Chapter 101
A Decision
A few days later, far beneath the towering walls of Hope Academy, within one of its lesser-known underground levels, a meeting was being held.
It was a wide, rectangular chamber built from black steel and glass, its walls had path formations that ensured total secrecy. Lights hovered near the ceiling, softly illuminating the room in sterile white..
The table was made of darkwood—seamless, and shaped like a blade. It sat in the center of the room and spanned nearly the entire length. There were nine high-backed seats, all occupied except for one.
The chair at the head of the table, which was larger and slightly elevated compared to the others, remained conspicuously empty. That seat belonged to the Principal—an elusive figure known for rarely attending these meetings in person. Yet even in absence, their authority hung over the room.
The remaining eight seats were occupied by instructors, executives, and overseers of varying ages and demeanors. Each had a laptop opened before them, fingers scrolling, tapping, or twitching as glowing reports and flashing data flickered across their screens.
An older woman, her white hair pulled into a neat bun, adjusted her glasses and sighed. "Now that's finally done… Gods help me if I have to do that again. I swear I lost a few years of my life this week."
A few others nodded in tired agreement, rubbing their eyes or leaning back in their seats.
"Anyway, on to the final topic of the day… and oh, look at that." Her tone gained an edge of amusement. "I'm sure you've all been notified about this one?"
A short,laugh came from across the table.
"Are you talking about our… what was it again? Ah, yes—our 100 gold coin boy?" a man with a hawkish nose smiled.
Someone else chuckled, but a third person—a woman with tight braids and an analytical expression—cut in bluntly. "We should clear it."
Her tone was flat, professional, and final.
But her words stirred a loud reaction.
A man with a moustache and flushed cheeks immediately slammed his hands against the table. "No. No, no, no. Absolutely not! Are you out of your mind?! This goes against everything Hope Academy stands for!"
Several people winced at the volume, and one of them muttered under their breath about how he was always like this.
He pressed on. "We've said it since the founding of the academy: as long as a soldier has enough the contribution points, they'll be given a fair shot—regardless of how average they were. But let's not delude ourselves here. That rule was made under the assumption that if someone was capable of racking up that much contribution points between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, they'd have to be at least moderately talented."
He paused, slightly dramatically.
"This kid is not. He's the opposite! Look at his records—he's average at best! It took him over a month to form a damn avien!"
A woman with a raspy voice raised an eyebrow. "But the information he provided about this circle of the divine… you can't deny it was valuable. And can be considered a massive contribution. "
Another leaned forward, tapping the edge of the table. "And let's not forget the numbers. One applicant usually pays one silver coin to apply. This kid? He paid one hundred gold coins. That's… what, fifty thousand times more?"
His voice was almost reverent, as though the words fifty thousand were sacred.
The man with the moustache looked like he was about to combust. "Money. All you ever think about is money! Hope Academy is worth millions—millions! And you want to throw away our credibility for a coin purse with legs?"
"We promised to stop fucking swearing in here," someone interjected.
He ignored them and kept going. "From his reports, while he's made a few decent decisions here and there, he's barely average overall during his missions. And it gets worse—apparently, he can hardly use his own mech! Of all the mechs his untalented ass could've chosen, he picked a hot weapon,literally the most difficult to use!"
The room fell into a tense, awkward silence.
"…But the money," the man muttered softly under their breath again.
The mustached man slammed his fist on the table again. "You bastard! We're not a business! We're an academy! A sacred place for progress, tradition, and talent!"
"Stop swearing, you bitch!" the same person shouted across the table.
"I'm not even swearing at you! And who are you to call me—"
"Gentlemen," the older woman said, massaging her temple. "Enough."
The room quieted. Barely.
The mustached man now turned to one of the quieter members of the council, a neutral-faced man who hadn't spoken much during the meeting.
"What about you?" he demanded. "You always say nothing and pick the side with the least effort. What's your stance?"
The man blinked slowly. "I have no feelings about it. Whether we clear him or not, it changes nothing for me."
The mustached man was stunned. "Why are you the most indecisive man alive?! Why do I even bother asking—"
He turned to the woman who had yet to speak.
She gently tapped her fingers against the table, the sound sharp in the silence, then finally said, "While I agree with many of your points, that's exactly what makes this all the more intriguing to me. Despite everything stacked against him... he survived. Whether by luck, instinct, or something else—we don't know. But there's something about him these reports can't capture."
He slumped back into his chair, shoulders heavy, his face twisted with frustration and disbelief. "What about all those people? They gave everything—everything—for this opportunity. Years of sweat and sacrifice... only for it to go to him?" His voice cracked. "It's not fair. I... I... He's even on a dead path. A dead path—and yet..."
The final woman, calm and composed, responded quietly, "And who ever said the talentless can't work hard? Who knows, maybe—he'll be the one to break through that deadlock."
She calmly raised her right hand, palm open and steady.
"If you believe he should be admitted... raise your hand. We shall settle this with democracy."
Without hesitation, five hands went up around the table.
As expected, the one who usually remained neutral simply declared, "I abstain."
That left only two opposed—the stern woman who had earlier told the man to stop swearing, and the man himself, still clearly frustrated by the entire situation.
The woman who initiated the vote gave a slow nod, then turned toward the old woman at the end of the table.
"You may proceed with the acceptance."
The old woman smiled, her voice light. "Understood."
....
The room had grown quiet again.
The man who had earlier been called a money-obsessed fanatic sat hunched forward, staring intently at the glowing screen in front of him—still displaying the profile of the 100 gold coin applicant.
His lips parted as he muttered to himself, barely audible. As he leaned back slowly, voice low with something almost like disbelief.
"Grimm… It couldn't be."
His eyes narrowed slightly. The glint in them wasn't greed this time.
He had other motives for voting yes… beyond the money.