

  Ridiculous strength for a “normal” story world, I noted.

  I countered with a short punch to the liver, then followed with a palm strike to the chin. His head snapped back and he collapsed, finally unconscious.

  Three left.

  They didn’t hesitate. One grabbed me from behind, locking his arms around my torso. His grip was iron-tight, crushing the breath out of me.

  Before the others could capitalize, I stomped down hard on his foot, felt something crunch, then slammed my head back into his nose. He yelped and loosened his hold just enough.

  That was all I needed.

  I twisted free and spun, delivering a kick that sent him skidding across the pavement.

  The remaining two exchanged a glance.

  “This guy’s no joke,” one of them muttered.

  They came at me together anyway.

  The fight dragged longer than I expected. Every hit landed cleanly, every takedown deliberate, but these students absorbed punishment far better than anyone I’d fought before. Their strikes were heavier, sharper. One punch slipped past my guard and clipped my jaw, making my teeth rattle.

  I smiled through it.

  So this is Nemean High.

  In the end, experience won out.

  A feint, a misstep forced, a brutal knee to the abdomen. One fell. The last tried to retreat, but I caught him by the collar and slammed him into the wall hard enough to knock him out cold.

  Silence returned to the alley.

  I stood there for a moment, breathing steadily, body humming with adrenaline.

  Stronger. Faster. More disciplined.

  If these were just their enforcers…

  “…Looks like I’ve officially stepped onto the lion’s turf,” I muttered.

  A familiar notification flickered at the edge of my vision.

  Subtask progress updated.

  I grinned.

  “Good,” I said softly. “That means the real fights are finally starting.”

  “A new batch is coming already?” Katherine asked, fingers pausing mid-scroll as she stared at the notice hovering above the desk. “Don’t they arrive every two months? It’s barely been one.”

  Across from her, Taric leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head as the dim lights of the archive reflected off the lenses of his glasses. He looked far too relaxed for someone delivering bad, or at least complicated, news.

  “I believe it’s because the last batch was mostly people from Canvas,” he said. “Low adjustment time. Familiar interfaces. The library probably thinks that evens things out.”

  Katherine frowned. “So they’re compensating.”

  “Exactly. This time they’re planning to pull more people straight from stories.”

  Her unease deepened.

  “And how many are we talking about?” she asked.

  “Just three,” Taric replied. “Small batch. The roster won’t be revealed for another week.”

  Katherine leaned back and exhaled slowly, rubbing her temple. Three wasn’t a large number, not by the library’s standards, but that almost made it worse. A small batch meant fewer eyes, less attention, and fewer bookkeepers willing to take responsibility.

  New bookkeepers were a good thing. In theory.

  In practice, they were fragile.

  The library had adopted the two-month interval for a reason. It gave newcomers time to adjust, to learn the rules, understand the risks, and find their footing under the guidance of more experienced bookkeepers. It was a buffer against the worst outcomes.

  Cut that buffer short, and things went wrong.

  Badly.

  “If a new batch arrives this soon,” Katherine said quietly, “most experienced bookkeepers won’t bother looking their way. They’ll assume someone else will handle it.”

  Taric didn’t argue. He knew she was right.

  “And when no one does,” she continued, “they get trampled.”

  She’d seen it happen before. Promising newcomers pushed into dives they weren’t ready for. Claims snapped up by opportunists. Support offered too late, if it came at all.

  Taric straightened slightly, his tone more serious. “I know you plan on supporting them if they don’t get claimed,” he said. “You always do. But you can’t do it alone, Katherine.”

  She looked at him then, expression sharp. “I never said I would.”

  “You don’t have to,” Taric replied evenly. “You telegraph it every time.”

  That earned a tired huff from her.

  “You should really consider making a club,” he added. “Something official. A structure people can rally around.”

  Katherine let out a humorless laugh. “A club focused on helping unclaimed new bookkeepers?” she asked. “You really think people would line up for that?”

  She gestured vaguely around them, at the endless shelves and floating corridors of the library.

  “We’ve been here a long time, Taric. Most people don’t do things out of the goodness of their heart. They do them for leverage. For records. For reputation.”

  “And yet,” Taric said calmly, “you keep doing it anyway.”

  She fell silent.

  After a moment, Taric continued, softer now. “You won’t know unless you try. Worst case? No one joins. Best case?”

  He shrugged.

  “You stop carrying the weight alone.”

  Katherine stared at the notice again, the words Incoming Batch: Pending glowing faintly.

  Three names. Three unknowns. Three people who might walk into the library completely unprepared for what waited beyond the shelves.

  “…I’ll think about it,” she said at last.

  Taric smiled, not triumphant, just quietly relieved.

  “That’s all I’m asking.”