Gon's Harem System
Chapter 174: Confronation with Mira

Chapter 174: Confronation with Mira

The palace corridors stretched endlessly before Gon, a labyrinth of polished marble and flickering torchlight that seemed to mock his every step.

The day had worn him thin, three relentless days of proving himself among the mages, dodging barbs and sizing up threats, and now the weight of it all clung to him like damp cloth.

He’d escaped the common hall’s clamor, where Milo was no doubt holding court with his easy grin and booming laugh, surrounded by mages swapping tales of their triumphs.

Gon didn’t have the stomach for it tonight.

Not when his mind churned, replaying every move, every misstep, every glance that sized him up as either predator or prey.

His boots struck the floor with a steady, hollow rhythm, echoing off walls adorned with tapestries older than his lineage.

The air here was cooler than the training yards, laced with the faint scent of wax and dust, but it did little to soothe the restlessness gnawing at his chest.

The palace was a marvel, vaulted ceilings carved with spiraling vines, chandeliers dripping crystal that caught the firelight and threw it back in fractured glints.

Opulence everywhere, a stark reminder of the stakes he’d walked into.

He’d grown up on stories of this place, whispered by his father in rare moments of candor: a crucible where power was forged or broken.

Now, standing here, he felt the truth of it pressing down, heavy as the stone above.

Gon paused near a tall window, its arched frame offering a sliver of the world beyond, gardens bathed in the late afternoon’s amber glow, shadows stretching long and thin across manicured paths.

He pressed a hand to the glass, cool against his palm, and exhaled sharply.

Three days in, and he still couldn’t shake the feeling of being an outsider.

The other mages had their cliques, their whispered alliances, their shared histories.

He had Milo, sure, but even that felt like a tether fraying under the weight of what lay ahead.

His fingers curled into a fist, nails biting into his skin.

He wasn’t here to fit in, he was here to win

But the thought rang hollow, drowned by the echo of his own footsteps as he resumed his pacing.

Voices drifted from a distant hall, sharp and punctuated by laughter, pulling him from his spiral.

He recognized the cadence, Mira’s crew, no doubt.

The sound grated against his nerves, a reminder of the day’s earlier jabs.

He turned down another corridor, narrower this time, the walls closing in with portraits of stern-faced nobles staring down in judgment.

Their eyes seemed to follow him, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if his father’s face would ever hang among them, or if his own might, should he survive this gauntlet.

The thought was absurd enough to draw a dry huff of amusement from him, though it died quickly in the stillness.

He needed air, space, something to shake this restlessness before it ate him alive.

The corridor widened ahead, spilling into a junction where torchlight danced across a mosaic floor, swirling patterns of gold and blue that caught Gon’s eye just as a shadow fell across them.

He stopped short, instincts flaring, and there she was: Mira, striding toward him like she owned the damn palace.

Her silver-trimmed cloak swayed with each step, catching the light in a way that screamed arrogance, and her posse trailed her like hounds on a leash, three mages, all sharp-eyed and smirking, their postures loose but ready.

Gon’s jaw tightened. He’d hoped to avoid this, but fate had a cruel sense of humor.

"Well, well," Mira drawled, her voice slicing through the quiet like a blade on whetstone.

"Hiding already, Gon? I’d have thought you’d be in the hall, crowing about your little victories."

Her lips curled into that familiar smirk, thin and cutting, the kind that begged to be wiped off.

Her dark eyes glinted, daring him to bite.

Gon crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall with a casualness he didn’t feel.

"Funny," he said, keeping his tone even, "I’d have thought you’d be too busy kissing your own reflection to notice where I am."

The words landed like a jab, and he saw the flicker of irritation in her stance, shoulders stiffening, though her smirk held.

Behind her, one of her lackeys, a wiry mage with a scar across his cheek, snickered, only to falter when Mira shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk.

She stepped closer, boots clicking on the mosaic, her cloak brushing the floor. "Oh, I notice plenty," she said, voice dropping low, venomous.

"Like how you’re already scrambling to keep up. What’s it been, three days? And you’re wandering alone like a lost pup. Maybe the rumors about you are just that, rumors."

Her posse chuckled again, bolder this time, feeding off her lead.

Gon’s fingers twitched at his sides, itching to curl into fists, but he kept his cool, letting the insult roll off him like water on stone.

"Scouting the weak spots, Mira," he replied, his gaze locking with hers, steady and unyielding. "You’re making it real easy for me."

He pushed off the wall, stepping into her space just enough to make her pause, though she didn’t back down.

The air between them crackled, thick with the promise of a fight neither could start, not here, not yet.

Mira tilted her head, studying him like a predator sizing up a rival. "Keep dreaming, Gon," she said, her smirk sharpening. "When the real games begin, you’ll be choking on my dust."

She flicked her fingers dismissively, a gesture so practiced it bordered on theatric, and turned on her heel.

Her crew followed, though the scarred one cast a lingering glance back, his grin all teeth.

Their footsteps faded down the hall, punctuated by a burst of laughter that bounced off the marble and lodged in Gon’s skull.

He stood there, breathing slow and deliberate, forcing the tension from his shoulders.

His retort had landed, sure, but Mira’s words gnawed at him all the same, probing a doubt he wouldn’t admit aloud.

She was good at that, finding the cracks and pressing until they split.

He rubbed a hand over his face, muttering a curse under his breath.

The corridor felt smaller now, the portraits’ stares heavier, and that restless ache in his chest flared hotter than before.

He needed to move, to shake this off, but Mira’s shadow clung like damp rot, and he hated her for it.