Chapter 3: Love, Punches, and Other Motivational Tools
You ever have one of those moments where you're finally feeling kinda good about your life, and then the universe throws a brick at your face?
Yeah. That was me.
Walking down the hallway like I had a spine, with Asterion's ancient cosmic soul guiding my every step, and just when I thought we were on track with the whole "get superhuman abs and defeat all your enemies" thing, he dropped this little gem:
"I'm going to help you start something with Sofia."
I blinked.
Paused mid-step.
Nearly tripped over my own feet.
"Wait, what now?" I asked, in the kind of voice reserved for people who've just been told their math teacher moonlights as a dragon.
"You want her, don't you?" Asterion said, all calm and wise like he wasn't talking about Sofia Reyes, the literal goddess of Ravencrest High and also the one person who hadn't looked at me since the sixth grade science fair disaster. (We don't talk about the baking soda volcano.)
"I mean... yeah," I admitted. "But she's totally out of my league. Like, different zip code. Different sport. I'm playing ghost baseball and she's in a perfume commercial."
Asterion huffed. "She's a terrible girl."
I coughed. "Um, I was hoping for something a little more motivational?"
"But," he continued, "people can change. Even the worst ones. So I don't mind your choice. It's your heart."
Which was weirdly kind.
And also very much not the end of that statement.
"I'll talk some sense into her," Asterion added.
I nodded. "Oh. Cool—wait, you'll what now?"
"Rude sense," he clarified. "The kind that sticks in the brain. She's surrounded by boys who say yes to everything she does, laugh at every joke, fall over themselves to be noticed. You want to be remembered? You stand out. You talk back. You show her you're not another puppy begging for her attention."
I blinked again. "That's... actually kind of smart?"
"It's how you get in," he said, with all the confidence of a man who had lived for a thousand years. "Step one: burn the illusion. Step two: self-improvement. Show her you're not just someone different—you're someone better."
It sounded amazing in theory.
Like one of those dramatic rom-coms where the nerd gets a makeover montage and suddenly the hot girl notices he has eyes.
But I knew better.
This was real life. With Derek. And Kane. And a long list of people just waiting for me to fall flat on my face.
"So," I asked, like I was gently opening a box labeled Cursed Ideas, "exactly how rude are we talking here? Like 'oops I said something edgy but clever' rude, or 'entire school hates me and I have to move to Canada' rude?"
Asterion was quiet for a second.
A long second.
Then he said:
"Very bad."
...
"Very what now?"
"You will probably get beat up."
Oh good. I was hoping my social life would burst into flames today.
"Look at it this way," Asterion said, far too casually for someone planning my public execution. "Now you have extra motivation to improve your body. If you don't want to get pummeled into your locker, then start training harder."
I groaned and dropped my forehead against a nearby locker. (It might have been mine. Unclear.)
"This is gonna kill me."
"It will only almost kill you," he said helpfully.
"Oh, well, in that case…"
Look, I knew Asterion wasn't trying to ruin my life. He meant well. Probably. Somewhere under all the sarcasm and warlord confidence, he actually believed I could do this. That I could become stronger. Braver. Better.
And maybe even… win over Sofia.
But right now?
All I could think about was the fact that tomorrow might start with a black eye and end with me getting banned from cheerleader lunch tables for life.
If there was a Mount Rushmore of Terrible Ideas, Evan Mercer's face would now be carved in stone, right next to "Microwaving Leftover Chili in a Sealed Tupperware" and "Trying to Pet a Wild Skunk."
Because walking straight up to Sofia Reyes, queen of Ravencrest High and part-time goddess of glam, while insulting her soul and hitting on her in the same breath? That had to qualify as a felony in at least three states.
But this wasn't Evan walking.
This was Asterion, wearing Evan like a discount Halloween costume—and somehow making it look designer.
He strode across the school courtyard like he owned the place, chin high, steps sharp, confidence dialed up to Infinity + Ultra. The sun caught his eyes just right, giving him the kind of glint usually reserved for action movie trailers or shampoo commercials.
Heads turned.
Voices hushed.
Even the breeze seemed to pause and say, "Yo, is that Evan Mercer?"
Sofia, lounging under the protective circle of her entourage like a perfectly accessorized jungle queen, blinked as Evan/Asterion walked straight up to her.
Now, for context: Sofia was used to two types of boys.
Type A: Droolers. Nervous, mumbling kids who worshipped the ground she walked on and would combust if she smiled in their general direction.
Type B: Peacocks. Overconfident jocks or wannabe influencers who tried to impress her with flexing, TikToks, or tragic acoustic guitar solos.
But this?
This was something different.
"Hey, Sofia," Asterion said—smoothly, like an espresso in a tuxedo. "Could I have a moment?"
That voice. Calm. Collected. Too adult to belong in a high school hallway filled with pizza farts and midterm dread.
Sofia blinked, her expression flickering from casual superiority to… confusion.
"…Yes?" she said, because what else do you say when someone hypnotizes you with raw charisma and insults aren't even on the radar yet?
Somewhere in the back of his own brain, Evan was screaming.
"ABORT. ABORT. THIS IS A WAR CRIME. STOP TOUCHING HER FACE—!"
Too late.
Asterion, channeling every smug anime protagonist who ever lived, reached out and gently tilted Sofia's chin up, like she was the romantic lead in a movie titled Completely Bewildered and Slightly Terrified.
Then he smiled.
"I find you beautiful on the outside," he said, his voice smooth as silk and about as comforting as a silk noose, "but you're ugly on the inside. So shallow it makes me want to puke."
Sound. Stopped. Existing.
Even the birds paused mid-tweet, like did he just say that?
Sofia's jaw dropped. Her entourage gasped in perfect harmony, like they were auditioning for a ghost-themed musical.
Asterion kept going.
"Your future is limited. Your shallow way of living? It'll only carry you so far. Your beauty's temporary. Best case, you land a rich old guy who can afford to put up with the drama. Worst case?" He shrugged. "You lose. Alone."
A fork clattered somewhere. One of the goth kids dropped his vape pen. Even Derek Holt, the school's walking bicep, looked confused.
Sofia looked like someone had just insulted her favorite mirror. Her ego wasn't just bruised—it was full-on bruised, battered, and considering therapy.
Then Asterion leaned back ever-so-slightly and flashed a crooked grin.
"But," he added with the kind of confidence that usually comes with a full bank account and a sword collection, "I find you hot. So I'll make an offer."
Evan, inside his own head, was absolutely losing it.
"DON'T MAKE AN OFFER—STOP MAKING OFFERS!"
"Become mine," Asterion said, hand still lingering near her face. "And I'll show you a new world."
Silence.
Literal, complete, all-consuming silence.
You could've dropped a textbook and it would've echoed into another dimension.
Sofia blinked. Once. Twice.
Then:
"…What?"
That was it. That's all she could say.
No comeback. No snark. Not even a hair flip.
Just a single syllable of pure mental confusion.
Asterion chuckled—chuckled—like he hadn't just verbally drop-kicked a queen bee in front of her hive.
He turned ever so slightly, acknowledging the stunned crowd like they were an audience in a theater performance he just stole.
"Step one: establish dominance," he said under his breath, knowing full well Evan could hear him from inside. "Let's see how far this pushes her boundaries."
"I'M GONNA DIE," Evan wailed in his own mind. "THEY'RE GONNA STUFF ME IN A LOCKER AND SET IT ON FIRE."
To say things had escalated quickly would be like saying Zeus occasionally threw a lightning bolt or two—technically true, but wildly understating the drama.
There stood Evan Mercer. Or at least, that's what everyone thought. What they didn't know was that the soul currently occupying Evan's scrawny body wasn't the shy, ghost-hunted boy they were used to, but a certain interdimensional warrior with the personality of a firecracker and the subtlety of a hurricane.
Asterion Ardyn—warrior, Sect Head, Knight of Fate, and part-time teen body snatcher—was on a mission. That mission? Shake the very foundations of Ravencrest High's social food chain, starting with Queen Bee herself: Sofia.
He had already dropped some truth bombs, the kind that turned heads, cracked egos, and earned gasps loud enough to rival a concert crowd. But Asterion wasn't quite finished.
"Well," he began again, loud enough for the world to pause mid-bite of cafeteria pizza, "you're probably going to say, 'That's not going to happen because I'm rich.'" He glanced casually at Sofia, like he was pointing out a stain on her Gucci sweater. "No, your father is rich. You? You're just a leech."
If words could throw punches, this one uppercutted Sofia right in the reputation. A collective oooohhh rippled through the crowd like a tidal wave of secondhand embarrassment. Somewhere, a freshman choked on his juice box. Another whispered, "Did Evan just—did he just roast her soul?"
Sofia's carefully curated social armor cracked. Her mascara-framed eyes widened, and a vein in her forehead began to twitch with the rage of a thousand cancelled spa appointments.
Asterion didn't stop.
"And the same goes for everyone here." He gestured broadly, casually roasting the entire student body. "You'll end up as nothing more than an expensive vase decorating some rich businessman's side—because let's be honest, you don't have what it takes to inherit the family business."
Gasps, again. At this point, the school nurse was probably getting stretchers ready for all the egos Asterion was demolishing.
"Your father's probably grooming your sibling for that role already," he said, every syllable slicing through the air like a blade of harsh truth. "Why? Because time is money, and he's not wasting any more of it on you."
And just like that, Sofia's façade cracked so hard it could be heard from the next hallway over. Her mouth hung open. Her lip trembled. Her eyes darted left and right, as if trying to find an exit from the sudden identity crisis Asterion had hand-delivered.
Inside Evan's mind, Evan himself was having what could only be described as a full-on mental implosion.
"WHAT. THE. ACTUAL. HECK. ARE. YOU. DOING?!" he screamed from within his spiritual jail cell.
Asterion, of course, offered nothing more than a smug shrug. "Fixing your rep. You're welcome."
Outside, Sofia finally snapped. "Boys," she snarled, her voice cracking like lightning, "break his arms."
Her jock brigade—a walking advertisement for gym memberships and low GPAs—stood up with the grace of angry hippos, cracking knuckles and rolling shoulders like extras in a bad action movie.
Asterion? He sighed like he'd just been asked to do chores.
"Aww, the princess was hurt, so her puppets have to defend her," he said, voice dripping with sarcasm thick enough to drown in. "Your actions only prove your immature mindset and lack of intellect."
Then he turned—turned—his back on them.
"Tell me, don't you feel any shame in being led around like dogs on a leash?" he asked, throwing them a backward glance. "Where's your dignity? Oh, wait—what am I saying? Your futures are already gutter trash."
Now that got a reaction.
One of the jocks lunged at him—big guy, probably played linebacker, definitely ate raw protein powder. But Asterion sidestepped with the elegance of a ballroom dancer and the efficiency of someone who had spent centuries in battle. The guy flew past him, tripped over his own size 13s, and skidded across the pavement like a sack of wet laundry.
The silence was so intense you could hear Sofia's pride cracking.
Asterion didn't even pause. He just kept walking, parting the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea—with a smirk on his face and zero regard for high school hierarchy.
He didn't look back. He didn't need to. Behind him, Sofia was still frozen, fists clenched, cheeks burning with rage and humiliation. Her friends? Whispering furiously, as if trying to piece together what reality even was anymore.
And the rest of the students? They stood in stunned awe, their entire mental image of Evan Mercer now flipped upside-down, set on fire, and launched into orbit.
They came in fast.
Three jocks—each twice Evan's size and probably fueled by more protein powder than common sense—charged toward him with fists clenched and faces scrunched like they'd already decided how broken his nose was going to be.
Evan, floating in the backseat of his own consciousness, could only watch in wide-eyed horror.
"Oh man, oh man, oh man—this is where we die. I hope Lena clears my browser history…"
But Asterion, still steering Evan's body like a pro driver in a demolition derby, didn't flinch. Instead, he stepped into the first punch.
And redirected it.
The crowd let out a collective gasp as the first jock—a linebacker named Kyle—went flying over Asterion's shoulder, landing flat on his back with a thud that knocked the wind out of him.
The second one—Mike—charged in, swinging wildly. Asterion ducked under the haymaker with casual grace, then jabbed two fingers into the guy's pressure point just above the collarbone. Mike yelped and dropped like a sack of meat.
The last guy—Rob—hesitated for a second, eyes darting between his two groaning teammates and the new Evan Mercer standing between them.
"What the—When the hell did you learn to fight?!" Rob barked, lowering into a cautious stance.
Asterion smiled, cracking Evan's knuckles.
"Oh, this? Just some light exercise."
"You never took gym seriously," Rob growled. "You couldn't even do a single pull-up last month!"
"Guess I got tired of being weak," Asterion replied, voice cool, body perfectly balanced. "Decided to do something about it."
Rob hesitated—then rushed in.
Bad move.
Asterion side-stepped like he'd seen the move in slow motion, hooked Rob's leg mid-sprint, and swept him into the ground with a smooth spin that left the guy face-down and choking on gravel.
The entire courtyard went dead silent.
A voice somewhere in the crowd whispered, "That's not Evan. There's no way that's Evan Mercer…"
Another: "Dude's built like a noodle but moves like some kind of martial arts master…"
Evan, still spectating from inside, clutched his metaphorical head.
"WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!"
Asterion laughed inwardly, dusting off Evan's jacket.
"Nothing serious. I pulled my punches."
"You flipped a guy who benches trucks!"
"And I did it with your muscles. See what happens when you stop letting fear hold them back?"
The bell rang. Students broke from their frozen states, either scattering in terrified awe or staring at "Evan" with something completely foreign to him—respect.
Asterion casually strolled into the building, not a hair out of place.
"Congrats," he said to Evan. "Step three's complete."
"You mean 'terrify the school and destroy my reputation'?!"
"No. Step three: show them you're not someone to mess with."
Evan paused.
And for a brief second… he wasn't entirely sure he hated it.