Ian held the test-passing document and followed the signs to the administrative building to pay the fees.
The administrative building at Godolkin was much quieter than the training facility.
The marble floors were polished to a shine, and photos of past graduates hung on both sides of the hallway.
Queen Maeve stood in her battle armor, A-Train was poised in a starting stance, and Deep struck a pose with an endless ocean behind him.
Beneath the photos were embossed gold letters: Godolkin Distinguished Alumni, Vought’s Pride.
The payment office was on the third floor.
Ian pushed the door open.
At the front was a white man in a golf polo shirt, his belly squeezing a ring of flesh over his belt.
His daughter stood beside him—blonde, tall, with golden specks of light occasionally flickering at her fingertips, as if someone were sprinkling glitter into the air.
“My baby is definitely getting into Crimson Countess Academy,” the man boomed loudly, “Performing Arts major.
She’ll make ten times the tuition in endorsements alone once she graduates.
This damn loan is nothing.”
His daughter rolled her eyes and didn’t respond.
Behind them was a Black mother and son.
The mother was on the phone, her voice low but rapid: “Yes, seventy-seven thousand, not including housing.
I know, I know, but Kevin’s abilities are perfect for the Performing Arts Academy…”
Ian leaned against the wall, counting the cracks in the floor tiles.
After seventeen minutes, it was finally his turn.
Behind the window sat a woman in her fifties, with short gray-brown hair and red-framed glasses.
She glanced up at Ian, her gaze lingering for a second on the bruise on his temple and his faded T-shirt before looking away.
She lowered her head to type, the screen’s light reflecting on her lenses.
“Name?”
Seriously, even in America, they still don’t check the paperwork and just ask anyway, he grumbled inwardly as he answered.
“Ian.
Assigned to Lamplighter Crimefighting Academy.
Just passed the test.”
“Annual tuition is seventy-seven thousand dollars.
Does not include housing or insurance.
Cash only.”
“I’m applying for a student loan.”
The woman, who had remained calm until now, finally showed some enthusiasm upon hearing this.
She pulled two sheets of paper from a drawer and slapped them onto the counter.
“Two types of loans.
Federal National Student Loan, and Godolkin Private Superhero Specialized Loan.
Choose.”
“What’s the difference?”
The woman pulled two contracts from under the desk and slid them over.
One blue, one black.
She spoke quickly, as if she had recited this countless times, each syllable running into the next.
“Federal version.
Interest rate 5.5%.
Repayment period is your remaining school years plus a maximum of fifteen years.
Interest accrues normally while enrolled, but you don’t have to pay.
Five years after graduation, you start repaying principal and interest.”
Ian opened the blue one.
The terms were dense, similar to the regular university loans he had once tried to apply for.
After quickly finishing her spiel about the federal loan, the woman tapped the black contract.
On the cover, an embossed golden eagle emblem gleamed, next to a line of small print: Superhero Specialized Development Fund.
“Godolkin University Private Specialized version.
Interest rate 9.2%.
Fixed fifteen-year repayment term.
Full interest accrues while enrolled.
Repayment begins after graduation.”
“That interest rate is almost double.”
“Correct.” The woman leaned back in her chair and uttered the enticing words, “But risk and opportunity always go hand in hand.
You can check the terms below.”
“If you rank in the top 10 of the academy’s hero rankings during your studies, all interest will be waived.
If you make it to the top 3, all interest will be forgiven entirely.
If you maintain your ranking upon graduation and join Vought, not only will interest be waived, but your principal will also be halved.
And if you manage to join The Seven, both interest and principal will be completely forgiven.”
She pulled a promotional flyer from the drawer and slid it over.
It featured a young man in uniform, smiling brightly, with the caption below: Deep, Kevin Moskowitz, Godolkin Class of 2015, member of The Seven.
“Every year, some people think this is a scam,” the woman said persuasively.
“But every year, there are also those who actually climb their way up.
If you want to become a superhero like them, you have to believe you can do it.”
Ian stared at the interest rate.
Damn.
This is specifically designed to scam these dream-chasing college kids.
Seventy-seven thousand per year, 9.2% interest, fifteen years.
This isn’t a loan—it’s a life contract.
These eighteen- or nineteen-year-old kids, obsessed with becoming heroes, sign this kind of contract, and after graduation, they’ll probably end up working for Vought for the rest of their lives.
Interest waived?
The Seven?
Out of ten thousand students over the years, even one making it would be pure luck.
Vought trades these empty promises for a roomful of life contracts.
Even if someone actually does join The Seven, they’d be even happier—it’s free advertising.
The principal and interest just become advertising costs.
No matter what, they win.
It’s like Qin Shi Huang touching an electric pole—
They’re winning so hard it’s ridiculous.
He reached for the blue one.
“I’ll take the federal—”
“Wait,” the woman suddenly spoke up, tapping the last page of the black contract.
“Look carefully before you choose.
If you choose the specialized program, your file automatically goes to Professor Brink’s office.
Only this group can enroll in the Crime-Fighting course.”
Ian’s hand froze mid-air.
He looked down at the line of fine print the woman was pointing to.
It wasn’t printed large, but it was clear enough, tucked between the default clauses and late fee explanations.
Crime-Fighting course.
In his past life’s memories, this course was Godolkin’s only ace.
Not the kind of useless class that teaches you how to pose for the camera or cry on cue.
Queen Maeve, A-Train, Deep.
All the members of The Seven who came from Godolkin were students of this course.
Godolkin University is divided into two colleges: students with combat-related abilities are assigned to the Point Man College, while everyone else goes to Crimson Countess Academy.
The other majors—Hero Ethics, Villain Psychology, Superpower Stage Performance, Media and Public Relations—
They sound glamorous, but in reality, they’re just packaging students as products to be fed into Vought’s marketing pipeline.
Studying those, the best outcome after graduation is becoming a local hero in a second-tier city, shooting ads for Vought, or working as a Villain Psychology consultant, sitting in an office writing reports.
But the Crime-Fighting course is different.
That’s the real elevator straight to The Seven.
Ian withdrew his hand and pushed the federal version back.
“I’ll take the specialized program.”
The woman raised an eyebrow, as if this decision didn’t surprise her at all.
She pulled out a pen and pointed to a few places on the contract.
“Sign here, here, and here.
The last page is the risk disclosure.
Read it carefully: 9.2% interest rate, and in case of overdue payments, Vought reserves the right to pursue your hero license and endorsement income.”
Ian took the pen and signed his name with a flourish.
Watching Ian sign the document, the woman finally smiled.
She fed the contract into the scanner, then pulled a temporary campus card, a textbook list, and a thin freshman survival guide from a drawer, sliding them across the counter.
Done.
“Textbooks aren’t cheap.
For the Crime-Fighting class, you’ll need to buy protective gear separately—out of your own pocket.”
Ian took the items and stuffed them into his pocket.
“There’s a physical fitness re-evaluation next week.
Don’t be late.
Your dorm assignment will be sent to your email as soon as possible—keep an eye on it.”
Ian stood up, tucking his bank card back into his pocket.
“Thanks for the reminder.”
He pushed the door open and stepped into the corridor, where sunlight glared harshly.
On the wall, Queen Maeve’s portrait still watched him, her expression stern, as if scrutinizing a freshly enlisted recruit.
Ian walked beneath her photo, thinking to himself, I’ve hit the jackpot too.
Whichever loan he chose, he had no intention of paying it back.
If asked, he’d just say the Empress Dowager had already covered it.
He had chosen the Godolkin special loan precisely to get connected with Professor Billinger.
After all, with his abilities, he’d soon break into the top ten—maybe even top one—and use this university as a springboard to approach, or even join, The Seven.
By then, he’d have a hand in Butcher’s affairs while also establishing ties with The Seven—all funded by Vought.
Winning twice over.
I’ve really hit the jackpot.
His reason for growing stronger was simple: abilities could be awakened and enhanced later in life.
In this world, such methods and examples existed—like Golden Boy, who had used his brother Sam’s blood to boost his physical abilities and raise his flame temperature.
The campus bustled with activity.
Someone flew low overhead, stirring a gust of wind that tousled a girl’s hair.
Another student spun a fireball in hand, playfully roughhousing with his girlfriend as they walked, sparks scattering onto the lawn and leaving small black scorch marks.
In the distance, dull thuds echoed from the training grounds, like someone repeatedly slamming their body against a wall—thud, then another.
The plan had officially begun.