Reincarnated with a lucky draw system

Aaron knocked on Professor Silas's office door like he owned the timing, then stepped in when the invitation came. The room was calm—books stacked like patient sentinels, a faint scent of ink and stale tea—and Silas sat behind his desk with that tired composure of a man who's mediated campus drama a dozen times too many.

Opposite Silas, rigid as a carved statute, stood a man in his fifties: sharp jaw, colder eyes, presence that said whatever he wanted, he usually got. Two B-rankers lingered behind the man, their auras like low thunder—intimidation made visible.

"Professor, I'm here as planned for the test," Aaron said, voice even. He did not need to theatrically announce himself; he simply let the words fall, casual and controlled.

Silas opened his mouth, "I know Aaron, but—"

"You are Aaron Highborn, right? You will come with us for your trial," the man in the fifties cut in, his tone flat, the syllables cold as metal.

Aaron's eyes flicked once to the man. Easy identification—Jordan. Head of the disciplinary committee, Edwin's father. The kind of figure who organized trouble like some people organize afternoon tea. Aaron kept silent; he felt curiosity more than anger. He wanted to see how far Jordan had scripted the scene.

"Seize him," Jordan ordered the B-rankers without a pause.

The two moved with trained efficiency and closed on Aaron. Hands grabbed his arms. The motion was meant to be both practical and humiliating—assertion of authority through force.

"You don't have to be forceful. Do I look like someone planning to run?" Aaron asked, light as if teasing strangers on a street. The rankers didn't bother to answer; they'd been given an order.

Aaron held one of the ranker's eyes with a steady, cold focus. "If you don't let me off this very second, there will be consequences. Consequences you don't want to deal with." It wasn't a threat so much as a promise spun from experience. He could have torn the room open with how he moved, but theatrics were not his goal—intimidation as currency was.

A soft cough came from Professor Silas. The old man pushed himself upright and, with the weary firmness of someone who wants to soothe a situation before it explodes, said, "He is right, Jordan. You don't need to be so forceful. He's cooperating."

Jordan made a disapproving sound—a single, clipped "Hmph!"—and signaled to the rankers to release Aaron.

"Come with me. The senate awaits your presence for the trial," Jordan barked, rising. He walked out first, the rankers and Aaron following, Silas remaining behind with his papers and the look of a man who had been dragged into a play he hadn't written.

Silas rubbed his eyes, frustration pooling on the ragged edge of his patience. He genuinely believed Aaron could be an asset to Ragnarok; he'd hoped discipline and structure would channel Aaron's raw force into something beneficial. Instead, the school bureaucracy kept tripping him into conflicts he hadn't wanted.

Word spread like wildfire. By the time the group reached the senate chamber, the rumor mill had turned the ordinary into legend. Students camped in the gallery like a frenzied flock; the buzz hummed with excited cruelty.

"Alice, you heard?" Michael said as he slipped up beside her.

"Aaron's hearing? Yes. I called my family. Whoever's involved won't get off lightly," Alice replied, voice coiled. The temperature around her dropped noticeably—her anger had a physical presence.

"Yeesh. Scary," Michael teased gently, choosing the banter route to keep the mood from tipping into panic. He could already see most of the players; he kept that thought to himself for now.

Edwin stood with a small, satisfied smile, the son of Jordan clearly pleased with the spectacle. "We should get going. Finally time to wipe the arrogance off that fool," he said, cold and neat in his dress.

Inside the senate, the setup was ceremonial and painfully formal: robed members, a dais, and a sense that this place existed to adjudicate doctrine more than fairness. Aaron stood in the center like a deliberately placed question mark—calm, bored, and perfectly unreadable.

"Well. He doesn't look like someone in trouble. If anything, he looks like someone with everything under control," Michael murmured to Alice, studying Aaron's expression.

"If they try to punish Aaron unfairly, it won't end well for them," Alice warned. She meant it, and the air prickled with the promise of consequences if lines were crossed.

A senator, papery and practiced, cleared his throat. "Aaron Highborn. In the few weeks since your arrival, your conduct has been detrimental to the school and contrary to the moral and academic code we uphold." His voice was flat; the words were polished indictments—thin formalities masking a personal vendetta.

Subtext hung like smoke: this was not neutral ground. The accusations read like a list crafted to shame rather than correct.

Aaron's reply was a slow, theatrical yawn. "I have nothing to say," he answered. The bored posture was deliberate; he let the room marinate in their own outrage.

"Your offenses include skipping classes, challenging instructors, bullying peers and seniors, breaking curfew, and bribery to obtain special treatment," another senator read, each charge delivered with the practiced gravity of someone pinning butterflies to a board.

"How do you wish to defend yourself?" a voice in the panel asked, bland as vellum.

Aaron shrugged as if the question amused him. "I have nothing to say," he repeated, silence wrapping him like armor. He wanted to see the conclusion of this little stage.

Then the sanctions dropped like a hammer. Jordan's voice read the verdict: strip Aaron of all university-given benefits; obligate him to finance and oversee the construction of six new campus structures; house him in tier-one dorms and make him personally responsible for their cleanliness and maintenance, toilets included; require a public apology to those he'd "wronged"; and strip Professor Silas of authority for allegedly taking bribes.

A collective gasp thrummed through the auditorium. The punishments were not corrective—they were designed for humiliation, petty and theatrical.

Aaron stretched, slow and deliberate. "Wow. You didn't hold back, did you? Well. I guess I can finally speak," he said, rolling his shoulders like a man settling in for a pleasant conversation.

"You have no right to speak," Jordan snapped, his voice the practiced bark of a man used to controlling rooms.

"Actually I do." Aaron's tone was low now, each syllable a measured edge. "First of all—what gives a third-rate university the balls to act like one of the legendary institutions? Those sanctions? You can shove them up your ass, you piece of—" He didn't finish the insult with a flourish; it landed blunt and cold.

The crowd stiffened. Professors blinked. Students shuffled. Jordan's face hardened, the kind of brittle composure that cracks under unexpected pressure.

"If you speak anymore, I will impose more punishment," Jordan warned, voice thin with anger.

"More punishment? Don't be a clown," Aaron said. The room went quiet enough that the sound of someone breathing felt loud. "How can you impose punishment on the owner of the bloody school?"

Silence slammed down around them. For a beat, nobody in the chamber knew quite what to do with that. Jordan's mouth parted; the carefully constructed façade of certainty gave a tiny fracture.

"What?" Jordan demanded—one monosyllable that tried to claim clarity but dragged surprise behind it like a cloak.