Chapter 7

  Statistics with Professor Feldman was the day's first class. In his previous life, Nick had sat through these lectures with half-lidded disinterest. Now, he remembered rumors that Feldman was more than a simple professor—someone who dabbled in corporate research deals and classified AI projects that never made it onto her public CV. Nick made a mental note to research her more thoroughly tonight. In this timeline, he wouldn't overlook potentially valuable connections or information.

  Similarly, he'd need to investigate Professor Harrington and his relation to Matt and Callahan industries. Whatever it was, their connection warranted investigation.

  The lecture hall's fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Nick slid into his usual seat, the same one he'd claimed for the past two weeks. The polished surface of the curved desk still bore faint traces of generations of students—initials scratched into the wood, ink stains from burst pens, the ghosts of equations past. Long tables with built-in seating curved around the lecturer's stage like a gladiatorial arena, students the reluctant combatants armed only with laptops and coffee.

  Nick positioned his materials with military precision—laptop centered precisely on the desk, a single notebook and pen beside it for quick annotations. Despite the availability of note-taking apps, he'd found that certain insights were better captured by hand, a habit reinforced by Arlize's methodical approach to battlefield intelligence. The physical act of writing created a memory imprint that digital notes couldn't replicate, and—more practically—handwritten notes couldn't be hacked or remotely monitored.

  From his chosen vantage point, he could monitor both exits while keeping the professor in his direct line of sight. Students filtered in gradually, a drowsy procession of hoodies and backpacks, the low murmur of conversation washing over him as he reviewed his notes from yesterday's mana breakthrough.

  Jordan appeared moments later, the sharp scent of his body wash cutting through the stale classroom air. His coffee cup tilted precariously as he collapsed into the seat beside Nick.

  "Mornin'," he mumbled, dark circles shadowing his eyes. His hair was still damp, curling slightly at the ends as if he'd rushed through his shower.

  Nick studied him carefully, noting the fading yellow-purple bruises on his knuckles and the slight stiffness in his right shoulder as he reached for his backpack. After his conspicuous absence from yesterday's calculus quiz, Nick had expected some explanation, but Jordan offered none.

  "Rough night?" Nick asked casually, watching for any reaction.

  Jordan's eyes flicked up, then away too quickly. "Just finishing a paper for Mitchell's English class. You know how it is."

  The lie hung in the air between them. From what he’d overheard from other freshmen in the caf over the last couple weeks, Professor Mitchell wouldn't assign the first paper until week three. Jordan's casual lie was another data point in the growing pattern of inconsistencies.

  At exactly 8:00 AM, the door swung open with military precision. Professor Feldman strode in—a petite woman with precise movements, her steel-gray hair cut in a short bob framing her face. Her carefully calculated dishevelment—wrinkled shirt and slightly askew tie—seemed at odds with her precise movements, but Nick recognized the classic technique of academic camouflage. The intentional appearance of an absentminded professor provided perfect cover for the sharp intelligence in her eyes as she scanned the room from behind rimless glasses, her gaze methodically cataloging faces and reactions. For a flickering moment, her gaze locked with Nick's, something calculating in her assessment before she turned away.

  "Settle down, everyone," Feldman said, unceremoniously dropping her folder onto the lectern. The sound cut through the morning chatter like a knife. "Today, we begin with the intersections of probability, machine learning, and real-world applications. Because if we stop at formulas, we've failed."

  Her voice carried the subtle cadence of someone who had given military briefings—each word precise, weighted with expectation of comprehension. Nick's suspicions about her background deepened.

  The lecture began with standard statistical concepts—probability distributions and sampling methods they had been discussing the past two weeks. But then Feldman pivoted, discussing AI ethics in a way that immediately captured Nick's attention.

  "The next frontier in statistics is the ethical dimension of how we use data," she said, clicking a slide depicting faceless silhouettes and large data streams flowing between them. The blue light of the projection cast an eerie glow across her features. "Machine learning, predictive algorithms, neural interfaces… all of these rely on math at their core. However, the moral implications can't be overlooked. Who controls the algorithms, and to what end?"

  She switched to another slide showing a recent study from MIT. "Current scientific consensus treats data as objective, claiming 'numbers don't lie.' The Zhang-Harrington paper from last year argues that 'statistical neutrality creates a foundation for ethical AI development.' But is data ever truly neutral?"

  The slide displayed two author names that made Nick's pulse spike: "Dr. Elias Zhang, Stanford University" and "Dr. William Harrington, Callahan Research Institute." The connection was unmistakable—Zhang, like Maggie's brother who had mysteriously disappeared, and Harrington, whose resemblance to Matt was unmistakable, may be the academic arm of the Callahan empire.

  Nick felt a surge of adrenaline flood his system, his fingers tightening imperceptibly around his pen. Neural interfaces mentioned openly by a professor with military connections. A research paper co-authored by two people directly linked to his investigation. The university was practically advertising the connections, hiding them in plain sight beneath academic jargon and theoretical debate.

  The paper itself—widely cited in ethical AI discussions—suddenly seemed less like genuine academic discourse and more like corporate propaganda, designed to establish "statistical neutrality" as a shield against ethical oversight. If data couldn't be biased, then those using it couldn't be held accountable for the consequences.

  A memory that wasn't his flickered through his mind—Arlize standing in the war council, listening as seemingly unrelated reports from distant provinces suddenly aligned into a pattern of coordinated betrayal. The same sensation of puzzle pieces clicking into place washed over Nick now. This wasn't just about theoretical ethics—it was about establishing the intellectual framework that would allow neural interface technology to advance without restriction.

  He raised his hand, meeting Feldman's gaze with calculated intensity. "If we know that these algorithms can be manipulated by those with money and power, then shouldn't we question not just the data's neutrality, but who stands to profit from controlling it?"

  A stir ran through the classroom, students shifting in their seats. Beside him, Jordan straightened almost imperceptibly, his casual slouch giving way to something more alert, more focused. Feldman's eyes narrowed as she leaned forward over the lectern.

  "Go on, Mr. Valiente."

  The use of his name without prompting—she'd remembered him specifically, or perhaps had been briefed on him. Either possibility was telling.

  Nick kept his expression neutral despite the thrumming of his pulse. "Machine learning is a tool, right? And any tool can be a weapon if someone with questionable ethics wields it. If you're building neural interfaces capable of reading or influencing minds… what's to stop an organization—like a military branch or a mega-corporation—from using that for control?"

  The room fell silent, the usual background noise of typing and whispers vanishing as if a switch had been flipped. Even the students who normally spent the entire class on their phones were now watching the exchange with undisguised interest.

  "An astute point, Mr. Valiente," she allowed, her eyes narrowing slightly. "The Zhang-Harrington paper argues that data remains neutral despite human influence, but your concern touches on something more fundamental: intent." She set down her presentation remote, giving him her full attention. "If we accept that data collection itself is shaped by human biases and corporate interests, doesn't that undermine the entire premise of 'ethical AI' as currently conceived?"

  Nick didn't flinch under her intense scrutiny. "It's only hypothetical until it's real. And by then, it's too late."

  A murmur rippled through the classroom. Most freshmen wouldn't even know what neural interface technology was, let alone raise questions about its ethical implications. Feldman's expression shifted subtly—a flicker of genuine interest, perhaps even wariness.

  "You've raised questions that challenge the current paradigm," she acknowledged, her tone modulated with professional admiration that didn't quite reach her eyes. "While some might dismiss these concerns as speculative, history shows us that technology often advances faster than our ethical frameworks. This is precisely why we study statistics—to understand how numbers can be shaped to serve different narratives."

  She turned away, resuming her lecture, but something had changed in the room's atmosphere. Nick caught several students glancing at him with new curiosity, and Jordan's posture remained unusually straight, his note-taking suddenly diligent.

  The lecture continued, but Nick sensed he'd left a mark. Feldman's occasional glances in his direction felt sharper, as though she was already categorizing him as something more interesting than a typical freshman. Twice, she incorporated his points into her examples, each reference feeling like both acknowledgment and challenge.

  When class ended, Nick approached Professor Feldman's podium as other students filed out. Jordan hesitated nearby, pretending to pack his materials while clearly trying to overhear.

  "Go ahead," Nick told him. "I'll catch up."

  Jordan shrugged with practiced casualness. "Sure thing. Lunch later?" The question seemed innocent, but the intensity in his eyes betrayed his interest in Nick's answer.

  "Maybe. I've got a busy afternoon."

  Jordan left, though not without a backward glance that Nick filed away for later analysis. His roommate's behavior was becoming increasingly problematic—the bruised knuckles, the inconsistent stories, the sudden interest in Nick's interactions with faculty. The surveillance pattern was unmistakable.

  "Mr. Valiente," Feldman acknowledged as the room emptied, her fingers tapping a staccato rhythm on her folder. The sound echoed in the nearly empty room. "I must say, your questions demonstrated unusual knowledge for a first-year student."

  Up close, Nick noticed details he'd missed from his seat—a faint scar along her jawline, partially concealed by makeup; the callus on her right middle finger consistent with regular firearm use; the subtle way she positioned herself with clear sightlines to all entrances. Not just an academic, then. Military or intelligence background seemed increasingly likely.

  "I've done some reading on emerging technologies," Nick replied with deliberate vagueness. "Particularly the intersection of AI and neural science."

  "Most undergraduates don't typically dive into such specialized literature," she observed, studying him with renewed intensity. Her eyes flickered over his face as if searching for something specific. "May I ask what sparked this specific interest?"

  Nick met her gaze steadily. "I believe understanding how these technologies develop will determine whether they liberate or enslave us. The ethical questions can't be an afterthought."

  Feldman's eyes narrowed slightly, a muscle in her jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. "That's an unusually sophisticated perspective. Most of your peers are still struggling with the basics of probability." She paused, as if making a decision. "If you're genuinely interested in the ethical frameworks surrounding these technologies, I can recommend some reading."

  She tucked a strand of silver hair behind her ear, leaning closer, her voice dropping to just above a whisper. "Though I should warn you—diving too deeply into certain research areas can attract... attention. Not all questions are welcomed by those funding the work."

  The warning was subtle but unmistakable. Not a threat from her, but a caution about forces beyond the classroom.

  "I understand the risks," Nick said, holding her gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable. "I'd appreciate those recommendations."

  She nodded stiffly, something unreadable flickering across her features. "I'll email them to you." After a beat, she added, "Mr. Valiente, curiosity is commendable, but I'd suggest exercising caution about where and how you express these interests." Her fingers tightened around her folder until the knuckles whitened. "Not everyone finds such questions... welcome."

  As she gathered her materials, her sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a flash of black ink on her inner wrist—not quite visible enough to identify, but distinctly out of character for her otherwise conservative appearance. She caught his glance and smoothly adjusted her cuff, her expression giving away nothing.

  "Thank you, Professor," Nick said, turning to leave.

  "One more thing," she called after him, causing him to pause at the door. "The Zhang-Harrington theoretical model is being expanded significantly in their forthcoming work. You might find their preliminary findings... illuminating. Or disturbing, depending on your perspective."

  Nick nodded, understanding the deliberate breadcrumb she'd dropped. "I'll look into it."

  He left the classroom, satisfaction mingling with wariness. He'd established himself as someone watching, someone who knew more than he should. Now he would see who reacted—and how. But Feldman herself was becoming an increasingly complex variable. Warning him while simultaneously encouraging deeper investigation suggested her own agenda, one that might not align completely with whoever she reported to.

  Nick's second class of the day was Introduction to Computer Science—a course he'd never taken in his previous life but had added that morning because he felt he would need it. Then, he'd been focused solely on business and finance. Now, he understood that code was a form of power in the modern world, perhaps as fundamental as Arlize's magical knowledge had been in Aurilia.

  Nick's second class of the day was Introduction to Computer Science—a course he'd never taken in his previous life but had added that morning because he felt he would need it. Then, he'd been only focused on basketball and fitting in. Now, he understood that code was a form of power in the modern world, perhaps as fundamental as Arlize's magical knowledge had been in Aurilia.

  The computer science building was newer than most campus structures, all glass and steel against the traditional brick of surrounding buildings. Inside, the corridors hummed with an energy different from other departments—students clustered around laptops in common areas, their animated discussions punctuated by technical jargon that would have been incomprehensible to Nick before his rebirth.

  Lecture Hall 103 was filled with first-year students, most looking either intimidated or overconfident—few seemed to occupy the middle ground. Nick chose a seat halfway back, positioning himself with a clear view of both exits and the professor's podium. He placed his laptop precisely in the center of the small desk, angling it slightly to minimize visibility to those around him. Old habits from Arlize, who had always been conscious of who could read his battlefield notes.

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  At precisely 10:00 AM, Professor Lin strode in, her confident gait and casual attire a stark contrast to Feldman's military precision. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties, with rectangular glasses and hair cut in an asymmetrical style that somehow managed to look both professional and rebellious.

  "Welcome to CS 101," she announced without preamble, setting her coffee cup down beside her laptop. "I'm Dr. Lin. If you're here expecting to learn how to build websites or program video games in your first semester, adjust your expectations now." She scanned the room, her gaze direct and unflinching. "This course is about fundamentals—computational thinking, algorithm design, and the theoretical underpinnings of what makes computers work."

  Nick watched with interest as several students shifted uncomfortably. This wasn't what they'd signed up for, apparently.

  "However," Professor Lin continued, a slight smile softening her expression, "by the end of this semester, you will have built something useful, something that solves a real problem. That's my promise to you."

  She launched into an overview of the course structure—weekly lectures supplemented by hands-on lab sessions, programming assignments in Python, and a final project that would account for 40% of their grade.

  "Today, we're starting with the most fundamental question in computer science," she said, pulling up a slide titled 'What is an Algorithm?' "Before we write a single line of code, we need to understand how to think algorithmically."

  For the next hour, Professor Lin walked them through the concept of algorithms as precise sequences of instructions, using examples from everyday life before moving to computational problems. Nick found himself engaged more deeply than he'd anticipated. The logical structures she described resonated with Arlize's battlefield strategies—breaking complex problems into manageable steps, anticipating edge cases, optimizing for efficiency.

  When she demonstrated a simple sorting algorithm, Nick's mind immediately connected it to how Arlize had once reorganized his troops during the Battle of Kairn Pass—placing the strongest fighters at critical positions while creating a flexible structure that could adapt to changing conditions.

  "Code is really about power," Professor Lin said, as if reading Nick's thoughts. "Not just in the technical sense, but in the real world. Those who understand how systems work can influence them. Those who can build systems control the rules others must follow."

  Nick felt a chill of recognition run through him. This was exactly why he'd added the class. In his previous life, he'd been at the mercy of systems designed by others. This time, he would understand the underlying architecture of the modern world.

  As the lecture continued, Nick's fingers moved across his keyboard, taking notes with a precision and focus that would have been impossible for his previous self. Each concept was filed away, cross-referenced with potential applications to his current situation.

  When Professor Lin displayed a simple encryption method, Nick immediately saw its value for securing his communications. When she explained database structures, he considered how they might help him organize his intelligence on Matt, Sarah, and the mysterious neural interface research.

  "For your first assignment," Professor Lin announced as the class neared its end, "I want you to design—not code, just design—an algorithm that solves a problem you've encountered in your daily life. Think about inputs, processes, outputs, and edge cases. We'll discuss your solutions on Thursday."

  Nick was already mapping out possibilities in his mind. An algorithm to detect surveillance patterns? A system to cross-reference seemingly unrelated data points? The possibilities were endless.

  As students packed up their belongings, Professor Lin added, "And for those of you who have programming experience and find this pace too slow—come see me. I've got some special projects that might interest you."

  Nick made a mental note to approach her after he'd established his baseline competence. Special projects might provide access to resources or information otherwise unavailable to freshmen.

  Checking his watch, it was 11:30 AM. He still had an hour and a half to go before his meeting with Maggie at the engineering lab. Enough time for lunch and some focused mana practice.

  The campus dining hall assaulted his senses as he entered—the cacophony of hundreds of conversations overlapping, the clatter of trays and silverware, the competing scents of pizza, stir-fry, and overcooked vegetables. Nick selected a protein-rich meal and found a table in the corner where he could observe the room while remaining relatively unnoticed.

  As he ate, he reflected on the morning's events. Professor Feldman's reaction had been revealing. Her warning suggested she knew more than she was letting on about the connections between academic research and corporate interests. And the Zhang-Harrington paper—that demanded investigation.

  The connection between Maggie's brother and Matt's family through this paper couldn't be a coincidence. If the Harringtons were helping shape ethical guidelines for neural interface technology while also investing heavily in its development through Callahan Industries, they were effectively writing their own regulations. Perfect corporate strategy—control both the development of the technology and the ethical framework used to judge it.

  His phone vibrated with an incoming email. Professor Feldman, as promised, had sent a reading list. But what caught Nick's attention was the final paragraph:

  "You might also find Professor Harrington's upcoming lecture on 'Neural Interface Ethics: Boundaries and Possibilities' of interest. Thursday evening, Willard Hall, 7:00 PM. Attendance is by invitation only, but I've taken the liberty of adding your name to the list. Sometimes the best way to understand a system is from within."

  Nick stared at the screen, pulse quickening. An unexpected opportunity—access to Dr. Harrington himself, in a setting where the professor might be more forthcoming about his research than in any public document. It could be a trap, of course, but one worth springing with proper preparation.

  He finished his meal quickly and headed back to his dorm. The corridors were relatively empty at this hour, most students still in classes or dining halls. As he turned the corner to his floor, Nick froze, pressing himself against the wall.

  Two men in maintenance uniforms were working on something in the ceiling directly outside his room. One stood on a ladder, hands buried in ceiling tiles, while the other passed up tools from a large case. They wore standard university maintenance badges, but their movements had the coordinated efficiency of military training rather than campus employees.

  Nick retreated silently, taking the stairwell to the floor below and exiting through a side door. He circled the building, entering through another entrance and taking a different route to his floor. By the time he arrived, the "maintenance workers" were gone, though a nearly invisible seam in the ceiling panel revealed their handiwork.

  Cameras? Listening devices? Both? Either way, surveillance was escalating rapidly.

  Nick entered his room cautiously, checking his subtle markers—the precisely angled laptop, the single hair stretched across his desk drawer, the particular fold in his bedspread. Nothing had been disturbed, but that meant little if they had already obtained what they needed before his previous security measures were implemented.

  Something felt wrong. The room temperature seemed a few degrees cooler than it should be, as if the air conditioning had been running longer than usual. A subtle electronic hum, just at the edge of hearing, vibrated through his consciousness. The air smelled different too—beneath the familiar scents of his shampoo and laundry detergent lurked something else, something chemical and unfamiliar.

  Nick ran his fingers along the underside of his desk, feeling for irregularities. The wood felt smooth, normal, but as his hand passed near the center, the faintest disturbance in air temperature registered against his skin—the subtle heat signature of active electronics.

  His senses heightened with growing paranoia, Nick methodically examined the room without betraying his suspicions—adjusting his blinds, organizing books on his shelf, each movement a deliberate cover for his true purpose. The shadow cast by his desk lamp seemed slightly different from yesterday, the angle of his chair relative to the wall off by perhaps half an inch.

  Someone had been here. Someone had touched his things, rearranged his space just enough to implement surveillance while attempting to leave everything apparently untouched.

  He moved his desk chair to the center of the room and sat down, closing his eyes to enter the meditative state he'd been practicing. Four counts in. Hold for seven. Out for eight. With each breath, he felt his consciousness expand, reaching for the well of mana that flowed beneath ordinary reality.

  This time, instead of focusing on manifestation, he turned his attention to sensory enhancement—another of Arlize's abilities. The warrior-mage had been able to extend his awareness beyond normal human limits, detecting energies and movements that others missed.

  Nick concentrated on his hearing first, imagining the mana flowing to his ears, enhancing their natural capability. The sensation was like cool liquid light pouring into his auditory canals, an almost pleasant tingling that spread through the delicate structures inside. At first, nothing changed. Then suddenly, the soundscape exploded around him—he could hear conversations in the common room down the hall, the hum of electronics in neighboring rooms, even the subtle creaking of the building's structure as it expanded in the midday sun.

  The sensory overload was disorienting, a tsunami of information crashing against his consciousness. Nick gasped, breaking his concentration as the sounds crashed over him like a wave. Too much, too soon. He needed to filter, to control the input.

  He tried again, this time visualizing a dial that would allow him to adjust the sensitivity. As he focused, the mana responded to his intent, the blue energy gathering more precisely around his ears. The sounds became manageable—still enhanced, but not overwhelming. He could isolate specific conversations, focusing on one while filtering out others.

  "—still hasn't checked in," came a voice from somewhere down the hall. Male, mid-twenties, with the clipped precision of military training. "It's been three days."

  "You worry too much," replied another, older, with a subtle accent Nick couldn't quite place. "These freshmen get caught up in campus life. Probably forgot."

  "The director was clear. Daily reports or we escalate."

  "So escalate. That's your call, not mine."

  "After what happened with the last subject? No thanks. I'd rather not be reassigned to Antarctica."

  Nick's eyes snapped open, his heart racing. He couldn't identify the speakers with certainty, but the context was clear—someone was being monitored, reports were expected, and consequences would follow failure. Was he the subject of this surveillance? Or was someone else in the dorm being watched? The mention of "the last subject" suggested this wasn't an isolated operation.

  He closed his eyes again, directing his enhanced hearing toward Jordan's room across the hall. Silence. Either Jordan wasn't there, or he was being exceptionally quiet.

  Testing a different application of sensory enhancement, Nick focused on extending his perception to detect electronic devices. In Arlize's world, this ability had been used to sense magical traps and enchantments; here, perhaps it could identify surveillance equipment.

  The mana shifted, flowing from his ears to spread throughout his nervous system. His skin prickled with heightened sensitivity, the hairs on his arms standing on end as he became aware of the electromagnetic fields permeating the modern world. His laptop emitted a gentle pulse, his phone a sharper, more erratic signature. But there was something else—a faint but persistent signal coming from the ceiling vent.

  Found you, Nick thought grimly. The maintenance workers had indeed left something behind.

  Checking his watch, Nick saw that he still had three hours before meeting Maggie. Time to test another aspect of mana enhancement—physical performance. He changed into workout clothes and headed to the campus recreation center, careful to take an indirect route and check for tails.

  The weight of what was happening—the surveillance, the connections to neural interface technology, the growing sense that his rebirth itself might be tied to some larger experiment—pressed against his consciousness. For a fleeting moment, doubt crept in. Who was he really? If neural interface technology could transfer memories or consciousness, could Arlize be some kind of implanted personality rather than a true reincarnation? Was his identity—his very sense of self—just another manipulation?

  No, he thought fiercely, pushing away the doubt. Whatever the truth of his situation, he couldn't afford such existential questions now. Survival first. Philosophical crises could wait.

  The campus recreation center was nearly empty at 11:50 AM—most students hadn’t finished class, were getting lunch, or hadn't yet developed workout habits this early in the semester. Nick scanned his ID at the entrance and headed past the main gym floor toward a secluded studio meant for martial arts practice. He'd checked the schedule earlier; no classes were booked for the next two hours.

  The room was simple—hardwood floors, mirrored walls, and a rack of practice equipment in the corner. The faint scent of sweat and cleaning solution hung in the air, undercut by the woody aroma of the polished floor. Nick locked the door behind him, then stood in the center of the space, taking measured breaths. He closed his eyes, letting his mind reach for Arlize's combat memories.

  The first time he'd attempted this, the sensations had been disorienting—trying to overlay a warrior-mage's lifetime of battle experience onto the untrained muscles of a college freshman. His body had rebelled, muscles cramping and coordination failing as two lifetimes of muscle memory battled for dominance. But each day the connection grew smoother, the transition less jarring.

  He began with a basic stance, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. His body remembered being taller in that other life, with a longer reach and different center of gravity. Nick exhaled slowly, then launched into a series of movements that no freshman should know—a warm-up sequence taught to elite guards in Aurilia's royal court, known as the Threshin Kata.

  His muscles protested at unfamiliar stretches, tendons tightening against movements they hadn't been conditioned to perform. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he pushed through the discomfort, focusing on precision rather than speed.

  "Form first, then speed," he muttered, echoing the mantra of Arlize's first sword master. The words triggered a cascade of memories—the sting of a wooden training sword against his ribs, the smell of oil and leather in the practice yards, the strict voice of Master Thelian demanding perfection in every stance.

  For thirty minutes, he worked through increasingly complex sequences, occasionally stopping to correct his form in the mirror. As his body warmed, the movements became more fluid, muscle memory beginning to bridge the gap between lives. Each pivot, each strike felt more natural than the day before—his body was adapting, transforming.

  Then he moved to the equipment rack and selected a simple wooden practice staff—roughly the weight and balance of Arlize's preferred sword, Nightsever. The polished wood felt warm against his palms, almost alive. Nick returned to the center of the room, closed his eyes, and let his breathing settle.

  I am Arlize Dentragon, master swordsman of the Aurilian Empire, betrayed by those I trusted most.

  The thought crystallized in his mind, and suddenly his hands gripped the staff with newfound confidence. He opened his eyes and launched into a series of strikes and parries—a combat form designed to counter multiple opponents.

  The staff whirled through the air, each movement precise and deadly. For a few breathtaking seconds, Nick wasn't a college student practicing alone; he was Arlize again, the greatest swordsman of his generation, fighting for his life against traitors. The practice room melted away, replaced by the blood-soaked battlefield of Tairia Pass, where Arlize had faced down seven assassins sent by his former mentor.

  The final sequence—a spinning strike followed by a low sweep and an upward thrust—was the most difficult. Three times he attempted it, and three times his body faltered, unable to match the fluid grace he remembered.

  "Again," he growled, resetting his stance, frustration building in his chest. In his mind, he could see Arlize executing the move flawlessly, cutting down the last assassin with a strike so perfect it was later immortalized in ballads. But his current body, despite its youth and natural athleticism, lacked the decades of training that had made such movements instinctive.

  On the fourth attempt, something shifted inside him. It wasn't just concentration or determination—it was as if some barrier between his two selves thinned momentarily. His muscles seemed to remember at last, flowing through the complex sequence with a precision that surprised even him. The staff ended in the perfect position, held steady despite the explosive movement that preceded it.

  Nick stared at his reflection, breathing hard. The young man in the mirror looked different somehow—his eyes older, his stance more confident. A faint blue shimmer passed across his irises before fading, there and gone so quickly he might have imagined it.

  "Progress," he whispered, allowing himself a small, satisfied smile.

  But he wasn't finished. Now came the true test—integrating mana with physical combat. In Arlize's world, the most formidable warriors could channel aetheric energy to enhance their speed, strength, and perception in battle.

  Nick placed the staff on the floor and returned to his centered stance. This time, as he began the Threshin Kata again, he simultaneously reached for the mana that flowed within him. He visualized it circulating through his limbs, strengthening muscles, sharpening reflexes, heightening awareness.

  The first rush of power made him gasp. The sensation was electric—like liquid lightning flooding his veins, setting every nerve ending alight with heightened sensation. His movements suddenly felt lighter, quicker, the air itself seeming to part before him as he moved. The blue glow manifested subtly—not the dramatic flares of his earlier experiments, but a thin luminescent sheen that outlined his form, visible only if one knew what to look for.

  He completed the entire kata in half the time it had taken before, each movement executed with perfect precision. When he finished, he wasn't even breathing hard, the usual burn of exertion replaced by a pleasant warmth that radiated from his core.

  "This," Nick murmured, examining his hands as the blue glow faded, "changes everything."

  He returned the staff to the rack and checked the time. His body felt remarkably good—none of the fatigue that should have followed such intense physical exertion. The mana had not only enhanced his performance but seemed to be accelerating his recovery as well.

  As he left the practice room, a disquieting thought struck him. If neural interface technology was advanced enough to transfer consciousness—to somehow merge his modern mind with Arlize's ancient one—could it also explain the mana itself? Was what he experienced as magical energy actually some form of technologically enhanced neural control over his own body? The line between science and magic, as Arthur C. Clarke had famously noted, blurred when technology advanced far enough.