Academy's Pervert in the D Class
Chapter 86: grabbed

Chapter 86: grabbed

The morning sun hadn’t even cut fully through the fog, yet Lor’s footsteps were sharp, purposeful, boots echoing along the stone-paved path to the academy.

His coat swayed with every stride, the crisp chill brushing his skin like a polite warning: the day was waiting, full of opportunities to weave his web tighter.

Then—

A sudden hand grabbed his wrist, firm and unyielding.

Another clutched his collar, yanking him with surprising strength.

And before Lor could speak, he was pulled—right off the path and into the narrow shade of an alley, the moss-covered walls closing in like secrets.

He staggered a little, boots scraping against the uneven cobblestones, his shoulder colliding with the damp stone. "What the—?!"

Two figures loomed over him, their cloaks blending into the shadows, but their presences unmistakable.

Viora. And Myra.

Myra’s brown eyes narrowed, her brunette curls framing a sharp face as she crossed her arms tightly under her cloak, the motion pushing up her full breasts against the fabric of her uniform.

Viora stood closer, her green hair in its messy ponytail swaying slightly, hand still gripping his sleeve, her curvy thighs shifting with defiant energy.

From the outside, it probably looked like they were mugging him—

Lor, the helpless, innocent boy, being cornered and interrogated by two busty, beautiful, merciless wolves.

Honestly?

Hilarious.

But Lor kept his face a mask of confusion, hiding the grin threatening to break free.

Lor yanked his arm free, frowning, rubbing his wrist as if bruised. "What do you care?"

"Because there’s no way someone like you and someone like Kiara could be a thing," Viora snapped, her voice low but fierce, her thighs glistening faintly with morning dew—or was it sweat from her intensity?

"She’s a monster," Myra added, her shirt clinging to her breasts, accentuating every curve.

"Even she has standards," Viora said, harsher, her defiant posture making her skirt ride up just enough to tease. "You’re... you’re you, Lor."

He clenched his jaw, stared down at the cobblestones, letting the silence stretch, building the tension.

Then he looked up, his hazel eyes shimmering just enough to catch the morning light—wet, but not quite crying, a perfect performance.

He opened his mouth—

And yelled.

"No!"

His voice cracked as it echoed in the alley, raw, loud, and trembling, bouncing off the walls like a wounded cry.

Viora’s mouth dropped, her green eyes widening in shock.

Myra froze, speechless, her brown eyes softening with unexpected guilt.

"I didn’t want this," Lor muttered, his voice hoarse now, dropping to a whisper that forced them to lean in.

"I just... I should’ve kept the Guiding Light to myself. I thought I could help people. Thought maybe it would make me worth something."

They listened.

Silent.

Still.

Their defiant stances softening, Viora’s hand dropping from his sleeve, Myra’s arms uncrossing as empathy crept in.

"But it never did anything good for me." His breath hitched, a subtle tremor in his shoulders. "Everyone uses me. They take what they want. She—Kiara—"

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes darting away as if the words pained him.

"She drains my money. Every coin. I have lost all my savings which I have saved for days. She calls me her boyfriend, but... but, she treats me like a damn pet. Tells me to follow her, sit with her, do her homework..."

He looked up, and the exhaustion in his voice sounded real, his plain uniform rumpled.

"I miss the old days," he whispered, voice cracking again. "When no one talked to me. When no one cared. At least then, I was free."

A long pause hung in the alley, the fog swirling around them like unspoken regrets.

Viora’s voice came first—gentle, almost tender. "Lor..."

He didn’t answer, keeping his gaze down, letting the silence work its magic.

"I’m sorry," she said, her voice quieter this time, laced with genuine remorse. "We didn’t know."

"We thought... you were just a joke," Myra added, shame thick in her voice, her cheeks flushing as she shifted, her thighs brushing together under her skirt.

"Before the Spell Precision Tournament... I thought you were faking the whole ’light’ thing. But then you guided Nellie—perfectly—even when she was shaking."

"I remember," Viora said, her tone softening further, her curvy frame relaxing as empathy took hold. "She scored more than us. She couldn’t even talk and look straight before. But you helped her."

"You’ve always helped everyone. And we treated you like shit."

Lor didn’t look up.

Just nodded faintly, sniffling once, a single tear tracing down his cheek—masterful, timed to perfection.

And inside?

He was grinning like a bastard, his heart racing with triumphant glee.

It felt amazing hearing your own name spoken like that.

Whispered with regret.

Reverence.

Admiration.

Like a slow applause only he could hear, echoing in his mind as their sympathy poured in.

He calmed his breathing, wiping his eye with the back of his hand.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Viora reach into her pouch.

She pulled out five silver coins, their gleam catching the fog-filtered light, and pressed them into his hand, her fingers warm against his palm.

"I know it’s not much," she said, her voice soft, almost apologetic. "But it’s all I can give right now. Until Kiara gets bored of you and drops you, we can’t go against her. But... you’re not alone."

Myra followed suit, digging into her jacket with hurried fingers, pulling out six more silvers and placing them firmly into Lor’s palm, her touch lingering a second longer, her brown eyes filled with quiet resolve.

"Hide these from her," she said, her voice firm but kind. "Buy yourself food. Or something warm."

Then, as if nothing had happened, Viora nudged his shoulder gently. "Go on. Leave first. We weren’t here together."

He nodded slowly, taking a shaky breath, pocketing the coins with trembling hands for effect.

And stepped out of the alley like a haunted soul, head low, footsteps soft and uneven.

The moment he turned the corner, out of sight—

His lips split into a grin, wide and wicked, his hazel eyes glinting with pure, unfiltered triumph.

He was now eleven silvers heavier.

Oscar actor.

Professional scammer.

"Gods..." he whispered to himself, the coins jingling faintly in his pocket.

"I’m in love with me."

Then, after a beat, pausing mid-stride as the fog swirled around him.

"...Is something wrong with me?"