The Royal Military Academy's Impostor Owns a Dungeon [BL] - Chapter 791

Capítulo 791: Beyond the Glass Doors

In one of the capital buildings, the sound of rumbling footsteps echoed down a polished hallway.

“Sir! Right now, we have a problem!”

The shout came out of nowhere, sharp and panicked.

The man in the suit didn’t even look up. He was already rubbing his temples while glaring at his terminal filled with shouting faces and flashing complaint alerts.

“What now?!” he snapped, jabbing a finger at the mute icon again just to be safe.

The shareholders were already furious.

They couldn’t understand how the capital’s leading news company had failed to secure interviews with the most talked-about people in the Empire. Worse, they couldn’t understand how the Solaris Times had completely missed sending people to do a backstage coverage of that guild’s parade!

And they were taking it out on him.

But he was an Editor, not a fortune teller. How was he supposed to predict this? Every scrap of information they had gathered said that the guild members hadn’t shown themselves in public since they got back from Zone Four, so what did they want him to do?! Hunt them down?!

And now there was another problem.

The assistant rushed to his side and thrust a tablet toward him. “Sir. Please look.”

He frowned, irritation already primed, and glanced down.

It took a second.

Then another.

His expression froze.

There were over seven million live viewers.

“?”

The Editor leaned closer. Plants filled the screen. Greenery. Water. Glass. A chat window scrolling so fast it looked like static.

Then his eyes caught the title.

“DG’s Annual Expo Booth.”

“!!!”

He shot to his feet so fast his chair nearly toppled over.

As someone who had just been berated for collective incompetence, there was no way he was letting this go. He immediately unmuted his terminal.

“I am postponing this meeting,” he announced flatly. “There is an emergency development we need to cover.”

Dissatisfied screeching erupted from the other side of the call.

He didn’t care.

This was a chance. A very big chance.

He turned to the assistant. “Divert our people to DG’s booth. Now. We need this scoop immediately.”

The assistant did not move.

Instead, they stood there, shoulders tense, wearing an expression that made the Editor’s stomach sink.

“But, Sir. That’s just it.”

The Editor narrowed his eyes. “Just what?”

“That stream,” the assistant said carefully. “It’s from one of our interns.”

Silence.

“…What?”

The assistant swallowed. “He was assigned to cover a different booth.”

The Editor stared at the tablet again, then at the assistant. “An intern?! Then he can’t possibly cover everything. Get a senior correspondent inside right now.”

The assistant hesitated. Then slowly turned the tablet around.

“That’s the problem.”

A string of forum titles filled the screen.

[ENTRY IMPOSSIBLE WITHOUT INVITATION, EXTREME LUCK, OR PRAYER.]

[So… Has Anyone Else Actually Gotten Past DG’s Wheel Yet?]

[Does Spinning at Exactly XX:00 Increase Your Odds]

[Why Are Kids Winning and I’m Not]

[Wheel Said “Try Again” and I Felt That Personally]

[At What Point Do You Start Negotiating With It]

Below it were clips of a massive crowd packed in front of a single booth. People were crying. People were screaming. Some were clutching their heads. Others looked like they were mourning loved ones.

The Editor felt a headache forming.

“Sir,” the assistant said quietly, “unless the correspondent you plan to send has divine luck, even if they get in, they probably won’t have access comparable to that of the intern who’s already inside.”

The swiftly aging boss slowly looked up. “Why?”

“Because Reeve Solis was not only DG’s first guest,” the assistant said, voice strained, “he was also the first person to spin the jackpot prize.”

The Editor’s eye twitched.

“He has full access to the amenities. And apparently, what’s being shown on stream right now is only a portion of their booth.”

“!!!”

The Editor sank back into his chair, staring at the screen as if the heavens themselves were mocking him.

Then his eyes sharpened.

“Tell that intern we are simulcasting.”

The assistant blinked. “Directly?”

“What else?” the Editor snapped. “Do you think we can find someone else in this company with that level of luck?!”

He leaned back, exhaling sharply.

Well.

He was right.

Because Reeve was apparently lucky enough to succeed even in mystery vegetable picking.

__

Back in the thick of the scene, several people had already been guided toward the north side of the reception hall for the Greenhouse Farm Tour.

The moment it was announced, both the people present and those watching through the stream fell into stunned silence.

Not that anyone had been calm before that.

They had nearly started frothing at the mouth while being led away from the activity center, a place that had just inspired mass protest from every child present.

Several of them were loudly questioning the fairness of the universe.

Even the child who had won the greenhouse farm tour dragged his feet, well aware that he would not be able to use all those fun-looking amenities he had just glimpsed.

Still, children were built differently.

Unlike the adults who were loudly lamenting the unfairness of life in their homes and right outside DG’s booth while watching the livestream of the inside, the hopeful future soldier merely clenched his fists and said that he would try to spin again another day.

His burning resolve earned him several chuckles.

Thankfully, the children were immediately distracted the moment they reached the apparent reason for the booth, stopping any further discussion of increasingly bizarre strategies.

The glass doors of the greenhouse loomed ahead.

Even before stepping inside, they could already see what waited for them beyond the transparent walls.

Rows of greenery. Depth. Height. Light filtering through layers upon layers of leaves.

People slowed without realizing it. Someone audibly swallowed. Another pressed closer to the glass just to make sure it was real.

Then a cheerful voice rose from the side.

“Hello, our valued customers! Beyond these doors lies our mini greenhouse. This tour will take roughly one hour and will require everyone to complete a sanitation check and wear proper attire. To those interested, please follow me!”

Of course, they followed.

They would have followed even if he had told them to walk backward.

What they didn’t expect, however, was to be ushered into a compact disinfecting room, complete with soft lighting, gentle mist, and a series of clear instructions.

They did as instructed, spraying, wiping, and dressing, but were surprised to be inspected with alarming thoroughness by one very meticulous redhead.

Sam and Marco exchanged looks.

They knew exactly who that was.

Cadet Jackson Taylor.

What they did not know was his intense passion for what was apparently called “farming.”

He explained procedures with intense enthusiasm. He corrected posture. He reminded everyone not to touch leaves unnecessarily. He smiled with the fierce devotion of someone who genuinely loved soil, greens, and food.

Watching him work, Sam had a sudden thought that maybe other parents should reconsider bringing their kids here.

Because it felt like anyone who entered this greenhouse with dreams of becoming something else might walk out wanting to be a farmer instead.

He could already see it with all the kids who looked like glitter would come straight out of their eyes as they hung on to every word that came out of Jax’s mouth.

Heck, Sam was pretty sure that even Marco experienced a brief crisis of career direction the moment Lord Jax started talking about the joy of raising a truly magnificent tomato plant.