The calculus classroom was uncharacteristically quiet as Nick slipped into his usual seat. Most students were hunched over their notes, reviewing formulas before the quiz Professor Ellis had promised. Nick scanned the room, noting Jordan's empty seat beside him. The absence was telling—Jordan hadn't missed a class since the semester began, except for the day after the Alpha Phi party when his knuckles were bruised.
Nick positioned his materials with methodical precision, angling his tablet to avoid reflections while maintaining awareness of his surroundings. The military-postured student from Statistics class sat three rows back, pretending to review notes while his eyes tracked Nick's movements with practiced subtlety.
Professor Ellis strode in precisely at 2:00 PM, students quieting as he set the quiz papers on the front desk.
"As promised, we begin with a quiz on integration techniques," he announced, distributing papers with brisk efficiency. "You have forty-five minutes. Show all work for partial credit."
Nick scanned the first problem, pen already in hand—then paused.
The problem was ordinary at first glance. But the framing, the variables, even the terrain figures—it was eerily close to the military supply-chain simulations Arlize used to run during the western sieges. Too close.
Nick’s eyes flicked up to Ellis, who had already moved behind the rows of seats, hands clasped. Watching—not the class, but him.
Their eyes locked and held for a moment, the stare in Ellis eyes raising goosebumps on the back of Nick’s neck before he looked down at his quiz again.
He worked quickly, answering each problem with subtle correctness, adjusting his methods just slightly—enough to mask his precision. By the end, he was confident the answers would check out, but no automated system would flag them as anomalous.
“Ten minutes remaining,” Ellis called.
Nick had already finished, but he remained still, using the time to recalibrate. Jordan was gone. The watcher was present. And now Ellis was behaving more like a handler than a professor.
When time was called, Nick stood and approached the front to turn in his quiz. Ellis accepted it with a nod, eyes unreadable.
“Good work on last week’s practice set,” Ellis said, voice quieter now. “Your solutions were… efficient.”
Nick hesitated just a beat. “I’ve been practicing those a lot. Used to get tripped up on them in high school.”
“Indeed.” Ellis’s gaze sharpened, almost imperceptibly. “Putting in the work tends to pay off. Especially when the stakes are higher than anyone realizes.”
Nick nodded slowly. “Understood.”
Then Ellis leaned forward just slightly and, in a tone meant for Nick alone, said:
“Don’t eat anything you didn’t watch being served. At least not for the rest of this week.”
Nick blinked, keeping his expression neutral. Then he nodded again, a shade deeper, and turned to leave.
"Thank you, sir," Nick responded, keeping his tone neutral.
As he walked out, he didn’t look back. But the interaction replayed in his head—Ellis’s choice of words, the timing, the warning.
Subtle. Too subtle for coincidence. But why? Was Ellis trying to help him?
Pushing the strange interaction with Ellis to the back of his mind, Nick headed to the Undergraduate Library to get some work done.
The library's fifth floor was nearly deserted, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows through the tall windows. Nick claimed a study carrel in the farthest corner, positioning himself with clear sightlines to both stairwells while remaining partially concealed by bookshelves.
For the next hour, he systematically completed assignments for his upcoming classes—detailed notes on cellular adaptation for Biology. He needed to be ready for when he and Hannah started their group project in a couple of weeks. Finished with Bio, he refined the code he was working on for Computer Science and finished his business analytical response papers for Intro to Business.
Finishing his assignments, Nick opened his tablet and began the real work, connecting to a diagnostic script Maggie built, adapted from her brother’s research on low-frequency quantum interference. The idea was simple: subtle pulses that pinged the amygdala and lit up anyone with latent mana fields.
Nick’s goal while being in the library wasn’t just to study. It was to learn how to lie to the algorithm. If he could lie to this, he was one step closer to overcoming whatever Professor Harrington planned for tomorrow’s lecture.
He pulled up a shell overlay Arlize had once used to confuse enemy mana trackers—then adapted it. Weaker pulse. Localized. Personalized to his signature.
His fingers danced across the screen, refining a masking layer that would distort his natural aura just enough to blend into background noise. Harmless. Ordinary. Uninteresting.
By the time the library lights dimmed into evening mode, he had something—not perfect, but usable.
It wouldn’t hide him from an all-out scan.
But maybe it would be enough to misdirect suspicion tomorrow.
He backed up the prototype code to the drive Maggie gave him and closed his tablet. Nick checked the time—6:30 PM. The cafeteria would still be serving dinner for another hour. His enhanced metabolism demanded fuel, especially before an intense mana practice session which he was planning for later that evening.
As he gathered his materials, he methodically swept the area for signs of surveillance before leaving the library and heading back to his dorm where he dropped off his backpack, changed into his workout clothes, then headed for the cafeteria.
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Walking across the quad, Nick turned his attention to tomorrow's neural interface lecture with Professor Harrington. The event loomed in his mind like a fortress he was preparing to infiltrate—unknown dangers behind seemingly academic walls.
What would he find there? A trap, certainly—but what kind? Would they attempt to trigger his abilities somehow, perhaps with targeted stimuli designed to provoke a mana response? Or was it more insidious—a screening mechanism to identify potential subjects for their research?
Nick considered his options with Arlize's tactical precision. Direct confrontation was out of the question—he lacked sufficient intelligence about their capabilities and objectives. A purely defensive approach seemed equally flawed; passivity would yield no new information.
Strike a balance, Arlize's memories counseled. Present strength enough to earn respect but vulnerability enough to invite underestimation.
In battle, Arlize had often employed a strategy of controlled revelation—showing just enough skill to unsettle opponents while concealing his true capabilities. The same approach might work here. Let Harrington glimpse elements of his abilities—enough to confirm their interest while misdirecting about the true nature and extent of his powers.
The recording glasses from Maggie would be crucial. Whatever Harrington revealed, whatever stimuli they attempted to use, would be documented for later analysis. And the vital-monitoring watch would alert him to any attempts at subtler manipulation—drugs, subliminal messaging, or other covert techniques.
By the time Nick reached the cafeteria, he had formulated a preliminary strategy: observe, record, and present a carefully curated version of himself—the gifted student with unexplained potential rather than the reborn warrior-mage with growing control of mana. Let them chase shadows while he gathered intelligence.
The cafeteria buzzed with typical evening activity—students clustered around tables, the clatter of trays and silverware creating a cacophony that made surveillance difficult. Nick moved through the food line with practiced efficiency, selecting his usual protein-heavy meal: grilled chicken, steamed vegetables, brown rice. Nothing that would draw attention or disrupt his established pattern.
He found a corner table with good sightlines to all entrances, positioning himself with his back to the wall. As he began eating, Nick mentally reviewed his preparations for tomorrow's crucial events: collecting the apartment keys, setting up his secure base, and attending Harrington's lecture with Maggie's surveillance equipment in place.
Three bites into his meal, something felt wrong.
Nick paused, fork halfway to his mouth. The chicken tasted normal, the seasoning perhaps a bit heavier than usual, but nothing overtly suspicious. Yet something in his system was reacting, a subtle warning that grew more insistent with each bite.
The mana.
Beneath his skin, a faint blue pulse flickered along his veins—visible only to him, a warning system more accurate than any technological sensor. As he took another experimental bite, the blue energy flickered more aggressively, creating a sensation like static electricity beneath his skin.
Nick set down his fork, suddenly alert. This wasn't the first time he'd experienced this reaction. A memory surfaced—fragmentary but distinct—from senior year of high school.
"Come on, Valiente, loosen up for once." Matt's voice carried over the pounding bass that filled his parents' basement. The Harrington's home theater system probably cost more than Nick's entire house, but Matt treated it like a disposable toy, cranking the volume until the walls vibrated.
Nick sat perched uncomfortably on the edge of a leather couch that probably cost more than his mom's car, surrounded by Westridge's elite—the sons and daughters of doctors, lawyers, executives. Matt's inner circle had never welcomed him before tonight.
"I'm good," Nick replied, gesturing to the half-empty beer in his hand. He'd been nursing the same drink all night, uncomfortable with the way the others were downing shots like water. He needed to keep his wits about him; this invitation had come too suddenly, too unexpectedly to trust.
"That's not good enough," Matt insisted, his smile tight and calculated as he appeared with two shot glasses filled with amber liquid. "Senior project presentation tomorrow. We drink to success."
Nick hesitated. Matt had never shown interest in his academic performance before—why start now? But the others were watching, and Nick felt the familiar pressure to belong, to be accepted by this group that had ignored him for years.
"Fine, one shot," he conceded, accepting the glass.
Matt raised his own. "To new partnerships," he said, something knowing in his eyes that made Nick uneasy.
The liquor burned going down, but the burning didn't stop at his throat. It spread outward, a strange tingling sensation that radiated through his chest and limbs. Within minutes, the room began to spin, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.
Through blurring sight, Nick saw Matt watching him with clinical interest rather than concern, phone in hand as if documenting the reaction. Something blue flickered at the edges of Nick's awareness—a faint glow that seemed to pulse beneath his skin, visible only to him.
"What... what was in that?" Nick managed to ask, his words slurring uncontrollably.
"Just a little something to help us understand you better," Matt replied, his voice suddenly distant though weirdly, distinctly frustrated. He checked his watch, then looked back at Nick with narrowed eyes. "Shouldn’t something be happening right now? I did everything according to your father's research..."
Leaning closer, Matt scrutinized Nick's face, disappointment clear on his expression. Pulling out his phone, he muttered something into it that sounded like "Subject showing resistance to compound V7, minimal manifestation." The clinical detachment in his voice was more chilling than any anger could have been.
Nick tried to stand, to escape, but his legs buckled beneath him. As consciousness faded, the last thing he saw was Matt's face standing above him, a scowl on his face as he watched Nick lay on the ground.
The next morning, Nick had awakened in his own bed with no memory of how he'd gotten home and a splitting headache that lasted for days. When he'd tried to confront Matt, the other boy had laughed it off, spinning a story about Nick embarrassing himself after too many drinks.
His hands trembled as he came back to the present. Rage flared, fast and uninvited. They’d tested him once—without his knowledge, without his consent—and now they were doing it again.
His food had been tampered with.
But how? He'd watched the cafeteria worker plate it directly from serving trays. Unless...
Nick scanned the room carefully, noting a cafeteria employee he didn't recognize watching him from near the beverage station. Their eyes met briefly before the worker turned away too quickly, retreating through the staff door.
They're not just watching anymore. They're testing.
Nick casually pushed his tray away and stood, gathering his belongings with deliberate calm despite the agitated mana now visibly pulsing beneath his skin—a blue lightning storm visible only to him. His mana burning whatever they’d laced into the food.
Since they'd drugged his food, they would be waiting for the effects to take hold. He dumped his tray in the disposal area and exited the cafeteria, maintaining an unhurried pace while his senses remained on high alert. The campus fitness center would be crowded at this hour—too many witnesses for anything overt.
The air shifted—too quiet, too focused. Mana crackled low in his veins.
Something’s coming.
He hadn't gone fifty yards when his enhanced senses detected movement behind him—footsteps accelerating, breathing patterns changing from casual to purposeful. Someone was closing distance rapidly.
Nick spun around, mana surging in preparation—but too late.
Two metallic prongs struck his chest, a blinding flash of electricity overwhelming his nervous system. Every muscle contracted simultaneously as voltage coursed through him, disrupting the mana flow and sending him crashing to the ground. Through blurring vision, he glimpsed a hooded figure standing over him, speaking urgently into what appeared to be a communications device.
"Package secured. Moving now."
