SSS Class Awakening: I Can Forge My Beast Soul Avatars
Chapter 13: Proposal

Chapter 13: Proposal

"Well, well, well. If it isn’t Crosswell and his pathetic little flock," a slicked-back man sneered, stepping onto the grassy incline. He was flanked by two burly students clad in crisp, neatly embroidered silver uniforms.

He paused on the ridge, looking down with a casual, condescending grace. "I’m sorry — did the academy completely run out of real students, or did you personally pick these trash scraps up from the slums?"

Mr. Crosswell slowly raised his head, his posture stiffening as his expression hardened into an unmasked scowl.

"Gerald," Mr. Crosswell said, his brow twitching with restrained annoyance. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh? Aren’t we allowed to train on the open grounds anymore?" Gerald mused, folding his arms loosely across his chest.

He flicked a fleeting, critical glance toward Atlas before refocusing on the teacher. "Who’s the new kid? Haven’t seen him around. Another scrap from the bottom of the barrel?"

"He joined today, and none of my students are trash," Mr. Crosswell answered sharply, running a heavy palm through his hair with a low sigh. "He will manifest his beast soon enough."

"Saying it won’t change the fact that they’re all rotting at the bottom of the ranks. I mean, look at them," Gerald chuckled softly, gesturing toward the nearby lanes where a few Class 5E students were struggling to keep their creatures in check.

"They can barely harmonize with basic summons. It’s a tragedy, really. I suppose we all know who’s taking dead last in the intra-departmental battles again."

"I wouldn’t be so certain," Mr. Crosswell countered, forcing his voice to remain steady. "The battles aren’t decided until the final horn sounds — well, except for Class 5A’s guaranteed run. I heard they have five genuine prodigies this year."

"And yet you’re still wasting energy preparing this group to compete?" Gerald scoffed, taking a slow step down the embankment.

"Look at the reality of the situation, Crosswell. Your kids have no talent, no real command over their beasts, and zero chance of winning a single bracket. Why bother?" He gestured over his shoulder to the two students behind him, who stood with smug, relaxed postures.

"These boys aren’t even the top fighters in my class, yet they already command Iron-tier beasts with ease. Face facts — your class has nothing to offer."

"Enough!" Mr. Crosswell barked, his voice booming across the open field.

The sharp reprimand caused several Class 5E students to pause their drills and look over in surprise.

Realizing the eyes on him, Mr. Crosswell exhaled a harsh breath, forcing his shoulders to relax.Tsk. I let my emotions get the better of me and walked right into his trap.

"If you have nothing constructive to offer, leave us to our session," Mr. Crosswell said coldly, his face settling back into a stoic mask.

Beside him, Atlas observed the interaction silently. ’And here I thought this academy was above petty posturing. Guess arrogance exists everywhere.’

He glanced over at Seraphine, noticing that her head was bowed deeply, her fingers nervously picking at the hem of her sleeve as she intentionally avoided Gerald’s gaze.

Atlas’s eyes narrowed slightly as he shifted his gaze between the two. ’Why is she ducking away from him like that?’

"Actually, I came over to offer a little charity — a head start for the class that desperately needs one," Gerald said, his lips curling into a sharp smirk.

"But since we’re being ushered away, I suppose I’ll take my leave." He let his eyes linger on Seraphine for a long, heavy moment before turning his back.

"Tell the little bird girl she shouldn’t bother gracing the ring this year. She won’t gain anything from it."

"Wait," Mr. Crosswell called out, stopping mid-step.

He didn’t move forward because a small, trembling hand had caught the fabric of his sleeve. Seraphine was clutching his shirt tightly, her knuckle whitening as she silently pulled him back.

Atlas watched the exchange, the mystery deepening. ’What’s the history between them? Why does someone as sharp as her act so terrified around him?’

Gerald paused, turning his head over his shoulder with a deliberate, mocking eyebrow raised. "Oh? Changed your mind? Willing to hear a proposal that might actually save your reputation?"

Mr. Crosswell gently placed a reassuring hand over Seraphine’s trembling fingers, giving them a slight squeeze before meeting Gerald’s gaze with a hard nod. "Speak before I lose what little patience I have left."

"It’s simple," Gerald said, turning fully around and spreading his hands wide.

"The tournament is four weeks out, and every class enters with zero points. Given your track record, your team has virtually no path to the upper brackets. So, let’s hold a preliminary duel..." He gestured to the two sturdy students behind him.

"...Two of my boys against two of yours. Pick your absolute best. If your side somehow wins, I will personally file a request with the Dean to transfer ten official tournament points from my class’s pool to yours. A generous cushion, wouldn’t you say?" He chuckled, a dry, grating sound.

Mr. Crosswell remained motionless, his dark eyes analyzing every syllable, searching for the hidden trap.

He glanced over his shoulder at his working students, then back to Gerald, whose confident smirk looked entirely too practiced.

"And how do I know you’ll honor the agreement if we win?" Mr. Crosswell asked, his eyes narrowing to thin slits.

"You have my formal word," Gerald replied smoothly. He raised his right hand, snaps his fingers, and a streak of silver light burst into existence at his side.

A small, blue-furred capuchin monkey materialized, clutching a rolled parchment. The creature scrambled effortlessly up Gerald’s arm, perching on his shoulder and presenting the scroll with a chatter.

Gerald unrolled the parchment, skimmed the glowing runes woven into the paper, and tossed it toward Mr. Crosswell. The parchment floated through the air, unfurling smoothly before settling in the teacher’s hand.

"A binding contract scroll," Gerald grinned, his finger tracing the edge of his collar. "So neither of us can backtrack."

Mr. Crosswell read through the formal terms line by line, checking every clause before lifting his head. "And what do you gain from this? You wouldn’t risk ten points without a heavy stake."

"Ah, always sharp, Crosswell," Gerald sneered, his eyes glinting with malice. "If my students win, your class withdraws from the intra-departmental tournament entirely. You forfeit your spot before the first round even begins."

"What?!" Mr. Crosswell snapped, the blood rushing to his face as a vein throbbed violently at his temple.

"It’s a mercy, really," Gerald said casually, stepping closer. "Your class has been dead last for three consecutive terms. Withdrawing now saves you the humiliation. Trash belongs in the bin, after all."

Overwhelmed by anger, Mr. Crosswell took a sudden, aggressive step forward, his fist clenching — but a hand firmly clamped onto his forearm, stopping him mid-stride.

"Don’t, sir," Atlas said quietly, his grip firm and steady as he pulled Mr. Crosswell back a inch. "That’s exactly what he’s pushing for. Keep your head clear."

Atlas had wanted to stay out of the petty faculty drama, but watching Gerald manipulate the teacher was pushing the situation toward a point of no return.

Gerald’s smirk broadened as he looked at Atlas. "Smart boy. You should listen to your student, Crosswell."

Atlas stepped past Mr. Crosswell, placing himself directly between the two men. His posture was relaxed, but his emerald eyes were sharp. "If this contract is an open negotiation, then the terms shouldn’t be entirely one-sided. I have an addition."

By now, the remaining students of Class 5E had stopped their drills entirely, gathering at a cautious distance to watch the standoff unfold.

"Watch your mouth, kid!" one of the silver-uniformed students behind Gerald barked, taking a threatening step forward with his fists balled.

Gerald raised a casual hand, stopping his student in his tracks. "Let him speak. The outcome is already set in stone anyway. What does the newcomer have to say?"

"If we win next week," Atlas said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet grass, "you don’t just give us ten points. You give us twenty. And your class forfeits its position, swapping ranks with Class 5E immediately."

A collective gasp echoed from the gathered crowd of students. Seraphine’s eyes widened in sheer shock, while Mr. Crosswell stiffened beside him.

Gerald’s smile disappeared.

For the first time since arriving, he actually looked at Atlas with something resembling seriousness.

"You understand what you’re asking for, boy?"

"Perfectly."

"You’re betting the future of your entire class on two students."

"No."

Atlas glanced toward the two students standing behind him.

"You’re the one who offered the bet. I’m simply making sure the reward is worth the risk."

"You arrogant little brat—!" the second student snarled, his face flushing red.

"No, no... I actually like it, I enjoy his courageous act" Gerald interrupted, a dangerous glint entering his eyes as he leaned in toward Atlas.

"A real high-stakes gamble. But if you’re raising the price, then the penalty for your defeat increases too. If my boys win, not only do you withdraw from the tournament, but your entire class becomes our personal training dummies for the rest of the term. Everyday sparring equipment."

Gerald stared deeply into Atlas’s eyes, his smile cold and predatory. "Unless you’re planning to back out now?"

Atlas didn’t flinch. He met Gerald’s glare with a calm, unbothered expression, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"It’s a deal."