The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism novel Chapter 332

Chapter 332: 332 | The Dignity of the Hero Name

The figure stood in the center of the field, facing away from me, and the golden glow emanating from his chest should have been my first warning.

Hiro Sato occupied the exact center of Field Zeta like he owned the coordinates, like someone had measured the precise geographic midpoint and he had planted himself there as a matter of principle.

His body was positioned in a wide stance with both arms extended to his sides and his chin tilted upward at an angle that suggested either genuine communion with his own power or the world’s most committed selfie pose.

The late afternoon sun caught his profile in a way that couldn’t possibly be accidental.

Corona pulsed from his chest in a steady, rhythmic wash of golden-orange light that turned the late afternoon shadows into something warm and dramatic. The beam wasn’t at combat output.

It was low-grade, maintenance level, the kind of sustained activation that people did when they were working on control rather than force, calibrating the output threshold rather than testing the ceiling.

But even at reduced power, Corona lit the entire field with the specific intensity of a movie set where every angle was designed to make the leading man look like he belonged on a poster.

The grass around his feet looked greener somehow. The trees at the field’s edge cast longer shadows. Reality itself seemed to be adjusting its lighting profile to accommodate his presence.

Hiro’s costume wasn’t on. He wore the standard Halloran training gear like the rest of us, the fitted black fabric and gold accents that marked every first-year in the Hero track, but on him the standard issue somehow looked like it had been tailored.

His black hair was immaculate. An effortless look that must have taken forty minutes to achieve.

His lean frame carried itself with the theatrical confidence of someone who was perpetually aware that he might be photographed at any moment and had organized his entire physicality around that possibility.

Even his breathing looked deliberate.

I stopped at the edge of the tree line, keeping the shadows of the branches across my face more out of habit than strategy.

Hiro’s head turned. The Corona output flickered once, a brief dimming that might have been surprise or might have been a deliberate dramatic beat, then stabilized as his dark brown eyes found me across forty feet of unkempt grass.

Recognition flickered in his eyes, quickly followed by a cool assessment. He settled on a neutral mask, but the corner of his jaw was tight. He wasn’t as composed as he wanted me to believe.

Neither of us spoke.

The silence stretched for about four seconds, which doesn’t sound like a long time until you’re standing in an empty field staring at someone whose entire brand identity revolves around being the center of attention and who has just discovered that the space he chose for private practice is not actually private.

Four seconds is an eternity when the other person’s Aspect is literally making the air glow.

Hiro lowered his arms with a controlled grace that managed to look both casual and choreographed.

The Corona glow dimmed to a faint luminescence in his chest that caught the remaining sunlight and threw it back in fractured amber patterns across his training shirt, turning the black fabric into something that looked almost expensive.

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