The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] novel Chapter 771

Chapter 771: Before the Curtain Rises

Forget?

Well, not like anyone would ever believe they did.

For when the day finally came, the idea itself would have felt absurd.

__

The empire, particularly Planet Solara, rose much earlier than usual.

And in the wee hours of the morning, one Mylor took it upon himself to drive his entire family insane.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The sound of metal on metal echoed through the house like a war cry, loud enough to make neighbors from another city wonder if a meteor had just landed in their living room.

"RISE AND SHINE!"

A giant teen barreled down the hallway, holding two pans with the kind of determination commonly seen in soldiers charging into battle. Owen Mylor had never been awake this early in his short life unless bribes, punishments, or the potential loss of allowance (or his life) had been involved.

But today was different.

Today was sacred.

Today was the day.

He sprinted into bedrooms, into the kitchen, onto the sofa, into the grand hall, back into the hallways, then skidded across the floor because his socks had betrayed him.

"BIG DAY AHEAD!"

CLANG!

"WAKE UP! WAKE UP!"

CLANG CLANG!

"Everyone look alive!"

CLANG!

A pillow was launched at his head. A slipper joined it. Then another slipper. Then a blanket that covered his entire face.

But none of it stopped him.

Because how could he stop? How could anyone sleep in on a day like this?

The pans continued their torturous melody, and the Mylors’ capital manor suffered in chorus.

Owen kept yelling excitedly, "Expo day! Expo day!" His voice cracked with enthusiasm as he tried to yank the curtains open and nearly ripped them clean off.

He was unstoppable.

Unstoppable and loud.

Very loud.

But unfortunately, for everyone within a 7,000-kilometer radius, he was not the only one.

Across Planet Solara, more than just a handful of people were awake at this ungodly hour. In fact, the only saving grace was that the Annual Expo was only held once a year. If it happened more often, there would probably be riots.

The organizers were awake. And pale. They were a single shove away from being escorted to the medical bay for suspected cardiac distress.

The participants were awake. And rehearsing. And re-rehearsing. And rehearsing the rehearsal of the rehearsal, because their lives absolutely seemed to depend on getting everything perfect.

The military and capital guards were awake. Their security concerns had multiplied by a hundredfold, and no one was emotionally ready for it.

Star Net employees were awake too. Not by choice, but because they were staking their entire livelihoods on delivering a seamless and perfectly covered stream. A single glitch would be career suicide.

Not being able to see that random 17-degree angle that no one should even care about? Death.

Inside the Imperial Palace, the household was operating with the frenzy of wedding preparations. Servants hustled. Advisors buzzed. Schedules clashed violently. The Imperial Family was preparing as if the empire itself were getting married.

Then there was the Academy.

The educators were awake.

And confused.

Deeply, profoundly confused.

Even at this final hour, not a single one of them knew exactly what was happening to a handful of their prized students.

Then again, if the members of the Academy were confused, what more the netizens who had been simmering restlessly for nearly two weeks?

The forums were alive. Chaotic enough that the servers occasionally wheezed. The betting threads were active, vicious, and multiplying like star-bound rabbits. Predictions were in abundance, and each new guess somehow sparked its own controversy.

It reached the point where hypothetical scenarios were being discussed as if they were historical events. Custom dramatic edits had been made. Fan art was circulating. Some people were even writing pre-emptive eulogies for the teams they supported.

But truly, who could blame them?

Because the news about the incoming foreign delegations had nearly lagged Star Net into oblivion.

[Federation Delegation Arrives in Matching Outfits. What are they trying to prove? Cohesion? Terrorism? A bold fashion statement?]

[Federation’s Youngest Delegate Spotted. Is He Twelve? Is He Forty?]

[A Different Elven Prince? A Fake Delegation?]

[Orc Delegation Touches Down. Ground Trembles as the King Arrives.]

ACHOO!

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