Immediately after the lecture, the students drifted toward the restaurant in uneven clusters.
The hallway hummed with low murmurs. Metal doors slid open and shut. Coins flickered faintly in palms as people checked their balances again, as if the numbers might have changed in the last five minutes.
Newton walked with Samuel and Brandom, the bump on his forehead now a dull purple swell. It throbbed when he blinked too hard.
"I look ridiculous, don't I?" he muttered.
Samuel glanced at him. "You look like you lost a fight with a wall."
Newton almost smiled. Almost.
Inside the restaurant, trays clattered. Coins dissolved into thin air as food materialized on plates. Steam rose in soft curls. The smell of cooked meat and rice filled the air, thick and ordinary. For a strange second, it felt almost normal.
Almost.
Newton sat at their usual table. Stella sat across from him. She rolled her shoulders once, slow and controlled, like she was loosening muscles before a race.
"You good?" Newton asked quietly.
She nodded.
Too quickly.
Around them, conversations were clipped. Short. Eyes flicked to the entrance every few seconds.
They all heard it at the same time.
The door creaked open.
The sound cut through the room like a blade.
Maxwell stepped in.
He was flanked on both sides by boys and girls dressed in black, their movements synchronized without seeming rehearsed. They did not look at the food counters. They did not look uncertain.
They looked like a wall.
Maxwell's expression was different today.
He was not smiling lazily.
He was not amused.
His eyes were sharp. Focused. Hungry for something other than lunch.
The room shifted.
Chairs scraped as people instinctively straightened. Some stood halfway before remembering themselves.
Around Newton's table, hearts hammered so loudly it felt like the sound should be visible. Samuel's fingers tightened around his fork until his knuckles paled. Brandom swallowed and stared at his tray.
Stella kept her posture upright.
But Newton saw it.
The faint pulse in her neck.
The small tremor she stilled by pressing her fingertips into the edge of the table.
Maxwell walked forward slowly.
Deliberately.
He stopped a few feet from their table.
"Well. Well. Well." His voice rolled through the room without needing to rise. "Your days of grace have finally come to an end."
The words hung there.
No one moved.
He pulled a chair out.
Sat.
Hands folded across his chest.
Legs crossed.
Back resting fully against the chair as if he were settling in for entertainment.
"What is it going to be?" he asked softly. "Are you kneeling or you are dying?"
Silence.
Not even the air conditioning seemed to hum.
Newton felt his legs quiver beneath the table. His throat dried instantly. He could feel sweat forming along his spine.
This is it.
This is not a threat.
This is the moment.
For a few seconds that stretched too long, no one breathed.
Then Stella stood.
The scrape of her chair against the floor sounded louder than it should have.
She faced him fully.
"I will never kneel to anyone who is as powerless as you are."
The words landed hard.
A visible shift crossed Maxwell's face. His jaw tightened. A flicker. Quick. Controlled. But there.
He did not shout.
He did not stand.
He simply lifted one hand and made a small gesture.
It was enough.
From behind him, hundreds of boys and girls surged forward.
Metal glinted in their hands.
Short blades.
Reinforced gloves.
Compact bombs resting in steady palms.
The sound of feet moving at once filled the room like a wave crashing.
Newton's breath caught in his chest.
"Oh boy," he whispered under his breath. "This is looking very ugly."
His mind raced.
Numbers.
Distance.
Exits.
There were too many of them.
But Stella was still standing.
She had not flinched.
She had not stepped back.
And something about that steadiness calmed him, just a little.
She would not provoke a slaughter without something in mind.
Right?
"Who is with me?" Stella echoed, her voice cutting through the movement.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then a chair scraped.
Angel stood first.
She held a short blade, her grip firm despite the slight shake in her wrist.
"I am," she said.
Another girl rose.
Then another.
Metal flashed in their hands.
They moved to stand behind Stella in a line that was not perfectly straight, not perfectly disciplined, but present.
Determined.
Maxwell's eyes tracked them one by one as they assembled.
Newton's chest loosened slightly.
"At least," he thought, "if it comes to violence, our numbers have increased. We will hold a little longer."
He pushed his chair back slowly and stood as well. Samuel followed. Brandom too.
The air between the two groups felt electric.
Maxwell smiled then.
A slow, almost pitying curve of his lips.
"These little doves you have deceived won't last thirty minutes against my army," he said calmly. "Why don't you use your brain."
The words were quiet. But they carried weight.
Stella did not turn toward her group.
She kept her eyes on him for a second longer.
Then she shifted her gaze past him.
To the students standing behind Maxwell.
"Are you behind him because you believed in him," she asked, her voice steady, "or because you are oppressed into thinking obeying him means safety?"
A murmur rippled faintly through the crowd.
Maxwell did not interrupt.
He watched.
Carefully.
Stella took a step forward.
Not toward Maxwell.
But toward the line of students behind him.
"How is it freedom for you to sacrifice your hard earned Ninja point?" she continued. "Or to sacrifice your sleeping time massaging a grown man to sleep?"
A few eyes dropped.
Just briefly.
"How is it freedom for you to use your resting time following a man that is the same age as you around?"
The words slid into the cracks.
Newton could see it.
A girl near the front shifted her grip on her weapon.
A boy's jaw tightened.
Maxwell remained still.
He wanted to see.
He needed to see.
Would they bend?
Or would they hold?
Stella did not rush.
She let the silence breathe.
"I am offering you real freedom," she said finally. "Freedom to serve yourself and your own purpose. Freedom to spend your coin on yourself. Freedom not to be beaten by a maniac who called himself a king."
Maxwell's fingers twitched slightly at the word maniac.
But he did not speak.
Stella's gaze moved slowly across their faces.
One by one.
Holding eye contact.
"What is it going to be?" she asked softly now. "You want to remain a servant, or you will fight for your freedom?"
The restaurant felt smaller.
Heavier.
All eyes were fixed on her.
On Maxwell.
On the thin line between them.
Some hands twitched uncontrollably.
A blade dipped slightly.
Then steadied.
Someone swallowed audibly.
Newton could hear his own heartbeat in his ears.
This was the edge.
Not steel against steel yet.
But something sharper.
Choice.
Maxwell's smile faded.
Just a fraction.
He was still seated.
Still composed.
But his eyes moved quickly now, scanning his followers.
Measuring loyalty. Measuring doubt.
No one had stepped away. Not yet. But the air had changed. And everyone felt it.