BLOODCAPE
Chapter 87 – The Lion’s Glance

Chapter 87: Chapter 87 – The Lion’s Glance

The leaderboard flickered to life in midair — a vertical blade of brilliant light cutting through the vaulted dome of Hero Academy’s central hall like a divine judgment. Sixty names rotated slowly across its surface, each tagged with power type, cumulative rank score, and real-time popularity metrics from the Hero Association’s open feed. Faces glowed in the reflected shine, eyes locked upward, breath baited.

When "Rook Vale" appeared in the #3 slot, the room didn’t erupt.

It froze.

Like someone had unplugged sound from the world.

Then — whispers. A low tide of gasps, scattered laughter, and disbelieving scoffs echoed through the student body like sparks jumping wires.

Someone in the back muttered, "No way."Another, louder: "Who even is that guy?"

Nico, standing to Hernan’s left, howled like he’d just hit a jackpot. "Bro! You actually — I mean — you beat the dragon twins! You’re ranked above a literal fire breather!"

Hernan smiled. Just enough.

Just the right flicker of disbelief. The perfect glimmer of modesty, sharpened by restraint. No gloating. No fists raised. Just a quiet, grateful nod that would play well in every slow-motion highlight reel.

He lifted one hand toward the spotlight and offered the crowd a single, wordless gesture of thanks.

Already, twenty camera drones shifted their focal rings and zoomed in on his face.

Across the stage floor, Aya Sparks stood with fists clenched so tight her knuckles whitened. Her lips twisted around something unsaid. Accusations. Numbers. Probability equations that didn’t make sense anymore. But she held back.

For now.

A smaller cluster of upperclassmen offered polite applause, slow and uneven — the kind people give when they’re told greatness just walked in, but they don’t see it yet. Or don’t want to.

And then there was Tessa.

Her claps were soft. Deliberate. Not fake — but far from celebratory. Her eyes stayed on Hernan’s shoulders, watching the way he held himself, as though she could find answers in his posture. Like she was trying to decide if he was who he said he was... or something else entirely.

Hernan kept his face still.

He’d prepared for this moment down to the smallest nerve.

The leaderboard glowed brighter for a second, then dissolved in a digital cascade. Names scattered into data streams. Rankings locked.

#3: Rook Vale.

He didn’t earn it. Not in the way the others thought. But he engineered it. Strategically.

Three weeks ago, he submitted his final trial under neutral-spectrum lighting — carefully selected to confuse the sensor suite that judged reflex velocity. He choreographed each sparring match to look natural, absorbing hits from mid-tier cadets, then unleashing just enough counterforce to spike efficiency scores. No wasted movement. No flair.

He bled once. Let the cameras see it.

Let the story write itself.

A young hopeful. Quiet. Humble. Hurt, but standing.

He called it calculated mediocrity — the perfect performance of effort without threat. The sweet spot where attention turns into affection, not suspicion.

It worked.

Now the academy called him a prodigy. The students called him a rival. The HeroNet forums called him Next Gen.

And only Hernan knew: it was all theater. Masked in sweat, sold in silence.

He let the noise pour over him like radio static.

His mind was already scanning. Already cataloguing.

District 4 transfer — hydropath, slow reaction time. Not a problem.Row two, alien hybrid — Fethari bones, brittle under high-frequency vibration. Weak if isolated.Zayda Corm — Taurus’s daughter. Over-smiles. Fidgety. Overcompensating. Maybe guilt?

Every face in the room was a future liability or a future tool.

And then — something shifted.

Not in sound. Not in light.

In weight.

Like the atmosphere had thickened. A change in pressure, subtle but primal. Every head in the dome turned before the announcer even spoke.

On stage, the academy host pressed a finger to her earpiece. Her voice cracked slightly through the speakers.

"We... have a special guest today."

The crowd froze.

Above the platform, a vertical shimmer split the air — golden light fracturing downward like an ancient door being opened from the sky itself. The curtain of refracted energy peeled away with slow, reverent weight.

Then, a footstep landed on the stage.

Heavy.

Armored.

Measured.

Captain Virex.

Zodiac Leo.

The man who murdered Solaris.

The man who killed Hernan’s father.

He stepped through the golden aperture like a god late to his own sermon.

Bronzed exo-armor gleamed under the light, trimmed in red-tinted plating. His crimson cape flowed behind him, trailing like blood across the air. Twin solar coils ran the length of his forearms — alive with kinetic energy. His face, timeless and precise, wore no expression beyond command.

Silence lingered.

Then applause. Slow. Building. Uncontrollable.

Instructors clapped first. Then students. Then the camera drones activated in full, circling like vultures made of glass and chrome.

Leo didn’t need to project. His voice was already networked.

"Potential," he said, clasping his hands behind his back, "is a dangerous thing."

Hernan didn’t blink.

"It gives us hope. But also excuses. It whispers: wait. Grow. Later. And in doing so, it lets weakness fester."

He took one step forward. The gold of the floor lights shifted beneath his boots.

"But action... action defines the ones who rise. The ones who lead. Even when they’re outnumbered. Even when they are unready."

Students nodded. Ate it up. Memorized every syllable.

Nico whispered, "Damn. That guy’s a speech engine."

Hernan’s gaze never left the man’s hands. Specifically — his right one. The hand that had burned straight through Solaris’s chest while a seven-year-old boy hid in a closet.

"I’ve been asked," Leo continued, "to choose a cadet."

The whisper wave began again — name guesses, power comparisons, raw tension bleeding into the crowd.

Leo turned slightly.

"Many of you are strong. But strength without discipline is chaos."

His eyes passed over Tessa. Then Aya. Then Nico.

"But one of you," he said, "possesses rare control. Not just power. Not just potential. Mastery of self. Even under pressure."

Spotlight. Center stage.

Hernan stepped forward.

"Rook Vale," Leo said. "You’re mine."

Gasps.

Even the drones recalibrated in surprise.

Hernan walked forward — smooth, certain. Each step deliberate. Not too slow. Not cocky.

He approached the podium like it was a warfront. Like it remembered.

Leo extended a hand.

Hernan took it.

For a moment, the world narrowed to a grip.

Leo’s hand was warm. Heavy. Unflinching.

Their eyes locked.

Something flickered. Not recognition. Not guilt. Just a flicker — the faint edge of a predator unsure if the cub in front of it had teeth.

"You’re sharp," Leo said.

"I listen," Hernan answered, voice calm.

The cameras snapped. One. Two. Three.

The headline would write itself: The Prodigy and the Lion.

The intern and the idol.

But in Hernan’s mind — where the closet still echoed, where his mother’s scream still rang — there were no headlines.

Just one final line.

I just shook the hand that killed my father.And the world cheered.