The sun had barely begun to crest over the horizon when three first-year students, draped in oversized hoodies and dark circles under their eyes, began a frantic trek across the university courtyard. Their movements were jerky, marked by a nervous rhythm of looking over their shoulders every few seconds. It was a telltale sign of individuals who were not only out of their element but deeply terrified of being caught in a place they didn’t belong. They were crossing the invisible border that separated the academic halls from the sports department—the domain where the physical elite of the university held absolute sway.
The sprawling soccer field loomed ahead, its lush green surface sparkling with morning dew. In the center of the pitch, a senior was already deep into his warm-up routine, his movements fluid and athletic. As the three freshmen approached the sidelines, the senior paused, his eyes locking onto them with a sudden, predatory brightness. A wide, knowing smile spread across his face, the expression of a salesman who knew exactly what his customers were craving.
"Let me guess," the senior called out, wiping sweat from his brow with a towel. "You’re back already? Looking to replenish the product, right? There are always those who are a bit too curious—those who dive in headfirst and burn through their initial supply way too fast. Don’t sweat it; I’ve got you covered."
He walked over to a heavy athletic bag resting on the bench and reached inside, pulling out a small black velvet pouch. It was identical to the ones handed out at the bowling alley party.
The freshmen converged on him, their eyes lighting up with a desperate, frantic energy. The "high" of the previous night had worn off, leaving them in a state of cognitive withdrawal that made the upcoming day’s lectures seem like an impossible mountain to climb.
"Yes, that’s exactly what I need," one of the students gasped, reaching for the bag. "I’ve never been able to focus like that before. Usually, I can only study for twenty minutes before my mind wanders, but last night... it was like I could see the information before it was even on the page."
"Exactly," the second student chimed in, his voice trembling with excitement. "After the party, I went back to my dorm and started reading. I was able to memorize three Chapters of advanced economics in an hour. It felt like my brain was finally working on overdrive, the way it was always meant to."
The senior moved to hand over the pouch, but just as the freshman’s fingers brushed the velvet, he pulled it back sharply. His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes turned cold and transactional.
"Now, wait just a second. You didn’t think you’d be getting a refill for free, did you? The first one was a gift—a little sample of the good life to welcome you to the family. But from here on out, there’s a price. Did you bring what we talked about?"
The three freshmen nodded in unison, reaching into their bags to produce the payment. This was the dark undercurrent of Donto Stern’s operation that Max had already begun to piece together. There was a deliberate strategy behind which departments had been selected for the initial distribution. Donto didn’t just pick names out of a hat; he targeted two specific categories of students.
The first category was the "High-Pressure" students—those in departments like medicine, engineering, or law, where the grades were a matter of life and death. While music or arts students might be more relaxed about their GPA, these students lived in a state of perpetual academic anxiety. They were the ones most likely to rely on a chemical edge to keep up with the grueling research and memorization required of them. Once they tasted the "superhuman" focus of the blue pills, they were hooked.
The second category was purely financial. Donto targeted departments where the students came from wealthy backgrounds—places where money flowed downward from affluent parents. By creating an addiction in these sectors, Donto could ensure that even as the price of the pills increased over time, his customers would have no problem paying whatever was demanded to keep their supply steady.
Max’s assessment was correct: Donto Stern wasn’t just an influencer or a star athlete. Those were merely the public-facing veneers that kept the university administration from looking too closely at his activities. The main bulk of his massive wealth came from this sophisticated distribution chain. He had created a perfect ecosystem within the university where the traditional Underworld syndicates didn’t dare to tread, leaving him as the undisputed king of a lucrative, protected market. And this university was only the beginning; rumors suggested he had set up similar networks across multiple campuses nationwide.
While the transaction was being finalized on the field, a much more serious meeting was taking place in the locker rooms. Donto stood in the center of the room, still in his soccer uniform. His physique was imposing—tall, lean, and corded with muscle. If one glanced at him without knowing his sport, they would have assumed his body was more suited to the explosive movements of a basketball player rather than the endurance-focused world of soccer.
"So, you’re telling me there’s a persistent problem in the business department?" Donto asked, his voice low and dangerous. He looked between Sylan and Sono, both of whom were standing before him like scolded children.
"Right. Me and Sylan... we didn’t even manage to land a clean hit on this guy," Sono explained, his face flushing with the memory of the rugby pitch. "He didn’t show up for the party, so we did what we usually do—we went to the classroom to rough up his classmates to send a message. Then, out of nowhere, he intervened and attacked me."
Sylan nodded in fervent agreement, carefully omitting the fact that his own "beating" had occurred a full day earlier. He had synchronized his story with Sono’s to make it sound like they had been attacked together. He was desperate to keep Donto from finding out that he had lied about sending Max to the hospital in their first encounter.
"From the sound of things, this kid has been intentionally hiding his strength," Donto mused, rubbing his chin. "But he only acts out when you target his classmates? This Max Smith... he must have some legitimate combat skill, and he clearly sees himself as some kind of self-appointed hero. He’s a white knight trying to protect the weak."
Donto’s eyes narrowed into slits of icy resolve. "People like this need to be stomped out immediately before they inspire others to start thinking they can resist us. A hero is only a hero until you break everything they care about. I have the perfect plan to deal with a ’protector’ type like him."
He turned to the other athletes lounging on the benches. "Gather the entire soccer team and the captains of every other sports department. I want a show of absolute force. And while we’re at it, find some unlucky fools from the business department to act as examples. Max Smith... that name. It irritates me more than I can put into words. Let’s make sure he never wants to hear it again."