The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 199

Chapter 199: 199 | Rivalry Flag Detected

The commotion downstairs hit my ears at exactly six-thirty in the morning, which was approximately three hours earlier than any reasonable person should be awake on a Saturday. Voices carried through the building’s ventilation system with the clarity of people who either hadn’t figured out how sound traveled through dormitories or who had figured it out and simply didn’t care.

I rolled out of bed with the resigned acceptance of someone whose Boundless Stamina replacement had decided four hours qualified as a full night’s rest. The Demigod trait was apparently an early riser.

Through my window, the campus looked like a postcard someone had photographed at the exact moment when morning light made everything appear more expensive than it actually was. Training fields stretched across manicured grounds that probably cost more to maintain than most people’s annual salaries. The kind of place where they charged tuition by the credit hour and expected gratitude for the privilege.

The voices downstairs had multiplied. What started as two people having a conversation had evolved into something that sounded like a minor crisis management situation.

I pulled on jeans and one of my identical black hoodies, pausing at the mirror long enough to notice that whatever the Demigod trait was doing to optimize my physical appearance had continued overnight. Nothing dramatic enough that someone who’d seen me yesterday would notice, but the kind of subtle improvement that accumulated over time into something people couldn’t ignore.

The Oracle Feed had been quiet since the quest completion notification. No Temptation Gauge updates, no mission parameters, no helpful observations about which women in the building were developing opinions about me. Either the System was giving me space to work or it was busy calculating whatever came after establishing meaningful contact with multiple heroines.

I suspected the latter.

Downstairs, the common room had transformed into something that looked like controlled chaos. Residents I’d only glimpsed in passing were now gathered in clusters, some still wearing pajamas, others dressed for the day despite the early hour. The energy in the space felt different from the casual social mixing of the previous week. This was the first time all of Class 1-B had been in the same room together.

Twenty students. Twenty Aspects. Twenty different approaches to being powerful, dangerous, and eighteen years old.

The diversity was immediately obvious. Rina sat in her usual corner position with her back to the wall and clear sightlines to both exits, clutching her sheep mug like a security blanket. Camille occupied the kitchen island with the territorial confidence of someone who’d claimed the space and expected everyone else to work around her presence. Petra Lang stood near the modular couch wearing cream-colored silk pajamas that probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent, somehow managing to look imperial even at six-thirty in the morning.

Felicity bounced between conversations with the enthusiastic energy of someone who considered meeting new people a recreational activity. Her blonde hair caught the morning light streaming through the windows, and her pink shorts were cut high enough that several male residents were having difficulty maintaining eye contact during conversations.

The Ecchi Logic trait was apparently subtle in its environmental adjustments, but the results were not subtle at all.

Maribelle and Nyx had claimed chairs near the far wall, positioned where they could observe the social dynamics without being forced to participate. Nyx appeared to be taking notes, which suggested she was either documenting everyone’s behavior patterns or working on another systematic investigation of our classmates’ backgrounds.

Percy stood near the bulletin board with his notebook open, frantically writing while glancing between the board and the assembled crowd like someone trying to solve a logistics puzzle in real time.

"What’s the emergency?" I asked, settling onto a barstool next to Camille.

"Steele." She didn’t look up from her phone, but her tone carried the specific frustration of someone who’d been awake long enough to develop opinions about the situation. "Left us a love letter."

She gestured toward the bulletin board where a piece of paper had been pinned with the kind of aggressive precision that suggested whoever had posted it wanted to make sure nobody could claim they hadn’t seen it.

The handwriting was sharp, efficient, and completely devoid of warmth:

CLASS 1-B

FIELD EPSILON. 2:00 PM. TODAY.

UNIFORM SIZING IN SUPPLY CLOSET B-3.

DON’T BE LATE.

- I. STEELE

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