The Scumbag's Guide To Heroism

The 1-B Prometheus House sat at the end of a curved pathway lined with young eucalyptus trees, their papery bark peeling in strips that caught the midmorning light. The building itself was identical to 1-A’s in architecture, all white concrete and floor-to-ceiling glass, five stories of clean geometry rising against the hillside. But where 1-A’s entrance had been swarming with parents and students and the low-grade chaos of twenty people trying to occupy the same elevator simultaneously, 1-B’s front doors stood propped open to an almost peaceful stillness.

I stopped at the base of the short stairs leading up to the entrance and looked at the building.

My building.

For the next two years, this was home. Room 205 on the second floor of the East Tower, wedged between Percy’s meticulously mapped Room 201 and whatever poor bastard occupied 203 who would have to deal with Percy’s midnight route optimization texts bleeding through the walls.

I took a breath. Let it settle somewhere between my lungs and whatever organ handles the specific flavor of anxiety that comes from knowing you are about to live in close proximity to nineteen strangers who all possess the ability to level city blocks while you’re running on a gacha system and a fraudulent registration.

The interior matched 1-A’s layout almost exactly. Open-plan common area with modular seating in warm neutrals, a kitchen that could service a small restaurant, and those massive south-facing windows that turned the hardwood floors into pools of honey-colored light. The smell was different though. Less chaos. Less bodies. Just the clean chemical scent of a space that had been recently prepared for inhabitants who hadn’t fully arrived yet.

Move-in wasn’t mandatory until Wednesday. Three days from now. Most students were apparently taking advantage of the full window, which meant the common area held exactly four people when I walked in. Two were facilities staff members checking something on a tablet near the kitchen island. The other two were movers in matching grey jumpsuits, currently wrestling a dresser through the main entrance with the kind of coordinated grunting that suggested this particular piece of furniture had been winning the fight for several minutes.

The dresser was absurd. Not in a bad way, just in a scale way. It was an ornate monster of dark lacquered wood with brass hardware and at least six drawers, the kind of thing you’d find in a European boutique hotel suite or the bedroom of someone whose parents had never once used the phrase "within budget." The movers, both solid guys with the build of people who did this for a living, had it tilted at a precarious angle against the doorframe. One of them, a heavyset man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a Hero logo on his forearm, adjusted his grip and muttered something to his partner that sounded like a prayer.

The other mover, thinner and younger with sandy hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, jerked his chin toward the elevator bank.

"Third floor. West Tower."

"I know. I know where it goes, Ray."

"Then why are we still in the doorway?"

"Because this thing weighs four hundred pounds and the corner clearance is six inches less than the measurement the client gave us."

A notification materialized in my peripheral vision.

⚡ SIDE QUEST UNLOCKED

Quest: First Step To Harem King

Description: You just walked into a dormitory housing nineteen of the most exceptional women in the country. They are competitive. They are ambitious. They are used to being the smartest person in every room they enter. They are also, for the most part, isolated. Separated from their support systems. Living in close quarters with peers who understand their power in ways their families never could. They are ripe for cultivation.

The System does not care if you are charming or attractive or genuinely interesting. The System cares if you are novel. If you are different. If you are the one variable they did not account for when they planned their entire lives around becoming Heroes.

Make them see you. Make them remember you. Make them wonder what happens next.

Primary Objective: Establish meaningful contact with at least 3 heroines from Class 1-B.

’Meaningful contact’ is defined as: A conversation lasting minimum 10 minutes where the heroine initiated or sustained engagement beyond social obligation.

Secondary Objective [SCUMBAG CONDITION]: Ensure at least one heroine views you as a potential rival or threat.

Bonus Objective: Trigger a Temptation Gauge unlock for at least 2 heroines by week’s end.

Time Limit: 7 Days

Rewards:

800 Scumbag Points

Reputation Boost (Class 1-B Female Cohort +5)

Bonus Rewards:

400 Scumbag Points per additional heroine contacted (max +1200) 𝙧𝙚𝙚𝔀𝒆𝓫𝓷𝙤𝓿𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝙤𝓶

One (1) Silver Gacha Pull per Temptation Gauge unlock (max +2 pulls)

Failure Penalty:

None. Optional quest.

I read it twice. The System had been quiet for most of the morning, content to let me navigate the domestic logistics of move-in day without interference. But here it was again, gently reminding me that my chosen path had requirements and those requirements involved women. Three heroines. One week. Positive impressions.

Fine.

I dropped my duffel by the nearest couch and walked toward the movers.

"You guys need a hand?"

The bald one looked up, sweat tracking down his temples. His eyes flicked over me in the way that people in physical labor assess whether someone offering help actually represents help or just another obstacle. I was tall, lean, and wearing jeans and a black hoodie. Not exactly the profile of someone who bench-presses delivery furniture for fun.

"Kid, this thing is—"

"I’ve got a Strength aspect." Not entirely a lie. Eighty Strength at baseline was functionally superhuman. I just didn’t generate that strength through any mechanism the IHL would recognize. "Where’s it going?"

The sandy-haired mover, Ray, looked at his partner and something passed between them. The universal language of two men who had been struggling with an impossible object for ten minutes and were willing to accept divine intervention regardless of whether it came from a skinny teenager in a hoodie.

"Third floor. West Tower. Room 301." Ray wiped his forehead with the back of his glove. "Miss Lang."

"Got it."

I positioned myself at the lower end of the dresser where the bald mover’s grip was slipping and got my hands underneath the base. The wood was smooth and cool against my palms, the weight substantial enough that a baseline human would struggle but nowhere near the threshold where my eighty Strength even registered complaint. I lifted my end and the bald mover’s eyes went wide as his portion suddenly became weightless.

"Jesus."

"Elevator or stairs?"

"Elevator. Definitely elevator."