The night before an exam was usually a sacred ritual of desperation. Normally, I'd spend it hunched over a mountain of photocopies, accompanied by black coffee that tasted like charcoal and a frantic prayer for a miracle. But tonight was different. My ritual had changed. My weapon was no longer memorization; it was magic.
I sat at my desk, staring at the dictionary-thick Calculus textbook not with anxiety, but with a toxic cocktail of guilt and intoxicating power. Beside me, the silver mirror reflected the lamplight, watching me with a cold, expectant gaze.
"Don't just stare at it, my Lord," Jasmine's voice whispered in my mind. Her voice was like velvet stroking my nerves, sensual and demanding. "That is no longer just a book. It is an armory. Touch it. Desire it. Make it yours."
I took a deep breath, then placed my palm on the hard cover of the book. I closed my eyes, concentrated, and willed it.
The sensation came like a dam breaking. A cold, sharp flood of information inundated my consciousness. This wasn't like reading. This was an invasion. I could feel every page, every formula, every theorem and postulate being forcibly ripped from the paper and implanted directly into my brain. Complex theorems, dizzying triple integrals, infinite series—they all flowed in, arranging themselves in my head like a disciplined army. I could see connections between formulas I'd never seen before, feel the logic behind each equation as if I had created it myself. It was exhilarating and terrifying, like a divine act of cheating.
"Good..." Jasmine sighed, her voice laced with satisfaction, as if she could feel the wave of power herself. "Feel that knowledge. Feel the power that should have taken you years to master. Tomorrow, use it. Not just to answer, but to destroy. Make her gasp for air as she tries to keep up with your logic. Make her question her own genius. Her frustration will be a most delicious offering."
The image of Olivia's face flashed in my mind, her sharp, competitive glare. Guilt gnawed at my gut, but behind it, a dark spark of excitement ignited. I wanted to see that expression. I wanted to see the confusion in the genius's eyes.
The next day, the atmosphere in the exam hall was tense. The air was thick with the smell of paper and the cold sweat of dozens of anxious students. But I felt strangely calm, detached from the sea of panic. I sat in my chair, feeling the Calculus knowledge thrumming in my head, a loaded weapon ready to be fired. My eyes swept the room and stopped on Olivia. She sat a few rows ahead of me, her back straight, her aura focused and unshakeable.
As the proctor began distributing the exam papers, our eyes met by chance. Usually, her gaze would feel like a dismissive challenge. But today, something was different. She must have sensed my calm, because I saw her brow furrow slightly, a fleeting expression of confusion before she put her cold mask back on.
The paper landed on my desk. I took a breath, then turned it over. And I smiled.
The questions, designed by the most notoriously difficult professor in our department, now looked like children's puzzles. The answers didn't need to be found; they simply appeared in my mind, complete with the most elegant and efficient steps. My pen danced across the paper. I wasn't just writing; I was performing. Every stroke of my pen felt like a decisive blow against Olivia's fortress of pride. I could even imagine her frustrated face as she worked on the same problem, and for some reason, that image felt intensely arousing.
I finished fifteen minutes before the time was up. After double-checking without finding a single flaw, I stood up, handed my paper to the proctor, and walked out of the room without looking back.
Two days later, the results were posted.
The notice board in the faculty lobby was already swarmed by students. I slipped through the crowd, my heart pounding—not with fear, but with the anticipation of a predator waiting to see the result of its hunt. My eyes scanned the newly posted list of grades. And there, at the very top, I saw it.
Ethan Vance - 100.
A perfect score. Adrenaline surged through my veins, a dizzying sense of power. My eyes moved down one line.
Olivia Davenport - 96.
I had won. A decisive victory. I searched for her in the crowd and found her standing a little way off. I watched her, witnessing the silent drama playing out on her face. First, the confident expression as her eyes searched for her name at the top of the list. Second, the furrow of confusion when she didn't find it there. Third, the flash of disbelief when she saw my name in the number one spot. Fourth, her jaw tightening, her lips pressed into a thin line—a mask of rage she was trying to control.
As she felt that wave of emotion, I heard Jasmine's voice in my head, taking a long, deep, ecstatic breath. "Magnificent... There it is! The shock, the frustration, and the wounded pride of a genius... It tastes like the finest wine. My first main course... Thank you, my Lord." I felt a strange wave of warmth, as if Jasmine's satisfaction was flowing into me.
And finally, the most important part. Olivia turned and her eyes found mine across the room. Our gazes locked. In them, I no longer saw dismissal. I saw something new: a sharp, calculating stare, filled with shock, and—for the first time—deep, burning curiosity. She didn't confront me. She just stared at me for five long seconds, before finally turning and walking away with brisk, angry steps.
I walked home, a strange feeling of hollow, fulfilling victory churning inside me. I had won, but I had cheated. And I had enjoyed it.
That night, as I was reflecting in my room, I felt Jasmine's presence become stronger. Her voice in my head was clearer. "This energy... it's incredible," she said. "It's restoring parts of me that were lost... I can see more clearly now."
"See what?" I asked.
"Into souls. That girl, Olivia. Listen closely. Her greatest fear isn't 'losing'. Her greatest fear is 'losing control'. She's obsessed with being the best because it gives her the illusion of control over her high-pressure life. Your victory today... you just cracked the foundation of her world."
I was stunned. I had just been given the key to her soul. My guilt was now being eroded by a cold, thrilling ambition.
I couldn't sleep that night. My mind was too loud. Restless, I got up as dawn was about to break and walked to my window. The cool, pre-dawn air was refreshing. My eyes gazed towards the indoor swimming pool, its underwater lights casting a dim, ethereal glow.
Suddenly, I saw movement. Seraphina had just come home, still wearing a shimmering silver evening gown. She looked exhausted, but her aura was still captivating. She walked to the small changing room by the pool's edge. Driven by an instinct I couldn't explain, I peered from the corner of my window.
As her silver gown slithered to the floor, I held my breath. Seraphina's body was fully exposed. A living masterpiece. Her back was smooth, her legs long, her waist slender, and her breasts were perfectly round. Then, she turned slightly, facing my direction. And there, amidst all that perfection, I saw it.
It was a mark of brutal, beautiful imperfection.
Just above her pubic mound, a thin, silvery-white network of scar tissue began. The scar snaked vertically up towards her navel, not in a straight line, but in a jagged, artistic vine-like pattern. It was a painful paradox: the area that should have been a symbol of peak pleasure was instead marked by the permanent memory of pain.
Suddenly, her "untouchable goddess" image shattered. In my eyes, Seraphina transformed into an angel with a wounded wing—far more real, far more tragic, and somehow, far more alluring. The desire that had been simple lust was now mixed with a complex wave of emotion. I realized the secret I had just witnessed was the real key to unlocking the heart of this wounded goddess.
Seraphina then put on her swimsuit and dove into the water. I stepped away from the window, the image of the scar seared into my mind.
I had just won a battle. But I realized... the real war hadn't even begun.