My Taboo Harem!

Chapter 953: IBA Basketball Tournament & Just a Bit Rich

Back on the cliff mansion grounds, Emily sat close to the stage with her posture immaculate and her attention divided between the Young Dragon beneath the lights and the quiet instructions still arriving through the earpiece she wore.

Ashworth’s voice had guided the entire night from afar, calm, precise, infuriatingly composed, and when it came through one final time with that simple order, Emily’s gaze flicked toward Phei as if calculating exactly how to land the message without disturbing the rhythm of the slaughter too abruptly.

"Right away, sir," she said softly.

However his voice reached Emily from Paradise, it was no modern, but he’d made sures Emily received it in her earpiece.

Then her voice reached Phei through his own hidden earpiece, smooth and low beneath the anchor’s strained attempt to maintain professional dignity.

"Boss, that is enough. The Vice Principal says thank you."

On the stage, Phei exhaled almost imperceptibly.

He was tired, not physically, of course, because his body remained relaxed beneath the lights, his posture elegant, his smile harmless enough to belong on expensive perfume advertisements and dangerous enough to ruin the man across from him if he wished.

Mentally, however, he was tired of playing the devil’s advocate in whatever long, layered game Ashworth had prepared beneath the polite name of reform.

It would be a lie, however, to say he was displeased.

The plan had been brutal, refined and quietly vicious in the way only old men with patience and institutional hatred could manage.

Better still, Phei could already feel his greed rising pleasantly at the thought of whatever rewards might come from helping Ashworth this thoroughly.

A debt from a man like that was not something small.

’It would need weight, taste and proper packaging, ideally.’

Phei smiled at the thought, then turned that same harmless expression toward the anchor, as though relieving the man of his public torment out of mercy rather than because the execution hour had reached its required quota.

"But that is not what you called me here to discuss, is it?"

The anchor blinked, clearly thrown by the sudden mercy arriving after being morally disemboweled in front of a live audience.

He had lost his position as coordinator long ago, and the awkward laugh he released now made that loss painfully obvious.

"No," Noah said, clearing his throat with a desperation that suggested the organ had become his closest friend during crisis. "No, that is not at all what we came to discuss, though of course it is always a pleasure whenever truth is revealed."

He looked toward the audience as though begging them to accept that statement at face value, which was optimistic of him considering everyone had just watched truth beat him publicly with receipts.

Then his gaze moved toward the front rows, finding Landon and Brian with the relief of a man seeing land after shipwreck.

"More importantly," he continued, visibly assembling himself piece by piece, "there have been ongoing rumors regarding a basketball game involving professional teams. Mr. Ryujin Tiamat, can you confirm anything about that?"

Phei’s smile shifted slightly as he turned his head toward the front row. "The captain of the team can explain more about that."

:Then he pointed at Landon.

Landon, who had been sitting comfortably beneath the delusion that other people’s suffering would remain entertainment and not suddenly become personal, froze for half a second before reality slapped him awake.

The cameras turned toward him instantly. Brian’s face lit up with the pure malicious joy of a friend witnessing justice.

David looked delighted in the way only deeply unserious people looked when someone else was shoved into public responsibility without warning, as he pivoted his camera to Landon catching him and Cherry in 4K; from his seat the traitorous camera-obsessed boy even shifted his angle slightly, and Phei would have bet the cliff mansion that David was already narrating who Cherry was or how Landon had become the captain of the team of thee, because one preserved record of a friend’s public suffering was never quite enough archive for the man.

Landon cleared his throat quickly, straightened his posture and adjusted his expression with the discipline; clearly had been raised too well to panic while being sacrificed live; Emily would attest .

"Yes," he said, voice steadying as he accepted the microphone someone rushed toward him. "There is truth to the rumors, but it will not be just a game."

The anchor leaned toward him, grateful beyond dignity. "Could you elaborate?"

"Of course," Landon said, recovering more fully now that the first blade of surprise had passed.

"The IBA, the International Basketball Association, reached out to Ashford Elite Academy after the match drew global attention. They expressed interest in arranging a short friendly competition between professional teams, similar to events they have held before, but this time with the addition of the Reapers..."

He paused, and his face changed with the soft horror of a man realizing his mouth had betrayed him on live broadcast.

"Sorry," he corrected immediately, rubbing the back of his head with a faint embarrassed smile. "The Roars. The old name has been engraved in my mind after three years of being part of that team, so forgive me."

A ripple of laughter moved through the audience, warmer this time, easier, grateful for something that did not involve buried deaths, corrupt media ownership or the moral hygiene of global aristocracy being hosed down in public.

Even Phei smiled faintly because watching Landon stumble into team rebranding Landon himself had come up with, misery after surviving the earlier political execution was precisely the sort of small petty pleasure that kept friendships healthy.

Landon continued, "The academy’s basketball team, now officially called The Roars, will be joining an international tournament organized with the IBA. It will include professional teams and select academy-level players, with the goal of creating something competitive but still friendly and public-facing."

The anchor latched onto the topic with the desperation of a drowning man discovering a floating board that did not accuse him of being paid by Heavenchilds. "And will Mr. Ryujin Tiamat be participating?"

Landon glanced toward Phei, and Phei smiled back with absolutely no intention of saving him.

"Yes," Landon said after a small pause. "He will be participating."

"And Brian?" the anchor asked, looking toward the other boy.

Brian leaned back comfortably, enjoying Landon’s misery with the serene pleasure like a morally bankrupt monk. "Ask the captain."

Landon shot him a look, and the audience laughed again.

Phei’s smile widened because this was far more relaxing than dismantling empires. There was something restorative about watching someone else sit on the hot seat for a while.

Truly, companionship was beautiful when it included shared suffering distributed unfairly among friends.

Phei had never thought he’d ever even have male friends.

For the next several minutes, Landon answered question after question about the tournament format, team preparation, the change from Reapers to Roars, the involvement of professional teams, whether Marcus’s absence affected public interest, how the academy planned to move forward and whether Ashford Elite Academy’s basketball culture had changed after recent events.

With each question, Landon became smoother, more composed, more princely in the practiced way boys born into obscenely rich families often became once their survival instincts remembered cameras existed.

Still, every now and then his eyes flicked toward Phei and Brian, both of whom were visibly enjoying themselves far too much.

Phei did not even pretend innocence.

Brian made it worse by raising his cup slightly whenever Landon gave a particularly polished answer, as though silently toasting his suffering.

By the time the anchor finally turned back to Phei for the concluding questions, the atmosphere had recovered enough to resemble an actual interview again, though no one present would forget the bodies metaphorically buried beneath the first half of the broadcast.

The anchor adjusted himself, perhaps grateful to end with something grand and safe. Poor man. Safety had been avoiding him all night like an unpaid debt.

"One final question, Mr. Ryujin Tiamat," he said, regaining a fraction of his earlier broadcaster elegance. "There has been much curiosity surrounding your mysterious Ryujin Tiamat family. Many people are wondering who you truly are, what sort of family stands behind you and whether the rumors of your influence have been exaggerated or understated."

Phei looked at him for a moment, then shrugged. "We’re nothing special really. People have been lied to. We’re just a bit rich."

The silence that followed was almost holy.

Then somewhere in the audience, someone choked.

"Just a bit rich?"

The words drifted beneath the garden lights while everyone present remembered the rumors of private jets, the penthouses, the global influence, the impossible backing, the kind of wealth that made governments act polite and corporations develop manners.

Phei sat there under the cameras with that harmless smile on his face, claiming the Ryujin Tiamat family was merely a little wealthy, and the lie was so enormous, so beautifully insulting, that even the anchor seemed unsure whether to laugh, faint or request tax records from heaven.

In the front row, Brian lowered his face into his hand while Landon stared at nothing, visibly reconsidering friendship. Emily closed her eyes briefly, suffering in corporate silence, and Phei simply smiled.

A bit rich.

Humanity, naturally, would spend the next week losing its mind over that.