The seismic aftershocks of the raid on the Stahlberg Konzern AG have not settled; rather, they have permeated the very atmosphere of Hōhenreich, turning the air electric with a collective, national sense of catharsis. For decades, the towering silhouette of the Stahlberg headquarters in Stahlheim had loomed over the populace as an unassailable fortress of industry—a place where the law was written, not obeyed.

  But the images of the Public Prosecutor’s team carting away boxes of evidence have shattered that myth of invincibility. The raid was not merely a procedural audit; it was a vindication for the displaced families of the Midorisato indigenous village in Shinmori, whose voices had been silenced by the roar of excavators and the crush of riot shields.

  The country breathes a little easier, but for Erwin Takahashi von Stahlberg, the war is far from over. It has simply moved from the shadows of the archives to the glaring light of the public eye.

  One week after the assault that nearly broke his body, the autumn sun hangs low over the campus of the Universit?t Hōhenreich zu Hohenwald. Erwin walks the familiar stone path toward the Faculty of Law, his gait slightly uneven, a subtle hitch in his stride betraying the deep bruising along his ribcage. He is dressed in his usual sharp attire, but the crisp collar of his shirt cannot hide the thick, white medical gauze wrapped around his neck, nor can his hair fully obscure the healing laceration on his temple where his father’s signet ring tore the skin. To the other students passing by, he is a walking martyr—a "Prince of Steel" who bled to protect the "Water." They part for him, their whispers trailing in his wake like the wake of a ship, a mixture of reverence and disbelief.

  Walking faithfully at his side is Samuel Weiss, who carries both his own heavy satchel and Erwin’s, refusing to let his injured friend bear any unnecessary physical weight. Samuel watches Erwin with a look of profound, analytical bafflement. He adjusts his glasses, shaking his head as Erwin ignores a sharp grimace of pain to nod politely at a passing faculty member.

  "I have been studying the human condition for years, Erwin," Samuel says, his voice a low mixture of admiration and frustration. "I have read cases on endurance, stoicism, and adrenaline response. But looking at you right now, I am genuinely struggling to categorize you. Are you a biological organism, or did Klaus actually build a robot in that tower?"

  Erwin lets out a soft, rasping chuckle, clutching his side reflexively. "I assure you, Samuel, the pain is very organic. Why do you ask?"

  "Because any rational human being who was beaten into a concussion by a billionaire warlord would be taking a month of bed rest," Samuel retorts, gesturing at the looming Law building. "Yet here you are, seven days later, walking to Dr. Heinrich Sommer’s lecture on Corporate Law as if you didn't just dismantle a corporation yourself. If Marek had taken a hit like that, he would be milking it for a two-week vacation in the student lounge. He would probably demand a wheelchair."

  Erwin’s smile fades slightly, replaced by a distant, reflective look that darkens his eyes. The humor in Samuel’s voice does not reach the cold memory that surfaces in Erwin’s mind. "Pain is a matter of perspective, Samuel," Erwin says quietly. "And in the Stahlberg house, pain was never a reason to stop. It was a teaching tool."

  Samuel frowns, sensing the shift in tone. "What do you mean?"

  Erwin looks at the pavement, the leaves crunching under his boots. "When I was ten years old, I came home with my report card. I had straight A’s in every subject—History, Language, Science. But in Mathematics, I had scored an A-minus. I missed one question on a calculus problem that was two years above my grade level."

  Samuel blinks. "That is... that is exceptional, Erwin. Most ten-year-olds are still learning long division."

  "My father didn't see it that way," Erwin continues, his voice devoid of self-pity, reciting the memory like a case fact. "He took me into his study. He didn't yell. He didn't lecture. He simply took off his belt and struck me across the back of the legs until I couldn't stand. He told me that 'almost perfect' is the same as 'failure' in our world. He said that a Stahlberg does not make errors in calculation because errors cost millions."

  Samuel stops walking, staring at his friend in horror. The brutality of the image—a grown man beating a child over a math grade—clashes violently with the public image of Klaus as a sophisticated industrialist. "He hit you... for an A-minus? Erwin, that isn't discipline. That is sadism."

  Erwin stops as well, looking up at the spires of the university. "It was conditioning, Samuel. He was trying to harden me. He believed that if I feared him more than I feared the world, I would be unstoppable. He taught me that negotiation isn't about compromise; it’s about finding the leverage to crush the other side. I grew up listening to him and Johan Renhard discuss 'liquidation strategies' over dinner. They talked about bankrupting rivals and displacing villages with the same casual tone normal families use to discuss the weather. They cheat, they lie, and they break promises because they believe the only sin is losing."

  He turns to Samuel, his eyes burning with the "Steel" resolve that has fueled his rebellion. "So you see, a few broken ribs and a bruised face... this is nothing new. This is just the price of doing business with Klaus von Stahlberg. I am not here because I am a robot, Samuel. I am here because if I stay in bed, I am proving him right. I am proving that his violence works. And I will never give him that satisfaction again."

  Samuel listens in silence, a profound wave of loyalty washing over him. He realizes that Erwin isn't just fighting a lawsuit; he is fighting a lifetime of trauma. He reaches out and squeezes Erwin’s shoulder, a silent vow of solidarity. "We are with you, Erwin. Whatever happens in there... we are the wall he can't break."

  They resume their walk, the bond between them reinforced by the dark confession. As they approach the entrance to the lecture hall, the crowd thickens. Students are milling about, waiting for the doors to open. Standing near the entrance, looking like a vision of pristine, calculated elegance amidst the sea of casual students, is Helena Weissman.

  She spots Erwin immediately. Her face, usually a mask of cool detachment, lights up with a relief that seems genuine, though filtered through her aristocratic lens. She steps away from her own circle of admirers and intercepts Erwin and Samuel before they can enter the hall.

  "Erwin," Helena breathes, her voice soft and intimate. She reaches out, her eyes scanning the bandages on his face with a possessive concern. "You actually came back. I heard the rumors that you were discharged, but I didn't think you would subject yourself to the stress of Sommer’s class so soon."

  Erwin offers a polite, guarded nod. "I cannot afford to fall behind, Helena. The curriculum waits for no one, as you know."

  "You look..." Helena pauses, searching for the right word, her gaze lingering on his bruised jaw. "You look like a warrior who won the war but paid the price. I was so worried about you, Erwin. Truly."

  She reaches into her designer bag and pulls out a small, crystal jar filled with a pale, herbal ointment. It looks expensive, the kind of bespoke medicine only available to the ultra-wealthy in Ehrenstadt. "Here," she says, extending it to him. "It’s a arnica blend from the Alps. My father swears by it for bruising. It accelerates the healing process by half."

  Erwin hesitates. "That is very kind, Helena, but I have medication from the hospital. I don't need—"

  "Nonsense," Helena interrupts, stepping closer, invading his personal space with the scent of expensive perfume. She reaches out and takes Erwin’s hand—the one not holding his notebook. She places the jar in his palm, but instead of pulling away, she curls her fingers over his, sandwiching his hand between hers. Her touch is cool, smooth, and lingers far longer than is socially necessary.

  "Use it," Helena insists, her voice dropping to a whisper, her eyes locking onto his. "Apply it every morning and every night. I hate seeing your beautiful face marked like this. It pains me."

  Erwin freezes. He feels the weight of her hands on his, the intimacy of the gesture screaming a message that everyone in the corridor can see. His mind instantly flashes to Aoi—to her warm, calloused hands, to the simple porridge she made him, to the fierce, protective love she showed him in the hospital. He feels a sudden, sharp spike of discomfort. If Aoi were to see this—Helena holding his hand, offering him expensive gifts, standing so close their coats are brushing—it would hurt her. It would validate every fear Aoi has about not belonging in his world.

  He gently but firmly extricates his hand from Helena’s grip, stepping back to create a respectful distance. "Thank you, Helena. I appreciate the gesture."

  Helena smiles, ignoring his retreat, interpreting it merely as his usual stoicism. "You are welcome. Now, shall we go in? Dr. Sommer is reviewing the Corporate Liability Act today. I imagine you will have some... unique insights to offer given recent events."

  She turns and leads the way, expecting them to follow. Erwin and Samuel exchange a glance—a silent communication of shared burden. Samuel raises an eyebrow as if to say, 'The shark is circling,' and Erwin just sighs, tucking the jar into his pocket to dispose of later. They follow her into the lecture hall.

  The room is buzzing with noise, but it quiets perceptibly as Erwin enters. He keeps his head high, walking down the aisle toward the center rows where his circle has already staked out their territory. Ryo, Felix, Marek, and Jonas are there, sprawled across the seats.

  Marek Nowak is the first to spot them. He throws his hands up in the air, his face splitting into a wide, incredulous grin. "No way! He actually showed up!" Marek booms, his voice echoing off the acoustic panels. "Ladies and gentlemen, the cyborg has returned to his natural habitat!"

  Erwin slides into the seat next to Jonas, wincing slightly as he settles his ribs against the hard wood. "Good morning, Marek. I see your volume control is still broken."

  Marek leans over the desk, shaking his head. "Forget my volume, look at you! Erwin, if I were you—if my dad had gone a few rounds with me and I had seven stitches in my head—I would be on a beach in Seiküste right now. I would be taking a two-week medical leave, drinking coconut water, and suing for emotional distress. What are you doing here? Do you just hate relaxation?"

  Samuel, sitting on Erwin’s other side, lets out a triumphant laugh. "I told you!" Samuel exclaims, pointing at Erwin. "I told him exactly that on the way here. I said, 'If Marek were you, he would be on vacation.' You are too predictable, Marek."

  Jonas grins, clapping Erwin on the back—carefully avoiding the injured side. "It’s not about hating relaxation, Marek. It’s about dominance. Erwin is here to show Sommer and the rest of the faculty that it takes more than a beating to keep him down. Isn't that right, Boss?"

  "It’s about attendance credits, Jonas," Erwin corrects dryly, though a small, genuine smile touches his lips. Being back here, surrounded by the rough, unfiltered camaraderie of his friends, feels like a balm to his soul. It is the "Water" he needs to survive the "Steel" of the day.

  From the front row, Helena turns in her seat. She waves at Erwin, a small, delicate motion of her fingers, mouthing the words, "Get well soon."

  The gesture is public, claiming, and undeniable. Marek and Felix exchange a look, eyebrows raised. Erwinoffers a stiff, awkward nod, his discomfort returning. He opens his notebook, focusing intently on the blank page, trying to block out the complexities of his social life.

  The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swing open, and the room falls into an abrupt silence. Dr. Heinrich Sommer strides in. He is a man who embodies the corporate world—sharp suit, expensive watch, and an air of arrogance that suggests he believes the law is a tool for profit, not justice. He places his briefcase on the podium and scans the room. His eyes land on Erwin in the middle row—the bandaged, bruised son of the very man whose company Sommer often uses as a positive case study.

  Sommer’s gaze lingers for a moment, cold and calculating, before he addresses the class.

  "Today," Sommer begins, his voice crisp, "we will discuss the concept of Fiduciary Duty and the absolute obligation of the board to protect shareholder value above all else. A timely topic, I believe."

  Erwin tightens his grip on his pen. He knows this lecture will be a battleground. Helena is watching him. His friends are watching him. And somewhere in the city, his father is watching the news. But as Erwin looks at the blank page, he thinks of Aoi, and he readies his mind for the fight. The "Steel" prince has returned to the arena, and this time, he is not just taking notes; he is taking names.

  The lecture hall of the Faculty of Law at Universit?t Hōhenreich zu Hohenwald is designed like an amphitheater, a semi-circular descent into an arena where intellect is the weapon of choice. The acoustics are unforgiving; a whisper in the back row can carry to the podium, and a hesitation in an answer echoes like a confession of incompetence. Today, the air in the room is heavier than usual. It is thick with the unspoken knowledge of the raid in Stahlheim, the images of federal agents carrying boxes out of the Stahlberg Tower playing on a loop in the minds of every student present.

  At the center of this psychological colosseum sits Erwin Takahashi von Stahlberg. He is acutely aware of the eyes upon him. They are not just looking at the bandages on his neck or the fading bruise on his temple; they are looking at the living embodiment of the crisis that has gripped the nation. He is the son who declared war on the father, the student who brought the state to the doorstep of the corporation. Beside him, Samuel Weissarranges his pens with nervous precision, acting as a physical buffer between Erwin and the rest of the world. To his right, a few seats away, Helena Weissman sits with perfect posture, her expensive notebook open, her pen poised, her presence a constant, chilly reminder of the world Erwin is trying to escape.

  At the podium stands Dr. Heinrich Sommer. He is a man cast in the mold of the corporate elite he serves—his suit is flawlessly tailored, his grey hair is coiffed into an immovable helmet of authority, and his eyes scan the room with the detached assessment of an auditor looking for discrepancies. Sommer is not just a professor; he is a consultant for several major firms in Ehrenstadt, a man who believes that the law is not a shield for the weak but a sword for the strong. He has made a career out of teaching bright young minds how to navigate the grey areas of morality to maximize shareholder value. For him, Erwin is not a hero; he is a glitch in the system, a dangerous anomaly that needs to be corrected.

  Sommer paces behind the podium, tapping a laser pointer against his palm. "Fiduciary duty," Sommer begins, his voice a crisp, articulation of corporate dogma. "It is the bedrock of modern capitalism. The board of directors has one primary legal obligation: to act in the best interests of the corporation. And what is the corporation’s best interest? Profit. Growth. Sustainability."

  He stops pacing and leans against the podium, a small, cynical smile playing on his lips. "Now, let us move from theory to practice. Let us examine a 'hypothetical' case study."

  A ripple of unease moves through the room. Everyone knows what is coming. There are no hypotheticals today.

  "Imagine," Sommer continues, his eyes sweeping the room before landing briefly on Erwin, "a large resource extraction company—let’s call it 'OmniCorp'—discovers a massive deposit of rare earth minerals essential for green energy technology. The value of this deposit is in the billions. However, the deposit is located beneath a remote, sparsely populated area inhabited by an indigenous community that claims ancestral rights to the land, although they hold no formal, modern title deeds."

  Erwin feels a spike of adrenaline that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with rage. It is not a subtle metaphor; it is a direct, clinical dissection of Shinmori. Sommer is turning the destruction of the Midorisato village into a classroom exercise.

  "The government, recognizing the strategic economic importance of the minerals, grants OmniCorp a permit to develop the land, which will require the relocation of the indigenous community," Sommer goes on, his tone detached, as if discussing the relocation of a warehouse. "The community protests. They claim cultural erasure. The media gets involved. The stock price wobbles."

  Sommer straightens up, slapping the podium for emphasis. "The question for you, as future corporate counsel for OmniCorp, is this: Based purely on current corporate statutes and the principle of fiduciary duty, construct a legal argument defending the immediate eviction of the community and the continuation of the mining project. Ignore the ethics. Give me the law."

  The room falls into a dead silence. Marek Nowak, usually the first to jump into a debate, stares at his desk, his jaw tight. Jonas Keller scribbles furiously in his notebook, refusing to look up. They all know the "right" answer—the textbook answer—but none of them want to say it while sitting next to the man whose face was broken for fighting against it.

  None, except one.

  A hand rises gracefully in the front row. It is Helena Weissman.

  Sommer smiles, relieved to have a willing participant who understands the game. "Ah, Ms. Weissman. Please, enlighten us."

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  Helena stands up smoothly. She does not look at Erwin. She looks straight at the professor, her voice clear, cool, and utterly devoid of emotion. "The defense is straightforward, Professor. Under the Corporate Liability Act of 1998, specifically Article 42 regarding Director Obligations, the board is mandated to prioritize long-term shareholder value. The mineral deposit represents a quantifiable, significant asset. The indigenous community’s claim is based on customary rights, which, under the precedent set in State vs. Highland Developers (2005), are subordinate to formal state-issued permits in matters of national economic interest."

  She pauses, letting the legal citations hang in the air like ice crystals. "Therefore, to delay the project based on sentimental or culturally subjective objections would be a dereliction of fiduciary duty. The company is legally obligated to proceed with the eviction to realize the asset’s value. The resulting negative publicity is a manageable operational risk, not a legal barrier. The law favors the permit holder, not the occupant without a deed."

  She sits down. It is a perfect answer. It is cold, logical, and legally sound within the narrow confines of the statutes she cited. It is exactly the kind of argument Johan Renhard would make.

  Sommer beams, clapping his hands together once, sharply. "Excellent. Precisely. A textbook application of the hierarchy of rights. The economic imperative of the corporation, backed by state permits, overrides informal claims. Well done, Ms. Weissman."

  Sommer turns, his confidence bolstered by Helena’s performance. He decides it is time to address the elephant in the room. He wants to see if the "rebel prince" can actually argue, or if he is just a blunt instrument of chaos.

  "Now," Sommer says, his voice dripping with faux-solicitude as he turns his gaze directly to the middle row. "Let us hear a counter-perspective. Mr. Stahlberg."

  Erwin looks up from his blank notebook. Samuel tenses beside him, ready to intervene, to say that Erwin is on medical watch, but Erwin places a calming hand on Samuel’s arm.

  "Mr. Stahlberg," Sommer repeats, enjoying the moment. "You have a unique perspective on such 'hypothetical' matters. Please, offer a rebuttal to Ms. Weissman’s excellent argument. But remember the rules of engagement: legal basis only. No poetry, no bleeding-heart sentimentality. Tell me why, under the law, OmniCorp should stop those bulldozers."

  The challenge is clear: fight me on my own ground, using my own weapons. Sommer expects Erwin to falter, to rely on moral outrage that holds no water in a corporate courtroom.

  Erwin takes a deep breath, the constricting bandages around his ribs sending a sharp jolt of pain through his chest. He uses the pain. He focuses on it, turning it into clarity. He grips the edge of the desk and slowly, deliberately pushes himself to his feet. He stands straight, ignoring the throbbing in his temple, meeting Sommer’s arrogant gaze with the cold, unyielding stare of the "Steel" prince.

  "Professor," Erwin begins, his voice raspy but projecting clearly to every corner of the silent hall. "Ms. Weissman’s argument is technically flawless if one reads the Corporate Liability Act in a vacuum. However, the law does not exist in a vacuum. It exists within a hierarchy of norms, and corporate statutes are not at the apex of that hierarchy."

  Sommer frowns slightly, crossing his arms. "Go on."

  "You asked for a legal argument to stop the bulldozers," Erwin continues, his cadence steady and rhythmic. "I refer you to the International Covenant on Economic, Social, and Cultural Rights, which Hōhenreich ratified in 1976. Specifically, Article 11 regarding the right to adequate housing and the prohibition of forced evictions that violate basic human dignity. Furthermore, I refer you to the UN Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, Article 10, which states that indigenous peoples shall not be forcibly removed from their lands without free, prior, and informed consent."

  Helena turns in her seat, her perfect composure cracking slightly as she looks at him.

  "These international treaties," Erwin presses on, his voice gaining strength, "have been incorporated into domestic law through Article 5 of our own Constitution, which states that international human rights obligations supersede conflicting domestic statutes. Therefore, the permit issued by the state to OmniCorp is ab initio void because it violates a higher constitutional norm. The fiduciary duty of the board cannot be used as a justification to commit a constitutional violation."

  Sommer’s smirk vanishes. He uncrosses his arms. "Mr. Stahlberg, you are reaching. International norms are notoriously difficult to enforce in domestic property disputes. State vs. Highland Developers is the prevailing precedent here."

  "That precedent is outdated, Professor," Erwin counters instantly, cutting him off. "It was decided before the 2010 amendments to the Environmental Protection Act, which introduced the concept of 'Social License to Operate' as a tangible risk factor in corporate governance. If OmniCorp proceeds with a forced eviction that violates international human rights, they lose their social license. The resulting reputational damage, the international boycotts, the loss of investor confidence—these are not just 'operational risks,' as Ms. Weissmansuggested. They are existential threats to long-term shareholder value."

  Erwin leans forward slightly, his eyes boring into Sommer’s. "Therefore, a board that authorizes such an eviction is not fulfilling its fiduciary duty. It is violating it by exposing the company to catastrophic, unquantifiable liability. The truly prudent corporate counsel would advise immediate cessation of hostilities and engagement in good-faith negotiations, not because it is 'sentimental,' Professor, but because it is the only strategy that survives constitutional scrutiny."

  The lecture hall is deathly silent. Marek Nowak has his hand over his mouth to stop himself from cheering aloud. Samuel is beaming with pride. Helena is staring at Erwin, her expression a complicated mix of frustration at having her argument dismantled and an undeniable, terrifying attraction to the sheer intellectual force he just displayed.

  Sommer stands frozen behind the podium. He opens his mouth to retort, to cite another obscure corporate clause, but he realizes he has been cornered. Erwin didn't just argue the law; he weaponized the very concept of long-term value that Sommer holds dear against him. He used the "Steel" of the constitution to protect the "Water" of the village.

  "That is..." Sommer stammers, adjusting his tie, looking for an escape route. "That is a... creative interpretation of the constitutional interface, Mr. Stahlberg."

  "It is the only interpretation that acknowledges the reality of the modern legal landscape, Professor," Erwinsays, his voice quiet again, the adrenaline beginning to fade, replaced by exhaustion. "The law is not a suicide pact for the vulnerable in service of the powerful. If your hypothetical OmniCorp ignores that, they won't just face protesters. They will face the Supreme Court. And they will lose."

  Erwin waits a beat, ensuring the silence holds, then slowly, painfully, lowers himself back into his seat. He clutches his side, his breath coming in shallow gasps, but his face remains impassive.

  Sommer stares at him for a long moment, completely outmaneuvered in his own arena. He clears his throat loudly, shuffling his papers, desperately trying to regain control of the room. "Yes. Well. An interesting... divergence into constitutional theory. Let us return to the textbook definition of liability shields..."

  He continues the lecture, but the energy has gone out of the room. The authority has shifted. The students are no longer looking at the professor at the podium; they are glancing sideways at the bruised student in the middle row who just proved that even in this cold, concrete amphitheater, the truth can still draw blood.

  Erwin closes his eyes for a second, listening to Sommer’s droning voice, and feels Samuel subtly kick his foot under the table in congratulations. The battle in the classroom is won, but Erwin knows it was just a skirmish. The real war is happening in the towers and the courts of Stahlheim, and he needs to recover his strength for the fights ahead.

  The heavy oak doors of the lecture hall swing open, releasing a wave of pent-up academic energy into the stone corridors of the Law Faculty. The usual post-lecture murmur is absent today; instead, it has been replaced by a fervent, buzzing cacophony of awe and disbelief.

  The students of the Universit?t Hōhenreich zu Hohenwald are not merely discussing the material of the Corporate Liability Act; they are dissecting the spectacle they just witnessed. Erwin Takahashi von Stahlberg, the battered prince with the bandaged face, has just verbally dismantled Dr. Heinrich Sommer—a man whose arrogance is as legendary as his consulting fees—using nothing but the sheer, unyielding weight of constitutional morality.

  Whispers of "The Future Chief Justice" and " The Iron Advocate" ripple through the crowd, bouncing off the vaulted ceilings. Students who previously viewed Erwin with suspicion due to his lineage now look at him with a mixture of reverence and intimidation. He has crossed a line from being a wealthy heir to being a campus legend, a figure who bleeds for the truth.

  Erwin emerges from the hall flanked by his faithful Praetorian Guard—Samuel, Marek, Felix, Ryo, and Jonas. The adrenaline of the confrontation is slowly fading, replaced by the dull, throbbing ache in his ribs, but the spirit of his circle is buoyant, almost euphoric. They walk with a swagger that suggests they, too, shared in the victory.

  "Did you see Sommer’s face?" Jonas asks, his voice pitched high with incredulity. "He looked like he had swallowed a lemon whole. I have never seen a professor lose control of his own seminar so completely. You are reckless, Erwin. You realize that, don't you? No other student would dare to cite the UN Declaration to a man who practically worships the stock market."

  Marek laughs, a booming sound that draws irritated glances from a passing librarian. He throws a heavy arm around Jonas’s shoulders, shaking him playfully. "It isn't recklessness, Jonas. It is precision. Ryo put it best—Erwin isn't just rebelling against the faculty; he is educating them. He is using knowledge that they are too afraid to touch."

  Ryo nods, adjusting his glasses with a satisfied smirk. "Most students study the law to pass the exam. Erwinstudies the law to rewrite it. Sommer didn't stand a chance because he was arguing from a textbook, while Erwin was arguing from reality."

  The group erupts into laughter, the sound echoing down the hallway. Erwin manages a small, tired smile, shaking his head at their enthusiasm. "I am just a third-semester student," he reminds them quietly, though the warmth of their support helps numb the pain in his side. "Let’s not start carving my statue just yet."

  "Too late," Felix chimes in. "I already ordered the marble."

  As the laughter subsides, a figure detaches herself from the stream of students and approaches them. Helena Weissman moves with her usual fluid grace, her charcoal blazer perfectly pressed, her golden hair catching the light of the corridor lamps. She stops in front of Erwin, her expression one of genuine, albeit calculated, admiration.

  "That was impressive, Erwin," Helena says, her voice smooth and appreciative. "You navigated the hierarchy of norms with a dexterity I haven't seen since the moot court finals last year. People are already calling you the next Supreme Court Justice, you know."

  Erwin offers a polite, deflectionary gesture. "They are exaggerating, Helena. I simply answered the question."

  "You did more than answer," Helena insists, stepping closer, her presence claiming the space around him. "You silenced him. Dr. Sommer is not a man who is easily quieted. You proved that intellect is the only currency that truly matters in this building."

  Before Erwin can respond, a hush falls over the corridor. It starts at the far end near the elevators and sweeps toward them like a physical wave. The chatter of students dies down, replaced by the rhythmic, authoritative clicking of expensive leather shoes against the stone floor.

  A man is walking toward them. He is tall, silver-haired, and dressed in a three-piece suit that costs more than the tuition of half the students in the hallway. He carries himself with an air of effortless power, not the brutal, industrial weight of Klaus von Stahlberg, but the refined, sharp-edged authority of the legal elite. It is Dr. Arnold Weissman, the owner of Weissman Corp and Law, the most prestigious and feared law firm in Hōhenreich. Flanking him is a personal aide, a young man who looks terrified to be in his presence.

  The students part for him like the Red Sea. Erwin and his friends straighten their posture instinctively. Arnold Weissman is a titan in his own right, a man who shapes the laws that others merely practice.

  Helena’s face lights up. She steps away from Erwin and embraces her father, her poise melting into affectionate pride. "Father," she says. "You’re early."

  "I finished my deposition ahead of schedule," Arnold replies, his voice a deep, cultured baritone. He kisses Helena’s cheek, then turns his gaze toward the group of young men. His eyes—sharp, intelligent, and piercingly green like his daughter’s—scan them briefly before locking onto Erwin.

  There is a moment of silence as the two worlds collide. Arnold Weissman, the king of the courtroom, looks at Erwin Takahashi von Stahlberg, the battered prince of the industrial tower.

  Erwin bows his head slightly, a gesture of profound respect for the man’s achievements. "Dr. Weissman. It is an honor."

  Samuel, Marek, Ryo, Felix, and Jonas follow suit, murmuring their greetings, awestruck by the presence of a living legend.

  Arnold steps forward, extending a hand to Erwin. "And you must be Erwin," he says. He does not ask; he states. "I have heard a great deal about you, young man. Not just from my daughter, but from the whispers in the courthouse." His gaze lingers on the bandages around Erwin’s neck and the bruise on his temple. "Helenatold me of your... altercation. The wounds speak for themselves. It seems you have inherited the Stahlberg resilience, if not the temperament."

  Erwin shakes the hand, his grip firm despite his weakness. "I am simply trying to survive the semester, sir."

  Arnold chuckles, a dry, sophisticated sound. "Modesty is a virtue, but do not let it become a crutch. I heard about what you did regarding the Shinmori investigation. Standing up to the Stahlberg Konzern AG—standing up to your own father’s empire—is not something many men twice your age would dare to do. It takes a specific kind of courage to bite the hand that feeds the economy."

  He pauses, looking Erwin up and down with an appraising eye. "It is a difficult path, standing alone against a giant. But I must admit, I admire the audacity. The legal profession is filled with technicians, Erwin. We have enough people who know how to file paperwork. What we lack are litigators with the spine to fight a war."

  Erwin feels a flush of pride. To be recognized by Arnold Weissman is a validation he didn't know he needed. "Thank you, sir. I believe the law is useless if it cannot protect those who have no voice."

  "Precisely," Arnold agrees. "Which brings me to a proposal." He glances at Helena, who is smiling knowingly, then back to Erwin. "If you ever find yourself in need of a sanctuary—or a training ground—my firm would be more than happy to accommodate you. We are always looking for interns with your particular... intensity. In fact, when you graduate from UHH, consider there to be a desk waiting for you at Weissman Corp and Law. We could use a mind that knows how to dismantle a corporation from the inside out."

  The offer hangs in the air, heavy and golden. Samuel’s eyes widen behind his glasses. Marek looks like he might faint. A job offer from Arnold Weissman before graduation is the legal equivalent of winning the lottery. It is a guaranteed path to power, influence, and protection.

  Erwin is stunned. "Sir... I am overwhelmed. That is an incredibly generous offer."

  But even as he speaks, a cold seed of doubt takes root in his stomach. He looks at Helena, seeing the triumphant glint in her eyes. Is this genuine admiration, or is it a strategic acquisition? Is Helena maneuvering him into her world, trapping him with opportunities he cannot refuse?

  Arnold waves a hand, dismissing the gratitude. "Do not thank me yet. Talent should be cultivated. Oh, and before I forget—" He snaps his fingers, and his aide steps forward, producing a heavy, cream-colored envelope embossed with gold leaf.

  Arnold hands it to Erwin. "This Saturday night. The Ehre Building. I am hosting a charity gala for the Legal Aid Foundation. The entire judicial elite of Hōhenreich will be there—judges, senior partners, perhaps even the Minister of Justice. It would be an excellent opportunity for you to expand your network beyond the university walls. You need allies, Erwin. Real allies. And you will find them in that room."

  Erwin takes the envelope. It feels heavy, textured, and expensive. It smells of the world he left behind—the world of champagne, silk, and whispered deals. "I... I am honored, Dr. Weissman. truly."

  The aide checks his watch and whispers something to Arnold. Arnold nods. "My apologies, gentlemen. I have a client meeting in thirty minutes, and in my line of work, punctuality is the only religion." He turns back to Erwin, his expression serious. "Think about the offer, Erwin. And the invitation. I would appreciate seeing you there. You have a future, son. Don't let it be buried in a feud with your father."

  "Thank you, sir," Erwin says again.

  Arnold nods to the group and sweeps away down the corridor, his presence leaving a vacuum of silence in his wake.

  Helena lingers for a moment. She steps close to Erwin, tapping the envelope in his hand. "This is your chance, Erwin," she whispers, her voice urgent. "Don't waste it. My father doesn't invite students. He invites equals. See you on Saturday."

  She gives him a dazzling smile and turns to follow her father, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm with his.

  Erwin stands there, holding the golden ticket. He lets out a long, heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping.

  Marek breaks the silence. "Dude. Did that just happen? Did Arnold Weissman just offer you a job?"

  "He did," Erwin murmurs.

  Samuel steps closer, placing a hand on Erwin’s shoulder. His face is serious. "It’s a great opportunity, Erwin. Maybe the best you’ll ever get. But..." Samuel looks at the envelope, then at the retreating figure of Helena. "You know what this means, right? If you go to that gala, you are stepping back into the elite circle. You are stepping into Helena’s territory. And that might complicate things."

  Erwin looks at the envelope. He thinks of Aoi. He thinks of her simple sweaters, her warm hands, and the way she looked at him by the lake. Aoi does not belong in the Ehre Building. She does not belong in a room full of sharks in tuxedos. If he goes, he goes alone. Or worse, he goes as Helena’s prize.

  "I know," Erwin says, his voice heavy with conflict. "It’s a trap wrapped in a gift. But I need allies, Samuel. If I want to fight my father, I can't do it from a dorm room forever."

  He tucks the invitation into his pocket, but it feels like a burning coal against his leg. He fears that accepting this path might mean walking away from the one person who makes him feel human.

  Meanwhile, on the other side of the campus, the atmosphere in the Psychology Faculty is a world away from the high-stakes power plays of the legal elite. The air in the student lounge smells of herbal tea and old paperbacks. Aoi Mizuno sits on a worn velvet sofa, surrounded by her circle—Kana, Yuri, Hina, Nana, and Mei. They have just finished a grueling seminar on Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, and the mood is light, filled with the relief of survival.

  Nana Okamoto, who usually has her nose buried in a textbook, looks up from her phone with a squeal of excitement. "Guys! Look! The Student Council just posted the dates!"

  "Dates for what?" Hina asks, leaning over to see the screen. "Final exams? Don't tell me, I’ll cry."

  "No! The Winter Ball!" Nana exclaims, her eyes shining. "It’s confirmed for the second week of December. The Grand Hall. Live music, formal dress code, the whole fairytale setup. It’s going to be the biggest event of the semester!"

  The lounge erupts in chatter. For students who spend their days analyzing trauma and the human psyche, the prospect of a night of music and dancing is a necessary escape. Kana claps her hands, grinning. "Finally! I need an excuse to buy a dress. Yuri, you’re coming, right? No excuses about 'social fatigue'."

  Yuri rolls her eyes but smiles. "I suppose I can make an appearance. Statistically, social bonding events are beneficial for group cohesion."

  Kana turns her gaze to Aoi, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Aoi! You have to go. And we all know who you’re going with."

  Aoi looks up from her tea, blinking. "What? Who?"

  "Who?" Kana laughs, nudging her. "The Prince of Steel, obviously! Erwin! He’s your boyfriend, isn't he? Or at least, your 'spiritually aligned partner' or whatever you two are calling it this week."

  Hina nods enthusiastically. "Oh my god, yes! Imagine Erwin in a tuxedo. The Law Faculty guys always dress so well, but he’s on another level. You two would be the couple of the night. Has he asked you yet?"

  Aoi freezes. The smile fades from her lips. She looks down at her tea, her mind racing. The Winter Ball. It is a student tradition. It is normal. It is exactly the kind of thing a normal couple would do.

  But Erwin hasn't mentioned it. Not once.

  "He... he hasn't asked me," Aoi admits, her voice small.

  "Well, he’s probably just busy," Nana says dismissively. "He’s been fighting a war with his dad, getting beaten up, and leading a revolution. He probably forgot what month it is."

  "Yeah," Aoi says, forcing a smile. "He’s been busy."

  But a cold seed of doubt plants itself in her chest. She thinks of Erwin’s world—the towers, the private clinics, the limousines. Helena Weissman. Does Erwin even go to student balls? Or are those things too trivial for a Stahlberg? While she is dreaming of a dance in the Grand Hall, is he being invited to galas in the city?

  She remembers Helena’s expensive fruit basket. She remembers the way Johan Renhard looked at her like she was a speck of dust.

  Aoi looks at her friends, who are happily discussing dress colors, and she feels a sudden, sharp pang of isolation. She realizes that while their hearts are connected, their worlds are still galaxies apart. She wonders if Erwin will ever ask her to dance, or if the music of his life is simply too loud for him to hear the melody of hers.

  "I’m sure he will ask," Mei says softly, placing a hand on Aoi’s arm. Mei is always the observant one. "He looks at you like you’re the only person in the room, Aoi. Just give him time."

  "I hope so," Aoi whispers. She takes a sip of her tea, but it has gone cold. The image of the Winter Ball glimmers in her mind—a beautiful, fragile dream that suddenly feels very far away.