Just before dawn broke, I slipped back into my dormitory by threading my way through the campus security cameras' blind spots.
The moment I locked the door behind me, my legs finally gave out. I slid down with my back against the door and sat there on the floor, breathing hard. My heart was hammering against my ribcage—but not from fear. It was the aftershock of adrenaline, the residue of something profoundly unreal.
I was safe.
At least, for now.
The room was unchanged.
An unmade bed. Class notes scattered across the desk. A dim hologram lamp flickering weakly in the corner. Everything belonged to the old Arthur. And yet, it felt as if I no longer fit inside this space—like a grown predator trapped in a cage meant for prey.
I stripped off the torn uniform, stiff with dried mud and black sludge, and let it fall to the floor. Even the sound of fabric hitting the tiles felt unbearably loud. When I stepped into the shower, the hot water struck my ice-cold skin like needles. I flinched—then slowly relaxed.
The water pooling around my feet turned pitch-black as it ran off. The filth of the forest, the remnants of Reflection Lake, the metallic stench of the dead wolf—everything spiraled down the drain. Not just dirt. It felt as though my weakness itself was being washed away, carried into the sewers and erased.
Once I was clean and wrapped in a towel, I stood before the bathroom mirror, its surface fogged over with steam. I wiped it clear with my hand.
And froze.
I didn't recognize the person staring back at me.
The Arthur from last night—the hunched shoulders, the protruding ribs, the sickly yellow pallor, the eyes permanently clouded with anxiety—was gone.
That boy had died in the forest.
In his place stood someone else. Someone who looked as though he'd been carved from marble by a master sculptor. My height hadn't changed, but my posture had been rewritten from the ground up. My spine was straight. My shoulders broader, pulled back naturally. Every trace of excess fat had vanished.
My muscles weren't bulky like a bodybuilder's—that would have been inefficient. Instead, they were dense. Compact. Each fiber coiled with restrained violence. The flexibility of a gymnast fused with the explosive power of a predator. Every tendon felt like a drawn bowstring, trembling with potential.
My skin…
It had turned almost translucent white—smooth, cold, and flawless like polished stone.
But the most disturbing change was on my right arm.
From wrist to elbow, a spiraling black tribal tattoo wrapped around my forearm.
Grim.
It didn't look like ink resting on skin. It looked alive—like something dwelling beneath my flesh. The black lines pulsed faintly, in time with my heartbeat.
"Comfortable in there?" I whispered.
In response, the muscles in my arm tightened on their own, and the stylized eye at the center of the tattoo blinked once.
Yes. It was comfortable.
And hungry.
It was dozing peacefully while absorbing the excess energy leaking from me.
I pulled on a fresh uniform. The white shirt clung lightly to my chest and shoulders. The jacket that once hung off me like a sack now fit perfectly, cinching at my waist. I looked at the mirror again.
My eyes.
Those violet, iris-less Entropy Eyes stared back at me.
They weren't human.
"Hide," I ordered myself.
I focused inward, drawing a curtain across my mind. I suppressed the violet flame and painted over it with a false brown hue. The effort drained a constant trickle of mental energy; a dull ache throbbed at my temples. I would have to get used to it.
I met my reflection one last time.
"Arthur Knox is dead," I said softly.
My voice echoed faintly in the empty room.
"I'm just his ghost."
The clock read 07:30 when I stepped into the corridor.
The Academy was fully awake. Students moved in clusters toward the cafeteria and briefing halls. Mini-drones zipped through the air. Tablets glowed in countless hands. From the training grounds at the far end of the hall came the muffled sound of magical detonations.
Everything was normal.
But the instant I stepped out of my room, the atmosphere around me changed.
No one looked at me.
No one mocked me.
No one even noticed me.
I was invisible.
My ranking was 1997—nearly dead last in a school of two thousand. Everyone was so convinced I would die on today's mission that I wasn't even worth the effort of bullying anymore. Why waste energy on a man already marked for death?
I liked this invisibility.
Head held high, steps silent, I walked along the edge of the corridor. There was a rhythm to my movement now—the smooth, flowing cadence of a hunter slipping through the woods without making a sound. People unconsciously shifted aside as I passed. When I came close to colliding with someone, my body adjusted instinctively, gliding past them without contact.
They didn't notice.
But I felt it.
I was moving through the crowd like a gust of wind.
I was just about to turn the corner when a burst of loud laughter filled the hallway.
The air grew heavy.
At the center of the group was him.
Two meters tall. No neck to speak of. A walking mountain of muscle.
Titus "Tank" Grom.
Rank: 104.
Element: Steel Skin.
Draven's loyal dog—and the undisputed bully of this corridor.
Titus and his cronies blocked the entire passage. Other students pulled back in fear and deference to make way for them.
I did the same.
I stepped aside, lowered my head slightly, let my shoulders droop, and leaned against the wall.
For now, I would play my role.
I would be pathetic Arthur.
Titus slowed as he passed me.
His massive shadow fell over my body, thick with the stench of sweat and metal. He looked down at me the way one looks at an insect stuck to the sole of a shoe.
"Hey. Number 1997," he said, his voice thick and guttural.
I raised my head just enough to meet his gaze, forcibly suppressing the violet flame in my eyes and replacing it with the dull, empty stare of the old Arthur.
Titus snorted. His teeth flashed—sharp, predatory.
"On today's mission…" He jabbed a thick finger into my chest, hard enough that it would have cracked my ribs before. "Don't get under my feet. If your useless existence—your screams, your incompetence—causes my rank to drop…"
He leaned in close. His breath was hot and heavy.
"…I'll tear you apart before the monsters get the chance. Got it?"
The old Arthur would have trembled. His knees would have knocked together. He would have stammered an apology.
But me?
The world slowed.
My gaze slid to the artery in Titus's neck. I could see the blood flowing beneath his skin. Then my eyes flicked to the tendon behind his right knee. Then to the vulnerable point beneath his diaphragm.
[Analysis]
Target: Titus Grom
Threat Level: Low
Weak Points: Right knee tendon, throat
Time to Kill: 0.4 seconds
I crushed the savage impulse rising inside me—the urge to drive my hand in like a blade and drop him where he stood. Grim stirred uneasily beneath my skin, sensing its owner's killing intent.
Not now, I told myself. This isn't the place. He's just a pawn.
"Understood," I said quietly.
My voice was flat. Empty.
Titus grinned, satisfied—mistaking my calm for stupidity.
"Good."
As he passed, he slammed his full weight into my shoulder, intending to knock me to the ground and draw laughter from his crew.
Thud.
There was the sound of impact—but no one fell.
Titus staggered in surprise. It felt as though he'd rammed into an iron stake driven deep into the ground.
I, meanwhile, had merely… flexed.
By a fraction of a millimeter.
I absorbed the force and redirected it into the floor. I didn't move an inch.
Titus didn't understand what had happened. He assumed he'd just lost his balance.
"Walking corpse," he muttered to his friend, trying to hide his irritation.
"Wasting oxygen."
As they walked away, I calmly brushed the dust from my shoulder.
I didn't say a word.
I didn't even look back.
Only a faint, cold smile touched the corner of my lips.
There was one thing I didn't notice.
From the VIP balcony above the corridor, a pair of ice-blue eyes watched the crowd while sipping coffee.
Elena Frost.
Ranked second in the Academy.
The Ice Queen.
Normally, F-Rank students didn't even register on her radar. They were statistics. Numbers.
But just now, amid the noise and chaos, she had caught an anomaly.
When Titus had shoulder-checked that scrawny boy, he hadn't even staggered.
It defied physics.
A normal F-Rank should have shattered a collarbone.
Elena narrowed her eyes, her gaze scanning Arthur's retreating back like a targeting system.
Strange, she thought.
Very strange.
That boy… something about him was wrong.
Without realizing it, Arthur Knox had left his first trace behind.
And that trace had caught the attention of one of the most dangerous minds in the Academy.