By the following morning, the atmosphere at San Javier had shifted.
The usual hum of conversations about parties and fashion had been replaced by a buzz of awe and bewilderment.
At every table in the dining hall and in every corridor, students were glued to their phones, rewatching the seven German goals over and over, reading headlines that spoke of “miracles,” “humiliation,” and “a Brazilian national tragedy.”
At the center of this altered universe, Leo Vargas’s group sat in stony silence.
Leo, pale-faced with bloodshot eyes, couldn’t process the humiliation.
It wasn’t the $5,000—a trivial sum for him—it was the fact that he’d been publicly dismantled by a nobody.
Victoria Mont, on the other hand, watched the dining hall entrance with a fascination that had completely replaced her habitual boredom.
This “scholarship kid” was an enigma, and there was nothing she loved more than a puzzle.
Just then, Max walked in.
The dining hall went silent.
Every eye was fixed on him.
But Max, shielded by the cold logic of [Player Mind], moved forward with unflappable calm, as if he were walking through the hallway of his own home.
He headed straight for Leo’s table and stopped, waiting in silence.
With a grunt, Leo slammed a stack of bills onto the table.
His friends, looking ashamed, followed suit without daring to meet Max’s eyes.
Victoria was the last.
She stood with feline elegance and handed him her share in person, her fingers deliberately brushing against his.
“Congratulations, scholarship kid,” she whispered, her voice a blend of silk and steel.
“It’s been a long time since anything actually surprised me.”
Max gathered the $10,000.
Then, his gaze fell on Leo, who was glaring at him with pure hatred.
“Oh, and about the other part of the deal…” Max said, his voice clear and cutting.
“Forget it.
I have no interest in having such an incompetent lackey.”
The humiliation was total.
He hadn’t enslaved him; he had discarded him like trash.
Without another word, Max turned and left the dining hall, leaving Leo trembling with impotent rage.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, the familiar sound echoed in his head.
[Previous Balance: $500]
[Current Balance: $10,500]
[Main Quest completed!] [Exceptional Performance!]
[Rewards granted:]
+7 System Points (SP).
Active Skill unlocked: [Predictive Analysis Lv.
1].
Description:By focusing on a situation with a limited number of variables (e.g., the stock market, the outcome of a game, a person’s response to a simple question), the System calculates the most likely outcome with 70% accuracy.
Accuracy increases with skill level and user Intelligence.
Level 2 Skill Shop unlocked!
Title acquired: [The Campus Oracle].
Max didn’t waste any time.
He accessed the System interface.
He had 7 SP.
His priority was clear.
[Do you wish to spend 3 SP to upgrade [Player Gaze] to Level 2?]
Confirm.
[Skill upgraded!] [Player Gaze Lv.
2]:Now able to read Surface Thoughts and basic stats of targets.
[Remaining SP: 4]
His first stop was the administration office, where he paid his $1,200 monthly tuition with a composure that unnerved the staff.
[Expense: -$1,200]
[Previous Balance: $10,500]
[Current Balance: $9,300]
Next, he headed to the residence hall.
There, he met the manager, a middle-aged man known as Mr.
Morales.
“Good morning,” Max said.
“I’d like to pay for my room.
Is there a discount for paying the full year in advance?”
Mr.
Morales looked at him over his glasses.
“The best I can do is a 10% discount, kid.”
Max activated his new skill.
[Javier Morales]
Level 5: Civilian
Title: Residence Manager
Status: Tired.
Slightly depressed.
Surface Thought:I lost a fortune betting on Brazil last night.
My wife is going to kill me.
A smile played on Max’s lips.
He leaned over the counter, his voice dropping to a confidential tone.
“Mr.
Morales, I hear you’re a man who enjoys football.
And I happen to have a certain reputation now.” He tilted his head, alluding to his new title of [The Campus Oracle].
“How about a deal?
You give me a 20% discount…
and I’ll tell you who wins the final.
And the exact score.”
The manager’s eyes went wide.
Doubt fought greed across his face.
He looked around as if fearing someone might overhear.
“Are you serious?”
“As serious as a 7-1 blowout,” Max replied coldly.
After a tense deliberation, Mr.
Morales gave in.
He typed furiously into his computer.
“Alright, deal.
With 20% off, that’s $7,680 for the year.”
Max processed the transfer from his phone.
His bank balance took a dive.
But now he had a roof over his head for the next twelve months.
[Expense: -$7,680]
[Previous Balance: $9,300]
[Current Balance: $1,620]
“A pleasure doing business,” the manager said, his eyes bright with anticipation.
“Well?”
Max leaned against the counter.
“The final will be Germany versus Argentina.
It will be a grueling match, no goals in regulation time.
But in extra time, Mario Götze will score the only goal.
Germany, one.
Argentina, zero.”
He left Mr.
Morales frozen in place and headed to his room, now officially his own.
Tuition paid, housing secured.
The base of his pyramid was built.
But $1,620 was not an empire.
The World Cup was ending, and he couldn’t live off sports betting forever.
He needed a stable, secure stream of income.
While he reflected, lost in analyzing stock prices on the screen of his aging phone, a soft knock sounded at his door.
He opened it, expecting a curious onlooker or a new challenger.
But there on the threshold, leaning with casual elegance, was Victoria Mont.
She wore a summer dress that likely cost more than Max’s annual tuition, and she was looking at him with a smile that was both an invitation and a challenge.
“I see you’re settling in, scholarship kid,” she said, her gaze roaming the spartan room.
Max remained silent, waiting.
She laughed softly.
“Leo’s offer for you to be his lackey was pathetic.
But mine…” she took a step toward him, invading his personal space, “…might still be on the table.
But under…
different terms.
A man who can predict the future can be put to much more…
interesting uses.”
Her perfume—a blend of citrus and something exotic and expensive—enveloped him.
It wasn’t a question.
It was a proposal.
A new game, with far more dangerous rules, had just begun.