The walk to Principal Thompson's office felt strangely detached for Jake. The fluorescent lights of the hallway hummed, the linoleum floor stretched endlessly, but his mind was still replaying the scene in the cafeteria. The satisfying thud of Mark hitting the floor, the shocked silence, the burst of laughter – it had been a moment of pure, unadulterated triumph. He had felt the power, not just of his will subtly shifting Mark's foot, but of his words, cutting and precise. He, Jake Miller, had publicly dismantled the school bully. The thrill of it still hummed in his veins, a potent, intoxicating energy.
Mark, still muttering darkly and smelling faintly of stale milk, stomped ahead of him, his humiliation a palpable aura. Jake, however, felt a calm, almost serene confidence. This was a minor inconvenience, a trivial consequence in the grand tapestry of his existence. He was Aethelred, the Architect of Worlds. What was a principal's office to a god?
Principal Thompson's office was exactly as Jake imagined: sterile, imposing, and filled with the faint, unsettling scent of old paper and disinfectant. A large, polished wooden desk dominated the room, behind which sat Principal Thompson, a stern-faced woman with tightly pulled-back hair and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. Mark slumped into one of the uncomfortable chairs opposite her desk, still seething. Jake, with a casualness that bordered on insolence, took the other.
"Well, gentlemen," Principal Thompson began, her voice low and even, but with an underlying steel. "Care to explain what happened in the cafeteria today?" She looked from Mark, whose face was still a furious red, to Jake, whose expression remained remarkably composed.
Mark immediately launched into a sputtering, indignant tirade. "He tripped me! He's a freak! He just stood there and laughed and then he started saying all this weird stuff about my 'center of gravity'!" He gestured wildly, his hands still sticky with dried milk.
Principal Thompson turned her unwavering gaze to Jake. "Miller? Is this true?"
Jake met her gaze directly, his eyes clear and unblinking. He felt no fear, no shame. He was merely recounting a sequence of events. "Mark attempted to trip me, Principal Thompson. I simply maintained my balance. His subsequent fall was a result of his own lack of coordination, not any direct action on my part. As for my comments, they were merely an observation of the physical dynamics at play." He spoke with a detached, almost academic precision, as if analyzing a scientific experiment.
Principal Thompson's eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly. She studied him for a long moment, a flicker of surprise in her eyes. "An 'observation of physical dynamics,' Miller? And the comments about him being 'clumsy and messy'?"
Jake shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. "They were accurate, Principal. The milk, the tater tots. It was quite a spectacle."
Mark let out an enraged growl. "You little—!"
"Enough, Mark!" Principal Thompson snapped, silencing him. She leaned back in her chair, her gaze fixed on Jake. "Miller, regardless of who initiated what, your behavior, your remarks, were entirely inappropriate and contributed to a public disturbance. This is not how we conduct ourselves at Northwood Middle. And Mark, your attempt to trip another student is also unacceptable. I will be calling both your parents."
Jake felt no tremor of fear. His parents. They would be disappointed, perhaps angry. But what was a grounding compared to the vastness of his realm? What was a lecture compared to the wisdom of Lyra? It was a minor inconvenience, a fleeting shadow on his boundless existence.
The call to his parents was, predictably, a tense affair. Principal Thompson spoke in calm, measured tones, detailing the incident. Jake watched his mom's face crumple with disappointment, his dad's jaw tighten with anger. He heard the sighs, the apologies on their end. He felt a faint, distant pang of something akin to pity for their concern over such trivial matters.
Later that evening, the atmosphere at home was thick with unspoken tension. Dinner was a quiet, somber affair. Katy, who had clearly heard the news from school, kept glancing at Jake, her expression a complex mix of concern and a strange, almost fearful understanding. She knew. She knew the source of his sudden confidence, the reason for his uncharacteristic defiance.
After dinner, his parents called him into the living room. The soft lamplight seemed to cast long, accusatory shadows.
"Jake," his dad began, his voice low and serious, "Principal Thompson called. We are incredibly disappointed. This is not the behavior we expect from you. Tripping another student, making a scene in the cafeteria… and your attitude, Jake. She said you were… dismissive."
His mom sat beside his dad, her eyes red-rimmed. "We moved here for a fresh start, honey. For you and Katy to have a good environment. And on your second week, you're already in the principal's office for bullying? What happened to our quiet, kind Jake?" Her voice trembled with genuine hurt.
Jake looked at them, his parents, their faces etched with worry and disappointment. He saw their world, small and fragile, defined by school rules and social norms. He wanted to explain. He wanted to tell them about Aethelred, about the realm, about the power that now flowed through him, making the mundane seem insignificant. But he couldn't. The words would vanish, the truth would be dismissed as a childish fantasy.
"I didn't trip him, Dad," Jake said, his voice calm, almost too calm. "He tripped himself. And he was trying to bully me. I just… stood up for myself."
"Standing up for yourself is one thing, Jake," his dad countered, his voice rising slightly, "but humiliating another student, making a spectacle, that's not standing up. That's… something else. And your principal said your comments were uncalled for. You were disrespectful."
"I was merely stating the facts," Jake replied, his voice still even, a subtle edge of his Aethelred persona bleeding through. "He was clumsy. He was messy. It was observable data."
His mom gasped, her eyes widening. "Jake! Don't talk to your father like that! What has gotten into you?"
His dad sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Alright, that's enough. We've thought about this. For the next two weeks, you are grounded. No video games. No TV. You go to school, you come straight home. You do your homework, you do your chores, and you spend the rest of the time in your room. No friends over. No going out. And we'll be checking in with your teachers. We need you to understand the seriousness of this, Jake. This kind of behavior has consequences."
Jake listened, his parents' words washing over him like a distant, inconsequential tide. Grounded. No video games. No TV. His room. The very place where his true power resided. The very place where he was a god. The irony was almost comical. They thought they were punishing him, confining him, but they were, in fact, granting him unlimited access to his true destiny.
He nodded slowly. "Understood," he said, his voice devoid of emotion. He felt no sting, no remorse, no bruised ego. He was Aethelred. This was merely a temporary inconvenience, a minor hiccup in his grand design. Their rules, their punishments, felt utterly trivial compared to the vastness of his realm, the power he wielded, the pantheon that awaited his command.
He saw the disappointment in his parents' eyes, the lingering anger. They expected him to argue, to show regret, to feel the weight of their punishment. But he felt nothing of the sort. He felt… free. Free to spend endless hours in his realm, shaping worlds, conversing with his demi-gods, mastering his powers.
"Good," his dad said, misinterpreting his calm demeanor as acceptance. "Now, go to your room. And think about what you've done."
Jake stood up, a small, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. "I will," he promised, his voice sincere, though his meaning was entirely different from what they assumed. He would indeed think. He would think about new creations, new challenges, new ways to expand his realm.
He walked to his room, the door closing softly behind him. The moment it clicked shut, the subtle hum of the portal, the faint glow of his gaming PC, the glitter of the diamonds, welcomed him. He was home. He was Aethelred. And the dork, for now, had escaped. The punishment was merely a gateway to greater power.