The fizz of Braxton Miller's synth-cigarette was the only sound that broke the suffocating silence.

On the dais, the guild masters remained paralyzed, their expressions ranging from disbelief to fury.

Professor Anya Petrova's fingers whitened around her riding crop, a visible vein throbbing at her temple. Her eyes had turned to glacial chips of blue ice, boring into Satori with naked hostility.

Satoru Takamura, normally boisterous and larger than life, sat slack-jawed. The mountain of a man seemed to have shrunk, his broad shoulders slumped forward as if he'd taken a body blow.

Elijah Valentine alone wore an expression of intrigue, his lips curled into a slow, appreciative smile. He studied Satori with the intensity of a scientist who'd just discovered a fascinating new specimen.

Hanae Mori had abandoned her characteristic slouch, sitting ramrod straight as she stared at Braxton Miller, her purple eyes wide with disbelief.

Braxton took one final, long drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out on the arm of his chair. He ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair and sighed.

"Alright, kid. Get off the stage. You're holding up the line," he drawled, his casual dismissal somehow amplifying the gravity of what had just occurred.

Satori turned and walked back toward the crowd. The sea of black-uniformed prospects parted before him, some stepping back as if he carried a contagion, others watching with newfound fascination. No one spoke. No one dared.

Headmaster Luna cleared his throat, a sound like distant thunder in the silent hall.

"We... will continue with the draft," he announced, his deep voice steady despite the unprecedented situation. "Rank 2, Kenjiro Tanaka."

A tall, handsome young man with immaculate black hair strode confidently to the podium. His posture and bearing screamed aristocracy - the antithesis of Satori's deliberate rebellion.

"Kenjiro Tanaka," Professor Petrova spoke first, her voice crisp with renewed authority. "The Argent Sentinels would be honored to count you among our ranks."

"The Scarlet Phantoms could use your fire, boy," Takamura boomed, having recovered some of his vigor.

Kenjiro barely acknowledged the second offer. He bowed formally to Professor Petrova. "I am honored to accept your invitation, Professor. I choose the Argent Sentinels."

A wave of polite, relieved applause rippled through the hall. Order had been restored. The natural hierarchy reasserted itself.

"Rank 3, Natalia Kuzmina."

Natalia stood frozen for a moment before stepping forward. Her purple hair caught the light as she moved toward the podium, her face a mask of composure that didn't reach her eyes. Inside, her thoughts churned like a maelstrom.

The Onyx Hounds? The REJECTS? All our plans, all our carefully laid groundwork... thrown away on some impulsive declaration?

Then, as she reached the podium and faced the guild masters, a new thought crystallized in her mind.

Her eyes found Satori in the crowd. He watched her with quiet intensity, a question hanging in his gaze. In that moment, her resolve hardened like diamond.

A king is nothing without his queen.

Professor Petrova spoke first. "Natalia Kuzmina. Your control with telekinesis is exemplary. The Argent Sentinels would welcome you with open arms."

"The Scarlet Phantoms need warriors with your power," Takamura announced.

"The Cobalt Vipers value your strategic mind," Valentine added smoothly.

"The Verdant Strikers would benefit from your versatility," Mori concluded.

All four prestigious guilds had extended offers. The path was clear. Everyone knew where Natalia Kuzmina, daughter of B-Rank Hunter Luka Kuzmina, belonged.

Natalia looked directly at Professor Petrova. "Thank you for your offer, Professor." She paused, letting the expected acceptance hang in the air for a moment. "But my path lies elsewhere." She turned to face a visibly startled Braxton Miller. "I choose the Onyx Hounds."

The hall erupted. Gasps and exclamations bounced off the vaulted ceiling. If Satori's choice had been shocking, Natalia's was incomprehensible. A Rank 3 prodigy, daughter of a respected Hunter, following the top-ranked prospect into the academy's lowest guild? It violated every unspoken rule.

Professor Petrova's face hardened into a mask of personal affront. Valentine's smile widened a fraction. Mori's eyebrows shot up into her bangs. Takamura let out a bark of surprised laughter.

Braxton Miller stared at Natalia, then at Satori, then back at Natalia. He shook his head slowly. "This is gonna be a hell of a year," he muttered.

The draft continued. Names were called. Choices were made. But something had fundamentally changed in the Grand Hall. The certainty of destiny had been replaced by the spark of possibility.

"Rank 5, Skylar Amane."

The girl with indigo hair streaked with pink sauntered to the podium, hands in the pockets of her uniform.

"Skylar Amane," Valentine purred. "Your Phantasm Smoke shows remarkable creative application. The Cobalt Vipers would value your... unique perspective."

"The Argent Sentinels recognize your high Appeal Score potential," Petrova added, her tone noticeably cooler than before.

Skylar glanced between them with bored eyes. "Too much paperwork," she said to Valentine. Then to Petrova: "Too much polyester." Her gaze shifted to Braxton, and a lazy smirk tugged at her lips. "The misfits always have the best music. Onyx Hounds."

Miller closed his eyes briefly, as if praying for strength.

"Rank 7, Raphael Vargas."

A stocky young man with copper-red hair stomped to the podium, practically vibrating with energy. His amber eyes were locked on Takamura, burning with naked ambition.

"Verdant Strikers would welcome your strength," Mori offered with a smile.

"Onyx Hounds," Miller added, sounding resigned.

Raphael barely heard them. He stared at Takamura, waiting for the invitation to the Scarlet Phantoms that surely awaited him.

Takamura studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "You have power, boy," he boomed, his voice filling the hall. "But no control. You are a liability. The Phantoms have no use for a wild dog who can't follow a command."

Raphael's fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, it seemed he might attack the venerable professor.

Braxton Miller leaned forward in his seat. "You want to prove the old man wrong, kid? Come punch holes in my walls instead. Onyx Hounds." It wasn't an invitation; it was a challenge.

"Fine!" Raphael snarled, spinning toward Miller. "I choose the Onyx Hounds!"

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