The perimeter around the main administration building at SHU held.

Not cleanly.

But it held.

Bodies lay scattered across the outer grounds in uneven layers, dragged into partial piles or left where they fell.

Limbs twisted at wrong angles, torsos torn open, bone exposed in places where force had been excessive rather than precise.

Blood had soaked into the stone pathways and dried in dark patches, while fresh streaks marked where recent clashes had taken place.

Students and staff filled the gaps between those bodies.

Some stood on elevated ledges and railings, eyes scanning outward. Others hovered above—those capable of flight maintaining uneven positions in the air, shifting constantly to keep sightlines clear.

Their movements lacked the discipline seen at Ebon Crest. Spacing broke and reformed. Reactions came a fraction too slow or too early.

Still—

They fought.

Inside—

The contrast was immediate.

The lounge remained intact.

Polished floors reflected the overhead lighting without interruption, unmarked by blood or debris. Furniture sat undisturbed, arranged in clean sections—couches, low tables, standing lamps—all exactly where they had been placed before everything began.

Only the people broke the illusion.

Students clustered in small groups, voices overlapping in uneven waves. Some gripped their phones tightly, thumbs moving in frantic bursts across screens.

Others spoke directly to each other, too fast, too loud, words stumbling over one another as they tried to make sense of what was happening beyond the walls.

"...it’s not stopping—"

"I can’t reach them—why isn’t it going through—"

"They said the outer gates are—"

A staff member moved between them, attempting to steady a pair of students near one of the pillars. His hand hovered near one shoulder before settling there, firm but careful, his voice low as he tried to keep them focused.

It barely worked.

Across the room—

The tone shifted.

Calmer.

Not because they were less afraid—

But because they expected control.

The high-profile guests had gathered near the central seating area, forming a loose circle around the largest arrangement of couches. Expensive fabrics, tailored suits, jewelry that caught the light with every movement—they stood out sharply against the tension in the air.

Phones were raised here too—

But for different reasons.

"...yes, I want the jet ready immediately—no, not later, now—"

"...I don’t care what clearance you need, make it happen—"

"...double the security detail, I said double—"

At the center of it all—

Mr. Xiao stood.

Still.

Composed.

His hands rested lightly at his sides before one lifted, settling gently over the trembling hand of a woman seated before him.

Her dress shimmered faintly under the light—silver-threaded, fitted tightly along her frame, the fabric gathered elegantly at the waist before falling in soft folds. Her hair had been styled with care earlier in the day, though now strands had come loose, clinging to her damp cheeks. Her makeup had begun to run, faint streaks forming beneath her eyes as tears continued to fall.

"My dear Sebastian..." her voice broke, breath catching mid-sentence as her fingers tightened around his sleeve. "Whatever shall I do?"

Mr. Xiao lowered his head slightly toward her, his expression unchanged.

Calm.

"He died as he lived, Mrs. Pierre.... a hero," he said quietly, his tone even, carrying just enough weight to hold her attention. "But rest assured... the university and myself will ensure you are safe."

His hand shifted, steadying hers without force.

"A separate team of mine has already ensured your children are safe at your Coral City mansion."

Her breath hitched—

Then slowed.

Relief pushed through the grief in uneven waves as her shoulders dropped slightly. Her grip softened, fingers brushing along the back of his hand in a small, almost absent motion.

"Thank you... thank you so much..." she whispered, though her voice still trembled. "I’m just... just what is going on? Will we be ok?"

That was enough.

The others leaned in.

Questions followed immediately.

"Y-yes...are you sure those things won’t reach us?"

"Don’t you have any Rank-A students? Surely they’d be enough to wipe this threat out—"

Another voice cut through—

Sharper.

"What about you, Mr. Xiao? Aren’t you capable enough of dealing with this?"

The volume rose.

Not chaos—

But pressure.

Directed.

Mr. Xiao raised both hands slowly, palms outward in a calming gesture. His smile remained polite, controlled, never slipping.

"Please... please," he said, voice steady but carrying just enough to quiet the immediate surge. "Do not worry yourselves."

He stepped back from Mrs. Pierre, creating space as he straightened fully. His hands moved behind his back, posture aligning as he turned slightly, addressing the group as a whole.

"I understand your concerns, ladies and gentlemen," he continued, each word placed with care. "But please understand that these circumstances are very... complicated."

He paused briefly.

"To answer your questions in order..."

He turned his head slightly toward the first speaker.

"No," he said plainly. "Those... possessed individuals will not be able to reach us. I assure you."

His gaze shifted.

Locked onto the next.

"As for why we cannot deploy our Rank-A students..."

His tone didn’t change—but something firmer sat beneath it now.

"By international regulation, registered high-tier students are classified as protected assets. Their engagement in active combat requires formal authorization, layered oversight, and recorded consent protocols. Deploying them without such clearance does not simply result in disciplinary action..."

A slight pause.

"...it constitutes a violation that can lead to institutional sanctions, loss of accreditation, and personal liability for those responsible."

He let that settle.

Then asked—

Quietly.

"Are you willing to bear that responsibility?"

The man who had spoken earlier hesitated.

His mouth opened—

Then closed.

His gaze dropped.

He said nothing.

Mr. Xiao turned again.

To the woman.

"As much as I would like to provide more direct assistance," he said, voice returning to that same calm cadence, "I—like many S-Class superhumans—am restricted in when and how I may use my abilities."

Her expression tightened.

Frustration pushed through the fear, her posture straightening as she stepped forward.

"Does that really matter!?" she snapped, her voice rising above the others. "If people are dying, it’s your duty to save them as a superhero!"

Several heads turned.

Some in agreement.

Others unsure.

Mr. Xiao didn’t flinch.

Didn’t react beyond a slight shift of his gaze.

"What happens," he asked evenly, "when my power does not distinguish between enemy and ally?"

The question landed heavier than her words.

He took a single step closer.

Not aggressive.

But deliberate.

"Would you rather die along with them..." he continued, his tone unchanged, "or remain patient and wait for the help that is already on its way?"

The woman faltered.

Just slightly.

Her lips parted—

No immediate response came.

Around them, the room quieted in increments. Conversations softened. Phones lowered. Attention drew inward again, toward the man who hadn’t raised his voice once.

Outside—

Everything remained in place.

For now.