Nick moved through the evening shadows with practiced caution, the weight of Maggie's backpack a constant reminder of the stakes involved. His dorm was compromised—surveillance devices in the ceiling vent and almost certainly elsewhere. Jordan remained an unpredictable variable, potentially reporting Nick's movements to unknown handlers. The campus itself had become a carefully monitored battlefield, with cameras tracking his movements and "maintenance workers" installing new surveillance equipment.

  His dorm building loomed ahead, windows illuminated in the gathering dusk. Nick scanned the perimeter as he approached, noting a maintenance van that hadn't been there that morning. The same van he'd spotted outside Engineering Building C earlier—concrete evidence that the surveillance operation had expanded.

  Nick took the stairs instead of the elevator, pausing at each landing to listen for any unusual activity. The hallway to his room appeared empty, but his enhanced senses detected a faint electronic signature emanating from somewhere near Jordan's room.

  He unlocked his door with deliberate calm, pushing it open with practiced nonchalance. The room appeared untouched, but Nick's enhanced perception immediately detected a change—a subtle electronic hum that hadn't been there before, concentrated above his desk. A quick glance confirmed his suspicion: a new device disguised as a motion sensor, its lens barely visible unless you knew exactly where to look.

  They're escalating their monitoring. Interesting.

  Nick moved naturally around the room, gathering his textbook and notebook as if he hadn't noticed the new addition. As he was about to leave, he paused, hearing muffled voices from across the hall. Jordan's room.

  "—pushing too hard," Jordan was saying, his voice tense. "He's already suspicious."

  A second voice responded—older, authoritative. "Your concerns are noted, but irrelevant. The Director wants closer monitoring. The subject's behavior patterns have deviated significantly from baseline predictions."

  "That's exactly my point," Jordan argued. "Aggressive surveillance will only accelerate the deviations. We should—"

  "You were assigned to observe and report, not to develop strategy," the second voice cut in coldly. "Your previous failure to maintain proper surveillance protocols has already been noted in your file."

  A heavy silence followed.

  "Yes, sir," Jordan finally responded, all protest gone from his voice.

  "The Coleman application is of particular interest. If he receives the fellowship, he'll have access to restricted research facilities. That cannot happen."

  Nick’s brow tightened. He hadn’t thought much about the fellowship since submitting the proposal last week—at least not until now. Apparently, it had attracted more attention than he expected. Slipping quietly out of his room, he filed away this new information. So the Coleman Fellowship wasn't just an academic opportunity—it potentially offered access to facilities connected to his investigation. And whoever was running this operation was growing concerned about his "deviations from baseline."

  Good. Let them worry.

  Professor Williams' business classroom was already half-full when Nick arrived. He chose a seat that offered good sightlines to both entrances while positioning himself away from Sarah's usual spot. He had no interest in another pointless verbal sparring match.

  As if summoned by his thoughts, Matt appeared in the doorway, scanning the room until his gaze locked on Nick. Unlike their previous encounters, there was no attempt at casual friendliness. Matt's face was tight with strain, dark circles under his eyes suggesting sleepless nights. He started toward Nick but stopped when his phone buzzed. Checking the screen, his expression shifted from annoyance to something closer to fear.

  Instead of approaching Nick, Matt took a seat on the opposite side of the room, immediately tapping out a response on his phone. His hands shook visibly—another telling detail. Matt Harrington, golden boy with the perfect future laid out before him, was unraveling.

  Sarah entered moments later, her calculated poise intact as she surveyed the room. When she spotted Nick, her eyes narrowed slightly, but she made no move to approach him. Instead, she slid into the seat beside Matt, placing a hand on his arm in what appeared to be a calming gesture. Matt jerked away from her touch with unexpected violence, knocking her hand aside.

  "Don't," he hissed, loud enough for several nearby students to turn and stare.

  Sarah's mask of composure cracked for a split second, genuine hurt flashing across her features before the cold calculation returned. "You need to pull yourself together," she whispered, though Nick's enhanced hearing caught every word. "They're asking questions about your reliability."

  "Because you've been telling them I'm losing it," Matt shot back, his voice low but intense. "Your reports. Your assessments. Don't think I don't know."

  "That's not—"

  Matt slammed his notebook shut, the sound sharp in the sudden silence.

  "Save it," he snapped, knuckles white as he gripped his pen. He stood abruptly, backpack half-zipped, and stalked off to another seat just as Professor Williams strode in.

  The interaction told Nick more than any confrontation could have. The alliance between Matt and Sarah was fracturing under external pressure. Whoever they reported to was demanding results that weren't forthcoming, and Matt clearly suspected Sarah of undermining him to save herself.

  Professor Williams clapped his hands, his energetic presence drawing all attention forward. "Good afternoon, future captains of industry! Today we're discussing corporate intelligence—the ethical boundaries of information gathering in competitive markets."

  Nick almost laughed at the timing. The irony was too perfect.

  The lecture proceeded with Williams' usual dynamism, covering frameworks for evaluating the ethics of various intelligence-gathering methods. Nick participated strategically, offering insights that demonstrated knowledge without revealing too much about his own situation.

  When Williams divided the class into pairs for a case study, Nick found himself partnered with a quiet economics major named David rather than Sarah—a small mercy that allowed him to focus on the task rather than verbal fencing.

  As class ended, Nick gathered his materials efficiently, planning to exit before either Matt or Sarah could intercept him. He was almost to the door when Professor Williams called out.

  "Mr. Valiente, a moment of your time?"

  Nick approached the lectern as other students filed out. Through the doorway, he noticed Matt lingering, clearly hoping to overhear whatever Williams wanted to discuss.

  "Your Coleman Fellowship application has generated quite a bit of interest," Williams said, his voice pitched low enough to remain private. "Dean Harrison was particularly impressed with your research proposal on predictive modeling for sustainable technologies."

  "I'm glad to hear that," Nick replied. "It's an area I believe has significant potential."

  Williams glanced briefly toward the door, where Matt was still pretending to organize his backpack. "I should mention that the selection committee has... expanded this year. There's been considerable corporate interest in our student research initiatives."

  The slight emphasis on "corporate" caught Nick's attention. "I understand. Is there anything specific I should address in my final application?"

  Williams leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping further. "Just be aware that your work will be scrutinized not just for academic merit, but for... commercial applications. Callahan Industries has taken a particular interest in sustainable technologies recently."

  "I appreciate the heads-up," Nick replied, reading between the lines. Williams seemed to be warning him, albeit subtly.

  As Nick left the classroom, he spotted Matt already on his phone, undoubtedly reporting this latest development to whoever was pulling his strings. Sarah waited in the corridor beyond, her composed mask firmly in place. As Nick approached, she didn't move aside, forcing him to either stop or brush past her.

  Nick chose neither, instead pausing just beyond arm's reach, his expression neutral. "Something on your mind, Sarah?"

  She glanced down the hallway toward Matt, who was pacing like a cornered animal, his free hand gesturing wildly as he spoke into his phone. When Sarah turned back to Nick, her eyes held a flicker of something he couldn't quite pin down—fatigue? Calculation? Perhaps even fear? Then her eyes shuttered, the cold condescension he’d known for years, back in place.

  "The Coleman Fellowship," she said without preamble, her voice pitched for his ears alone. "Williams doesn't recommend freshmen. Especially not ones with your... previous academic record."

  Nick maintained his neutral expression. "Perhaps he sees potential where others don't."

  "Or perhaps there's more to your sudden academic brilliance than meets the eye." Her gaze traveled over his face with clinical precision. "That application could open doors to restricted research areas. Interesting timing for someone who's suddenly so... focused."

  Sarah leaned slightly closer, her perfume—jasmine with undertones of vanilla—a calculated sensory trigger she'd always used around him. "Let's stop pretending. You know something, don't you? About Callahan Industries. About Matt's family."

  Now this was interesting. Not Sarah warning him about Matt, but Sarah fishing for information—trying to determine exactly what Nick knew and how he'd changed so dramatically.

  "I know lots of things, Sarah. What specifically interests you?" Nick countered, watching her reaction carefully.

  A flash of frustration crossed her features before the mask returned. "Things are changing quickly. Alliances are shifting. The people Matt and I report to are... reevaluating positions." She paused meaningfully. "Including yours."

  "And why tell me this?" Nick asked, his voice neutral despite the significance of what she was revealing.

  "Because whatever information you have, whatever you've discovered—it's valuable." Her eyes flickered to Matt again before returning to Nick. "Valuable enough that I might be interested in a different arrangement than the one I currently have."

  Now the picture became clearer. Sarah wasn't warning Nick about Matt's instability out of concern—she was positioning herself to potentially switch sides if Nick had something better to offer than her current handlers.

  "Sounds like someone hedging their bets," Nick observed.

  "I prefer to think of it as recognizing changing circumstances." Sarah's smile was thin but calculated. "When the board shifts, the smart players adjust their strategy."

  "And Matt isn't adjusting?"

  "Matt is loyal to his family connections. I'm loyal to my own interests." Sarah stepped back slightly. "Think about it, Nick. I can be a powerful ally or a dangerous enemy. And right now, you seem to be someone worth aligning with."

  Without waiting for his response, Sarah turned and walked away, her posture perfect, her pace unhurried. The message couldn't be clearer: she wasn't warning Nick about Matt—she was offering herself as a potential defector if Nick's position proved stronger than her current alliance.

  As Nick watched her retreating figure, he recognized the dangerous game she was playing. Sarah wasn't concerned about Matt's stability; she was concerned about backing the winning side. She'd sensed the shift in Nick's bearing, his newfound confidence and knowledge, and was probing to see if he might be worth betraying her current handlers for.

  And that made her more dangerous than ever—but potentially more valuable too.

  The library's six-floor Modern Research Wing offered what Nick needed—a temporary secure location away from prying eyes and electronic surveillance. Unlike the older sections of the library, this wing featured private study pods with lockable doors, designed for collaborative work requiring privacy. Most importantly, the building's thick concrete walls created natural dead zones that interfered with electronic monitoring.

  Nick reserved a pod on the fourth floor for two hours, selecting one that was situated in the building's corner, maximizing distance from security cameras in the main corridors. Once inside, he locked the door and performed a careful sweep—no unusual electrical signals, no unexpected heat signatures, no tampering with the room's few fixtures.

  Only then did he open Maggie's backpack.

  The laptop inside was military-grade—ruggedized case, encrypted boot sequence, no wireless capabilities. Nick powered it on using the password Maggie had provided in her text. The machine booted to a stripped-down operating system with no unnecessary features.

  But it wasn't the laptop that caught Nick's attention first—it was a sealed manila envelope marked with Maggie's precise handwriting: "Project Rebirth – E. Zhang's Notes on Valiente Research."

  His heart quickened as he carefully opened the envelope. Inside were photocopies of handwritten research notes, equations, and diagrams that made little sense at first glance. But as Nick studied them, patterns began to emerge—references to "bioenergetic amplification," "conscious energy transference," and "hereditary neural pathways."

  One page in particular stood out—a detailed analysis of what appeared to be brain scans labeled "M.V." and "S.V." His parents. Marco and Sierra Valiente.

  Dr. Zhang had written below the scans:

  "The Valientes' neurological patterns show extraordinary synchronization in regions typically dormant in human subjects. Their claims of 'family abilities' initially dismissed as metaphorical appear to have physiological basis. Their proposed research into bio-energetic potential activation could revolutionize our understanding of human consciousness—if Callahan would permit publication. Their insistence on hereditary transmission of these abilities warrants investigation, particularly regarding their son (N.V.)."

  Nick stared at the notes, his hand trembling slightly. This was confirmation of what he'd begun to suspect—his parents had been studying mana scientifically, using their positions at Callahan to research their own hereditary abilities. And Dr. Zhang had known.

  Further in the stack, Nick found a page of notes in his father's distinctive handwriting, dated just three weeks before the accident that claimed his parents' lives:

  "S. believes we're being watched. Security protocols at the lab have tightened. Our access to the main Rebirth servers has been restricted. Whatever they uncovered in Colombian Subject 27's neural patterns has changed the project's direction. The similarities to our family's abilities are too precise to be coincidental. If our theories are correct about the inheritance patterns, Nicolas could be at risk. We've ensured his abilities remain dormant until he's old enough to understand and control them. The contingency measures are in place. If anything happens to us, my parents will know what to do when he turns 19."

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Nick felt a chill run through him. Colombian Subject 27. His parents' research. The "dormant" abilities they had somehow suppressed in him until his rebirth triggered their awakening. It was all connected—his family heritage, Callahan Industries, Project Rebirth, and the memories from Arlize that had somehow merged with his own consciousness. Leaning back in his chair, Nick sighed. This was too much to think about right now.

  Setting the documents aside for the moment, Nick inserted the drive containing his investment data, quickly transferring the encrypted files to the secure laptop. He then accessed his investment platform through the secure browser Maggie had installed.

  What he saw made his pulse quicken even further.

  Helios Pharmaceuticals had skyrocketed to $69.74 per share—an increase of over 3,100% from his entry price of $2.17. According to the financial news feed, the company had received unexpected fast-track approval for their breakthrough cancer treatment, triggering a buying frenzy that had been amplified by a short squeeze when several hedge funds were caught betting against the company.

  His $2,500 investment was now worth nearly $80,500.

  Nick studied the timeline carefully. This development wasn't just ahead of schedule—it had occurred months earlier than in his previous life. The catalyst had been an unexplained acceleration in the FDA approval process, pushed through by a congressional committee with oversight on pharmaceutical regulations.

  The committee chairman's name caught Nick's eye: Senator James Callahan—Matthew Harrington Sr.'s brother-in-law.

  Was this just coincidence, or was something more calculated at play? Could Callahan Industries have influenced the approval process to trigger this specific market movement? If so, why?

  Nick hesitated only briefly before executing a partial sale—liquidating 80% of his position to lock in profits while maintaining some exposure to further upside. The proceeds would be more than enough for what he had in mind.

  When he finished, Nick examined one more item from Maggie's backpack—a small device that resembled a simple USB flash drive.

  A handwritten note explained:

  "Spectrum analyzer. Detects surveillance equipment up to 50 feet in any direction. Green light means clean, yellow means possible electronic signature, red means active surveillance. Use it to find a truly secure location. —M"

  Perfect. This would help him establish a safe haven away from Callahan's monitoring network.

  The Westlake Arms apartment complex stood two blocks from campus—close enough for convenience but outside the university's direct surveillance network. The building was older but well-maintained, with reasonable security and a crucial advantage—private ownership rather than university affiliation.

  The leasing office was still open when Nick arrived, and he approached the front desk with confident purpose.

  "I'm interested in a one-bedroom unit," he told the property manager, a middle-aged woman whose nameplate identified her as Gloria Reynolds. "Something available immediately."

  Gloria eyed him with the practiced skepticism of someone who had seen too many unreliable student tenants. "We don't normally rent to freshmen. Most of our tenants are grad students or young professionals."

  "I understand," Nick replied, matching her professional tone. "I'm looking for a quiet environment conducive to academic focus. My financial situation is solid—I have sufficient savings and investment income to cover rent and security deposit without parental co-signing."

  Her expression shifted from skeptical to curious. "We do have one unit available—just renovated. $1,200 per month plus utilities, first and last month's rent up front, plus security deposit."

  "I'd like to see it," Nick said.

  The apartment was small but efficient—a studio with updated appliances, decent security features, and most importantly, a location that offered multiple approach and exit routes. Perfect for his needs.

  Nick subtly activated the spectrum analyzer in his pocket as they toured the unit. The device remained green throughout—no electronic surveillance detected.

  "I'll take it," Nick decided. "When can I move in?"

  "As soon as the paperwork and payment clear," Gloria replied, still surprised by his decisiveness. "Possibly as early as Friday, which would give you the weekend to move in."

  Nick filled out the application, providing the necessary documentation and explaining that he would wire the required funds in the morning. Gloria processed the information efficiently, raising an eyebrow only briefly at his proof of funds.

  "Everything seems in order, Mr. Valiente. We'll just need to run a quick background check, but assuming that comes back clean, the apartment should be ready by Friday afternoon."

  "Perfect," Nick replied, shaking her hand firmly. "I travel light. It won't take long to move in."

  The weight that had been pressing down on Nick's shoulders since his rebirth eased slightly. For the first time, he would have a truly secure location—a place to plan, to practice his growing mastery of mana, and to prepare for whatever confrontation awaited him.

  The apartment would serve as his sanctuary and headquarters while his dorm room remained a carefully maintained decoy. Let them watch empty rooms and routine activities while he operated beyond their surveillance net.

  The business school's Ford Conference Center hummed with activity as Nick arrived for the Business Leaders Association meeting. Unlike the casual happy hour he'd attended previously, this was a formal club event—business casual attire, catered refreshments, and a structured agenda posted on screens throughout the room.

  As Nick entered, he immediately picked up fragments of animated conversations about Friday night's Alpha Phi party.

  "—absolute chaos after campus security showed up," a junior in a navy blazer was saying, gesturing dramatically. "I've never seen so many people scatter so fast."

  "Hendricks is still in the medical center," replied a girl with sleek dark hair. "Kaplan too. Heard they both have concussions and Hendricks might have a fractured jaw."

  "What exactly happened?" asked a freshman Nick didn't recognize. "I left right before things went crazy."

  "Someone paid those meathead wrestlers to 'teach a lesson' to some freshman who never showed," the junior explained, lowering his voice slightly as Nick passed. "When their target didn't show, they started pushing people around anyway and picked the wrong guy to mess with."

  "Wrong guys, plural," the dark-haired girl corrected. "No way one person took down both Hendricks and Kaplan. Campus security report mentioned multiple assailants, but weirdly, nobody remembers seeing who actually did it."

  Nick kept his expression neutral as he moved past them, satisfaction warming his chest. The ambush that had hospitalized him in his previous life had backfired spectacularly this time.

  Tyler Davidson spotted him from across the room, waving him over to a table near the front. "Nick! Glad you made it. We've got a killer semester lined up."

  "Almost didn't make it," called another member—Ryan from the finance track—as Nick approached. "Heard half the business school was at that Alpha Phi disaster Friday. You dodge that bullet?"

  "Had other priorities," Nick replied with a casual shrug.

  "Smart man," Tyler laughed, shaking his head. "That party's going to be legendary for all the wrong reasons. Two guys in the hospital, property damage, and rumors that someone from the athletic department was involved in setting up some kind of confrontation. The Dean of Students is launching a formal investigation."

  Nick joined them at the table, noting with satisfaction that several of the upperclassmen from the happy hour greeted him with genuine recognition. Alexa Kim slid a printed agenda toward him.

  "We're organizing into focus groups tonight," she explained. "Based on your interests. Founders, investors, corporate ladder-climbers, social impact, banking... where are you leaning?"

  "Investors, primarily," Nick replied. "With some interest in the founder track as well."

  Alexa nodded approvingly. "Smart. Understand how money works before you try to raise it."

  The meeting began with club announcements, including the revelation that they'd secured a high-profile speaker for next month—Jennifer Morrow, a venture capitalist whose early investment in several tech unicorns had made her a legend in Silicon Valley.

  "This is a major coup for our chapter," Tyler explained from the podium. "We need everyone's help marketing the event across campus. We're talking flyers, social media campaign, cross-promotion with other business organizations. And we need volunteers to staff the event. Who's in?"

  Nick raised his hand. "I can help with registration," he offered. The position would provide exposure to venture capital connections he could leverage later.

  After the announcements, the group split into their focus areas. Nick joined the investor track, led by James Mercer, the finance-focused senior he'd met at the happy hour.

  "Welcome to the money side," James said as their group of twelve settled around a table. "We focus on three things here—technical analysis, market psychology, and real-world practice."

  He outlined the semester plan—a student-run investment fund they'd be managing with a modest $10,000 pool, weekly market analysis presentations, and guest speakers from various finance backgrounds.

  "Each of you will pitch investment ideas throughout the semester," James explained. "The group votes on allocations. Real money, real consequences, real experience."

  As the discussion continued, Nick absorbed the dynamics at play, identifying potential allies and information sources. Rather than competing for attention, he asked strategic questions that demonstrated knowledge while giving others the spotlight. By the end of the session, he'd positioned himself as thoughtful and analytical rather than aggressively ambitious.

  "You've got good instincts," James told him as they were packing up. "Most freshmen try too hard to impress. You actually listen."

  "I learn more that way," Nick replied, which was true, though not his primary motivation.

  As the meeting wound down, Nick noticed something unusual—a student he didn't recognize watching him from across the room. The stranger’s stare was clinical, unblinking. A silver ring on his index finger glinted under the lights—a serpent swallowing its tail.

  When their eyes met, the man smiled, just slightly before turning and walking unhurriedly toward the exit.

  As the mysterious observer neared the door, he paused beside a tall blonde woman whom Nick recognized as Professor Feldman's research assistant. The observer leaned in to whisper something, and both briefly glanced in Nick's direction before disappearing through the door.

  A new player on the board. And possibly connected to Professor Feldman, who had added Nick to the invitation list for Professor Harrington's private lecture.

  Nick filed the observation away as he said his goodbyes to Tyler and the others. The evening had been productive—new connections made, a secure apartment arranged, and financial independence established. But there was one more item on his agenda before returning to his surveilled dorm room.

  The university's athletic complex was largely deserted at 9:30 PM on a Tuesday. Nick made his way to the smaller training rooms at the back of the facility, finding one equipped with mats and basic training equipment. After verifying it was empty, he locked the door behind him, ensuring privacy for what came next.

  He placed the spectrum analyzer on a shelf, confirming the absence of surveillance devices with its steady green light. Then he moved to the center of the room, slipping into the meditative stance his father had taught him years ago—feet shoulder-width apart, hands relaxed at his sides, breathing deep and regular.

  The memory of his parents practicing their "exercises" in the backyard at dawn took on new meaning now. What he had dismissed as some form of tai chi in his earlier life had been mana cultivation all along.

  Nick closed his eyes, summoning the image of his parents as they moved through their morning routines—his father's steady, grounded movements, his mother's more fluid, graceful forms. He could see them clearly now, the subtle blue glow that had sometimes surrounded their hands at certain moments of their practice. How had he forgotten that detail? Or had his child's mind simply normalized what he couldn't understand?

  "The energy flows like water," his father had once told him, kneeling to meet seven-year-old Nick's eyes. "You don't force it. You guide it. Like this." He had taken Nick's small hands in his larger ones, showing him a simple circular motion. "Someday, when you're older, you'll understand."

  The memory hit Nick with unexpected force, bringing a tightness to his throat and a stinging to his eyes. His father had been trying to prepare him, in his own careful way. Training him without fully revealing what they were training for.

  For the first time, Nick deliberately reached for the mana not as Arlize's power, but as his birthright—an ability flowing through his bloodline, temporarily sealed for his protection and now reawakened through his connection to Arlize.

  The response was immediate and dramatic. Blue energy surged through him with unprecedented intensity, illuminating the room with azure light. It felt different—not the careful manipulation of an external force, but the natural expression of something integral to his being.

  This wasn't just Arlize's power he was borrowing. It was his own, amplified by his connection to the warrior-mage.

  Nick extended his hand, palm upward, concentrating on manifesting the mana in a controlled form. The blue energy coalesced above his palm in a perfect sphere, pulsing in harmony with his heartbeat. Unlike his previous attempts, there was no strain, no resistance—just the natural flow of power responding to his will.

  "Guide it, don't force it," he whispered, his father's words returning to him.

  He tried something new, remembering a technique he'd glimpsed in Dr. Zhang's notes about his parents' abilities. Nick visualized the sphere elongating, transforming into a slender rod of concentrated energy.

  The mana responded instantly, reshaping itself according to his intent. The rod hummed with barely contained power, casting sharp shadows across the training room walls.

  Next, he tried something more complex—dividing the single rod into multiple smaller projectiles that orbited around his hand like miniature comets, each trailing ethereal blue light. The level of control required was immense, but Nick found it coming naturally, as if he had practiced this exact technique countless times before.

  Perhaps, through his parents, he had.

  Another memory surfaced—his mother sitting beside his bed during a childhood fever, her cool hand on his forehead. He remembered now the gentle blue glow that had emanated from her palm, the soothing energy that had flowed into him, easing his pain and cooling the fever. "Our special secret," she had whispered when his eyes had widened at the blue light. "Something that makes our family special."

  The healing touch. Another application of mana that his mother had mastered.

  As a final test, Nick reached for one of the practice staffs racked against the wall. Instead of walking over to retrieve it, he extended his will through the mana, creating a tendril of blue energy that wrapped around the staff and lifted it smoothly into the air.

  The staff floated across the room, rotating slowly before settling gently into his outstretched hand. Telekinesis—or something close to it—achieved through precise mana manipulation.

  Nick stared at the staff in his hand, a strange emotion welling up inside him. Not the clinical satisfaction of mastering a technique, but something deeper, more personal. For the first time since his rebirth, he felt connected to his parents in a way that transcended memory. This power flowing through him was their legacy—a gift passed from generation to generation.

  The realization broke something inside him. Nick sank to his knees on the training mat, the staff clattering beside him as the careful compartmentalization he'd maintained since his rebirth finally crumbled. His parents hadn't just been researchers who died in an accident. They had been mana practitioners, part of a lineage that stretched back generations. They had been trying to protect him, to keep his abilities dormant until he was old enough to understand and control them.

  And Callahan Industries had killed them for it.

  A dry sob caught in his throat. His breath came in short gasps, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. Tears blurred his vision, hot and unwelcome.

  They’d been preparing me my whole life, and I never saw it.

  The mana responded to his distress, surging chaotically around him in swirls of intense blue light. Equipment rattled on the walls, the practice mats rippled as if caught in a strong wind, and the overhead lights flickered erratically.

  "I'm sorry," Nick whispered, though whether to his parents or to himself, he wasn't sure. "I didn't understand. I didn't remember."

  He forced himself to breathe, to center, to find the calm his father had always emphasized during their morning practices. Gradually, the wild fluctuations in the mana field stabilized, the blue energy settling into a steady, pulsing aura around him.

  As his emotions calmed, Nick realized something profound. The connection to his parents that he'd thought severed by death had never truly been broken. It lived on in him, in this energy that flowed through his veins, in the techniques they had begun to teach him before their time was cut short.

  More than that—the mana itself seemed to carry echoes of them, as if their consciousness had imprinted on the energy they had wielded for so long.

  In that moment, as the blue energy pulsed in harmony with his heartbeat, Nick made a silent promise. This power flowing through his veins was more than a weapon for survival or an instrument of revenge. It was his birthright—a sacred trust passed down to him. His parents hadn't just died; they had sacrificed themselves to protect something profound, something worth dying for.

  "I will find the truth," he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself. "About Project Rebirth. About why they were killed. About what they found that was worth silencing them."

  The mana responded to his resolve, intensifying briefly around his clenched fists, casting harsh shadows across the training room walls. This was no longer just about Matt, Sarah, or even his own murder. This was about honoring his family, discovering the secrets his parents had died to protect, and mastering the abilities they had so carefully preserved within him.

  "Whatever they died protecting," Nick vowed, "I will uncover. Whatever they hoped I would become, I will surpass. This I swear, on their memory and on the blood we share."

  As he allowed the mana to subside, returning to its dormant state beneath his skin, Nick's phone vibrated with an incoming message. The number was unfamiliar—not Maggie's usual burner.

  "Classified ad confirmed in El Tiempo. Initial contact established with targets in Bogotá. Await response protocol. —M"

  Nick deleted the message immediately, satisfaction settling over him. The communication line to his grandparents was active. Soon he would have answers about his family heritage, the nature of mana, and his parents' research.

  As he prepared to leave the training room, his phone vibrated again.

  As Nick packed his bag, the glow still fading from his hands, his phone buzzed. An email from his secure account.

  Subject: Project Mindscape — CONFIDENTIAL

  He opened it, heart racing. A prospectus on Nexus Virtual Technologies—the same company that would eventually develop the neural interface technology that revolutionized gaming in his previous timeline, awaited him in his inbox, and at the bottom of the attached prospectus, in looping handwritten script, a note:

  "Mr. Valiente—Your market timing suggests either extraordinary luck or extraordinary insight. Either way, we have a mutual interest in technologies that Callahan Industries would prefer to control exclusively. If you're interested in discussing further, a representative will be at the Morrow venture capital event next month. Ask for Eidolon.

  —M.E."

  Nick stared at the message, mind racing. The timing was too perfect, the knowledge too specific. Whoever ME was, they already knew exactly who Nick was and what he was doing.

  Eidolon. A company? A person? Or something else entirely? A chill traced his spine.

  And if they already knew this much about him already, who else out there was watching?