The metallic tang of adrenaline in the locker room was thick enough to taste, mingling with the heavy scent of perspiration and the lingering phantom heat of the gymnasium.
The boys of Class H were a collective portrait of exhausted disbelief, stripping off their sweat-drenched uniforms with hands that still trembled from the sheer, physics-defying absurdity we had just survived.
I stood by my locker, the adrenaline slowly filtering out of my system, replaced by the familiar, comforting quiet of my own resting heartbeat. I offered a warm, serene smile to the room, genuinely glad that everyone had walked away intact.
Before I could even reach for the zipper of my black gym jacket, a blur of motion collided with my chest.
"Lord Apollo!" Adrien cried out, his voice cracking with an emotion so violently potent it bordered on religious hysteria.
He clung to me as if I were a raft in the middle of a tempest. He looked up, his green eyes wide, dilated, and swimming in tears of pure reverence.
And then, he kissed me.
It was frantic, messy, and driven by a desperate, overwhelming infatuation. I didn't push him away. A magician must always accept the raw, unpolished emotions of his audience; to reject them is to reject their humanity.
I felt his hands gripping the fabric of my jacket, his body pressing flush against mine, trembling uncontrollably.
I gently placed my hands on his waist, offering a comforting warmth, but I noticed the extreme tension coiling in his lower half.
His breathing was ragged, hitching in the back of his throat. To ease his overwhelming physical anxiety, I moved my right hand down, gently brushing my fingers against his crotch area in a light, tickling motion; a simple, playful gesture meant to break the suffocating tension of his infatuation.
The reaction was instantaneous.
Adrien let out a sharp, strangled gasp, his back arching violently.
A sudden, intense heat bloomed against my thigh.
I looked down, maintaining my calm, serene expression.
A copious amount of thick, warm, white fluid had forcefully soaked through the fabric of Adrien's gym pants. The sheer volume was staggering as it splashed heavily against my black gym pants, splattered across the front of my jacket, and a startling amount shot upward, catching the side of my neck.
It felt exactly like a water balloon filled with heated syrup had ruptured against me.
The sharp, pungent scent of musk and bleach instantly flooded our immediate vicinity.
"Whoa, whoa, what the fuck?!" Mr. Montreal yelled, his eyes nearly bulging out of his skull as he registered the scene.
"Get him off of Isaac!" Mr. Bombacci barked, stepping forward with surprising speed. The two of them grabbed Adrien by the shoulders and peeled him away from me.
Adrien looked down at himself, then at me, his face burning a shade of red that defied human biology. "I—I'm so sorry, Lord Apollo! I just—you were—I couldn't hold it!" He covered his face with his hands, letting out a mortified squeak before bolting toward the locker room showers.
We could hear the water turn on, followed by the frantic sounds of him attempting to stroke off the remaining tension.
"Jesus Christ," Mr. Montreal muttered, staring at my ruined clothes with a mix of horror and pity. "Isaac, man... You need a towel… Or a hazmat suit."
"It is perfectly fine, Mr. Montreal," I said warmly, taking a nearby towel and gently dabbing the sticky fluid from my neck. "Adrien simply experienced an autonomic nervous system overload. Extreme emotional peaks often bypass conscious restraint. I do not hold it against him."
"You're too nice, Isaac," Mr. Fajr said, shaking his head as he leaned against the lockers. "Way too nice. But seriously... How did you do it? How did you play Milicia like that? She had the ultimate team."
I couldn't deny that Milicia did in fact have a team that would have gunned us down in a matter of seconds and won, considering she had Leonid, Marie, Miss. Bosque, Mr. Bombacci, Mr. Falk, and even Miss. Winchester to create a full proof team to win in any dodgeball death game regardless of what the opposition team had.
I finished wiping my neck and began unzipping the soiled jacket. "It was not a matter of outplaying her in the traditional sense, Mr. Fajr. Milicia is a genius of tactical brutality. In the four minutes we had to strategize, well at least during the selection process and a few minutes into the strategy talk, I mapped out three hundred and seventy-four separate strategic formations."
"Three hundred and..." Mr. Mercado paused, his eyes blinking rapidly. "You formulated nearly four hundred strategies in four minutes?"
"I did," I nodded, folding the ruined jacket neatly. "And I realized immediately that Milicia would anticipate all of them. To prove it, consider Strategy 42: The Phalanx Decoy. We clump together, baiting Mr. Bombacci and Miss. Bosque to throw simultaneously, utilizing Mr. Maximiliano's angular deflection to cause their medicine balls to collide and rebound. Milicia would counter that by having Mr. Falk delay his throw by a microsecond, threading the needle through the deflection point."
I looked at their captivated faces. "Or Strategy 118: The Viper's Nest. Having Miss. Perez and Miss. Lehi utilized the blind spots of the larger players to strike from below. Milicia would anticipate this by ordering a wide-arc sweep, effectively eliminating the blind spots. Strategy 205: The Attrition Loop. We focus entirely on dodging, exhausting their fast-twitch muscle fibers. Milicia would counter by not throwing at all, holding the balls to force a stalemate, then utilizing her own unmatched speed to eliminate us one by one in a sudden blitz."
I named three more strategies, detailing the precise vectors, the psychological bait, and exactly how Milicia's hyper-efficient combat logic would effortlessly dismantle them.
The boys listened in stunned silence.
"If I had relied on linear logic, convergent logic, lateral logic, abstract logic, or even divergent logic, we would have lost perfectly," I explained, my voice gentle and sincere. "Milicia rules the domain of logic. To beat her, I had to completely step out of the meta-realm of logic itself. I had to transcend into the realm of pure, abstract, meta-creativity. I had to give you a system of communication so entirely alien and devoid of structural logic that her analytical mind could not process it."
And, I thought to myself, maintaining my warm smile, I needed to stress-test her new Achilles heel. Me. By kissing Miss. Perez, I wasn't only breaking Milicia's focus, but I was testing the psychological infrastructure of her obsession.
The sheer magnitude of her rage to further confirm my 'twin theory.'
The person she lost, the real Milicia, the one who left her so utterly hollow that she had to forge this grandiose, tyrannical persona, a twisted version of the real Milicia's personality no doubt, to survive... It was her twin.
She views me as the replacement for that bond, which makes her fiercely, violently possessive.
"It's just..." Mr. Maximiliano adjusted his glasses, looking at me with a profound, almost analytical awe. "It is your boundless charisma, Isaac. You commanded us without a single spoken word. You have won the genetic lottery in every conceivable metric. Even if you did not possess your physical aesthetics, your sheer presence,the gravitational pull of your empathy would still bind people to you."
"I am merely fortunate to have friends willing to listen," I replied humbly, feeling a genuine warmth for them.
"Speaking of listening," Mr. Mercado stepped closer, curiosity burning in his eyes. "How in the world did you master Paleo-Latin? You said you did it in four minutes while picking the teams. That language is a theoretical reconstruction. It's essentially dust."
"Language is simply the clothing of thought, Mr. Mercado," I smiled, happy to share the mechanics. "Paleo-Latin is the bedrock of the Italic branch. In those four minutes, I didn't only memorize words, I mapped the phonetic decay. I took the morphological structures of Classical Latin, Oscan, and Umbrian, and retro-engineered the vowel shifts and consonant lenitions back to their proto-Indo-European roots. I visualized the linguistic evolutionary tree, identified the grammatical syntax of the pre-Roman era, and synthesized a complete vocabulary matrix."
I held up my hands, gesturing to the faded ink. "For example, the symbol I used for Miss. Dolfuss, meaning 'The unseen strike,' was derived from the reconstructed root 'weid-' (to see) and 'slei-' (to slash), conjugating it into the active imperative 'Weidsleitos'. The entire alphabet is just a geometric representation of vocal tract positions."
"Speak it," Mr. Moon blurted out, a little breathless. "Say something in it."
I looked at them, my heart swelling with an affectionate appreciation for their curiosity. I lowered my voice, letting the resonance drop into a smooth, ancient cadence.
"Ne-kwe mortis, ne-kwe tenebrae, wiro-m esti pre-kwe medyo-s, sed solwos amoris."
The translation was simple: 'Neither death, nor darkness, stands before the man in the center, but only love.'
The locker room fell dead silent. A collective, entirely involuntary flush crept over the faces of several boys. The accent was deep, guttural yet impossibly fluid, vibrating with a rich, hypnotic timbre.
"Okay, wow," Mr. Montreal coughed, suddenly finding the floor tiles fascinating. "Yeah. I swing strictly for the ladies, but damn, Isaac. Put a warning label on that voice."
I chuckled softly, reaching for my fresh uniform.
As the rest of the boys finished dressing, heading out toward the cafeteria or their dorms, Leonid lingered by his locker.
He waited until the room was mostly empty, save for Mr. Falk sitting quietly on a bench near the back.
Leonid didn't look at me, but his broad shoulders were slightly less rigid than usual. "Isaac."
"Yes, Leonid?"
"Earlier, when Areli and the others were talking. You defended my pride. You didn't have to do that..." His voice was gruff, but the underlying sincerity was palpable.
"I defended you because I understand you, Leonid," I said gently. "You are not a coward, nor are you merely prideful. You are a man of intense discipline. I appreciate you for who you are."
He gave a sharp nod, still avoiding my gaze. "Thanks." He turned to leave, but I called out softly.
"Leonid. Before you go. I believe Miss. Winchester is waiting outside the locker room doors. She was quite concerned about your spinal impact. It would be kind of you to walk with her."
Leonid paused, the tips of his ears turning pink.
He didn't say another word, but his pace quickened slightly as he pushed through the double doors. I smiled.
They truly would make a wonderful couple with her clinical fascination and deep care perfectly balanced his stoic need for silent support.
Now, only Mr. Falk and I remained.
Mr. Falk had his eyes closed, his breathing slow and measured. "You're quite the matchmaker, Isaac."
"I simply prefer to see people happy, Mr. Falk," I said, pulling a clean white dress shirt over my head.
"Happy," Mr. Falk echoed, opening his emerald green eyes, they weren't bored anymore, they were terrifyingly sharp. "I've been profiling you, Isaac. Since the moment you stood up during orientation and called yourself an aspiring magician. I've been breaking down every micro-expression, every vocal fluctuation."
I turned to face him, my serene smile unwavering. "And what did you find?"
"Nothing that fits," Mr. Falk said, his voice flat. "I threw out ASPD. You aren't a psychopath or a sociopath. You don't lack empathy, if anything, you have a surplus of it. I discarded dissociative identity disorder, borderline, and narcissistic categorizations. I even considered that you might be a rare, high-functioning compassionate empath. But that doesn't fit either. Your empathy doesn't control you. You wield it like a surgeon."
I internally sighed in relief since I didn't want to be viewed as a psychopath or a sociopath, given that it would be slander to my magician status.
Mr. Falk stood up, walking slowly toward me. "I had to create a new category for you, Isaac. A psychological anomaly. Someone who is entirely, genuinely warm and kind, yet possesses a cognitive architecture so utterly detached from human limitation that you are basically playing a video game with our nervous systems. You are almost impossible to read. But I don't read faces anymore, Isaac. I read methods."
"And my method frightens you?" I asked, my voice carrying a gentle curiosity.
"You're scary, Isaac," Mr. Falk admitted, stopping three feet away. "You're scary because you don't do things out of malice. You engineered the situation with Nikke Georgiadis. I know you did. You fed her ego, starved it of validation, and precisely timed Scarlett's intervention to shatter Nikke's psychological prison. You did it to 'fix' her. And you engineered it so perfectly that a group like Avram's investigation, which I was part of, cleared you by every conceivable metric of empirical evidence."
I am glad, I thought, the Magician's White Rabbit running circles in my own subconscious, burying my full level of capabilities beneath layers of feigned limitations.
I am glad I deceived the wristband AI today since deceiving an AI, especially in the 22nd century, is extremely difficult, holding my strength to a mere 3000 kilograms.
I do not wish to be viewed as a physical monster. It would isolate me from the audience I wish to cherish, and I was a magician, not a god.
Though, I know Mr. Maximiliano and Miss. Dolfuss already knows the truth, after all, they are from the island that never stops snowing and it always was an eternal night there.
However… I do believe the person in front of me right now is, I suspect, also from that place given how much effort he has put into profiling me.
"You're holding back," Mr. Falk said suddenly, his eyes dropping to my torso. "Physically I mean. Show me your back, Isaac. In the locker room before the gym period started, before you put your shirt on, I saw something, a mark."
I maintained my calm, warm expression, obliging him without hesitation.
I turned around, presenting my bare back to him.
"It is merely an intricate birthmark," I said pleasantly.
Mr. Falk stepped closer.
Birthmark.
The word was a comfortable lie. What spanned across my shoulder blades and down my spine was a sprawling, hyper-detailed map, carved into my flesh with the tip of a stolen silver steak knife when I was ten years old.
It was the architectural schematic of the island. The island of the eternal winter. The congregation of the moon.
It detailed the patrol routes of the esoteric guards, the subterranean ventilation shafts of the Victorian estates, and the exact nautical frequencies of the naval blockade that guarded the frozen Atlantic waters. It was the escape route.
The price of freedom.
"A birthmark," Mr. Falk whispered. "Right. And you're just a normal boy who held back against the grip machine."
I turned back around, buttoning my shirt. "If you believe I was holding back, Mr. Falk, why did you not call me out in front of the class?"
"Because I wasn't entirely sure what your actual physical limit is," Mr. Falk said, his face dropping its bored mask entirely. "And because... I'm holding back, too."
The air in the locker room didn't shift, to put it simply, it simply ceased to exist.
Mr. Falk attacked.
He didn't move fast.
He moved… as ridiculous as it sounds…
It was at literal 120,000,000 Mach speed.
It is a speed that logic dictates should ignite the atmosphere, vaporize the building, and strip the flesh from our bones.
But at this velocity, physics ceases to function linearly. Time completely froze. The droplets of water falling from the showers hung suspended in mid-air like glass beads.
And it was a speed that can only be reached in one place to train at…
Mr. Falk launched three leg attacks: a low sweep aimed at my peroneal nerve, a mid-level crescent kick targeting my floating ribs, and a high-angle axe kick aimed at my collarbone.
Simultaneously, he executed two strike attacks: a palm thrust to my sternum and a spear-hand strike aimed at my trachea.
I did not blink. I remained perfectly composed, my serene smile untouched.
I moved my hands.
I effortlessly deflected the low sweep with the edge of my shoe, parried the crescent kick with a soft nudge of my wrist, and caught the axe kick with my forearm.
The palm thrust to my sternum I simply allowed to slide past my ribcage by shifting my torso a millimeter, and I caught his spear-hand strike gently between my index and middle fingers.
Before he could even register the blocks, I shifted my weight and tapped the side of his neck and the back of his knee predicting and neutralizing the exact two follow-up strikes he hadn't even initiated yet.
Time finally resumed.
Mr. Falk stood frozen in his final stance, my fingers lightly resting against his lethal pressure points.
"Your physical skills are breathtaking, Mr. Falk," I complimented him, my voice warm and entirely devoid of exertion. "Your transitions are flawless. But you are still holding back."
Mr. Falk slowly lowered his limbs, his eyes wide, staring at me with a profound, earth-shattering realization. "And you... you're holding back far more than I am."
I let out a soft "Ah," my eyes reflecting a sudden, tender recognition.
I dropped my hands, my smile softening into something deeply nostalgic.
"I remember you now," I said gently. "You're from the House of Avery."
Mr. Falk flinched as his breath hitched.
"Am I correct to assume that Scarlett took you, along with Miss. Dolfuss and Mr. Maximiliano, when we departed?" I asked, my voice carrying the weight of a shared, terrible history. "I didn't recognize the three of you at first, not until I put the dots together. The synesthesia, the geometric combat, and now this esoteric martial arts style. It is exclusively produced by the elders of the House of Avery. I recall now... you were one of the top twenty youth members."
Mr. Falk stared at me, the walls of his bored persona completely demolished. "You... you really are him. The Clockwork God of the Moonlight. I kept profiling you because I couldn't believe it. I needed to know if it was really the same Isaac. The one who survived the thirty-two… and resurrected..."
"I am Isaac," I said simply. "Just Isaac."
"They're coming, Isaac," Mr. Falk whispered, looking toward the door as if the shadows themselves were listening. "The Heads… They might send their children to this school."
"I have already anticipated their arrival," I nodded, my tone entirely peaceful. "The Heads of that Society... they will not let their prized investments slip away so easily, and by my logistics that I planned out, I suspected that given my five year disappearance after escaping at the age of ten, I assumed they would instantly clock in where I was the moment I enrolled at International Requiem Academy, since they would be furious that Scalrett and I escaped but would also be impressed and expected of it since we were the twin masterpieces of the moonlight and sunlight, and would likely want to see how she and I would face the world at the same time try to retrieve us by sending Scarlett and I's other siblings. But tell me about Scarlett. I must compliment her methodology. Turning America into a national syndicalist state in such an incredibly short amount of time, successfully locking it away from the society's influence, and systematically eliminating any of the congregation's associates within the continent... it was masterful. Her application of political theory has far surpassed my own."
When Scarlett and I executed the escape plan at age ten, the plan triggered the night I used a dinner plate to decapitate the client who dared to violate her, she had killed Moon Mahoka, our mother.
It was an act that caused a fundamental schism between us. I still retained my absolute faith in humanity; Scarlett wanted to burn both the society and humanity to the ground. We parted ways, each taking our chosen disciples. But seeing her here, playing this grand game like myself for now... It meant we were still bound by the ultimate goal.
The total annihilation of the eternal winter.
Though I wasn't sure which method Scarlett would use to ensure that the society would no longer have influence over the United States, but since I did give her the files I stole from… A few study rooms which included Theodore Rivera, who was a charismatic politician that always wanted a daughter, which gave Scarlett the means to integrate and position herself to get adopted by Theodore Rivera. In which Scarlett used the best ideology that will not only send America into an isolationist state, but also a borderline totalitarian one that would help eliminate any associates from that society to release its influence on the United States, even if it means becoming a fascist.
It seems she used the second America execution plan, and not the first one that I gave her before…the schism, which was making America a Juche state.
Mr. Falk looked at me, his eyes softening with a strange, solemn sadness. "She misses you, Isaac. Behind all the rage, behind the fascist princess act and the control... she really misses you."
My heart ached, a genuine, profound sorrow blooming in my chest. "I miss her too, Mr. Falk… Very deeply… And she and I will have our proper reunion soon."
After all, I too, am hoping that I can pull off that part so we can get to realigning our goal that we had for a long time.
I patted his shoulder, a gesture of camaraderie among survivors. "Get dressed, my friend. We have a school to navigate."
I left the locker room, stepping out into the cool, air-conditioned hallway.
Leaning against the wall, waiting for me, was a collection of the most fascinating individuals I had met thus far. Marie, Miss. Famala, Miss. Perez, Miss. Vexley, and Miss. Naomi.
As soon as I approached, Miss. Vexley bounced on her heels, her hazel eyes bright and clear of the HUD overlays. "Isaac! You were amazing! Can... Can we be friends? Like, official friends? You can call me Arabella!"
My face brightened up "I would love nothing more, Arabella," I smiled warmly, pulling out my phone.
Miss. Famala grinned, crossing her arms. "Count me in, too. Call me Areli. Anyone who can break down Milicia's arrogance is a friend of mine."
"And Camila," Miss. Perez stepped forward, her dark eyes flashing with a smoky, lingering intensity from the gym. "Just Camila."
We exchanged contact information rapidly, the digital pings filling the quiet hallway.
Miss. Naomi stepped forward next, her idol aura dialed back, replaced by a radiant, genuine sincerity.
"Isaac," Miss. Naomi said softly, looking up at me. "I want to be your official friend, too. Please, call me Jun. And... I have a favor to ask. I want us to co-lead Class H. I am determined to make the collective contract a success, to bring everyone to Class A. I know I can't do it alone, but with your mind and my reach... we could do it."
I looked at her, my serene smile widening into something truly joyful.
Originally, my grand design involved engineering specific students from the upper classes to drop down to Class H, meticulously cultivating a perfect, unstoppable group for Jun to lead. But looking at her now, seeing the raw, unpolished potential in her eyes, I changed my mind.
"I would be honored to co-lead with you, Jun," I agreed.
Jun let out a squeal of pure delight and lunged forward, wrapping her arms tightly around my torso, burying her face in my chest.
"Oh, my," I chuckled lightly, returning the hug with a gentle pat on her back. "You are remarkably soft, Jun."
At that exact moment, fueled by a sudden, intense curiosity I was entirely unaware of… Jun's hand slipped downward. With shocking subtlety, she firmly gripped the front of my pants.
She let out a tiny, involuntary moan, her face flushing so violently red it rivaled a tomato, instantly realizing that my physical endowments were, unfortunately, exceptionally massive.
She yanked her hand back as if burned, burying her flaming face deeper into my chest to hide her embarrassment.
Oh, stars and moons, I thought, suppressing a sigh. I curse these genetics. I am a magician, not a fertility idol.
And apparently everyone is a scientist of curiosity when it comes to my body today.
Marie, completely oblivious to the brief anatomical assessment, stepped up beside me. "Isaac," she demanded, her yellow eyes sharp. "Explain the system hack. How did I get the Perfect Victory reward when I defected?"
"You are the logical reasoner, Marie, and I am the abstract," I smiled, gently detaching myself from the still-flustered Jun. "The school's algorithm processes 'team integrity' based on active cooperative variables, not initial roster assignments. By targeting Milicia's projectile to save Camila, your kinetic output was registered as an 'assist' to my team's survival parameter. The system reclassified you."
And given this school's post-human agenda also focuses on evolution, I am fairly certain that it takes into account logical adaptability to defect and change teams through intentional betrayal.
"Fascinating," Marie muttered, already pulling out a notebook.
Jun finally stepped back, clearing her throat, her face still adorably pink. "Anyway! I actually booked a private meeting room in the library this morning. I messaged everyone in our class to meet us there so we can officially propose the contract."
I paused, tilting my head. "You booked it this morning? Before the dodgeball game? Before you even asked me to co-lead? How did you know I would agree, Jun?"
Jun offered a small, knowing smile, an intelligence shining in her eyes that far exceeded Mr. Alexandrescu's deductive logic. "It is my talent, Isaac. I call it Emotional Synergy. It is vastly superior to any form of synesthesia. I am able to synergize with an individual's entire cognitive framework. I can adapt to your thought process, feel the exact weight of your motivations, and predict your subsequent actions."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a serious, highly analytical tone. "During the gym period, I knew that confronting Milicia would end in absolute chaos. I synergized with her boredom and knew she wanted a target. But I did it anyway because I knew that demonstrating my willingness to bleed for the contract was the only way to prove my resolve to you. I predicted you would step in. I predicted you would save me. And I possess Social Synchronization, I can feel the exact flow of social capital shifting in a room. I knew you were preparing to help me, even before you knew it yourself."
She is brilliant, I thought, my outer expression remaining perfectly awestruck and supportive. Truly, terrifyingly brilliant.
But beneath my serene exterior, the Magician's White Rabbit was laughing softly.
Jun's Emotional Synergy and Social Synchronization were flawless, but they had only synergized with the first layer of my intricate mask. She felt the empathy, the strategic warmth, and the desire to help her, which are in fact genuine.
She did not feel the architect beneath it. I had suspected her talents since orientation day, the moment she compared idols to magicians. The entire dodgeball game, the confrontation with Milicia, and my intervention I had engineered it specifically to confirm her abilities, feeding her the exact emotional frequencies she needed to "predict" my actions, thereby maintaining absolute control over her movements without her ever realizing she was being led. Well it was one of the reasons for the engineering of the performance.
"You are incredible, Jun," I said sincerely. "With an intellect like that, Class H will be unstoppable."
"We should head to the library quickly, however," I added, my gaze shifting down the empty hallway. "I can actually sense Milicia's bloodlust radiating through the walls. It is aimed directly at Camila."
Arabella, Areli, Jun, and Marie froze, their eyes widening in shock. "What?" Arabella gasped. "You can sense it? But Milicia is in the girls' locker room!"
"Empathy is not bound by line of sight, Arabella," I explained calmly. "I can perceive the sudden spike in ambient hostility. And I can reconstruct exactly why. Milicia feels bloodlust toward you, Camila, because you taunted her. You weaponized the kiss. You likely used my physical attribution… my 'member', implying to Milicia that I was more physically stimulated by you than I ever was by her."
I looked down at Jun, who squeaked. "Which, consequently, is what fueled your sudden curiosity to touch me just now, Jun, to verify if Camila's taunt was true. Correct?"
Jun covered her face with her hands, nodding frantically.
Camila burst out laughing, a rich, unabashed sound. "Guilty as charged, Isaac. I hit her right in the ego."
Before we could move, rapid footsteps approached. Miss. Lehi came jogging down the hall, tossing her gym bag over her shoulder. She grinned, throwing a muscled arm around my neck and pulling me down slightly.
"Hey, Isaac," Miss. Lehi whispered in my ear, her raspy voice laced with uncharacteristic hesitation. "You're good with... people stuff. Do you have any dating advice?"
I didn't need to look at Areli, who was standing a few feet away pretending to check her phone, to know the answer. "If the advice is regarding Areli, Miss. Lehi," I whispered back, my tone warm and encouraging, "I suggest absolute, unvarnished honesty. Anarchists do not thrive on subtle games. Tell her she is your equal."
Miss. Lehi's eyes widened, then she smirked, squeezing my shoulder. "You're a spooky bastard, Isaac… Thanks… and call me Zisel."
"Isaac," Arabella chimed in, looking up from her school-issued phone. "Have you noticed the schedule update? School is letting out early for the day. All afternoon classes are canceled."
I pulled out my own phone, staring at the notification.
My serene smile remained, but internally, the pieces locked into place.
Coach Minami, I deduced. She reported the 3000-kilogram grip strength. The fact that a supposed Class H and Rank 200 student casually matched the upper-tier evolutionary baselines without a single spike in cortisol or adrenaline. She has contacted the referees and the profilers who placed me here.
This early dismissal is not a break.
It was a full mobilization of the administration. They were trying to figure out what kind of monster had infiltrated their laboratory.
Though it would seem the La Sante Prison will be getting a visitor for that person of interest very soon.
"It seems the faculty has some urgent planning to do," I said cheerfully, slipping my phone away. "Shall we head to the library, my friends? We have a world to conquer."
We made our way toward the library. I walked alongside my newly acquainted friends of Jun, Marie, Arabella, Areli, Zisel, and Camila enjoying the comfortable, unspoken camaraderie that had formed among us.
My serene smile remained fixed, a genuine reflection of the warmth blooming in my chest.
However, our path was abruptly intersected.
Stepping out from the shadow of a marble archway were two familiar figures.
Lucico, his bright purple ponytail swaying with his theatrical posture, wore a grin that spoke of entirely too many secrets.
Beside him stood Isidora, her nun's veil casting a solemn silhouette that sharply contrasted the profound, knowing amusement in her eyes.
"Ah, the conquering hero and his glorious retinue!" Lucico announced, sweeping into a dramatic bow. "We had heard tales of your athletic martyrdom, my dear Isaac. Sister Claire and I simply had to come and bask in your divine presence."
Instantly, the atmosphere shifted.
Zisel stepped forward, her posture dropping into a loose, guarded stance, while Areli crossed her arms, her green eyes narrowing in absolute scrutiny.
"And who the hell are you two supposed to be?" Zisel rasped, her tone dripping with an anarchist's innate distrust of sudden variables. "You aren't in Class H."
"We are simply old, dear friends of Isaac's," Isidora replied, her voice a calm, even melody. "We merely wish to accompany him. The bonds of our shared past are not easily severed by something as trivial as class assignments."
"They are safe, Zisel, Areli," I reassured them gently, placing a comforting hand on Zisel's shoulder. "Lucico and Sister Claire are kindred souls to me."
Jun, ever the aspiring leader, stepped up with a firm but polite idol's smile. "You may walk with us," she compromised, "but we have official Class H business to attend to. You cannot enter the library meeting room with us."
"A tragedy of Shakespearean proportions," Lucico sighed, clutching his chest. "But we accept your terms, oh grand idol."
As we resumed our walk, the tension slowly evaporated, replaced by a quiet curiosity.
Zisel, walking close to my side, glanced at me, her purple eyes searching my face. "You know, Isaac, you're a weird guy. You talk about empathy and understanding, and you act like everyone's older brother. Do you actually have any siblings?"
Lucico let out a soft, melodic hum, while Isidora clasped her hands together, a knowing smile gracing her lips. "Oh, our Isaac has a rather... expansive family," Isidora murmured.
I kept my gaze forward, maintaining my warm, eccentric composure, though I carefully sculpted my words to honor the fabricated past I had established, masking the true, bleeding reality of that Society.
After all, it doesn't hurt to tell the truth while omitting the true background context.
"I do, actually," I answered, my voice soft, laced with a deep, genuine affection. "I was blessed with many siblings, though we are a mosaic of a family, bound by circumstance and love rather than conventional bloodlines, except for two. There is Alistair, who possesses a regal, almost French-like confidence, always carrying himself with such warmth. Cecil, with his blonde hair and blue eyes, is the very picture of vibrant assurance. Aurora, whose orange-pink curls match her fiery, protective heart. Unity, quiet and observant, her silver-lavender hair with a rainbow essence at the bottom part always falling over her bright purple eyes."
I paused, picturing them in my mind, my heart swelling with an adoration that was entirely true. "Then there is Cain, pale and reserved, a boy of quiet depths. Darian, whose orange eyes hold a profound, steady wisdom. Leopold, ever the silent guardian with his dark blue hair and silver gaze. Rosalind, who acts the part of an elegant princess but possesses the fiercest loyalty. And... Lura."
My breath caught, just for a fraction of a second. The name felt heavy, a sacred hymn. Lura, with her purple hair, her freckles, her bright yellow eyes. She was only nine years old. The memory of her death at the age of nine… eaten…
Though, I can't share the fact that she was eaten by individuals who took pride in their depravity.
But I did not let the despair surface, I killed the parasitic emotion, transmuting the grief into absolute love. "Lura is the sweetest of us all. The innocent core of our family."
Though, I didn't specifically share her appearance, due to Marie finding a similarity to Lura's appearance and the story that was heavily rewritten during the flora reading performance with Class A.
Although, I think my breath hitching, if Marie heard it, will make a logical leap and deduce it.
"And finally, Scarlett," I finished, my smile softening into a profound melancholy.
Arabella's hazel eyes snapped to me, her Ideathesia flaring as she processed the name. "Wait. Scarlett? Like... Scarlett Rivera from Class A? I saw the video of your flora reading. My synesthesia... the frequency of your unreadable codes... they were exactly the same. Are you two related?"
"Oh, no," I lied effortlessly, my omission flawless, weaving the narrative to protect our grand design. "Scarlett is merely a common name. My sister Scarlett and Miss. Rivera are entirely different people. It is a beautiful coincidence, though, that they might share a similar, calming frequency in your eyes, Arabella."
Arabella nodded slowly, the logic of my gaslighting overriding her raw sensory input. "Okay... that makes sense."
Camila, who had been walking remarkably close to me, leaned in, a distinct blush dusting her cheeks. "So, with all that love to give... are you single, Isaac?"
Lucico burst into a fit of laughter, while Isidora simply shook her head. "Oh, Camila," Lucico grinned. "You are barking up a heavily guarded tree. Tell them, Isaac. Tell them about the vibrant sun that holds your heart."
I stopped walking, turning to face Camila, my expression completely sincere and devoid of any arrogance. "I am actually betrothed," I confessed warmly. "Her name is Priscilla Isolyn the Second. We have an arranged marriage."
The hallway went dead silent.
"What?" Zisel and Areli said in unison.
"Arranged?" Jun gasped, her eyes wide.
"Betrothed?!" Arabella squeaked.
Marie stepped forward, her brow furrowed in severe logical dissonance. "Isaac, that makes no sense. You told me yesterday that you didn't believe anyone could ever love a magician. If you have an arranged bride, why would you say that?"
"Because an arrangement is a contract, Marie, not a condition of the heart," I explained, my voice carrying a rich, emotional intelligence that sought to comfort their confusion. "Priscilla is a woman of unparalleled vibrancy, with orange hair and eyes the color of pure white irises. We are the same age. I love her dearly, and she loves me. But my fear was that she loved the idea of me, the arranged concept of our union, rather than the eccentric, flawed magician I truly am. I desire a marriage forged in genuine, romantic truth, not merely duty. I want to earn her heart completely."
Camila's eyes darkened with a sudden, competitive fire. The revelation didn't deter her; it merely shifted her perspective.
She saw a challenge.
As I looked at their faces, my mind, ever the eternal wanderer, drifted. The mention of Priscilla, of my siblings, of the deep, boundless love I held for them all, pulled my consciousness backward.
I was no longer in the air-conditioned hallway of the International Requiem Academy.
The aesthetic shifted. The air grew freezing, biting with the chill of an eternal winter.
I fell into Special Memory Number Seven. I was five years old again.
_________
The sky above the Island of the Moonlight Society was a sprawling canvas of infinite, starless black, illuminated only by the massive, impossibly bright moon that hung directly overhead.
Snow fell in a constant, silent cascade, blanketing the dark academia, Victorian-gothic architecture of the ten estates that comprised our prison.
I stood in the center of the grand courtyard of the House of Mahoka.
I was a child of five years old, dressed not in the protective gear of a fencer, but in the formal, regal attire of the society: black Victorian trousers, polished black boots, a pristine white dress shirt with ruffled cuffs, and a heavy, pitch-black overcoat adorned with subtle, demonic occult embroidery in silver thread.
I smiled serenely, looking up at the audience.
Surrounding the courtyard, standing upon the gargoyle-lined balconies and the wrought-iron galleries, were three thousand, two hundred youth members of the society, ages four to nineteen. Above them, in the velvet-draped VIP sections, sat two hundred elite clients, the monsters who took pleasure in this nightmare.
And looking down from the highest grandstand were the Ten Heads of the Houses. Ameria Theodora, Basil Livingston, Fabian Malcolm, Sylvester Constantine, Agatha Avery, Thomas Halloran, Priscilla Isolyn, Beatrix Euphemia, and Soloman Evergard. They all possessed the haunting, eternal youth of people in their twenties.
And among them stood my mother, Moon Mahoka. Her beautiful yellow eyes, holding those beautiful, terrifying white star-shaped pupils surrounded by white rings, looked down at me with a love so profound it transcended the demonic aesthetic of our world.
She knew my heart and she knew my plan.
Beside her stood Madam Wilhelma, the head maid, gently holding the hand of little four-year-old Lura, who waved at me enthusiastically.
And clustered along the balustrade were the children of the Heads, my true equals, my beloved brothers and sisters. Alistair, Cecil, Aurora, Unity, Cain, Darian, Leopold, Rosalind, and my vibrant, energetic betrothed, Priscilla the Second, who was cheering my name with unbridled joy.
And there, standing perfectly still, was Scarlett. My blood twin.
The masterpiece of the sun is my masterpiece of the moon.
Our emotional synergy was absolute, we felt each other's heartbeats across the snowy expanse.
We were not born gifted.
When we were not even a single year old, Scarlett and I realized the terrifying truth of our existence.
We were prey, and in order to survive, we had to forge ourselves.
We spent our infancy pushing our bodies to the absolute brink, tearing our muscles and micro-fracturing our bones to heal into vessels capable of bearing universal-level kinetic output and moving at speeds that rendered light stagnant.
But more than that, I had to forge my mind.
I closed my eyes, engaging the cognitive architecture I had meticulously built over a year of excruciating mental discipline after reading a forbidden text on theoretical neurology.
I called it The Spider's Geometry.
My consciousness splintered, not in madness, but in perfect, symmetrical control. I initiated forty-one parallel thought streams simultaneously.
Stream one maintained my absolute obedient, serene facade for the Ten Heads.
Streams two through thirty-three locked onto the exact biological rhythms, micro-expressions, and trajectories of the thirty-two opponents about to drop into the courtyard.
Stream thirty-four synchronized with Scarlett, exchanging waves of comforting love.
Stream thirty-five rendered a high-definition, three-dimensional map of the entire Japan-sized island, noting the patrol routes of the esoteric guards and the naval blockades in the freezing Atlantic.
Stream thirty-six calculated the sociological engineering required to transform the 3200 atheist youth members into a fanatic cult worshipping Scarlett and me.
Stream thirty-seven spun a web of deception tailored to the near-supernatural emotional perception capabilities of the Ten Heads, feeding them a false narrative of my absolute loyalty.
Stream thirty-eight monitored the emotional well-being of my siblings on the balcony.
Stream thirty-nine calculated the physical vectors of the impending fencing match.
Stream forty regulated my own anatomy, my heart rate, my blood flow, my pain receptors.
And stream forty-one continuously refined the grand escape plan I had been plotting since I was three.
I opened my eyes and I was ready.
From the shadows of the courtyard, they descended. The top thirty-two youth members of the society, one male and one female from every age group between four and nineteen.
They wore the gothic Victorian military coats of the society: black for the males, white for the females.
They were my dear friends.
Arthur Pendleton and Beatrice Vance, the nineteen-year-old veterans. Cornelius Thorne and Dorothea Blackwood. Edmund Graves and Florence Vane. Down the line they stood, all the way to little Ezra Night and Felicity Dark, who were only four.
Every single one of them possessed the same absurd, terrifyingly forged physical capabilities.
They were fast enough to ignite the air, strong enough to shatter mountains. And they held silver fencing rapiers in one hand, and thick, serrated metal ropes in the other.
"My dearest Isaac," Arthur Pendleton spoke, his regal, Victorian accent carrying across the snowy courtyard. "We have been ordered to break you. To test the limits of the Moon's Masterpiece. I pray you forgive our brutality."
"There is nothing to forgive, my dear Arthur," I replied, my voice echoing with eccentric, warm elegance. "You are all my cherished friends. Do strike true, and let us perform a beautiful dance beneath the moonlight."
They moved.
To the untrained eye, the courtyard simply exploded.
The air pressure collapsed violently as thirty-two bodies broke the laws of physics, accelerating to speeds that froze the falling snow in mid-air.
But within The Spider's Geometry, their movements were a slow, elegant waltz.
I did not draw my own rapier. I stood with my hands clasped behind my back.
In a perfectly synchronized assault, thirty-two metal ropes whipped through the air.
I did not evade. I allowed the cold, serrated steel to wrap around my neck, layering over each other in a suffocating, unbreakable noose.
The thirty-two youth members pulled, anchoring their feet into the cobblestones, exerting a combined kinetic force that should have decapitated me instantly.
The metal bit into my flesh, completely crushing my trachea, severing my carotid arteries, and totally halting the flow of blood and oxygen to my brain.
"Stay strong, Isaac!" Marion Vance, only ten years old, cried out, tears freezing on his cheeks as he pulled his rope with all his might. "We do not wish to end you!"
"I am perfectly well, my brave Marion," I spoke. I did not use my vocal cords, for they were crushed. I vibrated the air molecules in front of my mouth to simulate my warm, serene voice. "Your stance is impeccable. Maintain your leverage."
For five minutes, I stood there, being strangled by thirty-two prodigies that have already long surpassed the concept of the extraordinary.
My 40th thought stream manually diverted the residual oxygen in my bloodstream to sustain my cerebral cortex, utilizing sheer cognitive discipline to stave off necrosis.
I felt no panic.
I felt only an immense, swelling affection for the children forced to execute this barbarity.
Up on the balcony, Lucico and Isidora, both only five years old themselves, gripped the railing.
"He is allowing it," Lucico whispered, his heterochromatic eyes wide with awe. "He is letting them bind him to show them that bindings are an illusion."
"He is suffering for their sins," Isidora murmured, crossing herself in the occult fashion of the society.
Suddenly, the Heads signaled a shift. The strangulation was not enough.
"Draw your blades!" Arthur commanded, his voice shaking with grief. "We must pierce him!"
The ropes slackened.
I drew my rapier from the scabbard at my hip. The blade gleamed under the moonlight.
"Come, my friends," I smiled warmly. "Let us take to the sky."
I kicked the air.
The sheer velocity and density of my strike solidified the atmospheric pressure beneath my boot, creating a physical platform.
I launched myself upward, soaring fifty, a hundred, two hundred feet into the air, the dark expanse of the island stretching out below me like a frozen hellscape.
The thirty-two pursued.
We clashed in the sky, a violent, beautiful ballet of silver flashes amidst the falling snow.
I parried Beatrice's thrust, redirected Gideon Croft's sweeping slash, and gently tapped the blunt edge of my blade against little Felicity Dark's shoulder to correct her posture.
"Watch your footing on the air currents, dear Felicity!" I called out cheerfully, blocking a flurry of strikes from Cornelius Thorne.
"You are too kind to us, Brother of the Moon!" Josephine Blythe wept as she swung her blade at my head.
We danced higher and higher, the moon casting our silhouettes over the thousands of watching eyes below.
But my 41st thought stream told me the time had come. The grand deception. The martyrdom that would sever my vulnerability and birth the cult.
I needed to be immune to the society's mind-altering drugs, their hypnotic conditioning, and the inevitable psychic probing. But more than that, I needed to become unreadable to any future threat even to someone like any user with Synesthesia or Ideathesia.
To do that, I had to physically destroy the specific neural pathways in my brain responsible for susceptibility to manipulation, while meticulously preserving my prefrontal cortex, my memories, and my profound capacity for compassionate empathy.
It was a self-lobotomy of microscopic precision.
I kicked away from the swarm, suspending myself in the dead center of the sky, framed perfectly against the massive, glowing moon.
I dropped my rapier.
I let it fall, calculating its exact terminal velocity and rotational axis.
I opened my arms wide, exposing my chest.
"My beloved friends!" I shouted, my voice echoing like a divine proclamation. "Do not hesitate! Strike my heart! Let your blades find their home!"
Arthur, Beatrice, Ignatius, Lenora… And all thirty-two of them, driven by the absolute conditioning of the Heads, converged on me simultaneously.
Thirty-two silver rapiers pierced my chest.
My 40th thought stream guided their blades, subtly shifting my internal organs so that the swords pierced the exact coordinates of my heart that would cause minimal structural damage while looking catastrophically fatal.
The pain was a blinding, white-hot supernova. But my serenity did not waver.
I looked into their horrified, grieving eyes as they hung suspended with me, their hands trembling on the hilts of the swords buried in my chest.
"I love you all," I whispered to them, blood pooling in my mouth.
At that exact millisecond, my falling rapier, having reached its apex, plummeted back down from the heavens.
I tilted my head back.
The hilt of my own sword slammed into the crown of my skull.
The silver blade pierced my cranium, sliding down through the exact millimeter of brain tissue I had mapped out, severing the neural pathways of manipulation, and lodging itself deep into my skull.
I manually forced my heart to stop beating…
I died…
For forty seconds, suspended in the sky by thirty-two swords, I was a corpse. The blood ceased to flow. My lungs were now still.
But within the darkness of my own mind, my consciousness raged on, anchored by sheer, unadulterated willpower.
In that void, my foresight, the deductive preclusion of my 41st thought stream, rippled forward in time. I saw the trajectory of my life. I knew, with absolute, terrifying logic, that I had not killed my capacity for despair, grief, sorrow, or hate.
I had merely caged them for now…
I foresaw ten years of logistics in the future.
I would be fifteen.
I would be at the International Requiem Academy.
How I knew of the academy was from a file that explained how the institution was created to counter this society, though I believe it would replicate a similar curriculum that this society uses.
I read that file two years ago in Ameria's study room that I snuck into one day, and that was when I started planning.
I saw myself reuniting with Scarlett.
I saw a cognitive eruption that would finally grant me the power to annihilate those parasitic emotions forever.
But I also saw the tragedy that approached.
I saw Scarlett, driven mad by the cruelty of this society, losing her faith in humanity.
I foresaw Scarlett taking the life of our mother, Moon Mahoka, before we escape when we turn ten on December 24th.
A tear of phantom blood wept in my dead soul.
Please, Scarlett. Do not let the dark consume you.
Forty seconds passed.
With a mental command that defied biology, I restarted my heart.
Thump.
The shockwave of my resurrection pulsed through the air.
The thirty-two swords were violently expelled from my chest. My own rapier dislodged from my skull, clattering down to the earth below.
I hung in the air, bathed in the moonlight, my wounds sealing shut through the sheer, hyper-accelerated metabolic control of my forged anatomy.
I slowly floated down to the courtyard, landing silently on the blood-stained snow.
The silence that gripped the 3200 youth members was absolute.
They had watched a boy be strangled, impaled by thirty-two blades, stab his own brain, die, and resurrect himself.
They were atheists.
They were raised in an occult society of logic and brutality.
But as I looked up at them, my pristine white shirt soaked in crimson, my serene smile radiating an infinite, comforting warmth, their logic broke.
"He... He is the clockwork," Kenneth Sterling whispered, dropping to his knees in the snow.
"He is the God of the Moonlight," Harriet Mercer wept, collapsing beside him. "… and his twin… is the Goddess of the Sunlight…"
Like a wave, all thirty-two of my opponents dropped to their knees, bowing their heads in absolute, fanatic devotion.
In the galleries above, the 3200 youth members fell to their knees.
The cult was born.
I had engineered their salvation through my own martyrdom.
In the VIP section, the 200 clients, the monsters of the world, stood up, their eyes wide with terrified reverence. "A true deity," one of them murmured, trembling.
The Ten Heads watched in silence.
My deception was perfect.
To their almost mind-reading, my mind was now a vast, unreadable void, completely immune to their influence, yet projecting nothing but the deepest, most obedient love.
From the balcony, the children of the Heads broke protocol. They leapt down, falling dozens of feet, landing gracefully in the snow around me.
Priscilla the Second slammed into me, wrapping her arms around my bloody chest, her white eyes streaming with tears. "Isaac! You fool! You beautiful, terrifying fool!"
Alistair Evergard placed a trembling hand on my shoulder. "You are unharmed, brother?"
"I am perfectly well, Alistair," I smiled, patting Priscilla's hair.
Lucico and Isidora landed beside us, Lucico's grin completely absent for once. "You pushed the margins of reality today, Isaac."
And then, the crowd parted.
Scarlett walked toward me, her red hair blazing against the snow. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.
We were perfectly synchronized.
She felt the depth of my sacrifice, the birth of our army, the foundation of our escape.
She reached out and gently wiped a streak of blood from my cheek.
We will burn this place to the ground, her eyes whispered into mine, a cold promise of a sun that would scorch the earth.
No, my eyes whispered back, wrapping her in the warm, comforting light of the moon. We will save them all.
_______
The memory faded, dissolving back into the brightly lit, air-conditioned hallway of the International Requiem Academy.
I was staring at Camila, who was still waiting for an answer to her challenge, the echo of my betrothal hanging in the air between us.
I simply offered her my serene, eccentric smile.
I am a mosaic mirror, reflecting the light of the moon.
And my true performance has only just begun.