Sylvara's Rebirth A New Dawn for Abel novel Chapter 75

**Chapter 75: The Catch**

“What’s the story with that Storms kid? What kind of mental energy and physical prowess does he possess?” The man with striking violet eyes, his features sharp and captivating, turned his head slightly to direct his question at Aslan. The unfolding drama on stage had taken an unexpected and thrilling twist.

Agares’ newly registered wife had seemed on the verge of capitulation, her chief badge already halfway unfastened, signaling her impending defeat. Yet, in a startling turn of events, the Storms boy had halted her in her tracks, not allowing her to utter even a single word of surrender.

Frustration radiated from her, her gaze refusing to meet his, as if she were battling not just him, but her own rising tide of anger and disappointment.

Aslan, observing the scene, couldn’t help but feel a pang of disappointment. The chief he had personally selected had revealed himself to be a coward, ready to concede without a fight. “When he was born, his mental energy was already at Level 3,” he explained, his tone tinged with a mix of regret and disbelief. “But his genetic makeup has suffered too many breakdowns. Now, it’s dropped to around 1.5. His physical power is slightly better; he trained at the Central Gene Hospital for years. He barely scraped through the entry requirements for The Fifth Military Academy. He’s classified as a B-grade.”

“B-grade?” The violet-eyed man’s expression shifted, his eyes narrowing in genuine confusion. “A mutated three-headed dog—if it just stood there and let you hit it—you still wouldn’t knock it out in ten punches. So how did he manage to do it in just one?”

Aslan fell silent, pondering the enigma that was the Storms boy.

Drenvar, visibly perplexed, turned to Mavena after a long pause, his voice breaking the tension. “Substitution is permitted. You two can commence.”

“This isn’t fair!” Mavena exclaimed, her voice rising in protest. “He’s not even the chief! Why am I being forced to fight him?”

Veyric, his chin lifted defiantly, wore an air of calm arrogance. “What’s unfair about it? If you’re skilled enough to defeat me, then the title of Agriculture Department chief is yours. If not, you might as well admit it now and walk away.”

Mavena’s chest heaved with frustration, the weight of the crowd’s expectations pressing down on her.

This situation was unprecedented at the academy. All eyes were glued to the two of them, yet she remained silent, grappling with her thoughts.

Impatience rippled through the crowd, voices rising in a cacophony of shouts from all directions. “Just fight already! It’s one-on-one, completely fair!”

“What? Are you scared because he knocked out a three-headed dog? If you lose, it just means you’re worse than the dog!”

“C’mon, gorgeous! What are you waiting for? Beat his ass; it’s not like you’ll be paying for his medical bills!”

The shouts continued to pile on, creating a whirlwind of pressure around her.

Mavena’s fingers curled slowly into a tight fist, determination igniting within her. She felt as if she were already on the tiger’s back—there was no turning back now. “Fine, I’ll fight you,” she snapped, the words bursting forth with a mix of defiance and resolve.

No sooner had she spoken than Mavena lunged forward, her fist aimed directly at Veyric’s face.

Veyric, alert and prepared, dodged with surprising speed.

The man’s hand on his shoulder pressed down harder, rendering Aslan immobile. His gaze remained fixed on the stage. “Didn’t you nominate Agares’ new wife to be chief? Weren’t you the one eager to discover how someone so seemingly useless caught the attention of a Level 7 Plant Healer? And now that the Storms boy is clearly unharmed, what’s the point of intervening? Is your position as Agriculture Department Chief not already secure enough that you need to stir up more chaos just to feel relevant?”

“Still fine?” Aslan froze for a moment, his mind racing. He snapped his gaze back to the stage.

There he saw Veyric, akin to a broken branch, crash down from the air with a resounding thud.

But before he could hit the ground, Sylvara—his so-called trash sweetheart, the timid little coward—sprang up from her seat. In one fluid motion, she spun her body, gripped the back of her chair, and maneuvered it into position.

Veyric landed squarely in the chair, perfectly caught.

He let out a low grunt, clutching his stomach as if all his internal organs had just been rearranged. It felt as if his backside had cracked open like a delicate flower.

Sylvara stood behind the chair, leaning down slightly. One hand rested on the backrest, while the other slid gently onto Veyric’s shoulder. Her plant-healer-type mental energy began to flow steadily through her palm, infusing him with a soothing warmth.

With her other hand, she opened her palm to reveal a familiar pile of poop-flavored candy. A playful smile danced on her lips as she asked, “Veyric, you gave me this crap to hold—still want it?”

“Yeah.” Veyric’s face was pale from the pain, but as he spoke, he felt a sudden warmth radiate from her touch, spreading through his chest. The pain eased just enough for him to take a breath again. He released his grip on his stomach, grabbed the candy from her hand, peeled off the wrapper, and popped it into his mouth, the taste a bizarre mix of nostalgia and absurdity.