Urban System in America
Chapter 170 - 169: Categories of Rich Second Generation

Chapter 170: Chapter 169: Categories of Rich Second Generation

Rex leaned back against the counter, arms folded behind his head, as if this was all part of some grand master plan.

"Eh. Life’s short," he said. "Might as well make lunch legendary."

A few started clapping. Someone actually dropped to one knee in mock worship.

The cafeteria was buzzing—some taking pictures, others just staring in stunned admiration like they were witnessing a historical event. Laughter, chatter, and the distant sound of kitchen chaos filled the air.

But just as they were busy frolicking around in the high of free food and Rex’s rising status as Class Lunch Messiah, a sharp, discordant voice sliced through the air like a rusty knife scraping a chalkboard.

"Humph! What is all this fuss about? Isn’t it just a free meal? What’s the big deal? Hmph, these peasants."

The room fell silent, and the laughter fading into awkward silence, like someone had suddenly unplugged the aux cord at a party.

Rex frowned and turned to the side, his chill expression tightening just a little. A boy around his age was standing there with a smug look that just screamed "villain in a teen drama."

He had dirty blond hair perfectly gelled into an overconfident swoop, typical icy blue eyes that screamed, My dad plays golf with the dean, and a square face that probably had a mirror quota to meet every morning. Beside him were a couple of equally smug sidekicks—dressed just a bit too polished for a casual lunch break. One of them was adjusting his Holex like it was a reflex. Another chewing gum like a cow chewing cud.

The guy’s arms were crossed, one brow raised like he’d just caught peasants dancing in the royal court.

Oh, great. This guy.

Of course Rex recognized him—there was no way not to. The guy was famous. Infamous, even. Practically a walking TMZ headline on campus.

As his memories slotted into place, Rex immediately identified him. Honestly, if there was one thing this prestigious university in sunny Los Angeles didn’t lack, it was rich second-generation kids. And boy, did they come in flavors.

There were the first kind—the low-profile elites. Genuinely talented, insanely hardworking, and probably future CEOs already plotting world domination before their 22nd birthday. These ones trained day and night to inherit their family empires, and you’d never hear a peep from them. Why? Because they didn’t have time to mingle with the average student. Their presence was like a myth—whispers in the halls, names on the dean’s list, LinkedIn titans in the making. You only found out they existed when Forbes casually published a "30 Under 30" and you realized they were sitting behind you in Economics.

Then there was the Salted Fish category.

These were the second-generation rich kids who had either been outpaced by an overachieving sibling, or just had zero motivation to begin with. They floated through life like ducks on a pond—lazy, unbothered, and fully invested in their nightlife stats. Nightclubs, street racing, beach parties, flirting with minor celebrities—that was their idea of networking.

And then... there was the third category.

The wildcard. The most chaotic. The kind who gave "rich second generation" its infamous reputation. Spoiled? Check. Dramatic? Triple check. Either ignored completely at home and starved for attention, or smothered with it until their moral compass melted into a designer-brand puddle.

And Brent Harvard III? He was the poster boy of this final category.

Yes, Harvard. Same spelling as the Ivy League school. No, he wasn’t related to the university—but his family, the Harvard Group, was stupidly rich. We’re talking "private islands" and "personal jets for their dogs" level rich. Their net worth wasn’t just high—it was rumored to be in the billions. No one knew the exact number. No one dared ask. The point was, Brent didn’t just come from money—he came from the kind of money that could buy money.

Compared to him, Logan—Rex’s previous nuisance—was basically an unpaid intern. Logan could barely qualify as one of Brent’s background NPCs. And if Logan was loud and dumb, Brent was quiet and dangerous.

Not that Brent was a criminal or anything—well, not officially. But let’s just say the guy had his fair share of "incidents." The kind of trouble that mysteriously disappeared after a few phone calls and "undisclosed settlements."

But the scariest part?

Brent wasn’t stupid.

He didn’t bully people out in the open like some third-rate high school drama villain. No shoving kids into lockers. No loud threats in the hallways. No tantrums or thrown fists. That wasn’t his style.

No, Brent played the game like a grandmaster on a velvet board. Arrogant, smug, and calculating. Always watching. Always smiling. Always waiting for the perfect moment to strike—clean, sharp, and surgical. The kind of guy who’d smile in your face and quietly destroy your reputation behind the scenes with a well-placed rumor or a single phone call.

And now, here he was. Standing right in front of Rex, looking at him with that same mocking expression—as if the entire cafeteria, the students, the trays of food, the chairs, the air—was all part of his stage. And everyone else?

Just background extras in his one-man show.

But of course... Rex didn’t care much.

Afraid?

Now that was laughable.

If Brent had been one of those first-category heirs—the truly dangerous types, the silent monsters who ran companies from the shadows—then maybe, maybe he would’ve taken him more seriously.

But Brent?

Brent was textbook third-category rich kid. Bored, spoiled, dramatic. Someone who had too much money, too little attention, and a giant hole in his soul that he tried to fill with flexes and superiority complexes.

So, no. Rex wasn’t fazed in the slightest.

After all, he had already lived an entire life—a real life—being careful. Being cautious. Playing it safe. Keeping his head down to avoid drama, conflict, enemies.

But not this time.

Not in this life.

He’d been given a second chance. A true reset. And this time, he wasn’t going to waste it hiding or groveling.

This time, he’d live fully.

Unapologetically.

He had a system.

He had a top-tier private security company working in the background.

He had skills. Secrets. Money.

And while he didn’t have much money yet...

Well...

"Money," Rex thought, smirking faintly to himself. "Money’s just a number. And numbers are easy to change—especially when you’ve got a system on your side."

He didn’t say any of that out loud, of course.

Instead, he just yawned dramatically and glanced past Brent like he was just another line in a bad script.

Someone in the crowd muttered under their breath, "Brent’s here."

It was enough to change the atmosphere in an instant.

Elara tensed almost instinctively, her brows knitting as her eyes flicked toward Brent with quiet concern.

Daisy, standing a little closer to Rex, shot Brent a glance that could chill boiling water—but said nothing, for now. She wasn’t the type to start things, but she definitely wasn’t the type to back down either.

As for Rex?

He looked utterly unbothered, like he hadn’t noticed the change in atmosphere.

Calm. Casual. Chill.

He slowly straightened up from the counter, cracked his neck like someone who’d just logged into a PvP server, and then gave a lazy smirk.

"Oh? What’s this?" Rex said coolly, raising an eyebrow. "A wild side character appears."

There were a few stifled laughs from the crowd. A couple of students quickly turned away to hide their grins.

Brent—yes, Brent Harvard III—stepped forward with the smug confidence of a guy who’d just fired his fifth butler this month for folding a napkin wrong. He walked like he owned the place, chin high, one hand in his pocket, the other casually gesturing as if this was his cafeteria and everyone else was just loitering.

"Don’t flatter yourself. I was just passing by when I saw this circus. What are you trying to do—buy loyalty with burgers and fries?"

He chuckled, obviously impressed with his own line. His entourage—three guys trying a little too hard to dress rich and failing spectacularly—snickered on cue like low-budget laugh tracks from a sitcom nobody wanted to watch.

Someone whispered, "Oof."

Someone else whispered, "Here we go..."

A few students rolled their eyes. Some looked uncomfortable. Others crossed their arms, ready for drama.

Someone in Rex’s class muttered, "He’s just jealous he didn’t think of it first."

Rex chuckled, raised an eyebrow, slowly straightening from the counter.

"Huh," he said. "Is this jealousy I hear? You want a burger too, Brent? Don’t worry, I’m feeling generous today. I’ll even throw in extra fries—no need to beg."

"And... If you’re really so bothered you’re welcome to leave, Lord Bentley of Discount Versailles," Rex said, voice light. "We wouldn’t want to taint your royal palate with commoner food.

"Look... No one’s stopping you. Cafeteria’s got two exits. Pick one."

"Oohhhh," someone whispered.

Brent’s jaw tightened. "You think you’re funny?"

"No," Rex replied cheerfully. "I know I am."

The crowd around him giggled and muttered like middle schoolers watching a teacher roast a kid.

That earned a wave of laughter across the room. Even Martha, behind the counter, let out a rare, audible snort.

But Brent just scoffed. "I don’t wanna associate with commoners who treat cafeteria food like a five-star banquet."

"Good," Rex replied dryly. "Because the food doesn’t want to associate with you either."

The nearby students burst into laughter, one even choking on his milk carton

Brent’s eye twitched. His whole face stiffened like he’d just bitten into a lemon that had personal beef with him.

"You think you’re hot stuff because you can afford a few burgers?" Brent said, stepping closer now. "Don’t think people don’t know the truth. You’re just a poor hobo playing rich. Keep pretending. We’ll see how long it lasts."

(End of Chapter)

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