Phei had walked in expecting a lecture on decorum, legacy responsibility, the sanctity of teenage hormones.

Instead: awkward silence.

The VP—an old-aged man who'd once suspended Phei for "insolence" when he was pressed by two Main Legacies—simply stared. Took in the unfairly handsome face, the calm unique eyes, the quiet confidence of a boy now bedding two untouchable princesses while rumors swirled that his step-cousin Delilah was Next in Line.

After a solid minute of existential buffering, the VP muttered, "You can go."

That was it.

The female teachers were worse.

They'd invent excuses—"Phei, could you stay after class? I have… concerns about your essay"—then sit him down and just… look. Minutes of silent appraisal. Drinking in his features like they were grading a particularly fine wine.

Eventually they'd snap out of it, mutter something incoherent, and wave him away.

The male teachers watched these exchanges with the weary resignation of men who'd accepted that professionalism had left the building and wasn't coming back.

It was mortifying.

It was hilarious.

It was proof that the world had finally, irrevocably tilted off its axis.

Thankfully, it wasn't a daily occurrence.

Then there was the panty raids on his locker; security had finally installed new cameras around his locker after the third incident involving lace thongs and handwritten marriage proposals.

But the attention from the princesses he actually wanted? That was running like a well-oiled, gloriously filthy machine.

Delilah, it turned out, had Daddy issues spelled in neon capitals, complete with flashing arrows and a marquee sign.

The kind that made the passive Daddy's ability sparkle like a disco ball every time she drifted into range.

Layer that onto Dominance Aura, Charm Speech, and the general gravitational pull of my face, charms, and the result are predictable: she'd gone from treating me like background furniture to stalking me with the subtlety of a heat-seeking missile.

Hallways became her catwalk. His locker became her new favorite loitering spot. She'd ask questions she clearly already knew the answers to—"Oh, Phei, what period do you have next?"—while twirling her hair and staring at his mouth like it owed her money.

Amber (Hot Rude Neighbor's daughter and Brett's sister) had started acting strange too. Subtle glances. Lingering too long when handing back papers. A flush she tried—and failed—to hide.

Natasha (Her mother is Chief of Staff. Her father is Ambassador to the UN) wasn't much better. Cool, composed Natasha, from-respectable-political-family-Natasha who now found reasons to brush past him in crowded corridors, close enough for him to catch the faint hitch in her breathing in his scent.

His abilities were out there doing numbers on the entire female population of Ashford Elite, quietly and without his permission.

Like overachieving employees I haven't asked to hire.

Basketball-wise, he'd hit 30% proficiency in two weeks.

Out on the cracked court beyond Paradise's gilded walls, he'd become something between folk hero and minor deity. The guys greeted him with back-slaps and reverent nods. Spectators—mostly local girls and a few curious college kids—cheered when his beat-up sneakers appeared on the horizon.

Pretty Boy had entered the chat, and the court transformed into his personal stage.

But he still hadn't made his official debut on Ashford's pristine indoor court.

And that was rapidly becoming a problem.

The Seven Main Legacies had eyes everywhere. Little birds in every branch.

So, the clock was ticking. If he didn't debut soon, if they found out about him, they'd manufacture reasons to keep him off the roster: sudden injuries, paperwork errors, mysterious schedule conflicts.

Classic Paradise politics.

Finally, there were the stats.

Phei pulled up the status window as he navigated the academy halls, translucent blue text hovering in his peripheral vision like a loyal ghost.

[PHYSICAL STATS:

Strength: 110/200 (Beyond Normal Human)

Endurance: 110/200 (Beyond Normal Human)

Agility: 110/200 (Beyond Normal Human)

After the delicious windfall of 12 physical points from claiming Maddie's virginity, he'd distributed them with monastic precision. Even split. No favorites. Balance above all. Whenever one stat threatened to sprint ahead or lag behind, he dragged the others into line with targeted training.

Now he'd crossed the century mark. Officially beyond normal-human in the mundane sense.

The next milestone glowed at 200: the entry ticket to the kind of men who flipped cars for fun and pulled trucks with their teeth on cable TV. Top-tier normal humans could push toward 300 if they sold their soul to the gym and pharmacology.

Past 300? Past 400?

For regular mortals, that was fairy-tale territory. Might as well wish for wings and a direct line to God.

Key word: regular.

Phei was many things, but regular had never been one of them. And he strongly suspected he wasn't the only freak in the deck.

He just happened to be the only one with the system.

[MENTAL STATS:

Intelligence: 190/300 (Approaching Superhuman)

Perception: 160/300 (Above Exceptional)

Weeks of relentless studying, reading, meditation, and the occasional all-nighter had propelled his mind into rarefied air. The system had patiently explained that Intelligence and Perception operated on a superhuman scale—300 marked the threshold for a Level 1 Superhuman.

He wasn't there yet.

But he was knocking.

Then there were his charms!

Charisma: 130/300 (Exceptional - Heartthrob Tier)

Same had it's own superhuman ceiling. The system explained that too.

Even the most beautiful mortals never broke past 120 (Marcus type). And past that into 130-300?—gods, goddesses, whatever?—never broke past 300. That was the hard cap on beauty, period! Even superhumans topped out around 200 if they won the genetic lottery twice.

Only a goddess could push into the 250-270 range. Phei didn't know about gods or goddesses or any of that divine bullshit.

Didn't care about celestial beauty pageants. Divinity gave him a headache.

He was still a mundane human—thinking about divinity would only give him a headache. So, he focused on what mattered.

What he had.

Currently: Heartthrob of Ashford Elite Academy.

He was currently the undisputed Heartthrob of Ashford Elite Academy.

Girls froze mid-step to stare until he rounded a corner. His locker had become a shrine: chocolates, love and marriage letters, the occasional pair of panties with phone numbers scrawled in lipstick. His desk was never bare—someone always left a token, like pilgrims at a particularly handsome altar.

The same fervor Korean fans gave their K-pop idols.

This kind of obsession, needing, wanting, this kind of popularity, beauty that no human had and charisma was also why no girls batted an eye at Delilah's sudden obsession. Step-cousins? In Paradise? Over Phei? That should have been scandal napalm. Instead, people just nodded sagely.

"Of course she's chasing him. Look at him. Who wouldn't?"

Phei sighed as the cafeteria doors loomed ahead like the gates of a coliseum he'd rather burn down than enter.

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