When The System Spoils You For No Reason-Chapter 56 - Fifty Six

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

— Sun Tzu / The Godfather

---

’What a funny joke,’ Anton spoke to Zeke telepathically, the words laced with sarcasm.

’I needed backup. You never know how important a social circle is until you need it,’ Zeke replied, his tone breezy and unrepentant.

’So if you go down, you’ll drag me along with you?’

’I need your four-thousand-year wisdom. C’mon, you can’t be this useless.’

’Your mom.’

’Don’t you think that act is getting a little old?’

Michael’s smooth, intrusive voice slid into their private mental channel, cold and precise. They turned to find him lounged on the couch, legs crossed elegantly, amethyst eyes fixed on them with unnerving focus.

’With such an exaggerated performance—were you hoping to tip off Jude and Yeon?’

Something in Anton just snapped.

’I don’t know why you think this villain act is fun,’ Anton projected, his face a mask of stoic fury. ’Hurting any one of them would be monumentally stupid—and you know it. I might underestimate him’—a sharp glance at Zeke—’but even you would know better than to underestimate him. Or do you genuinely think you’d have an easy run if you hurt them? And now you’ve threatened my brother to my face.’ His mental voice dropped, flat and final. ’Tell me. Do you want to die?’

BOOM.

A violent burst of raw, aggressive aura erupted from Anton, flooding the room with palpable pressure that made the air feel dense enough to push through. The trio and Yeon snapped their attention toward him instantly, every sense suddenly sharpened. Zeke merely waved them back with a calm, almost bored smile.

’And I wanted to drag that act out a little longer. A small threat on an immortal’s life, a nice raise in the stakes—’ Zeke mused telepathically, a sly smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

’Now what’s the resolution? I have no qualms killing them. They know about me,’ Michael’s mental voice returned, flat and matter-of-fact.

’This bastard,’ Anton seethed silently.

"Heh. Guys," Zeke announced aloud, his voice cutting clean through the tension. "This guy here wants to kill you. Well—us." He had already clambered onto the high back of Michael’s chair, crouching there like a perched bird of prey. "And he’s strong. Freakishly strong."

Michael sat below him, smiling serenely up at Zeke’s inverted face.

"But that hasn’t stopped us before, right?" Zeke tilted his head, a wide, reckless grin splitting his features.

"You’re doing the grin," Michael observed. His face was suddenly uncomfortably close to Zeke’s, and then his expression shifted—muscles mirroring Zeke’s with uncanny precision until his face was a perfect, pitiable replica of Zeke’s manic grin.

"Ahhh!" Zeke yelped, losing his balance and tumbling from the chair in an undignified heap.

"See?" He scrambled to his feet, jabbing an accusatory finger. "He’s a psychopath! A sociopath! He’s just— pathic!"

"That is not a word," Jude deadpanned from the sidelines.

"You don’t know the half of it!" Zeke shot back, undeterred. "Wazooah! Let me put you on!" He then dramatically leveled both hands toward Michael, fingers splayed in a perfect Dragon Ball fusion pose.

...

"..."

An awkward, leaden silence settled over the room. The group had unconsciously redistributed themselves—all of them on one side of the spacious lounge, a united front. Michael sat alone on the other, still smiling pleasantly.

"Why do you always smile?" Kai finally asked, breaking the quiet.

"Should I remain stoic?" Michael replied, head tilting. "Smiling is a proven method to de-escalate situations."

"True," Zeke agreed with a shrug.

The group turned as one to stare at him.

"What?" he said, meeting their looks, then swiveling back to Michael. "And just because I agree with you doesn’t mean I’m on your side."

"Haha. Despite everything, you always find a way to lighten the weight," Michael laughed—the sound perfectly modulated, utterly devoid of warmth. "That’s why I want you."

"Gay," Zeke stated flatly.

"Hm hm," the boys nodded in solemn, synchronized agreement.

"I love BL," Yeon added from her couch, not looking up from her tablet.

...

"So what do you mean by ’wanting Zeke’?" Anton asked, his voice slicing through the resurgent playfulness with sharp precision.

"I want to feel emotion like you all," Michael answered simply.

"That’s impossible. You, of all people, should know how traits work," Anton deadpanned, crossing his arms.

"Aiya, you and Zeke really are the same," Michael sighed, a theatrically weary expression settling onto his face. "Even if I can’t feel emotions, I can simulate them perfectly. The best deception is deceiving oneself." He tilted his head as he delivered the line, the grin returning.

"That’s bad," Zeke grimaced, a genuine look of distaste crossing his face.

"Hm hm," they all nodded in unison.

"So in what way can I help your mission?" Zeke asked, leaning forward.

"Simple. Let me in."

"Pause."

"The group, you mean?" Anton clarified, eyes narrowing.

"Yes. You seem to be the voice of reason—yet at times, you’re just as thick as Zeke."

"Hehe, he’s an old soul," Zeke chuckled, reaching over to ruffle Anton’s hair roughly.

"You did threaten us," Yeon stated. Her gaze lifted from her screen and locked onto Michael with cold intensity.

"Oh, fire and ice," Zeke cooed, waggling his eyebrows.

"Fire versus ice and lightning," Anton added, suddenly looking every bit as excited as Zeke.

"It was a joke. They acted so poorly," Michael said, his smile never wavering.

"Don’t try that fake smile on me," Yeon shot back.

"Everything he does is fake," Zeke added helpfully.

"That’s got to change."

"What?" Anton asked, puzzled.

"Obviously, everything I do is fake," Michael explained, his tone shifting to mild analytical frustration. "But you saying it out loud—acknowledging it—breaks the immersion. I can’t complete my mission like this."

The group’s eyes swiveled as one toward Zeke, awaiting his verdict.

"Aiya, I’m everyone’s compass," Zeke sighed, dragging a hand through his silver-streaked hair. "This has gone on long enough."

He crossed the room and stopped directly in front of Michael. "You’re welcome to the group." He raised his voice slightly. "Maxim! Let’s celebrate the new addition!"

"What about mine?" Anton asked, a faint pout in his voice.

"You got yours when we split the loot."

"Fair enough."

...

In a dimly lit office lined with dark mahogany and gleaming brass fixtures, a middle-aged man and a young man sat in heavy silence. The scent of old leather and faint cologne hung in the still air. The middle-aged man occupied the chair clearly meant for the room’s owner—high-backed, its carved geometric patterns speaking quietly of rank and authority. The young man sat in a smaller though equally elegant chair to the right of the desk, posture impeccable, hands folded loosely in his lap.

"So you accomplished your goal," the middle-aged man said, his voice a low, measured rumble.

"Indeed," the young man replied, tone smooth and devoid of inflection.

The young man was Michael. The middle-aged man was the Council President of the Nova Ameriga Council—Michael’s father, Neon. Graying temples and the sharp lines etched into his face spoke of decades navigating political storms, yet his ice-blue eyes remained as keen and calculating as ever.

"I still wonder what you think you stand to gain," Neon mused, leaning back with a quiet creak of leather.

"Emotions?" A short, dry scoff. His fingers drummed once—precisely—against the polished armrest. "We both know you couldn’t care less. That’s your whole core. Bland." The word landed flat, an assessment rather than an insult.

"Indeed, Father," Michael said, amethyst eyes unblinking. "An unknown factor appeared. Logic dictates I get closer to him. He needs to be kept in check."

"Who’s keeping you in check?" Neon leaned forward slightly, the chair groaning under the shift. "You’re just as much an anomaly as he is."

"Father, you jest." Michael’s lips curved into the barest practiced smile. "My morals are intact. Mother taught me well."

"Filial child. Degenerate heir." Neon’s mouth twitched—almost a smirk. "Now you’re playing at comic relief. Your ’friends’ will love that."

"Heh. Friends?" Michael tilted his head a fraction, the overhead light catching the sharp angles of his face. "We are not friends. I’m simply operating on the principle of keeping your enemies closer."

"Oh—it seems I’m missing information," Neon said, leaning in with sudden, predatory interest. His elbows came to rest on the desk, fingers steepling beneath his chin.

Michael smiled wider—a calculated expression that made his face seem almost alien in its precision. "No matter how good an actor he is, he can’t out-act someone without a script."

"I was almost fooled," he continued, voice dropping into something quieter, more analytical. "But at the end of the day, emotions are the fall of humans—no matter how little emotion one has."

Neon gave him a sharp, expectant look, urging him on with nothing more than the tilt of his chin.

"His act of fear was convincing. Too convincing," Michael explained, fingers tracing an idle pattern on the armrest. "One would think it was him playing out a script—that he simply enjoys indulging chaos. But a deeper read? He never actually cared about me. About anything, really. His friends, perhaps—but that’s just a social construct he’s built around himself. If they were to die, I believe, after running the simulations, he would enact revenge as social norms demand. Nothing more."

"It’s fascinating," Michael added, a strange, clinical flicker moving behind his eyes. "Imagine if he had the same trait as me. Funny."

"But what if you’re wrong?" Neon’s voice dropped, soft and dangerous.

"Why would you think so?" Michael asked, head tilting—curious, unbothered.

"Nothing." Neon waved a hand, the gesture sharp and final. "You should know even a machine makes mistakes."

"You’re dismissed."

Michael rose smoothly, the movement fluid and soundless, and left without another word. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, sealing the silence back into place.

...

"Hahaha, you’re the worst regressor in history!"

Yeon’s laughter rang bright and sharp through the guild hall, bouncing off the high ceilings and polished floors. Her eyes glittered with mischief as she doubled over, clutching her stomach.

The group had told Yeon about Anton’s identity—the brother bombshell couldn’t be quietly shelved.

Now, on the day they were to enter the Tower, they had gathered at White Fang Guild headquarters. Warm amber light streamed through tall windows, and the mingled scents of coffee, fresh bread, and faint ozone from charged mana stones drifted through the air. Kai’s parents were there, along with Aaron’s parents and Jude’s adoptive parents, all gathered in small clusters, speaking in low, worried tones.

Jude had since met with his parents to understand his background, and they had come clean about being his father’s relatives.

Now, Yeon continued her mockery of Anton with fresh fuel—she’d learned she had beaten him in the future, in his past life, and had handed him a stack of regression novels to read with gleeful malice. The knowledge had only sharpened her aim, her voice lilting with every fresh jab.

"You can’t win. Just let her tire herself out," Zeke said, his voice low and sympathetic, dropping a firm, brotherly hand onto Anton’s shoulder. His metallic grey eyes were soft with the particular look of shared suffering. "She tagged me a man-slut because of her own ignorance."

"I did well," Anton insisted, jaw tight with stubborn pride. "Since regressing, I’m stronger now than I was at this exact point last time. I’m almost at my peak."

"You were really pathetic in your past life," Yeon jabbed, her grin sharp as a blade.

"Let’s settle this," Anton growled, hands curling into fists at his sides.

"Ay, ay, chill," Zeke interjected quickly, raising both hands. "Where is Michael? We need to leave before these two actually throw hands."

Before he could look around, the adults began walking toward them, their footsteps a soft, shuffling chorus across the tiled floor.

"Oh, my Yeon, you’re leaving so soon," Lisa Min said, her voice thick with affection and worry. She reached up and cupped Yeon’s cheek in her warm, calloused palm, thumb brushing gently against her daughter’s skin. Then she turned to Kai, expression sharpening.

"Stay out of trouble, you brat," she said—though the warmth underneath was unmistakable. "Don’t disgrace your sister. And don’t go emulating him." A pointed glare at Zeke, who returned it with a sheepish, lopsided smile. Kai just grinned, entirely unrepentant.

She moved to Aaron next, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder—a grounding weight. "Don’t lose hope, child. Your mother and I will be here if you need to come home."

"Thank you, Auntie," Aaron said softly, his voice sincere, before crossing to his parents, who pulled him into quiet, steadying embraces.

Lisa walked to Jude, her gaze softening as it settled on his serious face. "Just because you know your heritage now doesn’t mean you run off chasing it," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "I always knew you were meant for great things. Keep your head grounded—or I’ll ground you when you get back."

"I see what you did there," Zeke cooed, grin widening.

Lisa shot him a withering look.

"Now—go to your mother and father. They have something to tell you," she said, nudging Jude toward his adoptive parents with a light touch at his back.

She turned and walked toward Zeke and Anton, both of them watching her approach with varying degrees of apprehension.

"You come out of nowhere claiming kinship. That’s suspicious," she began, sharp gaze landing on Anton. "But you and Jude have the same brooding eyebrows, so I’ll let it go. You better be a good older brother. And even if you’re not—Jude has enough brothers and a sister to correct your wrongs."

"Yes, Auntie. I will protect my brother with everything I have," Anton said, bowing his head slightly, voice steady and earnest.

"Tsk. Who’s your auntie?" Lisa muttered—though the faintest tug of a smile betrayed her.

"Hm-hm, you have to earn the right to that title," Zeke chimed in, sliding closer with exaggerated boyish charm. "My turn now. Give it to me, Auntie."

Pow.

Lisa slapped his arm with a sharp, stinging smack that echoed through the quiet hall.

"Ouch! Auntie, your pat of love is lethal," Zeke whined, rubbing his arm with theatrical agony—though the grin held. "Are you sure you’re not the final boss?"

"Tsk. Keep influencing my boys negatively and you’ll find out," Lisa warned, angling a firm finger toward Jae Min, who stood a short distance away, arms crossed over his broad chest, his default expression carved from stone. His presence alone radiated quiet, unyielding authority.

"Hehe, let’s not bring Uncle into this," Zeke said quickly, both hands raised in surrender. "You know you’re my favorite, right?"

"Tsk. Is that the smooth talk you used to sweep girls off their feet?" Lisa asked, eyes narrowing. "You know better than to keep up that behavior."

"That was a phase. Long past it," Zeke said, smiling innocently as he rubbed the back of his neck, the picture of reformed sincerity.

"Bend down, you tall fool," Lisa ordered. Before Zeke could react, she grabbed his sleeve and dragged him closer to her diminutive frame, pulling his ear down to her mouth.

"Yeon will not follow a player," she whispered fiercely, her breath warm against his ear. "You better step up. A friend of a friend’s friend told me she has an admirer in the Tower. Don’t make me say it again."

"Hmm." Zeke’s easy expression shifted—the playfulness settling into something sharper and more resolute. He straightened, jaw setting, and then without ceremony, he lifted one foot from the floor and began to levitate—rising smoothly into the air with the effortless grace of his Free Flier trait.

"Auntie," he declared, floating a few feet above her head, patting his chest with firm, exaggerated conviction, "I have stepped up my game. Believe in me."

"Aigoo, you fool!" Lisa raised her hand to swat at him, but he had already drifted just out of reach, grinning down at her from his airborne perch.

"Uncles, Aunties—see you next time!" Zeke called cheerfully, waving to the assembled adults as he floated backward toward the guild’s grand entrance. Sunlight streamed through the tall archway behind him, casting a loose, golden halo around his silhouette.

With a sideways glance, he caught sight of Michael leaning casually against a far wall, arms crossed, amethyst eyes watching the scene with quiet, unreadable interest.

"Autobots, roll out!" Zeke called across the hall.

The others began to move—gathering gear, exchanging final embraces, murmuring last words to their families. The air buzzed with anticipation and nerves and the unspoken weight of what lay ahead.

The Tower awaited.