Dragon Raja: Lu Mingfei finds a Freylian

"Let me see, it's open... wait, don't mess around!" Angers frowned. He looked up at the skylight, a circular glass window 1.5 meters in diameter, which was currently open for ventilation. A pigeon was perched on the window frame, preening its feathers.

"I'm not messing around. Look up again, I'm right above you. Here I come, handsome and dashing! Prepare for an emergency landing!"

Angers jerked his head back, and Schneider and Manstein followed suit.

The sunlight was blocked.

It wasn't a cloud, it was a parachute blooming. A white parachute unfurled directly above the skylight, like an upside-down dandelion. The skydiver waved to them, holding a cell phone in his other hand. They were so close they could see the person's face: long golden hair dancing wildly in the wind, eyes squinting with laughter, and white teeth gleaming in the sunlight.

"Pompeii! You're really crazy! Are you trying to break the Guinness World Record for ultra-low altitude skydiving?!" Angers was a little angry.

"Brother, how did you know! I just broke the Guinness World Record last month!" The parachute blocked the view through the entire skylight, and the whooshing wind blew in, scattering the documents on the table.

The person shouted as they fell, their voice filled with childlike excitement: "Ohh ...

Schneider and Manstein were stunned; they both knew this madman.

This guy is famous, not because he's good at breaking world records or doing things others wouldn't dare to do. Kassel College has plenty of crazy people; some even commit suicide by jumping off buildings, let alone skydiving. What shocked them was his name.

Pompeii, Pompeii Gattuso. Cesare Gattuso's biological father, the current head of the Gattuso family, and the man who theoretically holds one of the seven seats on the school board.

In reality, although Frost seemed to wield immense power on the board of trustees, his seat actually belonged to Pompeii himself. Ten years earlier, Pompeii had made a statement expressing his social anxiety and fear of large crowds, and felt that his brother Frost was a better representative of the Gattuso family than he was, so he handed over the board of trustees to his brother in trust.

Frost was a shrewd man, much like an ancient eunuch who usurped imperial power. Over ten years, he managed the Gattuso household with remarkable skill, and their influence grew ever stronger. Now, in Italy, everyone knew the name Frost. Pompey's orders were no longer effective.

Pompeii himself traveled the world frequently, appearing in various tabloid news: gambling away fortunes at casinos in Monaco, kissing a supermodel on Santorini, fishing for piranhas in the Amazon rainforest...

But Pompeii was, after all, the head of the Gattuso family, and no matter how much he was sidelined, his lineage could not be changed.

His name comes from Gnaeus Pompeii, the ancient Roman military leader who formed the First Triumvirate with Caesar and Crassus, and was ultimately defeated by Caesar at the Battle of Pharsalus.

Like Caesar Gattuso, the Gattuso family had a strange rule: only the family heir could use the names of ancient Roman heroes. So no matter how much Frost's words carried weight, he was still an illegitimate son, a commoner. Before Pompeii, he had to obediently bow his head and say, "Greetings, Master."

The man slowly landed on Angers' large desk.

With a muffled thud, a small crack appeared on the mahogany table. This table was an antique from when the school was founded in 1901. It had survived two world wars and was now cracked by a madman who was parachuting.

White parasols fell behind Pompeii. He knelt on one knee on the table to steady himself, then stood up and swayed his hips in a pose: "Hey! Pompeii Gattuso, the most handsome man in the universe who makes flowers swoon and cars puncture their tires!"

Pompeii jumped off the table, not walking down, but leaping down with the lightness of a gymnast, even bending his knees to cushion the landing. The parachute cords dragged on the ground, but he didn't even glance at them, casually unbuttoning the clasp on his chest, and the parachute canopy slid to the ground like a shed cicada's wing.

Now Schneider and Manstein can see his full picture.

Pompeii was undeniably handsome. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, but Schneider knew he was forty-seven. His blond hair wasn't dyed; it was a natural light gold that shimmered like honey in the sunlight. His azure eyes resembled the waters of the Aegean Sea, and his high-bridged nose and meticulously trimmed mustache gave his profile a Greek sculpture-like appearance.

He wore frameless glasses, but the eyes behind the lenses lacked any scholarly air; instead, they possessed a wild, animalistic vitality. His skin was a healthy tan, clearly the result of years spent outdoors. The collar of his white linen shirt was wide open, revealing his perfectly shaped chest and collarbone, while the sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing strong but not exaggerated forearm lines.

Although he was a complete scumbag, Pompeii was able to attract all sorts of beautiful women.

According to incomplete statistics, the women he has been romantically linked to include four princesses, three supermodels, two female idols, and several dozen Hollywood stars. His views on relationships are so terrible that even Vice Principal Flamel admits they are worse than him, yet many beautiful women still consider it an honor to be his girlfriend.

Rumor has it that the Gattuso family's public relations department spends tens of millions of dollars annually on Pompeii's private affairs.

"Why are you skydiving? Last time you were doing horse racing, weren't you?" Angers bent down to pick up the parachute canopy from the ground and tossed it aside. This piece of junk had broken his table; repairs wouldn't be cheap. "And you're interested in breaking a Guinness World Record?"

Chapter 469 Flamel: How could Frilian possibly be in trouble?

“Oh dear, you’ve touched a sore spot. The princess I raced with fell off her horse and broke her leg,” Pompeii shrugged, jumped off the table, and stepped barefoot onto the carpet. He wasn’t wearing shoes, just socks.

"Racing a horse with a princess who has a broken leg is pointless. You know, she needs three people to help her mount every time, and there's no aesthetic appeal in that scene. Skydiving is much better; young people love it. My son Caesar also loves skydiving, yeah, that's great. Last month I was in Switzerland, and when I jumped off the Matterhorn, a Swedish girl rushed up to me and asked for my autograph when I landed."

As he spoke, his eyes scanned the study, as if searching for something. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and he turned to walk towards the tea cabinet in the corner. It was a Victorian-style walnut cabinet, with various tea canisters displayed behind its glass doors.

"Where did it come from? Let me guess, Rome," Angers asked, his eyes fixed on Pompeii's hands, which were rummaging through the tea cabinet.

“Frost’s in Rome, he’s swamped, let me tell you. I just flew in from Bangkok,” Pompeii said without turning his head. “Six hours ago, I was riding an elephant in Thailand. The elephant was named Lucky, it could open beer bottles with its trunk, and it was incredibly smart. I wanted to buy it and bring it back to Italy, but the locals said I couldn’t sell it; it’s a lucky charm. Aha! I found it!”

He pulled out an unlabeled black tin can, unscrewed the lid, smelled it, and revealed an expression of rapture.

Angers' lips twitched slightly.

The black tea Pompeii is holding comes from Wuyi Mountain in China. The tea trees grow on cliffs, and the only way to harvest the tea leaves is to train monkeys. The tea is smoked with pine needles, and the annual yield is less than five kilograms.

Angers went through numerous connections to obtain 400 grams of tea, which he kept hidden for three to five years without daring to drink it. The tea canister had no label and was hidden in the most inconspicuous corner, yet Pompeii found it with a casual rummage. The Gattuso family truly lived up to their reputation for enjoying only the finest things.

“Oh, Professor Manstein, hello! We spoke on the phone not long ago.” Pompeii, holding a tea canister, turned and waved to Manstein, his smile as bright as if he were meeting an old friend. “The report you submitted at last year’s Board of Trustees’ budget meeting, the proposal to reduce the casualty rate in practical classes, was really well written. I actually read it, although Frost said it was just sentimentality.”

Manstein was stunned. He had indeed submitted that report, and he had indeed communicated with "the Gattuso family representative" on the phone. But the voice on the other end was cold and arrogant; he had assumed it was Frost. Now, thinking back, had Pompeii been the one answering the phone all along? Was this seemingly cynical man actually secretly keeping an eye on the Academy's affairs?

“Hello, Professor Schneider,” Pompeii turned to Schneider and extended his hand warmly. “The mask you’re wearing is incredibly cool; Darth Vader can’t compare to you. Have you seen the new Star Wars trilogy? The special effects are great, but the plot… sigh, Lucas’s getting old.”

Schneider mechanically shook hands with him. Pompeii's palm was warm and dry, and his grip was just right, neither impolite nor provocative.

This detail puzzled Schneider even more. The Gattuso family had a bad reputation; they had been domineering since the Middle Ages, and if anyone stood in their way, they would run them over. If the head of the family was well-mannered and knew to warn others to move aside before killing someone, then he would be a benevolent ruler, practically a saint.

Pompeii was mild-mannered and rarely got angry. He was truly a rare Catosian; his death could be analyzed.

After exchanging greetings, Pompeii returned to the tea table, humming a little tune. He boiled water, warmed the pot, placed the tea leaves, and brewed the tea—his movements were fluid and graceful, clearly those of a tea master. Steam rose, carrying the caramel and smoky aromas of black tea, wafting upwards in the sunlight.

“Professor Schneider, Professor Manstein, please give me and Pompeii some private space,” Angers suddenly said.

His tone left no room for negotiation. Schneider and Manstein stood up simultaneously; it was an order, not a request.

"Don't be like that, it's too formal. I wanted to show everyone my tea-making skills." Pompeii looked up, his expression somewhat regretful. "The first brew is perfect; it's the most fragrant when you drink it now."

“Thank you for your kind offer, Principal, please continue your conversation,” Manstein said. He hurriedly packed his briefcase, some of the documents on the table still unorganized and blown to the ground by the wind.

Schneider took one last look at the office.

The sun still shone, the dust still lingered, and a squirrel peered out from high on the bookshelf. Pompeii sat at the tea table, pouring tea into two cups, the amber-colored liquid tracing graceful arcs. Angers stood beneath the skylight, gazing up at the fine crack in the glass—a mark left by the friction of parachute lines.

Two men, one old and one young, one standing and one sitting, separated by the aroma of tea and sunlight.

The scene is as serene as a Dutch still life painting.

But Schneider knew a storm was brewing. Pompeii's appearance was no accident, no joke. The fact that the head of the Gattuso family personally parachuted into the principal's office was a declaration in itself: I don't play by your rules.

As the door closed behind him, he heard Pompeii say, "Now, old friend, let's talk about my son."

The laughter in his voice vanished, leaving only a deep, calm sea.

As they went downstairs, Schneider and Manstein ran into Vice Principal Flamel in the second-floor corridor. The old cowboy leaned against a knight's armor, his bottle empty. Looking at their somber expressions, he grinned, "What's wrong, seeing a ghost?"

“Pompeii has arrived,” Manstein said.

Flamel's smile froze for a moment, then he laughed even harder, until he started coughing.

“Pompeii? That playboy? Good, good, this is going to be interesting.” He wiped away the tears of laughter. “Angers hates two kinds of people the most: those who don’t follow the rules and those who are too good-looking. Pompeii has both.”

“Vice Principal,” Schneider asked, “aren’t you really worried about Frillie?”

Flamel stopped laughing. He stared at Schneider for a few seconds, then slowly straightened up. For a fleeting moment, a sharp glint flashed in the eyes of this perpetually drunk old man, like a renowned sword hidden in a tattered sheath, occasionally revealing an inch of its edge.

“Schneider,” he said, his voice no longer slurred with drunkenness, “how could anything have happened to her?”

He patted Schneider on the shoulder, so hard that the latter staggered. "Go back to sleep. The sun will rise as usual tomorrow. As for those Japanese," he sneered, "they'll understand that some old folks live long not because they hide well."

“It’s because,” he turned and left, his voice echoing in the corridor, “our indulgence.”

The footsteps faded into the distance.

Schneider and Manstein stood in the empty corridor, the sound of church bells ringing outside the window, heavy and long, each chime striking their hearts.

Chapter 470 The Playboy Never Looks Old

The sound of black tea being poured into a bone china cup was exceptionally clear in the silence, like the ticking of time. The amber-colored tea rippled in the cup, steam rising and carrying the aroma of pine smoke and caramel. Pompeii pushed the cup toward Angers with the elegance of a waiter, if one ignored the fact that he was barefoot on the carpet and that three buttons of his shirt collar were undone.

“It’s been a long time. Shall we have some tea first?” Pompeii asked. He poured himself a cup, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. His socks were made of dark blue velvet, with a small embroidered mark at the ankle: the Gattuso family’s double-headed eagle, embroidered in silver thread.

Angers did not answer immediately. He picked up his teacup, first smelled the aroma, then took a small sip with his lips, letting the tea linger on his tongue for a moment before slowly swallowing.

“Three years is indeed a long time,” he finally spoke, his eyes fixed on the swirling tea leaves in his cup. “In 2003, you were skiing in St. Moritz and broke three ribs. I went to see you in the hospital, and you were flirting with that Swiss nurse, saying you would buy the Alps and give it to her.”

"Ha! I remember now!" Pompeii slapped his thigh. "That nurse was called Anna, blonde, with a 36D bust. Unfortunately, she later discovered that half of my Swiss bank deposits were managed by Frost, and in a fit of anger, she ran off with that orthopedic surgeon."

He paused, then looked Angers up and down. "Why don't you age, you old codger? You looked just like this ten years ago, and you still do. Time seems to have stood still for you."

“Time never stops, Pompeii. It just moves a little slower for me,” Angers said, taking another sip of tea. “As for you, you looked thirty-five ten years ago, and you still are. Is the playboy lifestyle really that nourishing?”

"Being a playboy is great, you don't have to think about anything, you just accompany ladies to parties every day, drive sports cars or yachts, of course you're young."

Pompeii pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket. It wasn't an ordinary cigar; it was a Cuban Cohiba Behike, numbered on the aluminum tube—a limited edition, with fewer than four thousand produced annually. He held the cigar to his nose and smelled it, then tapped it lightly on the surface of his bare shoe, a motion as practiced as an old smoker's.

"I'm under less pressure, so I'm carefree. Look at Frost, he's only two years younger than me, but half of his hair is already white. I smoke very little now, it's for health reasons."

He said "rarely," but had already bitten off the end of the cigar and lit it with the Victorian-style brass table lamp. The flame licked the tobacco, making a soft hissing sound. The smoke rose, carrying a rich aroma of chocolate mixed with leather.

"Are you here as a representative of the Gattuso family? Or what?" Angers asked. He placed the teacup back on the saucer, the porcelain clinking together with a crisp "tinkling" sound.

“Of course! My son Caesar’s fate is unknown, and I’m so worried I’m frantic. That’s why I came to find you as soon as possible,” Pompeii said, exhaling a smoke ring. The smoke ring rose slowly in the sunlight, like a transparent ghost.

"Does a stallion care about its offspring?" Angers laughed. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fingers interlaced.

"You didn't even attend his parent-teacher conferences, did you? In 2008, Caesar was in seventh grade at St. Mary's School and got straight A's on his midterms. The school held an awards ceremony, and all the parents were there except you. Your teacher called you, and you said you were chasing a marlin in the Maldives and couldn't get away. What did Caesar say to me last time he talked about you—"

Angers mimicked the tone of a young man, his voice carrying a deliberately exaggerated contempt, "Stallion dad? Something like that."

Pompeii's smile froze for a moment, but quickly returned. He flicked his cigarette ash onto the carpet, and Angers' eye twitched.

“I love Caesar very much,” Pompeii said seriously, even putting down his cigar, “but I express it in a rather unusual way. Caesar is still young, going through a rebellious teenage phase. When he grows up and becomes a father, he will understand me.”

“He can only become a father if he lives to see that day,” Angers said. “Caesar’s fate is currently unknown, and Norma’s calculations show a survival rate of no more than 1%. But you don’t seem worried.”

He stared into Pompeii's eyes. The azure pupils were somewhat blurred behind the smoke, but Angers caught a fleeting emotion—not worry, not fear, but something more complex, like an undercurrent beneath the surface of deep water.

"I'm so nervous, how can I not be nervous?" Pompeii sighed and picked up his cigar again. "But I can't cause trouble, can I? We're like brothers! You know I've always considered you a brother."

“Brother?” Angers raised an eyebrow.

“Yes! In 2001, we were in Las Vegas. You lost the last dollar in your pocket, and I lent you $100,000 to help you win it back. Although you lost it all again later, that friendship remains.”

“You set me up that time, Pompeii. You hired three professional gamblers to sit next to me.”

“The details don’t matter!” Pompeii waved his hand, as if shooing away flies. “The important thing is that I came here because I was afraid Frost would mess things up. He’s not in a good mental state, you know. If he had come to you today—” he lowered his voice and made a gun-raising gesture, “he might have pointed this at your head. You know, he’s capable of anything when he’s in a hurry.”

He patted Angers on the shoulder affectionately. The force of his hand as he patted down was strong and enthusiastic.

“There’s a reason he’s like this. My family is full of lunatics, generation after generation. My father, do you know what he did back then? When Mussolini was in power, he was a member of parliament. One day in a meeting, he suddenly stood up, jumped onto the table, and shouted, ‘Down with Mussolini! Death to fascism!’”

Pompeii stood up, mimicking the scene, one foot on a chair, waving his arms: "The whole place was stunned! The guards rushed in, dragged him away, and locked him in jail. He was supposed to be executed, but before they could carry it out, the Americans invaded Italy and overthrew Mussolini's regime. And what happened? My father was seen as a hero for resisting tyranny because of his words 'Down with Mussolini!' When he was released from prison, the citizens lined the streets to welcome him, throwing flowers all the way."

He sat down, laughing so hard he almost fell over, cigar ash dripping onto the carpet. "Let me tell you, that's him going crazy! He's been acting strangely in his old age, always saying Mussolini's ghost is under his bed. So you see, Frost's behavior is hereditary, he can't change it."

Angers listened in silence. He picked up his teacup, then put it down again. He repeated this action three times, as if weighing something.