The 100 Intellect XP didn't just feel like a boost; it felt like a library had been downloaded into my frontal lobe. Dates, metaphors, and complex structures settled into my mind with clicking precision. As I walked away from Mrs. Adams' office, the hallway looked different—I wasn't just seeing people; I was seeing the subtext of the world.
I stepped into my next period: Advanced Literature. This was usually the hour I spent sleeping in the back row or sketching obscene doodles in the margins of The Great Gatsby. The teacher, Mr. Henderson—a man who lived and breathed iambic pentameter—didn't even look up as I sat down. To him, I was a seat-filler with a pulse.
Rishie was already there, two rows ahead of me, her notebook open and her posture perfect. Kit, however, was in the seat right next to mine, her presence a cold, dark anchor in the room.
"Back for more boredom, Luca?" she whispered, her eyes never leaving the front of the room. "Or are you here to practice your new 'sincere' persona?"
"Watch and learn, Kit," I murmured.
Mr. Henderson slammed a thick volume of Hamlet onto his podium. "Today, we discuss the nature of the 'Ghost.' Is it a manifestation of Hamlet's grief, or a literal, external entity designed to manipulate him?"
He looked around the room, his gaze skipping over me as if I were a piece of furniture.
"Rishie? What are your thoughts?"
Rishie stood up, her voice clear. "I believe the Ghost is a psychological projection. It represents the burden of parental expectation and the trauma of loss. It's Hamlet's own mind forcing him into a role he isn't ready for."
"Safe. Academic. Boring," I said, loud enough for the whole class to hear.
The room went silent. Mr. Henderson's glasses nearly slipped off his nose. "Mr. Chaycer? You have a contribution? Aside from your usual silence?"
I stood up slowly, feeling the Silver Tongue skill tingle in my throat. I didn't just feel confident; I felt eloquent. "Rishie's right about the trauma, but she's missing the malice. The Ghost isn't just a projection; it's a 'Lust' for vengeance dressed in a father's armor. It's a parasite. It uses Hamlet's love as a weapon to destroy his future."
I leaned forward, my gaze shifting from the teacher to Kit, then to the class. "In literature—and in life—the most dangerous thing isn't the person who hates you. It's the person who uses your grief to make you do their dirty work. Hamlet isn't a tragic hero; he's a victim of a manipulation so profound it reaches beyond the grave. Just like some people in this room use their 'death' to keep everyone else in the dark."
[ SILVER TONGUE ACTIVATED: CHARISMA +10 DURING SPEECH ]
[ TARGETS AFFECTED: 25 ]
[ LUST ESSENCE HARVESTED FROM COLLECTIVE AWE: +30 LP ]
Mr. Henderson stood frozen. "That... that is a remarkably nihilistic but structurally sound interpretation, Lucas. I didn't know you were familiar with the concept of parasitic narrative."
"I'm familiar with a lot of things, Mr. Henderson," I said, sitting back down with a lazy grin.
Rishie turned around, her green eyes wide with a mix of shock and genuine curiosity. She looked at me not as a "whore-monger," but as an intellectual rival.
[ RISHIE AFFECTION LEVEL: 5% (+3% INCREASE) ]
[ CURRENT THOUGHT: "WHO IS THIS PERSON?" ]
Kit, however, looked like she'd been slapped. Her "Regret" cloud was pulsing a deep, bruised purple. My words about using grief as a weapon had hit her square in the chest. She clutched her pen so hard the plastic groaned.
"You're playing a dangerous game, Lucas," she hissed under her breath.
"I'm not playing anymore, Kit," I replied, my mind already drifting back to my fantasies of wealth. Each word I spoke felt like a deposit into a future bank account. If I could dominate a classroom like this, I could dominate a boardroom. I could see the path to the behemoth status now—it was paved with the truth that everyone else was too afraid to say.
[ SYSTEM MESSAGE: INTELLECT XP SYNTHESIZED. HOST IS NO LONGER CONSIDERED 'ACADEMICALLY DESTITUTE'. ]
[ TOTAL LP: 80 ]
I felt a surge of triumph. I was becoming the person I had only dreamed of being while staring at the hospital ceiling. The money would follow. The power would follow. I just had to keep talking.