Chapter 516: What It Costs to Be a Valerius

Julian Valerius sat in the Sentinels’ private preparation room, staring at his phone like it might explode. His father’s name glowed on the screen for the third time in five minutes.

He let it ring.

The room was silent except for Aaron’s breathing from the medical cot in the corner. Sanders had taken a nasty hit from that purple-haired bitch’s telekinetic shockwave during their tag match. Nothing permanent. Just bruised ribs and wounded pride.

The kind of injuries that heal.

Unlike Julian’s reputation.

The phone buzzed again.

Julian’s jaw tightened as he finally answered. "Father."

"Julian." Marcus Valerius’s voice came through crystal clear, carrying that particular quality of disappointment that Julian had learned to recognize at age seven when his Aspect first manifested. "I just watched your performance against the Vipers."

Not congratulations for advancing to the semifinals.

Not praise for making it this far.

Just that tone.

The one that said

you could have done better

.

"We won," Julian said, keeping his voice level through years of practice. "We’re in the semifinals."

"Against a team that should have folded in thirty seconds." A pause that felt like judgment. "You allowed them to drag the fight out for three minutes. Inefficient."

Julian’s free hand clenched around the armrest hard enough to make the leather creak. "They were tougher than expected."

"Everything is tougher than you expect lately." His father’s voice didn’t rise. Didn’t need to. The words cut clean. "First the Necropolis. Then losing Monica and Celeste to those...

rejects

. Now you’re being upstaged by a street rat with a baseball bat on national television."

"I didn’t lose Celeste. She—"

"She transferred because you failed to protect her. Because when that Anomaly appeared, you froze." The words landed like hammer blows. "President Vance’s sister. The single most valuable recruit in seven years. And you let her walk away to join the Onyx Hounds of all places."

Julian’s throat felt tight. "The transfer was her choice."

"Her choice was a direct result of your incompetence."

The silence that followed stretched like pulled glass.

Julian forced words past the tightness in his chest. "What do you want me to say?"

"Nothing." His father’s sigh carried through the speaker. "Words are meaningless. I want results. You’re facing that Nakano boy in the semifinals. I assume you have a strategy beyond getting humiliated again?"

"I won’t lose."

"That’s what you said before the Crucible. Before Reyna made you look ordinary." Another pause. "Do you understand what’s at stake here, Julian? Not just your pride. Our entire family’s reputation. Every contract, every sponsorship, every political alliance we’ve cultivated is being questioned because my son can’t handle a late bloomer with a stick."

Julian’s nails bit into his palm. "I understand."

"Do you?" His father’s voice turned contemplative. "Because I’m watching you throw away every advantage you were born with. Your mother cried watching that last match. Actually cried, Julian. When was the last time you saw your mother cry?"

Never.

He’d never seen his mother cry.

Not when his grandfather died. Not when the market crashed and they lost forty million in a single day. Not when Julian manifested his Aspect at age seven and immediately destroyed half the testing facility because he couldn’t control it yet.

His mother was ice and steel wrapped in designer clothes.

If she’d cried watching him fight...

"I’ll win," Julian said quietly. "I promise."

"Don’t promise. Deliver." His father paused. "I’ve made arrangements with several recruiters. If you place in the top three overall, Aegis Prime has agreed to an early evaluation. Top two gets you Olympic consideration. But first place..." His father’s voice carried something that might have been hope. "First place gets you everything we’ve planned since you were five years old."

Julian’s chest felt hollow. "What if I don’t place?"

The silence was answer enough.

When his father finally spoke, his voice had gone completely flat. "Then we’ll need to have a very different conversation about your future. About whether continuing at the Academy makes financial sense. About what other paths might be more... suitable for someone of your actual abilities."

The threat was clear.

Win or be disowned.

Prove yourself or lose everything.

"I have to go," Julian managed. "The semifinals start soon."

"Julian." His father’s voice stopped him. "I’m not trying to be cruel. I’m trying to save you from yourself. You have the bloodline. The training. The resources. Everything you need to be great. But greatness requires more than potential. It requires execution. Discipline. The willingness to do whatever is necessary."

"I know."

"Then show me."

The call ended.

Julian sat in the empty room, staring at his reflection in the darkened phone screen. His golden hair was slightly mussed from the previous match. His expensive combat suit bore scuff marks from where Kenjiro’s wind blades had grazed his shoulder.

Imperfect.

Flawed.

Disappointing.

He thought about his childhood. About private tutors and combat coaches. About summers spent in Aspect development camps while other kids played. About his tenth birthday when his father gave him a choice between a party with friends or a week of training with an A-Rank specialist.

Julian had chosen the training.

Because that’s what Valerius heirs did.

They sacrificed. They disciplined. They became perfect.

Except Julian wasn’t perfect.

He’d frozen in the Necropolis when Monica needed him. He’d watched two teammates die because fear had locked his muscles and stolen his breath. He’d pushed Monica toward danger to save himself, and that moment of cowardice had cost him everything.

Celeste had seen it.

The whole team had seen it.

And now the whole world watched him try to pretend he was still the golden prince they’d been told to worship.

The door opened without knocking.

Professor Petrova entered with her characteristic grace, her silver-blonde hair pulled back so tightly it probably hurt. Her pale blue eyes swept across him with clinical assessment.

"Your father called," she said. Not a question.

"Yes."

"And?"

"He wants me to win."

"Obviously." She sat in the chair across from him, crossing her legs with perfect posture. "What else?"

Julian met her gaze. "He wants me to break Nakano. Publicly. Make an example."

"Good." Petrova’s smile was cold and satisfied. "Then we’re aligned."