Pampering Discarded Heroines Triggers My 10,000x Rebate System

Silas Drake’s challenge echoed through the hall.

Hundreds of delegates held their breath, their eyes darting between Sovereign Box One and Sovereign Box Four.

Golden flames still flickered over Drake’s fingers, radiating intense heat that visibly distorted the air around the Solar Crown balcony.

Evren didn’t back down. He stood calmly at the brass railing, meeting Drake’s furious glare without a hint of hesitation.

Down at the central rostrum, Grand Arbiter Kincaid raised his golden gauntlet.

”Silence in the hall,” Kincaid commanded, his deep voice cutting through the rising tension like an iron blade.

The chamber’s acoustic arrays hummed, settling the restless crowd into an expectant hush. Kincaid looked up toward Sovereign Box Four, then turned his gaze across the open expanse to Sovereign Box One.

”Director Drake is correct on the law,” Kincaid stated firmly. ”Section Four of the Imperial Defense Charter is absolute.”

He paused, letting his words register with every guild master present.

”Financial independence guarantees a guild’s property rights,” Kincaid continued. ”However, defense sector assignments cannot be bought with gold.”

He stepped up to the imperial console, his gauntleted hand resting on the central controls.

”In the face of the Void Incursion, the Empire requires verified combat power,” Kincaid declared. ”Every guild claiming sovereign standing must prove its combat readiness before an imperial deployment order is issued.”

A ripple of excited whispers spread across the main floor.

”The Guild Strength Evaluations will commence at dawn tomorrow,” Kincaid announced. ”All participating guilds will report to the Grand Colosseum’s sovereign testing arrays.”

He tapped the console, bringing up technical schematics of the Colosseum’s testing grounds on the main screens.

”The evaluation will measure three core combat pillars,” Kincaid explained. ”Striking Force and Kinetic Impact, Mana Density and Core Resonance, and Tactical Speed in simulated breach corridors.”

”Scores will be calculated openly by imperial arbiters,” he added. ”There will be no private exemptions and no backroom negotiations.”

With a flick of his wrist, Kincaid reactivated the central projection display.

The holographic map of the Empire flared to life once more, expanding into twelve concentric rings of glowing light that filled the chamber’s high dome.

”Pay close attention, delegates,” Kincaid said, his voice echoing with absolute authority. ”The realm has been divided into twelve distinct defense zones.”

He pointed to the outermost ring, which pulsed with dark, jagged crimson energy.

”Zones One, Two, and Three comprise the Outer Void Perimeter,” Kincaid explained. ”These sectors contain the deepest spatial tears.”

”They are facing continuous S-Rank and A-Rank breaches,” he continued. ”They represent the most dangerous frontlines in the Empire, where only the strongest combat units can survive.”

Several guild masters in the regional rows swallowed hard, their faces turning pale.

Everyone in the room knew that an assignment to Zone One was practically a death sentence for an unprepared guild.

Kincaid’s hand moved inward toward the middle rings of the map.

”Zones Four through Eight are the Mid-Tier Buffer Corridors,” he said. ”These encompass key mountain passes, transit highways, and regional supply depots experiencing moderate rift activity.”

Finally, he pointed to the glowing golden circle at the very center of the map.

”Zones Nine through Twelve form the Inner Capital Perimeter,” Kincaid said. ”These sectors sit directly beneath the Capital’s primary runic barrier shield.”

”They are the safest, most heavily fortified zones in the realm,” he finished.

Up in Sovereign Box One, Caldwell smoothed down his green tunic, a smug smirk returning to his lips.

The Capital guilds had already cut backroom deals to claim Zones Nine through Twelve for themselves. They intended to sit comfortably behind the barrier while the outer provinces bore the brunt of the slaughter.

”However,” Kincaid’s voice boomed, shattering Caldwell’s complacency, ”the Imperial Ministry has instituted a mandatory deployment policy for this crisis.”

Kincaid tapped a key on the console, and glowing golden tether lines appeared on the map, linking the outer zones to the inner circles.

”The Joint Pairing Mandate,” Kincaid announced.

The entire hall leaned forward, listening intently.

”To prevent isolated regional outposts from being overrun, the Ministry will not permit premier guilds to operate alone,” Kincaid explained.

”Every high-ranking guild assigned to a frontline zone will be paired with a Lesser Provincial Guild as an auxiliary support unit,” he declared.

Uproar broke out once again across the floor.

”A pairing mandate?!” a Capital guild master sputtered in dismay. ”We have to drag country guilds along with us?!”

”That’s the rule,” Kincaid stated coldly. ”The primary guild will be legally and tactically responsible for equipping, supplying, and protecting its paired partner in the field.”

”Rankings earned in tomorrow’s Colosseum evaluations will determine the draft order,” Kincaid added. ”The higher your combat score, the greater your operational priority.”

Across the hall, Silas Drake leaned toward Elder Caldwell, whispering behind his gloved hand. ”This works in our favor,” Drake murmured to Caldwell, his lips curling into a vicious grin. ”We have friends among the Colosseum arbiters.”

”We’ll manipulate the scoring arrays, force Apex into Zone One, and saddle them with the most ruined guild in the registry,” Drake added.

Caldwell smiled, nodding slowly with malicious delight.

”The Iron-Thistle Guild,” Caldwell whispered back. ”They’re drowning in medical debts to the Aethelgard Cartel, half their fighters are crippled from lack of potions, and their treasury is empty.”

”Perfect,” Drake chuckled quietly, his eyes glinting with venom. ”Pair the delivery boy with a bankrupt corpse.”

”Let’s see how his billions hold up when a starving guild bleeds him dry on the frontline,” Drake sneered.

Up in Sovereign Box Four, Amber watched the two men whispering across the hall.

”They’re scheming something,” Amber said quietly, her sharp eyes tracking Caldwell’s smug expression. ”They know they lost the financial vote, so they’re going to try to trap us through the pairing draft.”

”Let them try,” Zephyra murmured softly, her fingers brushing the hilt of her whip-blade beneath her coat. ”Tomorrow, they will see that Apex’s blades are sharper than their politics.”

Evren smiled faintly, leaning back against the comfortable velvet cushions of his armchair.

”They think saddling us with a struggling guild is a punishment,” Evren said in a relaxed and confident voice. ”They don’t realize that in our hands, an overlooked ally is the greatest asset we could ask for,” he added.

Down on the floor, Grand Arbiter Kincaid lifted his heavy golden gavel high above the rostrum.

”The National Sovereign Guild Assembly is hereby adjourned for the day,” Kincaid announced.

BAM!

The gavel struck the stone block with a resounding crash.

”All guild masters and combatants will report to the Grand Colosseum tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp!”

The session was over.

Delegates began rising from their desks, packing up their crystal slates and filing toward the heavy bronze exit doors in loud, animated clusters.

Evren, Amber, and Zephyra stood up from their balcony seats.

As they walked out into the private VIP corridor, escorted by four armored Golden Arbiters, Evren looked down over the lower balustrade.

Standing near the edge of the emptying floor was an elderly man in worn, patched leather armor.

The man had gray hair, a deeply lined face, and carried an old iron-studded shield. Fastened to his chest was a faded silver badge depicting a thorned vine... the crest of the Iron-Thistle Guild.

Beside him, two junior hunters leaned on wooden crutches, their legs bandaged with cheap, stained gauze.

The old guild master looked up toward Sovereign Box Four.

His eyes were filled with exhaustion, anxiety, and a faint, desperate glimmer of hope as he watched Evren and Amber walk past.

Evren held the old man’s gaze for a second, giving him a subtle, respectful nod before turning toward the grand staircase.

”Get a good night’s rest,” Evren told Amber and Zephyra as they stepped out into the cool Capital afternoon. ”Tomorrow, we show the High Council what real power looks like.”