Demonic Po*nstar System Chapter 702: Dead End

Then Brittany grabbed hold of her cellphone.

"What are you doing?"

"Calling a law firm."

Trisha stared at her in disbelief. "It is past midnight."

"Then I will simply wake one of them up." Brittany’s thumb darted across the display, opening a list of awakened-specialized legal contacts she had saved months prior, never imagining she would actually need them. Her tone had shifted completely. While the desperation remained, it had hardened into cold fury, and fury proved far easier to channel than raw grief. "You mentioned they cost a fortune for their advice? Fine. If I am truly going to be penniless in sixty-eight hours, I might as well make some overpaid attorney sweat right now."

"Britt, don’t—"

"What is the worst that happens? Do they refuse? Do they hang up?" Locating a name, she tapped the screen and pressed the phone to her ear.

Trisha observed her with an expression that wanted to remain skeptical but failed; the fire ignited in Brittany’s eyes was the first sign of life she had seen in either of them since stepping out of Maeve’s tent.

The phone rang twice.

"Hargrove and Sato, after-hours help desk. How may I direct your inquiry?"

Brittany straightened her posture. "I am an A-tier awakened combatant, and I require a consultation with a contract specialist immediately."

The line fell silent for a heartbeat. When the responder spoke again, the initial bored tone had vanished, replaced by clear attentiveness.

She had been right. Lawyers working with awakened clients operated on awakened schedules. Not a single soul in that industry wished to miss a call from a superhuman who could turn into a lucrative long-term client; an A-tier fighter on your payroll was worth far more than a hundred civilian retainers. Proximity to such power unlocked doors that simple wealth could not.

The receptionist routed her call in under thirty seconds.

The attorney was polite, sharp, and genuinely intrigued for the first four minutes. He pressed for details on the contract structure, the timeline, and all parties involved. His voice carried the distinct enthusiasm of a professional who smelled a high-value case.

Then Brittany mentioned the name Ashbound, and the enthusiasm vanished.

She felt it happen instantly. The subtle hesitation before his next inquiry. The shift from an eager "tell me more" to a cautious "let me understand the scope." He questioned the specific clause. She recited it. He asked about the deadline. She confirmed it. When he inquired about confidentiality provisions, she admitted she didn't recall the exact wording, only assumptions—followed by the heavy silence of a man calculating figures that clearly spelled disaster for her.

"I appreciate you reaching out. Considering the deadline and the parties involved, I would recommend contacting a firm that specializes in guild-level contract arbitration. We primarily handle individual awakened employment matters, and a case of this magnitude requires resources we simply cannot deploy on such short notice."

Translation: We are not willing to challenge the Ashbound legal department on your behalf.

"Thank you for your time," Brittany said before hanging up.

She dialed the next firm. The conversation continued for six minutes and concluded in the same fashion, though the attorney used many more words to convey the same refusal. Conflict of interest, he claimed. His firm had provided services for Ashbound-adjacent companies previously, and accepting her case would present an ethical dilemma he wished to avoid.

Translation: We currently work for the same people you are fighting.

The third firm never answered. The fourth picked up, listened for three minutes, and demanded a fifty-thousand-Chronos retainer just to review the documents. When Brittany initiated a discussion on payment plans, the attorney’s professional warmth evaporated, and the line went dead in under a minute.

The associate at the fifth firm was young, eager, and spent twenty minutes recording notes before placing Brittany on hold. She returned seven minutes later with the rigid, cautious tone of someone who had just received instructions from a senior partner.

"After reviewing your details, we do not believe we are the right fit for your needs at this time. I wish you the best of luck, and please do not hesitate to contact us if your situation changes."

Brittany lowered the phone and stared at it blankly.

Trisha remained motionless against the railing. She had overheard every single call, watching Brittany’s posture stiffen with each dial and slump with each rejection. The expression on her face was far worse than an "I told you so." It was genuine grief for the version of Brittany who had picked up that phone believing that sheer effort could resolve this crisis.

"One more time," Brittany said.

"Britt, please."

"Just one more."

The sixth firm specifically handled guild disputes. Their website declared it openly. Brittany had noted their number months ago, back when she still harbored delusions that she might need them for a normal negotiation or a licensing disagreement—the kind of mundane legal trouble that normal awakened fighters faced.

The attorney who answered was a woman. She was direct, highly competent, and asked the right questions immediately. She did not flinch at the mention of Ashbound. She offered no excuses about conflicts. She listened to the entire story, asked Brittany to repeat the clause details twice, and then fell into a long, contemplative silence.

"Here is the reality," the attorney finally said. "You possess legal grounds to challenge the interpretation of the scope and the net worth calculations. Both arguments have merit. The obstacle is the enforcement timeline. Seventy-two hours is simply not enough time to file and secure a stay through standard Association arbitration. To halt the clock, you would need an emergency injunction, which requires a five-thousand-Chronos filing fee, a hearing within forty-eight hours, and a judge willing to challenge an Ashbound contract on an expedited basis." She paused. "I will be frank. I know three judges in the awakened arbitration circuit who handle emergency filings. Two of them maintain professional ties with the Ashbound legal team. The third retired last month."

Brittany squeezed her eyes shut.

"I am truly sorry. If the deadline allowed for thirty days, I would take your case this very moment. But with only seventy-two hours, I cannot draft the filing in time to be of use, and any attempt would only add mounting legal fees to the obligations you already face."

"Thank you," Brittany whispered as she ended the call.

She let the phone slip face-down onto the balcony floor.

Her hands were trembling. Her entire body shook, and the fury that had fueled those six frantic calls bled out of her, leaving nothing behind but the biting cold, the moonlight, and the steady sound of Trisha breathing nearby.

The tears fell unexpectedly. These were not the quiet, restrained tears from the mountain path. They were ugly, wrenching sobs that doubled her over and dragged sounds from her throat she barely recognized. Pressing her palms against her face, she began to weep, her shoulders convulsing so violently her teeth rattled.

Trisha shifted beside her. She said nothing, instead pulling Brittany’s head into her lap, anchoring her with hands resting on her temple and hair, and Brittany curled into her, sobbing.

The balcony remained deathly quiet for a long while.

Then, Brittany’s phone began to ring.

She flinched violently, causing Trisha’s grip to tighten. The screen flashed against the balcony floor, illuminating the wood with a harsh white rectangle, and the caller ID displayed a string of digits neither of them recognized. No name. No prefix. Just numbers.

Brittany wiped her wet face and looked at Trisha, who mirrored her expression of guarded wariness.

"Probably another reporter," Trisha muttered.

Brittany answered it. "Hello?"

The first thing she heard was the sound of breathing.

Heavy, damp breathing echoing through parted lips, accompanied by a low, consistent ambient hum that sounded expensive. A yacht engine, perhaps, or the filtered air of an elite penthouse climate control system. After two long seconds of silence, a voice emerged—a thick, male voice carrying the oily, self-satisfied warmth of a man accustomed to buying whatever he desired.

"Good evening, ladies."

Brittany felt her stomach churn. "Who is this?"

"I heard you have found yourself in quite a bit of trouble." A low, phlegmy chuckle followed. "Serious trouble, from what I understand. The kind of trouble that intelligent young women really should not have to face entirely on their own."

"I asked who you are," Brittany repeated, her voice turning hard.

"Call me... Mister Hero." Another laugh, longer and wetter than the last. "I am a friend. A friend with deep resources, and a very deep appreciation for stunning awakened women."