Chapter 4: Fire and Friendship
The courtyard at Godolkin University was a deceptive oasis, its cobblestone paths worn smooth by years of ambitious footsteps, now dusted with the faint ash of an impending storm. The air hung heavy, thick with the sharp tang of ozone, like a thunderstorm trapped in a bottle. Landon's boots scuffed against the stones, each step deliberate, his pulse hammering in his ears.
He could feel the weight of Luke Riordan—Golden Boy—standing at the courtyard's center, his silhouette framed against the bruised purple of the late afternoon sky. Luke's hands glowed with a soft, unstable light, like embers struggling to catch. His face was a raw wound, eyes hollowed by despair, lips trembling with unspoken grief. Landon's meta-knowledge, a jagged shard of insight from a world beyond this one, told him everything: Luke's recent conversation with Professor Brink had shattered something vital, pushing him to the edge of a fiery abyss.
Landon's throat tightened, his fingers twitching at his sides. He wasn't just here to provoke Luke; he was here to save him, to pull him back from the brink. But the cost was steep—a death, his own, to claim Fire Control (B-rank). The system's mechanics were brutal but clear: die by a power, take it, revive. He'd done it before—Jake's speed, Tara's strength—but this felt different. Luke wasn't a bully or a rival; he was a broken boy, and Landon's empathy clawed at his chest, a memory of his own loneliness flickering like a half-forgotten dream. A high school locker room, the sting of isolation, the echo of laughter that wasn't his. He shoved the memory down, focusing on the present.
"Golden Boy," Landon called, his voice steady despite the tremor in his gut.
Luke's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with a feral, golden light. The flames on his hands flickered, pulsing with his ragged breaths. "What do you want?" he growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble, like a furnace about to ignite.
Landon took a step closer, the cobblestones cool under his soles. "I know what you're going through," he said, each word measured, heavy. "I know what they did to you."
Luke's face twisted, a snarl of pain and fury. "What are you talking about?" The flames surged, a sudden burst of heat that singed the air, carrying the faint scent of charred fabric.
Landon held his ground, his jaw clenched. "The Woods," he said, the words slicing through the tension like a blade. "The experiments. Your brother, Sam. They're lying to you, Luke. They're keeping him from you."
The courtyard seemed to hold its breath. Luke's eyes widened, the golden fire in his hands roaring into an inferno, casting jagged shadows across the stones. The air grew thick, the ozone scent now laced with the acrid bite of smoke. Landon's meta-knowledge had struck true, a needle to a nerve, and he saw the shift in Luke's gaze—despair giving way to white-hot rage.
"Shut up!" Luke screamed, his voice cracking, raw. The flames exploded outward, a blinding cascade of gold and red that swallowed Landon whole. The heat was unbearable, a searing agony that melted skin and bone, his scream lost in the roar of the blaze. The last thing he saw was Luke's face, a mask of anguish and fury, before the world dissolved into fire.
Revival was a gut-punch, a violent yank back to existence. Landon gasped, his body sprawled across a grimy alley behind Godolkin's dining hall. The air was thick with the stench of stale garbage and sour beer, a dumpster nearby overflowing with discarded trays. His skin prickled, a deep, itching burn that pulsed with every heartbeat, as if the fire had left a ghost in his nerves. Nausea rolled through him, forcing a dry heave that left his throat raw. The revival debuff was merciless, a reminder of the cost of his new power.
[Ding! Fire Control (B-rank). Hot stuff, but you're still soft.]
The System's voice was a sarcastic jab, cutting through the haze of pain. Landon pushed himself up, his hands scraping against the cracked asphalt, his body trembling with aftershocks. The alley was narrow, shadowed by looming brick walls, their surfaces streaked with faded graffiti—a stick-figure hero, half-erased, holding a broken crown. He stumbled to his feet, the world tilting slightly, and wiped sweat from his brow. "I'm alive. Again," he thought, the words bitter. "And I've got fire now. But God, this hurts."
He limped back to the courtyard, the sky now a deep indigo, stars just beginning to prick through. Luke was still there, kneeling on the scorched grass, his hands no longer glowing but smudged with black ash. His face was a study in shock, the hollow despair replaced by a stunned, fragile hope. Landon's warning had landed, a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.
"Luke," Landon said, his voice hoarse, shaking with the weight of what he'd done. "I know about The Woods. I know about your brother. They're lying to you. We can expose them."
Luke's eyes met his, wide and searching, a flicker of gratitude breaking through the confusion. Who is this guy? Luke thought, his mind a tangle of raw emotion. He knew. He stopped me. I was going to… and he… A wave of relief crashed over him, heavy and warm, like a blanket after a storm. "Why?" he asked, his voice a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant hum of campus life. "Why did you do that?"
Landon swallowed, his own vulnerability spilling out, unbidden. "Because no one should have to go through that alone," he said, the words a quiet vow, a promise forged in shared pain.
A few feet away, Marie Moreau stood in the shadows, her breath catching. Her dark eyes tracked Landon, noting the sincerity in his trembling voice, the way his hands shook despite his calm facade. He's not just reckless, she thought, her mind buzzing with questions. There's something real there. Something honest. But what's he hiding? The courtyard's scorched grass crunched under her sneakers as she stepped closer, her concern for Landon warring with her suspicion. He was a hero, yes, but he was also a puzzle, and she wasn't sure she liked puzzles.
The sun had set, painting the courtyard in long, bruised shadows. The air carried the sharp, acrid scent of burnt grass, a ghost of Luke's earlier outburst. Landon's skin still prickled, the Fire Control power a restless hum in his veins, like a caged animal testing its bars. He needed to master it, to prove he wasn't just a reckless fool. Near the courtyard's edge, a rusted trash can sat, its paint chipped, a faded sticker proclaiming "Godolkin Pride" peeling at the edges. It was a perfect target, mundane and unassuming.
He extended his hand, focusing on the new power. A spark flared in his palm, a small, wavering flame that flickered like a nervous heartbeat. He pushed harder, willing it to grow, but his control was sloppy, the flame sputtering into a pathetic wisp of smoke that stung his eyes. The scent of burning metal filled the air, sharp and bitter, as the can's rim blackened slightly.
"Stupid," he muttered, his voice thick with frustration. He shook his hand, the flame dying completely, leaving only a faint burn on his fingertips. "A B-rank power, and I can't even light a damn trash can?" he thought, his defiance flaring. "I'm not stopping here. I'll be a dragon yet."
Unseen, Cate Dunlap watched from the shadow of a nearby lecture hall, her blonde hair catching the faint glow of a streetlamp. Her eyes, sharp and calculating, narrowed as she studied Landon's fumbling attempt. The smoke curling from his hand, the frustration etched into his face—it was all data, pieces of a puzzle she was determined to solve. He's not mimicking, she thought, a small, predatory smile curving her lips. He's stealing. Copying powers through death. But how? Her telepathic senses brushed against his mind, catching only fragments of his guarded thoughts, a mix of ambition and fear. She stepped back, her boots silent on the grass, already plotting her next move.
[Fire Control Stability: 80%. Keep playing with fire, idiot.]
"Oh, I will," Landon thought, his jaw tightening. "I'm going to burn this place down, one spark at a time."
The courtyard's quiet was a stark contrast to the storm in his mind. As he turned to leave, he caught sight of a small, faded chalk drawing on a nearby wall—a child's outline of a sun, half-washed away by rain. It was a fleeting reminder of a world before Godolkin, before powers and death. A Quiet Moment settled over him, unbidden. He paused, his fingers brushing the chalk, the texture rough and crumbling. "I used to draw like this," he thought, a memory surfacing of a summer day, his hands dusted with chalk, his mother's laugh in the background. The memory was a balm, grounding him in the chaos, a reminder that he was more than his system, more than his deaths.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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