The history lesson was a special kind of torture, but not for the usual reasons. The subject matter was dull, yes, but the real distraction stood at the front of the class: their homeroom teacher, Ms. Valeriana Thornfield.
She was a woman in her late twenties, with a severe beauty that was as sharp as the intellect she supposedly possessed. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight, flawless bun, and her glasses perched on a nose that seemed permanently tilted upward.
But it was her body that was the true masterpiece of cruel design—a narrow waist that flared into hips that filled out her pencil skirt spectacularly, and a rear that was the subject of whispered admiration and fantasy across all the lower classes.
Michael's eyes, like those of every other boy in the room, were glued to the sway of that skirt as she paced slowly in front of the whiteboard.
Her lesson was on the history of trait evolution, but her delivery was a monotonous drone. She never made eye contact with the F-class students, her cold, gray eyes scanning the room as if looking at something distasteful stuck to the bottom of her shoe. When her gaze did sweep over them, it wasn't just dismissive; it was deeply contemptuous.
It's in her eyes, Michael realized. She's not just bored. She despises us. Her look seemed to say, 'Why am I wasting my time? You're all just future casualties. You'd be better off quietly disappearing.'
A fresh wave of bitter understanding washed over him. The injustice of this world wasn't just confined to the student body. It was systemic, woven into the very fabric of society.
From the moment you were born without a powerful trait, you were relegated to the scrap heap. Teachers like Ms. Thornfield weren't here to educate them; they were here to babysit them until they could be legally sent into a dungeon as cannon fodder or released into a menial workforce.
They decide our worth before we even have a chance to prove it, he thought, his jaw tightening. They look at us and see nothing. Just like everyone looked at me.
But the feeling of powerlessness didn't cripple him anymore. It fueled him. His plan for Rose was in motion. Cindy was already his. But to truly operate with impunity, to build his harem and his power base within the school walls, he needed more than just intimidated students. He needed authority on his side. Or rather, he needed to own authority.
His gaze on Ms. Thornfield's retreating form hardened, shifting from analysis to target acquisition. That cold, disdainful look… he would break it. He would shatter that icy superiority and replace it with a dazed, obedient warmth. He would turn the very symbol of the system that oppressed him into his personal puppet.
A teacher, bound by the same magical compulsion as Cindy, would be an invaluable asset.
A slow, cunning smile spread across Michael's face as the lesson droned on. The Lust System hummed in his periphery, a constant reminder of his new reality. He had thought his revenge would be against the students who bullied him. But now he saw a bigger picture.
The old storage shed behind the gym was a place forgotten by time and the school's maintenance budget. Dust motes danced in the slanted rays of the late afternoon sun, and the air smelled of old leather, damp earth, and neglect. It was the perfect place for secrets.
Michael leaned against a stack of moldering gym mats, his posture deliberately relaxed. He didn't have to wait long.
The door creaked open, and Rose Ivy slipped inside, her movements as timid as a startled deer. She hugged her books to her chest, her eyes wide as they adjusted to the dim light.
"You came," Michael said, his voice calm and even, a stark contrast to the nervous energy radiating from her.
"Y-you said to meet here," she stammered, taking a tentative step forward. "After what Cindy said... I... I had to know if it was real."
"And what did Cindy say, exactly?" Michael asked, genuinely curious about the masterpiece of manipulation his slave had performed.
Rose's cheeks flushed a delicate pink. "She said... she said you understood things about traits that no one else does. That you helped her unlock a part of herself she didn't know was there. She said you were... kind."
Kind. Michael almost laughed. Cindy's wording was brilliantly ambiguous. It was the perfect lure for someone as naive and desperate as Rose.
"I prefer the term 'pragmatic'," Michael corrected gently. "The world isn't kind to people like us, Rose. It's designed to keep us down. I'm just offering a way to change the design."
He pushed off the mats and took a step toward her. She flinched but held her ground, her knuckles white where she gripped her books.
"Your trait, [Floral Bloom]. You think it's useless. The school thinks it's useless. But they're wrong." He stopped an arm's length away, his gaze intense. "Everything in this world has potential, Rose. Even a single seed can crack concrete if it's given the right conditions to grow."
Tears welled in her beautiful green eyes. "You really believe that?"
"I don't believe it. I know it." He reached out slowly, giving her every chance to pull away. He gently took one of her hands, prying it from her books. Her skin was soft, and she was trembling. "The process is intimate, Rose. It requires a transfer of energy, a connection. It requires... trust."
He saw the conflict warring on her face—fear warring with a desperate, hungry hope.
"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so tired of being afraid. I'm tired of being nothing. If you can really do this... I'll do anything."
Anything. The word was music to his ears.
"The first step is always the hardest," he murmured, his voice a hypnotic drone. "Close your eyes."
Hesitantly, she obeyed. Her long green lashes rested on her cheeks. She was utterly vulnerable, completely in his power.
Michael focused his will. In his mind's eye, he activated the [Blooming Ascension] skill. A faint, almost imperceptible green aura shimmered around his hand, which still held hers.
"Now," he whispered, leaning closer. "Let's see what you're really made of."
A soft, warm sensation flowed from his hand into hers. It wasn't painful; it was strangely exhilarating. Rose gasped as a notification, invisible to her, appeared in Michael's vision.
[ Target: Rose Ivy - Trait: [Floral Bloom] (E-Rank) ]
[ Initiating Ascension Protocol... ]
[ Energy Transfer in Progress... ]
[ Requirement: Sustained physical and spiritual connection. ]
A single, perfect jasmine flower, which had been a wilting bud in a small pot on a nearby shelf, suddenly unfurled, its petals opening to release a sweet, intoxicating fragrance into the dusty air.
Rose's eyes flew open, filled with awe and disbelief. "I... I felt that," she breathed. "It was like... a spark."