Chapter 348: The Heaven Reapers

Across the stadium, phones buzzed.

The Simps checked their messages.

And one by one, they opened their betting apps and doubled down—because nothing says

"loyalty"

like throwing more

six figures cash

into a fire you believe will turn to gold.

David

did too. Casually. Like he was just checking his notifications. But the bet he placed was

twice

what he’d wagered before—the kind of casual overconfidence that comes from knowing the fix is already in.

After all, he was freaking rich too and adding a few zeros on his boss, wouldn’t even scratch his pockets.

New media money right there.

In the VIP section,

Sierra

and

Maddie

exchanged glances—then chuckled softly, pulling out their own phones.

Amber

, sitting three rows behind them, did the same. Her face betrayed nothing. Her betting dashboard showed a number that would make most CEOs richest faint—

the kind of number that said she wasn’t here to play, she was here to profit.

That was the Legacy heiress with billions in trustfund.

In her private booth,

Melissa

sipped champagne and smiled as she confirmed her increased wager—

Harold

sat beside her, oblivious, still gloating about Danton’s

untarnished

reputation like a man who’d never learned the meaning of irony.

Somewhere in the crowd,

Ms. Patricia Bloom

—dressed in civilian clothes, trying desperately to look like she wasn’t there to watch a student she’d ate her pussy and tongue-fucked senseless this afternoon—quietly tripled her bet.

The odds shifted again.

Not by much.

But enough for those who knew to profit enormously when the impossible happened—because in Paradise, nothing was impossible if you had the right leverage and the right monster.

The cheerleaders cleared the court.

Paige and Brielle led them off with triumphant waves, soaking in the adoration, completely unaware that they’d just been used as pawns in a game they didn’t know was being played—pawns who thought they were queens, which is the funniest kind of pawn.

David

stepped back to center court.

The spotlight found him.

"Well, well, well,"

he announced, voice dripping with performative sympathy—the kind that made you want to punch him and tip him at the same time.

"That was... something, wasn’t it?"

The crowd laughed.

"The Phei Simps,

everybody! Give them a round of applause for... trying!"

Scattered, mocking applause. A few genuine claps from the diehards, but mostly condescending acknowledgment—

the kind that said "nice effort, but we all know who wins when money’s on the line."

David

milked it.

"I mean, they organized this whole event. They sold the tickets. They set up the streams. They made history happen." He paused for effect. "And then they got

destroyed

by girls who’ve been dancing since they were in diapers.

Poetry

, really."

More laughter.

Fools,

David thought behind his grin.

Absolute fools.

"Which does raise the question..."

He turned toward the tunnel where the basketball teams would emerge.

"If the Simps couldn’t even win a cheerleading competition, can their master really win a basketball game? Against the best team this academy has ever produced?"

The crowd roared—some in agreement, some in defense, but mostly just

hungry

for more spectacle—the hunger that comes from watching someone else bleed while you sit safely in the stands.

David

let the doubt simmer.

Let it spread.

Let it do exactly what

Phei

needed it to do.

"That’s why,"

he announced, voice rising,

"I’m going to introduce the winning team first! The team that has brought back-to-back trophies to this academy! The team that hasn’t lost a single game in three years! The team that every school in the country fears!"

The lights went out.

All of them.

200,000 people sat in sudden darkness, the stadium plunged into black so complete you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face—or the smirk on Phei’s face as he waited in the tunnel.

Then—

A single spotlight blazed to life.

Focused on the main tunnel.

"Ladies and gentlemen..."

The crowd held its breath.

"THE ASHFORD ELITE ACADEMY’S HEAVEN REAPERS!"

Marcus Heavenchild

walked out first.

And the stadium

erupted

.

He moved like he owned the world—because, in many ways, he

did

. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Built like a Greek god who’d decided basketball was beneath him but played anyway out of noblesse oblige.

His face was almost unfairly handsome—sharp jaw, perfect bone structure, eyes that carried the weight of a dynasty and made it look effortless.

The spotlight loved him.

The cameras loved him.

The crowd loved him.

200,000 voices screaming his name, chanting

"MARCUS, MARCUS, MARCUS"

like a prayer to a living deity.

Signs waved. Girls screamed.

The

Marcus’s Angels

section went absolutely feral, some of them literally crying at the sight of their prince—crying that made you wonder if they’d ever been this emotional about anything that actually mattered.

He walked like he didn’t hear any of it.

Like the adoration was expected. Deserved. Boring, even.

Behind him came

Danton Maxton

—Harold’s legitimate son, the one who was supposed to matter, the one who’d spent his whole life in

Marcus

’s shadow and learned to be grateful for the scraps of light that fell his way.

He was handsome in his own right, athletic, confident.

But next to

Marcus,

he looked like a supporting character—the kind that gets killed off in act two to raise the stakes.

Everyone did.

Brett

followed. Then

Anderson.

The scandals Renee had released should have had them hiding in shame, but here they were—chins up, smirks in place, the particular arrogance of Legacy kids who knew their names would protect them from consequences—at least until the consequences learned how to read.

Kyle

came next. Quieter than the others. Something dark behind his eyes that had nothing to do with basketball and everything to do with questions about a boy named

Darius

that had suddenly started circulating—questions that had no good answers.

The five of them walked to center court while the rest of the team filed toward the benches—substitutes, role players, the supporting cast that existed to make the stars look brighter—and to take the blame when the stars inevitably fucked up.

The coaches followed.

Head Coach

—leading the staff with the smug confidence of a man who’d never lost a game that mattered—

Assistant coaches flanked him, clipboards ready, game faces on.

The Heaven Reapers

had arrived.

And the stadium reminded everyone exactly who ruled Paradise.

Marcus

stood at center court.

Arms crossed.

Expression bored.

Waiting for the only opponent who’d ever been stupid enough to challenge him publicly.

The spotlight swung toward the other tunnel.

David

raised the mic.