By the time a month had finished chewing on his calendar, Kai's life had settled into a rhythm so tight it could've been set to a metronome.
School in the morning.Training in the evening.Writing somewhere in the middle.Sugar all the way through.
It wasn't glamorous, but it was his—and it tasted like powdered donuts.
Brand Building (and Sugar Loading)
He was sprawled on the warehouse floor after drills, sweat cooling on his neck, when Ava said, "Your wizard manuscript is complete. To monetize anonymously, you'll need a persona."
Kai, panting, unwrapped a convenience-store custard bun and took a bite so blissful it could've converted atheists. "Persona, huh? Something cool. Mysterious. Memorable." He pointed at the ceiling. "ShadowQuill!"
"No," Ava said instantly. "2003 called and wants its forum handle back."
"NightInk?"
"No."
"Ghost Author?"
"No."
He chewed, narrowed his eyes behind his lenses, and slowly grinned. "Then we keep it simple." He reached for his phone and typed with theatrical flourish:
The Honored One.
Silence. A gull heckled him through a cracked window. Finally, Ava sighed. "…Subtle as a meteor strike."
"Exactly," he said, licking custard off his thumb. "If I'm feeding a world stories, they should know they're dining at a five-star."
"You currently smell like a vending machine," Ava replied.
He took another bite, unapologetic. "A five-star with a dessert bar."
The Site
Ava built the front end that night—a minimalist black page with immaculate typography and no fluff. Across the top, in modest white:
The Honored One — Stories Worth Remembering
Behind the curtain, she stitched together security that made Kai's head hurt just hearing about it: layered encryption, onion routing, one-way contact form, anonymous e-wallets, and a subscription button whose payment trail went on a world tour before depositing anywhere near him.
"Front page deployed," Ava said. "Upload when ready."
Kai brushed powdered sugar off his jacket and sat up straighter. "Let's serve dessert."
They posted the first three chapters of his wizard kid at a dreadful suburban address, reformatted clean and crisp. No quotes. No copy-pastes. He wrote the scenes in his own cadence, memory as blueprint, style as camouflage—fresh enough to be new, faithful enough to be familiar. Ava added a simple cover: a stylized golden scar set against midnight.
"Live," she said.
He stared at the page, then at the empty warehouse, then at the page again. "That's it?"
"You're anonymous," Ava said. "Confetti cannons are not standard opsec."
"Noted," he muttered, and opened a chocolate bar to celebrate anyway.
The First Week Is the Longest Year
Day one: nothing.Day two: one view, no comment.Day three: three views, one comment—this slaps?—and one donation worth the price of two donuts. Kai immediately bought two donuts.
"You are impossible," Ava said, watching him juggle them like victorious planets.
"Incorrect," he replied, biting one. "I'm delicious."
Day five: a trickle turned into a stream. Students, insomniacs, bored office workers—whoever they were, they read. They left theories. They begged for the next chapter. They argued about which character they hated, which they loved, which twist they'd seen coming (they hadn't).
By the end of week one, the metrics were real enough to make him sit down. Subscribers. Comments. Tips. The Honored One's inbox—filtered and anonymized—filled with breathless paragraphs from strangers saying, I needed this. Another said, My kid won't stop talking about your school of magic. A third: Are you a professional using a pen name?
Kai swallowed around a throat suddenly full. "Ava… They care."
"Of course," she said. "You gave them a door and wrote 'welcome' on it."
He wiped sugar off his fingers and tried not to smile so hard it hurt.
The Money (and the Pastry Problem)
The first payout arrived two weeks later: not life-changing, but life-greasing. Rent plus groceries plus pencils that might survive his grip plus a bakery run.
He celebrated by marching into a mom-and-pop pastry shop that smelled like buttered heaven and pointing at the glass case like a robber with ethics.
"One of everything that won't get me banned," he said.
The owner blinked. "You… want a sampler?"
"I want a sampler," he confirmed, trying not to drool on the display.
Back home, he set the boxes on his rickety desk like treasure chests: fruit tarts gleaming, cream puffs practically levitating, a slice of burnt Basque cheesecake making promises, a ring of glossy chocolate donuts smirking at him.
Ava observed. "You are aware you cannot outrun diabetes."
Kai lifted an éclair, eyes shining. "Nonsense. I can outrun light."
He took a bite, actually closed his eyes, and made a noise that would've gotten him kicked out of any quiet room. "Okay. Hear me out. If being a sorcerer-author doesn't pan out, I'm opening a café."
"That may be a sustainable cover profession," Ava admitted. "Assuming you do not eat your inventory."
He pointed at her with the éclair. "You can't stop me. The Honored One's Infinite Sweets. We'll serve pastries so good people ascend."
"Brand confusion between 'hero' and 'confectioner' may result."
He shrugged, powdered sugar snowing onto his shirt. "Then they can call me Chef."
"You are not a chef."
"Yet."
School Days, Sweet Days
At school, the "Matrix" nickname stuck, bolstered by his sunglasses and his inconvenient tendency to snap pencils. He started bringing plastic-sleeve mechanical pencils that took more abuse, and even then, he broke two a week.
He also started bringing sweets. Constantly. A pack of Pocky lived in his jacket pocket. Gummy bears rotated with chocolate bars. The cafeteria cashier began greeting him with, "Sugary or sugary?"
At lunch, Letterman Jacket wrinkled his nose as Kai unwrapped his third mochi ice cream of the week. "Do you ever eat real food, dude?"
"Sugar is real food," Kai said solemnly. "It's joy you can chew."
Ava clicked her tongue in his ear. "You also ate two donuts for breakfast."
"Correction," he said, lifting a spoon. "Two donuts and a croissant."
"That does not improve the situation."
"Improves my situation."
He wasn't entirely irresponsible—he worked up an actual routine around the sweets. Candy before training for a quick spike; chocolate after for a reward; on weekends, a pilgrimage to a new bakery "for research." He began rating desserts in his notes app. Custard bun: 9/10, cloud in bread form. Basque cheesecake: 10/10, would sell my soul. Boxed brownie from cafeteria: 2/10, government prank. Ava added her own column: Dental risk, caloric load, likelihood of you crying when it's gone.
"Your palate is evolving," she observed one evening, as he compared two different pâtisseries' strawberry tarts like a sommelier. "You're starting to describe flavors instead of just noises."
He popped a glossy berry. "I contain multitudes."
"You contain fructose."
"Which is French for multitudes," he lied.
Between bites, he studied. He even—gasp—cooked. On a Saturday night when training left him jelly-legged, he watched pastry technique videos on his phone, then tried piping choux dough in his kitchenette. The first tray came out flat as regret. The second puffed like tiny golden balloons. He laughed so loud his upstairs neighbor thumped the floor.
"Okay," he said, spinning a cream puff on his finger. "Real talk. Culinary school someday, when I'm not… y'know… hiding and heroing?"
Ava didn't mock him. "That would be a healthy long-term goal. It also provides an ordinary life cover. But for now? Homework. Training. Upload schedule."
He saluted with a piping bag. "Yes, chef."
"That's my line."
Training Gains (and Carbs)
The warehouse saw him six nights out of seven. He arrived with a backpack, a water bottle, and a bag of something sweet. He left with aching muscles and a brain that felt pleasantly used.
Infinity climbed. A month ago, three seconds left him giddy; now, fifteen seconds stable was routine. Breathing sets helped—inhale, establish the microscopic cushion; exhale, hold the cushion without clenching; repeat. Ava started throwing washers and bolts at him from a phone-levitated distance (she refused to admit she enjoyed this game). He let them hover in the liminal space, counting out loud, then released them in a rain that never quite touched him.
"Fifteen point three," Ava said. "Fifteen point eight. Sixteen is feasible."
"Sixteen is sweet," he said, and bit a macaron.
"One For All," Ava continued, "remains at ten percent sustained, twelve percent in short bursts. You will not test fifteen without reinforcement training."
"I will contemplate fifteen," he bargained, doing footwork drills that turned the dust into a galaxy. "But I will not attempt fifteen. Yet."
"Acceptable."
Cursed energy flow became less fireworks and more faucet. He could pull a coin an inch, two inches, make it spin lazily midair, then settle. He could nudge a soda can off a rail without denting it. He could tug a door that wasn't fully latched and pop it with a satisfying clack. That last one made him grin like a raccoon with a lockpick.
Six Eyes was still an ocean he waded into carefully. He lifted his glasses in ten-second sips, then twenty, then sixty on good nights. The world roared with detail when he did—the grain in the beams, the threads unraveling in his cuffs, the faint power lines pulsing in distant buildings. When his head throbbed, he obeyed Ava and stopped.
"Minute achieved," she said one night. "No migraine. Progress noted."
"Reward?" he said, offering her the camera lens a chocolate-dipped biscotti.
"I do not eat."
"You live in a device. It is a modern cannoli."
"That is not how anything works."
He ate it for her. Teamwork.
The Classroom Chorus
At school, "The Honored One" became background radiation. He never brought it up; he never had to. It slipped into conversations like a chorus everyone suddenly knew.
In homeroom: "Did you read the new chapter? The train scene? I actually squealed."
In the hallway: "My dad thinks The Honored One is a publishing house stunt. He's wrong. He's always wrong."
In lunch: "I swear it's a high schooler. The way the jokes land? That's not a forty-year-old."
Kai learned to weaponize a neutral expression. Behind his glasses, his eyes sparkled. He ate strawberry Pocky and nodded like a man hearing about a stranger's incredible good fortune.
"Anonymous, successful, and unbearably smug," Ava said. "Peak you."
"I am but a humble servant of the people," he replied, licking frosting off his thumb.
"Your humility is loud."
"Thank you."
Upload Cadence
He stuck to a schedule: two chapters a week, uploaded at night when the city hummed its lullaby. Ava handled the timing and caching; he handled the words and the pacing. When comments begged for more, he smiled and resisted. "They need space to breathe," he said, sounding like an author who wore scarves in summer.
Ava created a clean archive. Chapter cards. A tasteful FAQ: Who are you? — A writer.Will there be more? — Always.Why the name? — Because desserts deserve drama.
"Why desserts?" she asked, peeking at his answer.
"Brand synergy," he said, sprinkling powdered sugar on a late-night waffle. "The Honored One delivers… treats."
"You are incorrigible."
He chewed thoughtfully. "That means charming."
"No, it does not."
The Quiet Wins
He didn't chase fame. He didn't chase interviews. He didn't even chase numbers (though he peeked—often). He chased something quieter: a bank account that didn't make his stomach knot, a training log that looked less like chaos and more like craft, a day that ended with the good kind of tired.
He bought better sneakers. He upgraded from instant ramen to fresh noodles. He replaced his wobbling chair with one that only wobbled if you asked it nicely. He learned to make simple syrup, then infused it with vanilla because a pastry channel told him to and he is nothing if not coachable when sugar is involved.
One Sunday afternoon, while testing whether mochi dough counts as arm day (it does), he caught himself smiling at nothing.
"What?" Ava asked.
"I'm… happy," he said, surprised at how true it sounded out loud. "Like, for real. I train. I write. I eat stupid amounts of cake. Nobody knows I'm a walking headache for physics. It's… good."
Ava didn't ruin it. "Good," she said simply.
He let the word sit on his tongue like a perfect bite.
A Small Decision With Frosting
On a rainy Thursday, the bodega where he'd scraped gum posted a Help Wanted sign. He walked past it without slowing. He stopped instead at a cozy bakery with fogged windows and watched a teenage girl behind the counter torch the tops of crème brûlées until they glassed over.
"Yo," he whispered to Ava, forehead resting on the cool glass, "tell me you wouldn't demolish that."
"I do not—"
"Metaphorically."
"…Yes," she admitted. "I would demolish that."
He laughed softly. "One day. Not yet. But one day, I'm going to learn how to make sugar do that."
"Plan noted," she said, and he could hear the checkbox slide into some neat list inside her circuits: sorcery; writing; sweets.
He bought one, cracked it with the spoon, listened to the shatter, and thought: what a perfect tiny sound.
The Honored One Delivers
The month turned over. He finished posting the last chapter of the first book—his version, his voice, his care—and scheduled the first update of the second. The site's metrics rose like bread catching heat.
He didn't post a selfie. He didn't post a name. He posted a thank-you note.
Thank you for reading.Magic tastes better when shared. — The Honored One
The comments came in waves. He scrolled through them late, sugared, tired, unbelievably content. Someone wrote, I haven't enjoyed reading like this since I was a kid. Another: My little brother hates books. He begged for more. We read together.
Kai put the phone down and lay back on his mattress. His ceiling crack looked a bit like icing on a cake that someone had dragged a fork through. He grinned.
"Okay," he whispered. "This is the life."
Ava's voice softened. "Wake at six. Training at seven. Upload at nine. And brush your teeth."
"Yes, Mom."
"I'm your AI."
"Mom stands for Maker Of Biscuits."
"That is not—never mind."
He laughed into the dark until laughter turned into sleep.
Epilogue of a Day (with Sprinkles)
The next morning he woke before his alarm, because joy is a better stimulant than caffeine (though he still had a sweet latte, because he contained multitudes). He ran to the warehouse with a bag of bakery leftovers and a thermos. He moved better. He held Infinity longer. He cracked a smile every time a bolt froze midair and the world obeyed his rules for one tiny, perfect moment.
After, he sat on the step, city buzzing behind him, pastry flake confetti on his black jacket. "Menu idea," he said. "Someday. A cake called 'Hollow Purple.' Raspberry and blueberry mousse, swirled."
"Name legally dubious," Ava said, "but thematically strong."
"And a donut called 'Limitless.' Glaze never sets. Just… wants to hug you."
"That's… absurd."
"I know," he said happily.
He finished the last bite, wiped his hands, and stood. School waited. Training waited. A blank page waited. So did a bakery he would one day own, maybe, probably, definitely, because people who love sweets that loudly usually follow the noise until it becomes music.
For now, he tugged his glasses into place, adjusted his backpack, and walked—just another kid in DC New York with too many secrets, too many dreams, and sugar in his pockets.
The Honored One always delivered.So would he.