Monday morning arrived with the cool clarity that often followed rain. Through his half-open blinds, Nick watched the campus stirring to life—students trudging between buildings with coffee cups clutched like lifelines, professors striding across rain-dampened lawns. The second week of classes was beginning, bringing with it new challenges and opportunities.

  Nick rolled his shoulders, working out the lingering stiffness from yesterday's mana practice. The sensation was different from normal muscle fatigue—deeper, more pervasive, as if the exertion had reached beyond physical tissue into something more fundamental. He flexed his hands, feeling the energy dormant but accessible, like a calm lake beneath a thin layer of ice.

  A faint blue glow pulsed once beneath his skin before fading. Nick smiled grimly. Each day, the connection to Arlize's abilities grew stronger, more integrated with his own consciousness. What had begun as random flashes of memory and instinct was evolving into something he could control, if only barely.

  He sat at his desk, methodically reviewing the security logs from Maggie's custom patch. No further breach attempts had been detected overnight, but that did little to ease his suspicions. Whoever had tried to access his investment timeline was sophisticated enough to retreat and regroup.

  "Who are you?" Nick murmured, scrolling through the technical data. The timing of the hack attempt—so soon after someone had searched his room—suggested coordination rather than coincidence.

  His stomach growled, interrupting his analysis. The enhanced metabolism that came with wielding mana demanded more frequent refueling. He checked his watch—7:15 AM. Biology started at 8:00, leaving him just enough time for breakfast before class.

  The dining hall buzzed with Monday morning energy—louder than usual as students exchanged weekend stories, many revolving around Friday night's Alpha Phi party. Nick selected his usual protein-heavy breakfast and found a quiet corner table, positioning himself with his back to the wall, maintaining clear sightlines to both entrances.

  "—swear, it was like something out of a movie," a student at the next table was saying. "Cops everywhere, ambulances, the whole deal."

  "All I know is Hendricks got his face smashed in," his companion replied. "Kaplan too. Heard they're both still in the medical center."

  Nick tilted his head slightly, enhancing his eavesdropping without appearing to do so. He recognized the names immediately: Jason Hendricks and Tyler Kaplan, both wrestlers known for their eagerness to enforce the social hierarchy through intimidation.

  "The crazy part," the first student continued, lowering his voice, "is that they were paid to jump someone. Some freshman who never showed up."

  "For real?" his friend asked, leaning forward.

  "Yeah, they had an arrangement to 'teach a lesson' to a specific freshman. But the guy never showed, so they got bored and started messing with others instead. That's how the whole brawl kicked off."

  Nick carefully maintained his neutral expression, though inside, cold satisfaction bloomed. In his previous life, he'd accepted Matt's invitation to that party, eager to cement his social position. The night had ended with him in the hospital, beaten so severely by Hendricks, Kaplan, and their friends that he'd missed two months of classes. His grades had tanked, his confidence shattered, and he'd found himself utterly dependent on Matt and Sarah—exactly as they'd planned.

  This time, the trap had sprung empty.

  A slight smile curved Nick's lips as he finished his meal. His entire perspective had shifted since his rebirth with Arlize's memories. What once seemed like random college drama now revealed itself as deliberate, calculated moves in a game with stakes far higher than social standing.

  Nick made his way to the science building, his mind working through possibilities. If Matt had indeed paid Hendricks and Kaplan to attack him—and Nick had little doubt of this—then the motivation went beyond simple hazing. The level of violence in his previous life had been extreme, designed to incapacitate rather than merely intimidate.

  Why? The question nagged at him. What does Matt gain from isolating me and keeping me dependent?

  The answer remained elusive, but Nick suspected it connected to Callahan Industries in some way. Something about Nick himself posed a threat. He just didn't know what, and that would require further investigation.

  The Biology classroom was already half-full when Nick arrived. He took his usual seat, positioning his materials with military precision. Since his mana breakthrough, Nick found himself increasingly drawn to understanding how the human body functioned at a cellular level—knowledge that might help him comprehend and control his new power.

  Professor Godrudson swept in precisely at 8:00, cutting an impressive figure that commanded immediate attention. Her silver-streaked black hair was pulled back in a tight bun, revealing sharp cheekbones and penetrating hazel eyes. Though she couldn't be older than fifty, fine lines around her eyes hinted at countless hours peering through microscopes. Her movements were economical and purposeful, each gesture precise as a surgeon's.

  "Good morning, everyone," she began, her voice carrying effortlessly to the back row. "Today we're delving into cellular respiration and energy production in human tissues. Specifically, how different cellular structures respond to physical and environmental stressors."

  She activated the projection system, bringing up a detailed diagram of mitochondria. "The fundamental question we're addressing is this: How does the human body maintain homeostasis while adapting to changing demands? How do our cells know when to conserve energy and when to expend it?"

  Nick's attention sharpened. This was exactly the knowledge he needed to understand what was happening within his own body when he channeled mana.

  For the next two hours, she guided them through the essentials of cellular respiration and energy adaptation systems. Nick absorbed the material with unprecedented focus, finding it clicking into place with startling clarity—as if his mind had been prewired to understand these biological systems.

  When she described how cells could dramatically increase energy production under stress, Nick found himself unconsciously flexing his hand, remembering the sensation of blue energy flowing through his veins. Each scientific principle she outlined seemed to parallel his experiences with mana in ways too precise to be coincidental.

  When class ended, most students filed out quickly. Nick, however, remained seated, organizing his notes until Professor Godrudson was alone at her desk.

  "Professor?" Nick approached. "I was hoping I could ask you some follow-up questions about cellular adaptation to stress."

  Professor Godrudson looked up from her tablet, those penetrating eyes focusing on him with intense assessment. "Mr. Valiente, correct? What specifically caught your interest?"

  "I'm particularly curious about muscular adaptation at the cellular level," Nick said. "You mentioned that muscle tissue can undergo significant structural changes in response to specific stressors. I wondered if you could elaborate on the mechanisms involved."

  A flicker of genuine interest crossed Professor Godrudson's face. "That's a surprisingly sophisticated question," she said, closing her tablet case. "Most students at your level are still struggling to memorize the basic steps of glycolysis."

  She gestured to a chair near her desk. "Take a seat, Mr. Valiente. I have twenty minutes before my next commitment."

  Nick settled into the chair, giving her his full attention. This wasn't just academic curiosity—understanding these processes might be the key to controlling the mana that now flowed through his system.

  "Muscular adaptation functions through several interconnected mechanisms," Professor Godrudson began. She pulled out a blank sheet and sketched a diagram showing how mechanical stress creates microtears in muscle fibers, triggering repair processes and growth.

  "When muscles are stressed," she continued, adding pathways to her diagram, "they release signaling proteins that activate dormant stem cells. These cells then repair and strengthen the tissue." She explained how different types of stress produce different adaptations, with high-intensity training developing different pathways than endurance work.

  "And what about recovery mechanisms?" Nick asked. "I'm curious about how the body prioritizes energy allocation during healing."

  Professor Godrudson nodded approvingly. "The body employs a sophisticated triage system. When tissue is damaged, inflammatory responses direct energy and resources to the affected areas. The more frequently a specific stress is encountered, the more efficient the recovery pathway becomes. This is why consistent training produces better results than sporadic efforts."

  Nick studied the diagram intently. "So theoretically, if someone could control these cellular signaling pathways directly, they could accelerate recovery significantly?"

  "In theory, yes," Professor Godrudson replied thoughtfully. "Some recent studies have shown promising results with targeted electrical stimulation of specific pathways. But we're years away from practical applications. The human body has redundant systems and safeguards that make performance enhancement challenging."

  Not for me, Nick thought, remembering how the mana had accelerated his recovery after intense training sessions. What Professor Godrudson described as theoretically possible, he was already experiencing firsthand.

  "One more question," Nick said. "You mentioned that extreme stress can trigger unusual cellular responses. Could you elaborate on that?"

  Something flickered in Professor Godrudson's eyes—a moment of hesitation, as if she were deciding how much to reveal.

  "In extreme situations—life-threatening conditions—the human body can access reserve capacities that remain dormant under normal circumstances. We've documented cases of individuals displaying strength or endurance far beyond their normal capabilities."

  "Hysterical strength," Nick offered.

  "Precisely. Most scientists attribute this to a combination of adrenaline release and the temporary overriding of the body's normal protective limitations." She gathered her papers, glancing at the clock. "What's particularly interesting are the rare individuals who can access these reserve capacities voluntarily through meditation or specialized training."

  Nick felt a surge of excitement. This aligned perfectly with what he'd experienced during his mana manifestation.

  "Thank you, Professor. This has been incredibly helpful," Nick said sincerely.

  Professor Godrudson studied him for a moment, then tapped her pen against the desk three times—a habitual gesture Nick had noticed during her lectures when she was considering something significant.

  "I'm pleased to see such interest, Mr. Valiente," she replied, slipping the diagram into a folder and extending it to him. "My own work began with similar questions during my undergraduate years. I was curious about physical adaptation limits after my brother—" She stopped abruptly, the personal revelation seeming to surprise even herself. She cleared her throat, professional demeanor returning instantly. "If you're serious about pursuing this, I have some journal articles you might find valuable. My office hours are Wednesdays from 3:00 to 4:30."

  This glimpse of the professor's personal motivation was unexpected. Nick filed it away—another data point suggesting that her interest in cellular adaptation might stem from personal roots.

  "I'll definitely stop by," Nick promised, gathering his materials.

  As he left the biology building, Nick's mind raced with new possibilities. If the blue energy somehow enhanced or accelerated natural biological processes, he might be able to develop control techniques based on scientific principles rather than relying solely on Arlize's intuitive approaches.

  Nick checked his watch—10:45 AM. He had less than four hours before Calculus. Enough time to return to his dorm, complete his bio assignment, and test whether Jordan would take the opportunity to search his room again.

  The walk back was uneventful, though Nick noticed the military-postured student from his Statistics class walking in the opposite direction, clearly tracking his movements despite pretending to be absorbed in a textbook.

  As he crossed the quad, Nick noticed something unusual—a maintenance worker installing what appeared to be a new security camera at his dorm building entrance. The timing seemed odd; security upgrades typically happened during breaks. The worker wore standard university coveralls, but his movements had a practiced efficiency that seemed out of place for routine campus staff.

  His dorm room appeared untouched when he entered, but Nick performed a quick sweep anyway, checking the subtle markers he'd left that morning—a strand of hair across his desk drawer, the angle of his laptop, the folded edge of his bedspread. Nothing had been disturbed.

  Satisfied, Nick decided to test Professor Godrudson's theories and attempt to consciously control his mana. He locked his door, settled into a cross-legged position on the floor, and focused inward, seeking that internal reservoir of energy.

  "The body knows how to optimize itself," he murmured. "It's just a matter of overriding the limiting systems."

  He concentrated on his right hand, imagining the flow of energy from his core outward. For several minutes, nothing happened.

  Then—a tingle. A faint warmth spreading through his palm, building slowly until it became a distinct sensation, different from normal body heat.

  Nick opened his eyes, breath catching at the sight: a faint blue luminescence outlining his fingers, not as intense as in the gym, but definitely under his conscious control.

  "It's working," he whispered, turning his hand to examine the glow from different angles. The blue light responded to his thoughts, brightening when he concentrated.

  Emboldened by this success, Nick recalled the sphere of energy he'd managed to form briefly during his gym session. That attempt had ended with a nosebleed and exhaustion—a clear warning that he'd pushed too far too quickly. This time, he would be more methodical.

  He extended his index finger, focusing on channeling a thin stream of mana to its tip. The blue energy responded, coalescing into a small point of light at his fingertip.

  Start small, he reminded himself. Build gradually.

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  Nick traced a simple pattern in the air—a circle, then a line through its center. The mana followed his movement, leaving a faint blue afterimage that lingered for several seconds before fading.

  Like writing with light, he thought, a surge of excitement coursing through him. He tried again, this time attempting to maintain the pattern longer by continuously feeding energy into it.

  The circle of light held steady for nearly ten seconds before Nick felt the first warning sign—a slight pressure behind his eyes, the precursor to the pain he'd experienced in the gym.

  He immediately ceased channeling, watching as the blue light dissipated. No nosebleed this time, just a mild fatigue that suggested he'd found a sustainable limit for his current level of control.

  Progress. Measurable, controlled progress.

  Before he could attempt another experiment, his phone vibrated.

  Vrrrr, the phone vibrating again, the mana dissipated instantly at the sound. Nick steadied himself against the desk, checking the notification—a reminder for lunch. He'd completely lost track of time during his practice session.

  As he pulled out his desk chair to sit down and begin his bio homework, a strange dissonance washed over him. Was he still Nick Valiente with access to Arlize's memories? Or was he becoming something else entirely—a hybrid consciousness with capabilities neither of his component selves had possessed alone?

  "Who am I becoming?" he murmured, staring at his reflection in the laptop screen. The face was familiar—his own—but sometimes he caught glimpses of someone else in his expressions, in the calculating coldness that occasionally filled his eyes. It was necessary, he reminded himself. The strategic detachment, the constant vigilance—all essential for survival against opponents who sought to control or destroy him.

  But would the Nick from before recognize what and who he was becoming?

  By 1:15 PM, he'd completed his assignment and needed lunch. Rather than walking to the dining hall, Nick decided to grab a sandwich from the café nearby. He set a subtle trap at his door—a nearly invisible piece of tape connecting the bottom of the door to the frame that would break if someone entered.

  The café was relatively quiet, with the scent of coffee and baked goods filling the air. Nick purchased a sandwich and found a corner table where he could observe both the entrance and counter.

  He'd barely taken his first bite when a voice interrupted him.

  "Nick? Sorry to bother you." A girl from his Biology class stood beside his table, clutching a notebook. "I'm Hannah, from Professor Godrudson's class. She mentioned you had some great insights on the cellular adaptation material and suggested I might talk to you about forming a study group for the lab project."

  "Right, Hannah," Nick said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Have a seat."

  They spent twenty minutes discussing the bio assignment, and their thoughts about the upcoming lab making plans to meet later that week to begin the lab assignment. When Hannah left, Nick looked at the remains of his lunch, an uneaten half turkey sandwich lay on his plate. He was about to get up and ask for a to-go package when a voice from the next table caught his attention.

  "Did you hear about Professor Harrington's new research grant?" It was two graduate students sat huddled over laptops.

  "Yeah, ten million for neural interface applications," the other replied. "My advisor says it's the biggest private research investment the university has ever received."

  "The timing seems convenient, doesn't it? Right after his brother's company acquired NexGen Systems?"

  "Careful," the second student warned. "Last grad student who asked too many questions about the Harrington family's research connections suddenly lost his funding and had to leave the program."

  They lowered their voices further, but Nick had heard enough. Professor Harrington—likely Matthew Harrington Sr.'s brother or cousin—was conducting neural interface research at this very university, funded by Callahan Industries.

  Lost in these thoughts, Nick barely noticed the time until his watch showed 1:45 PM. Calculus started in fifteen minutes.

  Nick made his way to the math building at a brisk pace, mentally preparing for the inevitable confrontation. As he approached the classroom, he spotted Matt exactly where he expected—leaning against the wall beside the door, scrolling through his phone.

  But something was different about Matt today. His usual polished appearance was slightly disheveled, his collar pulled higher than normal. As Nick drew closer, he noticed discoloration around Matt's jaw—faint bruising partially concealed with makeup—and similar marks on his knuckles. Most telling was the ring of bruises partially visible above his collar, as if someone had gripped his throat with bruising force.

  For a brief, disorienting moment, Nick felt an unexpected twinge of curiosity, even concern. Those throat bruises didn't look like random injuries from a chaotic brawl—they were deliberate, controlled, the kind of marks left by someone sending a message.

  Then the image of Matt and Sarah together flashed vividly in his mind—tangled in sheets, laughing at his naivety while plotting his downfall. His momentary sympathy evaporated.

  "Valiente," Matt's voice stopped him, that familiar commanding tone now carrying an edge of something darker. "Hold up."

  Nick paused, one hand on the door handle. "What's up? Class starts in a few minutes."

  Matt stepped closer, his features tight, controlled. "Where were you Friday night?"

  "I told you I wasn't going," Nick replied evenly. "I had work to do."

  "Right, your 'work,'" Matt's voice dripped with skepticism. "Funny thing. A lot of people were asking about you at that party."

  "Why would they be asking about me? And why were you so adamant that I be there?"

  "It was supposed to be a Westridge reunion. People missed you."

  The lie was transparent. Nick had never been part of Matt's inner circle; his inclusion had always been conditional, a way for Matt to demonstrate magnanimity while keeping Nick subordinate.

  "Really? Because what I heard is that there was a big fight. Police were called. Ambulances too." Nick maintained eye contact. "Doesn't sound like much fun to me."

  Matt's hand shot out, grabbing Nick's shoulder with bruising force. In his previous life, Nick would have flinched. This time, Arlize's combat instincts surged forward—a dozen ways to disable Matt's arm flashing through his mind.

  Nick felt a flicker of mana respond to his sudden spike of adrenaline, a faint warmth pulsing beneath the skin where Matt's fingers dug in. He suppressed these impulses, remaining perfectly still, neither yielding nor retaliating.

  "You should have been there," Matt said, his voice low and tense. "We had plans."

  "What plans, Matt?" Nick asked quietly. "Why were you so determined to get me to that specific party? What was supposed to happen there?"

  Matt's grip tightened, but Nick didn't react. Not even a wince.

  "Nothing. Just hanging out," Matt said, but his eyes told a different story—panic, barely concealed beneath arrogance. "You're acting weird lately, Nick. Different. People are noticing."

  There was a warning in those words. People—not just Matt—were watching Nick, evaluating his behavior against some expected pattern.

  "I told you before," Nick replied calmly. "People change." With deliberate ease, he shrugged off Matt's grip. "I've got class."

  Before Matt could respond, Nick entered the classroom. As the door closed, he caught a glimpse of Matt's expression—the familiar arrogance replaced by something he'd never seen there before.

  Fear.

  Nick took a seat, arranging his materials while surreptitiously watching through the window in the door. Matt stood frozen for a moment before pulling out his phone and making a call, his face hardening as he walked away.

  A new piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Matt wasn't just acting on his own; he was answering to someone who expected results and didn't tolerate failure.

  The calculus quiz flowed easily beneath Nick's pen—problems that had confounded him in his previous life now seemed almost elementary. Jordan's conspicuous absence from the seat beside him raised another flag. First the bruised knuckles and inconsistent stories, now missing an important quiz—Jordan's "friendly neighbor" persona was unraveling thread by thread.

  After class, Nick remained seated until the room cleared, then approached Professor Ellis with questions to ensure enough time passed that Matt would have given up waiting outside. When he finally left, the hallway was empty.

  As he walked back to his dorm, Nick maintained constant awareness of his surroundings, twice catching glimpses of the military-postured student from his Statistics class. The man never acknowledged Nick, but his recurring presence couldn't be coincidence.

  When he reached his room, Nick carefully checked his tape trap—still intact—and settled at his computer to research Callahan Industries.

  His fingers flew across the keyboard, diving into business news archives and technology forums. He built a timeline of Callahan Industries' activities over the past three years—from defense contractor to neural interface pioneer.

  Most of their neural interface work was described in vague terms—"revolutionary human-computer interaction," "next-generation immersive experiences"—the kind of corporate jargon that conveyed excitement without revealing specifics.

  As he scrolled through corporate filings, something caught his eye—a symbol in the corner of a Callahan Industries internal memo. Not the company's standard logo, but something subtler: a stylized helix intertwined with what appeared to be a circuit board pattern. Nick had seen similar imagery before but couldn't place where. The symbol seemed deliberately designed to look innocuous while conveying specific meaning.

  He saved the image, making a note to ask Maggie if she recognized it.

  Nick dug deeper, tracking acquisitions and personnel movements. Over the past eighteen months, Callahan Industries had quietly acquired five smaller tech companies specializing in different aspects of neural interface technology. More concerning was what happened to the key researchers afterward—reassigned to unknown projects, their academic publications suddenly ceasing.

  He expanded his search, finding an even more troubling pattern: researchers who declined Callahan's employment offers often found their funding mysteriously cut, their labs closed under various pretexts. It was as if someone was systematically removing certain minds from the field.

  One name caught his attention: Dr. Elias Zhang, formerly a professor at Stanford specializing in non-invasive neural interface technology. His research had shown tremendous promise before suddenly disappearing eighteen months ago. The timing matched what Maggie had mentioned about her brother.

  Nick pulled up Dr. Zhang's academic profile. The family resemblance to Maggie was unmistakable—the same sharp, intelligent eyes, the same determined set to the jaw.

  According to the university's website, Dr. Zhang had taken an "extended leave of absence to pursue industry opportunities." But there was no mention of which company he'd joined—unusual for someone of his caliber.

  His social media accounts had been inactive for precisely the same period. His last post had been a cryptic message: "Sometimes the pursuit of knowledge leads down unexpected paths. Will share when I can."

  And then, nothing. As if he'd simply vanished.

  Nick sat back, mind racing. Callahan Industries wasn't just developing neural interface technology; they were actively suppressing competing research while absorbing key talents. This went beyond normal corporate competition. They were creating a monopoly on knowledge itself.

  But why would that make Nick a target? Unless they somehow knew about his connection to Arlize. Or about his knowledge of market movements that hadn't happened yet.

  Tomorrow's meeting with Maggie took on new urgency, and Nick prepared specific questions:

  What happened to her brother? Had he gone willingly to Callahan Industries? What was the focus of his research before his disappearance? Had he ever mentioned unusual brain patterns or consciousness transfer? Did she recognize the strange helix-circuit symbol? Could she access Callahan Industries' secure servers?

  Nick also needed to ask about better security measures. If Callahan Industries had resources to monitor students and hack secure systems, he needed stronger protection.

  The memory of Matt's bruised neck flashed through his mind again. Matt was caught between Nick's unexpected resistance and someone's unforgiving expectations—a position that would make him increasingly desperate and dangerous.

  Nick flexed his fingers, feeling the mana pulse beneath the surface, a cool blue current of power that was his alone.

  As he closed his laptop, the building's ancient heating system kicked on with a metallic groan. Nick rose to adjust the temperature control, pausing when he noticed something unusual—a faint scratching sound coming from his door.

  Not the sound of a key or someone knocking, but something subtler—like a tool being inserted into the lock. Moving silently, Nick approached the door, mana surging beneath his skin in response to the perceived threat. Blue energy flickered faintly around his fingertips.

  The doorknob turned slowly. Nick held his breath, calculating options with cold precision. If someone was brazen enough to attempt entry while he was inside, they were either desperate or confident.

  The door opened a crack, then stopped. A long pause followed.

  A decision crystallized in Nick's mind. Whoever was on the other side needed to learn that he wasn't the easy target they anticipated.

  With deliberate calm, Nick channeled a thin stream of mana to his right hand, creating a subtle blue glow—just enough to be visible in the darkened room. He positioned himself where the intruder would see him immediately if the door opened further.

  "I wouldn't," Nick said, his voice pitched low and even.

  The door closed immediately. Soft footsteps retreated down the hallway at a carefully measured pace—not running, but definitely hurrying.

  Nick remained motionless for a full minute before examining the lock, finding tiny scratch marks around the keyhole—evidence of amateur lockpicking.

  This was escalating faster than he'd anticipated. First digital intrusion attempts, then surveillance, now physical breaches.

  Nick checked his watch—nearly midnight. His meeting with Maggie was less than twelve hours away. As he prepared for bed, one question remained foremost in his mind: Who had just tried to enter his room, and what exactly were they looking for?

  The answer, he suspected, would determine his next move in this increasingly dangerous game.

  In the darkness of his room, Nick sat cross-legged on his bed, delving deeper into meditation than he had previously attempted. The confrontation at his door had made one thing clear—he needed to accelerate his mastery of mana if he was going to defend himself against whatever forces were arrayed against him.

  Four counts in. Hold for seven. Out for eight.

  As his consciousness settled into the meditative state, Nick directed his focus inward, seeking the wellspring of energy he now knew existed within him. This time, instead of simply observing or making tentative attempts to channel it, he deliberately immersed himself in Arlize's memories of training.

  A scene materialized in his mind's eye:

  Arlize knelt before Master Elian in a circular chamber hewn from living rock. Runes carved into the walls glowed with soft amber light, creating an atmosphere of ancient power and profound silence.

  "The mistake most make," Master Elian said, his voice resonating with authority earned through decades of practice, "is believing that aether is a tool to be wielded like a sword or a shield. This fundamentally misunderstands its nature."

  Arlize's brow furrowed. "Then what is it, Master?"

  "It is the underlying current of existence itself. Not separate from you, but more fundamental than your physical form." The old master extended his hand, palm upward. Blue light bloomed there, not emanating from his skin but seeming to exist both within and beyond it simultaneously.

  "When you attempt to 'use' aether, you create separation between yourself and it. This separation causes resistance, which manifests as the pain and exhaustion you've experienced." Master Elian closed his fingers, and the light vanished. "Instead, you must recognize that you are not channeling something external, but expressing something that already exists within the deepest layers of your being."

  The memory shifted, showing techniques and exercises Arlize had practiced over years of training. Nick absorbed them with the accelerated learning capacity he'd discovered was part of his rebirth gifts.

  Applying what he'd learned, Nick shifted his perception. Instead of trying to gather or direct mana, he simply acknowledged its presence within him—allowing it to permeate every cell of his being without resistance.

  The difference was immediate and profound. Blue light emerged not as a strained manifestation but as a natural expression of his state of being, radiating from his skin in gentle waves that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.

  Nick extended his hand, palm upward, mirroring Master Elian's gesture from the memory. The mana responded effortlessly, gathering above his palm in a perfect sphere that contained swirling patterns like a miniature galaxy.

  No strain. No resistance. No pain.

  The sphere held steady as Nick explored its properties, discovering that he could alter its density, size, and brightness through mere intention rather than forced concentration.

  When he finally released the manifestation, allowing the energy to reabsorb into his system, he felt invigorated rather than drained. The key difference was clear—working with the mana rather than trying to control it.

  Nick lay back on his bed, processing the implications of this breakthrough. The mana wasn't just a weapon or a tool; it was an extension of his consciousness, as much a part of him as his thoughts or memories.

  As he drifted toward sleep, Nick's mind turned to tomorrow's meeting with Maggie and the growing web of mysteries surrounding Callahan Industries. Whatever connection existed between neural interfaces, his rebirth, and the mana flowing through his veins, he was getting closer to understanding it.

  And with understanding would come power—power to protect himself, power to uncover the truth, and ultimately, power to ensure that this second chance at life didn't end in another betrayal.

  The blue energy pulsed once more beneath his skin before settling into dormancy, a silent promise of capabilities yet to be fully realized.