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"In this world, to be selfless, you must understand selfishness to some extent.
Otherwise, you're just a hypocrite… or so I once believed."
— Mystery2.0oh
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Back to the Great Hall
The café emptied in waves.
A.R.C moved first—disciplined, silent, their formation almost military.
Afreen walked at the front, spine straight, expression unreadable. The chatter behind her faded the moment she stepped forward. No one spoke to her. No one needed to. The tension around her was enough.
C.A.A followed seconds later.
MiMie walked with her shoulders squared, but every step felt heavier than the last. Her mind replayed Maliks's attempt to slap her, Tahir's intervention—over and over, each repetition tightening something around her chest. Isham stayed close, eyes sharp, cataloguing faces, movements, exits. Isham's gossip girls whispered about what they just witnessed.
Tahir and Aysha Amad trailed behind the others, the noise of the dispersing factions fading as they moved toward the main building.
Halfway there, Tahir stopped abruptly.
Without warning, he pulled his physics notebook from his bag and dropped them into Aysha's arms.
"Hmm… there you go," he said lazily. "When are you returning them, then?"
Aysha forgot the bet was still on for a second there.
"End of next week, I guess…" She tilted her head at him. "You heading to the Great Hall? Wait for me—let me keep these in my locker first."
"Hurry," Tahir muttered, already turning away. "There's something I don't want to miss."
Aysha jogged off, shoved the books into her locker with careless speed, and sprinted back. They fell into step together, speed-walking now, the distant hum of the Great Hall growing louder with every stride.
The tension hung thick between them.
"Are we going to talk about the elephant in the room?" Aysha asked finally, raising a brow.
"Hm." Tahir didn't look at her. "Let it go. I'm not telling you anything."
"Oh, come onnn…" she whined, dragging the word out. "I'm just curious." She shot him a sideways glance. "What's the relationship between you and MiMie? Because when you two first arrived here, it was like you'd never met before. And then—boom."
She snapped her fingers.
"You blocked that slap for her today without even thinking."
Aysha grinned and nudged his arm. "That says a lot."
Tahir's jaw tightened. His eyes stayed fixed ahead, unreadable.
"…It's complicated."
"Oooh," Aysha sang softly, delighted. "Are you guys in love or something? Did you date before and break up? Is she your ex?" She giggled, clearly enjoying herself.
Tahir didn't slow down.
"Keep walking," he said flatly.
"And shut up."
Aysha laughed—but she didn't miss the edge beneath his words.
Tahir walking alongside Aysha Amad
Hands in his pockets.
Face calm.
Eyes distant.
Anyone watching would've thought he was bored.
Only Aysha noticed the way his gaze tracked everyone—Afreen, Malik, MiMie, Safeeyah—measuring, recalculating, adjusting. Like a chessboard had just been flipped and he was already 3 moves ahead.
The corridor stretched long and echoing, lit by fluorescent lights that hummed faintly overhead. Shoes tapped against tile. Murmurs rippled, then died. Even teachers sensed it—this wasn't just a quiz anymore. This was something older. Personal.
Safeeyah walked beside Malik, whispering sharply.
"This ends today," she hissed.
Malik didn't answer. His jaw was tight, eyes flicking nervously toward Tahir's back.
AUN's team trailed behind, uneasy spectators in a war that clearly didn't belong to them anymore. EKIA walked stiffly, already aware they were being outpaced—not just intellectually, but psychologically.
As the Great Hall doors came into view, massive and looming, the noise inside leaked out—buzzers being tested, microphones adjusted, the low roar of anticipation.
Afreen slowed for half a second.
Just enough.
She glanced sideways.
Her eyes met Tahir's.
Not hostile.
Not soft.
Measured.
A memory flickered between them—rooftop wind, a bitter leaf, laughter that hadn't yet learned how to hurt.
Then she turned away.
Tahir didn't react.
But something in his gaze sharpened.
MiMie noticed.
Her stomach dropped.
The doors swung open.
The Great Hall swallowed them whole.
Lights blazed. Screens flickered to life. The scoreboard reset to zero, clean and unforgiving. Seats filled. Buzzers waited—innocent-looking, dangerous things.
The moderator stepped up, voice booming.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back. We will now continue the Elite Super 9 Quiz."
The factions took their places.
A.R.C on one side—cold, confident, lethal.
C.A.A on the other—fractured, defiant, burning.
And between them—
History.
Betrayal.
Unfinished business.
As the first question appeared on the screen, MiMie tightened her grip on the desk.
Afreen smiled—just barely.
Tahir leaned back, eyes half-lidded.
"Let the Quiz continue." Moderator announced
The tension in the hall was a living thing—thick, electric, suffocating. The silence of hundreds of students watching an intense battle of wits felt louder than any cheering could.
Afreen stood at her podium, answering questions with an almost robotic focus—calculating, blinking, solving equations the moment they appeared on the screen. She didn't use a pen. She didn't write a single digit.
She solved everything in her head.
MiMie, on the other hand, was incredible too—but she needed her pen, her paper. She worked fast, but not Afreen-fast. Not lightning-fast.
Other competitors stared helplessly, like kindergarten kids thrown into a university mathematics lecture. A few schools managed to get at least one question right—schools like EKIA and C.C—both in C.A.A's block, meaning no bonus points for C.A.A.
Meanwhile, the schools grouped under ARC failed to answer any of their questions—A.U.N, D.A—none could solve theirs in time. With each missed problem, A.R.C scooped up more and more bonus points.
Math rounds had a strict 30-second clock.
Anything above advanced level had 60 seconds.
Slowly, inevitably… Afreen answered every question for her block.
Then she started answering bonus questions from other groups too, using her terrifying mental imagery to crack equations instantly. She even solved the tenth question—the infamous long equation taken from an advanced mathematics textbook—worth +9% points.
Sixty seconds were given.
Most schools gave up at ten seconds.
Only two competitors kept going: Afreen and MiMie.
Everyone's eyes locked on the two girls.
MiMie scribbled desperately, her pencil flying across the page.
Afreen didn't pick up a pen.
She just stood there—calm, confident, almost eerily still.
At 23 seconds, a buzzer exploded through the hall.
Afreen's buzzer.
MiMie's head snapped up, her face draining of color. Shock twisted her expression—then fear.
Across the stage, Afreen stood tall, a devious smile curling on her lips. She stared at MiMie as if looking down from an iron throne—crowned in confidence, power, and 3 and 1/2 years of pent-up vengeance.
She leaned toward her speaker and announced the answer clearly, never breaking eye contact.
The moderator blinked, stunned.
Then shouted:
"That is correct! +9% points to A.R.C!"
A.R.C's side of the hall erupted—cheering, clapping, whistling, screaming.
Safeeyah rushed to Afreen, wrapping her in a tight hug. They jumped together in victory, laughing breathlessly.
Then, almost in sync, they stopped.
Turned.
And stared straight at MiMie.
Laughing and giggling .
___________________
"We are at the 2nd position of the Final Five… the five schools that will survive this week. That's all that matters for today "
Isham exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of her neck.
"I let my guard down for a bit," she muttered. "It's my fault we lost today. I'm sorry, Isham… but I'll get them back tomorrow." MiMie said, with face down casted and defeated.
"It's not your fault, we did our best," Isham replied, tapping MiMie on her shoulder slowly. "Let's just hope tomorrow's football match isn't a disaster.
Our star player Jamal is badly injured and can't play. Even though Mustyy managed to save us today, that doesn't guarantee anything tomorrow. Beginner's luck won't carry us forever. And it's not like the team has had enough time to adjust to Mustyy's style."
Isham stared at the ground, worry tightening her jaw.
"Our whole morale depends on that match," She continued. "If we lose to A.R.C tomorrow, the second round of the quiz is going to hit us hard. There's a real chance we could lose and get eliminated."
MiMie blinked, surprised. She had underestimated Isham completely.
She'd assumed her strengths were limited to gathering whispers, rumors, and plotting in the shadows. She didn't expect her to grasp the situation this sharply—three steps ahead.
As they stood there, the massive screen at the front of the hall flickered once—then updated.
The results for the day appeared.
A hush fell over the remaining students.
Top Seven Schools: % of school value.
1st — A.R.C (94%)
2nd — C.A.A (80%)
3rd — A.U.N (75%)
4th — C.C (65%)
5th — A.M.A (60%)
6th — E.K.I.A (55%)
7th — A.I.A (50%)
Then, below them—separated by a thick red line:
Lower Two Schools:
8th — Y.M (44%)
9th — D.A (39%)
A quiet murmur rippled through the hall.
The bottom two schools were officially eliminated from the Elite Quiz.
No appeals.
No second chances.
Because every elite school knows that, no matter how good you are in sports and other events, In the end, the value of studying and learning is the core and central idea of school life, so failing to muster up to 50% is considered a school's failure and shame to the elite name.
Before the weight of that could fully sink in, the screen shifted again.
Football Results:
Winners: ARC, C.A.A, A.M.A, C.C
Losers: EKIA, A.I.A, Y.M, D.A
The Last year's football finalist : A.U.N vs whoever remains standing, after the elimination matches.
A collective exhale swept through A.R.C's side—relief mixed with triumph. On the other side, Y.M and D.A's students stood frozen, staring at the screen like it had personally betrayed them.
The moderator's voice cut through the noise.
"According to the rules of the Elite Championship, the 4 losing teams are immediately eliminated from the Interschool Super Football Cup."
That one sentence shattered hopes just as quickly as it crowned victors.
Then came the final announcements.
Tomorrow's football Fixtures:
First Match — A.M.A vs C.C
Second Match — A.R.C vs C.A.A
A low buzz erupted at the last pairing.
A.R.C versus C.A.A.
Power against power.
History against history.
"And," the moderator added, adjusting his glasses, "as last year's champions, A.U.N are automatically placed in the final round."
That stirred a different reaction—resentment, admiration, pressure. A.U.N stood above the chaos, watching quietly.
"With that," the moderator concluded, "today's competitions are officially closed."
The hall slowly came back to life.
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Teachers gathered their teams, some heading for the gates, others shepherding students back toward their school buses for departure or their personal home cars . Victory tasted sweet for some. For others, the bitterness was already settling in.
A.R.C moved as one unit—energized, confident, sharp.
C.A.A moved more cautiously—calculating, wounded but not broken.
________________
Tahir and Aysha walked back toward their classroom to collect their belongings and sign off the attendance. The corridors buzzed with overlapping conversations—replays of matches, arguments about answers, speculation about tomorrow.
Inside their classroom, half their classmates were already packing up. Some rushed out the door, eager to leave. Others lingered, still riding the day's adrenaline.
Tahir slung his bag over one shoulder, expression unreadable.
Then—
"Tahir."
The voice cut through the room.
Their homeroom teacher stood by the door, face unusually serious.
"The Director wants to see you," he said. "Immediately."
The room went quiet.
Tahir's jaw tightened. For a split second, something dark flickered across his face—recognition, maybe. Or resignation.
"…Alright," he said, nodding once.
Aysha looked at him sharply. "Now?"
"Yes. Now."
Tahir turned toward the door, already moving. Aysha hesitated for half a second—then followed without asking permission.
Neither of them noticed the way several students watched them leave.
Or how, from across the corridor, a familiar pair of eyes briefly tracked Tahir's retreating figure—
calculating.
Waiting. Jealousy creeping in his chest
It was Amar, Aysha's boyfriend.
______________
Mustyy stood a short distance away, murmuring something to MiMie, his posture awkward but earnest. He hovered like a shield that didn't quite know how to protect—offering comfort the only way he knew how. MiMie nodded occasionally, eyes downcast, her defeat still clinging to her shoulders.
Tahir didn't slow down.
He didn't even look in their direction.
He headed straight for admin block, then to the elevator, stepped inside, and rode it up to the 7th floor in silence.
When the doors slid open, he walked down the corridor, stopped in front of the Director's office, and knocked once.
The secretary opened the door and wordlessly gestured him inside.
The Director looked up from his desk, pen poised mid-note.
"Salman," he said smoothly. "Good of you to come on such short notice."
"What choice do I have?" Tahir replied flatly. "You kept forcing my hand. That's all."
The Director chuckled, low and amused.
"Nonsense. I never force my students to do anything they don't want to do—if their reasons are valid."
The emphasis wasn't lost on Tahir.
"And yet you are forcing me, or you're implying I'm not your student, then?" he asked, eyes sharp.
"With your level of intelligence," the Director said, leaning back comfortably, twirling his pen between his fingers, "there's no teacher in this school who can teach you something you don't already know.
Technically… we should all be your students. With an IQ like yours, even I don't know where your limits lie."
Tahir turned his gaze toward the window, staring out at the school grounds below. His expression gave nothing away.
"Hmm. If you're asking about the deal you forced me into," he said coolly, "rest assured—I'm handling it."
"Well," the Director replied, suddenly sitting upright, "today's scoreboard suggests otherwise. I need results, Tahir. I need them very carefully."
He slammed both palms onto the desk.
The sharp crack echoed through the room, forcing Tahir to turn back.
"You are going to deliver victory to C.A.A. Do you hear me?" the Director said, voice hard. "I don't care how you do it. As long as it's within the rules, I don't care which methods you use. Just make it happen. Or you know what's on the table."
Expulsion.
"If you're expelled from one of the nine Elite schools," the Director continued, lowering his voice, "you will never be accepted into any of the other eight. And you know exactly how your father will react. I know him very well. I can call him right now and have him sitting in this office in 30 minutes."
Tahir didn't flinch.
"Like I said," he replied evenly, "I am working on it. A.R.C is overconfident now. They're going to make mistakes. People who overestimate themselves always do."
The Director studied him for a moment, then exhaled.
"…Fine. But I need the gap closed by tomorrow. Do whatever you must."
"Can I go now?" Tahir asked.
"You may."
Tahir reached for the doorknob.
"And don't forget," the Director added sharply, "our deal requires you to deliver 5 Elite Championship titles to C.A.A. That's Minimum. Nothing less."
Tahir didn't respond. He simply walked out.
Hands in his pockets, he headed back toward the elevator.
Inside his mind, one question repeated itself like a persistent echo:
How did the Director even know my father?
How much does he know about me?
About my so called IQ?
Is he apart of the elite parents who tested the optimum human program on their kids.?
"This is such a drag…" Tahir muttered, pressing the button for the ground floor.
People say that to be truly selfless, you must first understand what it means to be selfish. Otherwise, you're just pretending.
I used to believe that completely.
Maybe I still do.
He leaned against the elevator wall, eyes unfocused as his thoughts drifted backward—replaying each calculated step.
I started making moves for the directors 'vision of victory' the moment he threatened me. Back at the morning before the assembly, where he announced the super intelligence team for the elite competition… I was summoned to the principals office, where I met the director and he started talking about my aptitude exams, scoring exactly 50% on all the 4. I mean I was only testing to see which kind of system C.A.A is operating on. It turns out that I have no idea I was opening a can of worms.
I mean, it's just like Nietzsche said : when you stare for long into the abyss, the abyss stares back at you.
I know that the Director will keep on interfering with my school life if I did not do what he wants.
So I started making moves and plans since that day, since that morning assembly, all part of a long game that I thought of.
I contacted Sadeeqah because she's connected to Jamal—and very influential over him. Jamal is like the king in C.A.A, so he is full of ego and pride, I made sure Jamal saw us talking. Made him anxious. He even threatened me.
Perfect.
Normally, I'd walk away from drama. I'm too lazy for it. But that confrontation was necessary.
Jamal's weakness was doubt. Tahir had seen it instantly—in the hallway, in his eyes.
Once he started second-guessing himself, all I had to do was shake his confidence. And Sadeeqah was the key.
He'd used her to distract him, knowing Jamal would react emotionally.
I have anticipated two outcomes:
A — He gets angry and crushes the opponents.
B — His anger backfires, and he ends up benched… or injured.
Either way, my plan will succeed.
With Jamal gone from the match, the coach had no choice but to rely on Mustyy.
And Mustyy…
Tahir smirked faintly.
He knew everything about Mustyy's hopeless crush on MiMie—and how far he'd go to impress her.
"Thankfully MiMie was there to watch him shine," Tahir muttered under his breath. "Which means tomorrow he's going to kill himself trying to score."
But A.R.C wouldn't sit idle.
They'd studied Mustyy today. Watched his patterns. His habits.
They'll set traps tomorrow.
The elevator chimed softly as it reached the ground floor.
I'll be on the pitch as a substitute. My job is simple: protect Mustyy and help him score—without drawing attention to myself.
I don't need to score myself.
I just need to feed him the ball.
"Tomorrow is going to be a drag…" he sighed.
Then another thought surfaced—heavier than the rest.
"And on top of that…" he muttered, pushing open the lobby doors.
"…I have to intervene in the MiMie vs. Safeeyah fight too. Even though I told MiMie I won't."
The Director had tied my hands.
Now I had no choice.
________________
Tahir stepped outside, Moonlight washing over him, his eyes narrowing slightly, he thought of A series film he wanted to watch "Teen Wolf"
As he was heading towards the school gate, he stopped, stared at the great hall.
"After all that happened today…" he sighed
"Hmm… I'm sure…" he whispered to himself,
"…I'm Afreen's next target."