Three ancient grimoires rested there, each promising a different kind of power, a point of no return to shape my magic.
I looked at the worn covers—red leather, gray stone, liquid crystal—feeling the weight of the choice. My fingers tingled, my newly expanded mana pool of five thousand points buzzing beneath my skin, eager for direction.
I looked up at Marcus. He was leaning against the sink, arms crossed, watching me with that annoying impartiality of someone testing a new weapon.
"What do you recommend?" I asked, breaking the silence.
Marcus let out a short, dry laugh. He uncrossed his arms and walked to the table, stopping beside Alice's empty chair.
"Recommendation..." he repeated, raising an eyebrow. "I am a War Mage, Nathan. My entire life was built on the doctrine of Ruin. To me, the best defense is an attack that vaporizes the enemy before they even think about retaliating. It is brutal. It is efficient. It is the hammer."
He touched the cover of the red book with the tip of his finger, and the leather seemed to sizzle slightly.
"But you..." He looked me up and down, analyzing. "You don't have my explosive temperament. You think too much. You hesitate. You calculate. In the locker room fight, you didn't try to crush Halloway with brute force right off the bat. You nullified his sound. You used the environment. You played chess while he was playing checkers."
He moved his hand away from the red book and rested it over the liquid crystal grimoire—the Path of the Flow.
"For someone with your analytical mind and that new Level 5 Vision of yours, Counter-Magic would be... devastating. If you learn to read the structure of a spell before it's cast and dismantle it in mid-air, you become untouchable. You don't need to be the hammer if you can deflect the nail."
I stood in silence, absorbing it. Counter-Magic. The fighting style that used the opponent's strength against them.
"But understand one thing," Marcus continued, his tone dropping, losing the didactic edge and gaining a grim weight. "Look, Nathan, I'm not forcing you to fight Elias and throwing you into these near-death situations out of sadism or to 'make you stronger' in some abstract way."
He leaned over the table, his blue eyes fixed on mine, intense as lasers.
"I could walk out of this house right now, track the real Elias's mana signature in ten minutes, and grind his bones to dust before lunch. He would die screaming, and the problem would be over."
"Then why don't you?" I retorted, the frustration of my near-demise returning. "Why risk your only son?"
"Because I need to prepare you for what is coming," he replied, his voice lowering to an urgent whisper.
I frowned.
"And what is coming? More teenage psychopaths? Another Alpha Werewolf?"
Marcus shook his head slowly, a bitter smile curving his lips.
"You have no idea of the size of the world you've just stepped into, kid. I have a certain... fame in the Magical Society. I'm not just an ex-war mage. I am a name that people fear and respect in equal measure. I made many enemies. I broke many treaties. And I accumulated a lot of power."
He paused, letting the information settle.
"When they find out Marcus Salt has a son—and believe me, they will know, because secrets in the magical world have a way of getting out—your life is going to turn into a very different kind of hell."
"Revenge?" I guessed.
"Worse. Interest."
He began to pace back and forth in the kitchen.
"People will come after you, Nathan. Not just assassins. People will show up wanting to be your 'friend,' offering alliances, seats on Councils, positions of power. Ancient families will appear, trying to buy you."
He stopped and looked at me with brutal seriousness.
"There will even be girls, sent by desperate fathers, forced to try and tie down a Salt heir with a pregnancy or an arranged marriage, just to get their hands on our lineage and our mana secrets."
I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. The magical world wasn't just monsters and spells. It was politics. And dirty politics.
"You will be hunted, seduced, manipulated, and tested by every clan, every tower, and every mercenary who thinks they can carve a piece of my legacy out through you," Marcus concluded, returning to the table. "Elias Halloway? He's a luxury training dummy. A schoolyard bully compared to the sharks swimming at the bottom of this ocean."
He slammed his hand on the table, next to the books.
"So, choose. Don't choose what is easiest. Choose the weapon that will keep you alive when I'm not around to clean up the mess. Because if you can't defend yourself, they will eat you alive. And I won't be here forever."
My eyes swept over the three options on the table one last time.
The Ruin was tempting. Raw destructive power, the language Marcus spoke fluently. The Architect was safe, absolute control of the battlefield.
But the Flow... The Flow was the only option that would allow me to navigate the shark-infested waters Marcus had just described. If the magical world was made of manipulation, political traps, and hidden spells, Counter-Magic was the perfect answer. To see the intent before the act. To dismantle the trap before it sprung. To turn the opponent's strength against them.
I reached out, ignoring the aggressive heat of the red leather and the stable coldness of the gray stone. My fingers landed on the liquid crystal cover of the Path of the Flow.
The book's surface rippled under my touch, changing color like oil on water, reacting to my mana.
"I choose the Flow," I declared, my voice steady in the silence of the kitchen. "If the world is going to play dirty, I want to see their cards before they throw them on the table."
Marcus watched me for a second, a glint of calculating approval in his eyes.
"Counter-Magic," he nodded. "Technical. Arrogant. And lethal in the right hands. A worthy choice."
He snapped his fingers.
I expected him to hand me the book. Instead, the liquid crystal grimoire under my hand simply vanished in a cloud of silver smoke, just like the other two.
My hand fell onto the empty void of the wooden table.
I blinked, confused.
"Dad?" I looked at him, not understanding. "Where did it go? I chose the Flow."
Marcus let out a short sigh, as if dealing with a slow child. He uncrossed his arms and walked toward the back door.
"You don't need another book, Nathan," he said without looking back. "You already have a grimoire bound to your soul since the day you awakened. Real grimoires aren't collectibles you stack on a shelf. They are extensions of your core."
He stopped at the door and pointed at my chest.
"Summon yours. Now."
I frowned but obeyed. I concentrated my mana, visualizing my usual grimoire—that black-covered book with a crescent moon and an eye in the background.
I extended my right hand and let the energy flow.
The familiar weight materialized in my palm... but something was wrong.
The weight was different. Much denser.
When my fingers closed around the cover, I felt a new texture. The simple leather had transformed. Now, it was a dark, resilient material, with silver veins pulsing faintly beneath the surface, like living magical circuits. The crescent moon was brighter, and the eye had now gained two circles around it.
I opened the book carefully.
The first pages still contained the same spells—Basic Telekinesis, Magical Vision, Kinetic Blast, Basic Shield—but the handwriting seemed to have rearranged itself, gaining a new geometric clarity.
I flipped further ahead. Where there had previously been only blank pages, there were now dozens, maybe hundreds of new filled sheets.
Complex vector diagrams, mana nullification equations, theories on resonance and frequency, reflection and absorption glyphs. The entire content of the "Path of the Flow" had been absorbed and integrated into my personal grimoire, merging with my existing knowledge.
"Whoa..." I whispered, tracing my finger over a diagram explaining how to invert the polarity of a fireball. "Did it... did it just download?"
"It's a Bound Grimoire, Nathan. It grows with you," Marcus explained, his voice dry. "When you chose the path, the knowledge was transferred. Now, that book is your personalized encyclopedia of Counter-Magic."
He opened the door and motioned for me to follow him into the backyard.
"But don't get too impressed with that glorified notebook."
I stepped out onto the porch, the morning sun hitting my face. Marcus was standing in the middle of the lawn, his back to me.
"You think your book is thick now?" he asked, turning slowly.
He raised his left hand. The air around him distorted violently, space screaming under the pressure of an absurd mass.
"Behold."
With a dull thud that made the ground tremble beneath my feet, Marcus Salt's Grimoire materialized.
It wasn't a book. It was a monolith.
The tome floated in front of him, supported by its own magical gravity. It must have been half a meter tall and insanely thick. The cover looked like it was made of gunmetal, scorched by a thousand battles, wrapped in chains of red mana that crackled like static electricity.
But the scariest part wasn't the size. It was the feeling.
That book radiated an ancient bloodlust. The pages, visible from the side, were countless, yellowed and worn, each containing spells capable of leveling entire city blocks. It was a one-man nuclear arsenal, condensed into paper and magical ink.
I swallowed hard, clutching my newly evolved grimoire against my chest. Compared to that, mine looked like a supermarket pamphlet.
"That..." my voice failed. "That is the Path of Ruin?"
"This," Marcus said, resting his hand on the giant book with a dark reverence, "is the work of a lifetime dedicated to the art of surviving by killing the enemy first. Every page here is a lesson learned in blood. Mine and others'."
The giant grimoire closed with a metallic clang and vanished into thin air, leaving only the smell of ozone behind.
Marcus smiled—a predatory smile that didn't reach his eyes.
"Your book focuses on denying the opponent's magic. Mine focuses on ensuring there is no opponent left to perform magic."
He assumed a relaxed but perfect combat stance.
"Let's see if your theory of 'Flow' can stop my practice of 'Ruin.' Open to the page on 'Simple Vector Redirection.' You have ten seconds to read before I throw the first fireball at your face."
I frantically opened my grimoire, pages turning almost on their own to the right diagram.
"Ten seconds?!" I protested, my eyes scanning the angle and mana equations.
"Five," Marcus corrected, red mana already beginning to accumulate in his palm, crackling like a miniature star. "Four... Three..."
"That's not fair!"
"Justice is a human concept, Nathan. Magic is physics."
"One!"
And the fireball came, not like a candle flame. It came like an artillery shell.
To the common eye, it would be just a red blur and the sudden heat of an industrial oven being opened. But my new Level 5 Vision didn't see "fire."
Time seemed to slow down. The world around me decomposed into geometric lines.
I saw the internal structure of my father's spell: a dense core of superheated mana, spinning clockwise at a furious speed, encased by an unstable containment layer designed to rupture on impact. I saw the trajectory—a perfect straight red line aiming for the center of my chest.
And I saw the vector.
The math floated in my mind, translated directly from the page I had just read in the grimoire.
Do not block. Do not absorb. Just alter the angle.
"Redirection!" I shouted, raising my open left hand, palm facing outward.
I didn't push my mana against the fireball. Instead, I created a curved ramp of blue energy, positioned at exactly forty-five degrees to the attack's trajectory.
The collision was deafening.
The fireball hit my curved barrier. Instead of exploding in my face, it "slipped." The spell screeched like tires on asphalt, lost its route, and was catapulted violently to the right.
KABOOM!
The centennial oak in the corner of the yard exploded.
The entire tree was split in half, the shattered wood instantly carbonized. A rain of burning leaves and trunk splinters fell onto Alice's well-kept lawn.
I stood there, hand extended, smoke rising from my fingertips. My heart was beating so hard it felt like it wanted to break my ribs.
I looked at the destroyed tree, then at my hand, and finally at Marcus.
He didn't even blink. His hand was still raised, smoking.
"Sloppy," he said, his voice cutting through the ringing in my ears.
"Sloppy?!" I pointed at the burning tree. "I didn't die! And I deflected your attack!"
"You used two hundred mana points to deflect a spell I cast with fifty," Marcus retorted, lowering his hand. "You panicked and saturated the energy ramp. If I had fired three shots in sequence, you would have run out of breath by the second and died on the third."
He walked over to me, kicking a piece of burnt wood out of the way.
"But..." he stopped in front of me, looking down at my open grimoire. "The angle was perfect. You read the mana rotation and applied force on the side opposite the spin. Instinct or reading?"
"Vision," I replied, touching my own eyes. "I saw the structure spinning. It seemed... obvious where to touch."
Marcus nodded, a dangerous glint of satisfaction on his face.
"That is the difference with Level 5. You stop guessing and start performing surgery."
He stepped back ten paces, assuming the stance again. This time, both of his hands lit up. Not with fire, but with arcs of crackling purple electricity.
"Now, let's try again. And this time, try not to destroy your mother's garden, or she'll use the spatula on both of us. Page 14: Voltaic Arc Dispersion. You have three seconds."
"Three?!"
"Two..."
An hour later, I was lying on the grass, panting, sweating, and with the smell of ozone impregnated in my clothes.
The backyard looked like a lunar war zone. There were small craters where I failed to deflect kinetic projectiles, scorch marks on the fence, and the poor oak tree was still smoking in the corner.
My grimoire lay beside me, open to a page full of static energy nullification diagrams.
[MP: 3,200 / 5,500]
Even with the expanded reserve, training with Marcus was brutal. He didn't stop. He attacked, corrected, attacked again, increased the speed, changed the element. Fire, lightning, ice, pure impact. He forced me to flip through that grimoire like a maniac, memorizing counter-spells out of fear of physical pain.
"Enough for today," Marcus's voice sounded above me.
I opened one eye. He was pristine. Not a drop of sweat on his dress shirt. The bastard didn't even look like he had used magic.
"You have school," he said, checking his expensive wristwatch. "And I have to come up with an excuse for Alice about the tree before she gets back from the market."
He extended a hand. I accepted it, and he pulled me up with a firm tug.
"You learn fast, Nathan," he admitted, in a rare tone of sincerity. "Your technical execution is... creative. The Flow suits you. But don't get arrogant. A stationary target is a dead target. In the real world, no one is going to give you three seconds to read the right page."
"I'll remember that," I murmured, brushing the grass off my pants. I picked up my grimoire from the ground. Its weight felt comforting now, a tool I was beginning to truly understand.
"Go," Marcus waved toward the house. "Take a shower. And Nathan?"
I stopped at the porch door.
"Keep your Vision sharp. The real Elias won't be sending fireballs in the backyard. He will attack where you feel safe."
I nodded, feeling the weight of the warning, and went inside.
The shower was quick, just to wash off the smell of burning and the cold sweat of training. I put on clean clothes, tossed the grimoire into my backpack—it seemed to vibrate slightly against my back, now a constant presence—and grabbed the keys to the Charger.
Driving to school was weird. My perception was too sharp. I saw the flow of energy in the high-voltage power lines, the residual aura of animals that crossed the road. The world had gained an extra layer of high definition that was simultaneously fascinating and exhausting.
The school cafeteria buzzed with the frenetic energy of a Friday before prom. Trays clattered onto tables, laughter echoed, and the smell of reheated pizza and teenage hormones filled the air.
I sat at my usual table, my new and invisibly heavy grimoire in the bag at my feet. Stiles was already there, twirling a limp french fry between his fingers with a thoughtful expression that didn't suit him.
He looked at me when I put my tray on the table. There wasn't the usual manic inquisitive gleam. There was something more sober. Resigned.
"You look terrible," he commented, pointing the fry at my face. "You look like you got hit by a truck and then the truck backed over you."
"Thanks, Stiles. It's the natural glow of my skin," I replied, opening a bottle of juice. "Heard you had ear trouble. Everything okay?"
He stopped twirling the fry. His eyes met mine, and for a second, I saw the gears in his brain turning, processing the lie Deaton had told and the truth he had seen in the locker room.
"Yeah... ears," he murmured, looking away at the table. "Funny how the brain invents things when it's under pressure, right? Silver lights. People appearing out of nowhere. Dads who should be at home watching TV showing up like Terminators."
Stiles let out a long sigh and tossed the fry onto the tray.
"You know, Nate... I spent the whole night putting together a board in my room. Red strings. Photos. Theories about what the hell happened in that locker room."
"And?"
"And I realized something," he said, staring at me again. "Every time I get close to an answer about you, someone almost dies. Or I almost die. Or my eardrum explodes."
He leaned over the table, lowering his voice.
"I don't know what you are. I don't know what your father is. And honestly? Deaton gave me a one-hour lecture about 'respecting boundaries' and 'some truths are too dangerous.' And seeing you now, looking like you just came out of a war... I decided to believe him."
My eyes widened in surprise.
"Seriously? You?"
"I'm going to stop investigating you," he corrected, pointing a finger. "For now. Because, in the end, you saved us. Again. Whatever happened to that sound freak... it was you. So, I'm going to accept that Nathan Salt isn't normal, and that he clearly doesn't want to tell me why. And I'm going to respect that. Because friends respect secrets that save lives, right?"
I smiled, feeling a weight lift off my shoulders.
"Right. Thanks, Stiles."
"But if you start howling or growing fur, I'm going to be the first to say 'I knew it'," he warned, going back to eating.
At that moment, Scott appeared. He threw his backpack onto the empty chair and sat down as if the weight of the world was on his back. He looked even more exhausted than us.
"What do you mean I can't go to prom?" Scott grumbled, burying his face in his hands.
"What happened?" Stiles asked, mouth full.
"Coach," Scott said, voice muffled by his hands. "I'm failing three subjects. He banned me from going to prom. Said if he sees me there, he'll drag me out by my teeth."
"Ah, that is... problematic," Stiles commented.
"It's worse than problematic," Scott lifted his head, brown eyes full of panic. "Allison is in danger. Peter... the Alpha... he's prowling. Kate Argent is in town. I need to be there to protect her. But if I can't go, she'll be alone."
Scott turned to me suddenly, a light of desperate hope in his eyes.
"Nate! You can take her."
I almost choked on my juice.
"What?"
"You can go to prom with Allison," Scott insisted, gesturing. "As a friend. You can keep an eye on her for me. Coach won't stop you, and you... well, you know how to defend yourself. If the Alpha shows up, you can get her out of there."
I shook my head quickly.
"Scott, terrible idea. First, I don't have a ticket. Second, Allison won't want to go with me as a 'babysitter'."
"But I don't have anyone else!" Scott said, frustrated.
"You do," Stiles intervened, chewing thoughtfully. "Someone who is already going to prom. Someone who has the means to protect her and who, curiously, owes us one."
"Who?" Scott asked.
"Jackson," Stiles said the name like it was a curse word.
"Jackson?!" Scott grimaced. "He would never help me. He hates me. Even after I saved him, he still hates me."
"He would never help you," Stiles agreed, pointing his fork in my direction. "But he would help Nathan."
I looked at Stiles, confused. "He doesn't hate me, but I doubt he'd help just anyone. Why do you think that?"
"Because for Jackson, the world is divided into two categories: people he can use and people he wants to be," Stiles explained. "You're the 'rich mysterious new kid' who drives a Charger and doesn't give a damn about his social hierarchy. He respects you, Nate. In his own twisted way. If you ask him to take Allison, he'll consider it a favor between 'equals,' not charity for Scott."
Scott looked at me, pondering.
"Would you... do that? Ask him?"
I sighed, looking at both of them. I knew that in canon Scott asked Jackson directly and got epically rejected before having to beg. But if I could facilitate this... and keep Allison safe near someone I could monitor...
"Alright," I agreed, grabbing my backpack. "I'll talk to him."
I got up from the table, looking for the future problem that was Jackson Whittemore in the middle of the cafeteria.
Before I could walk away completely, I stopped. Something about Jackson's posture bothered me—the way he involuntarily brought his hand to his neck, a nervous tic most ignored, but which screamed at me.
I turned to him one last time, lowering my voice to a tone only the two of us could hear amidst the cafeteria noise.
"Hey, Jackson?" I started, the casual tone disappearing. "How are you doing, really?"
He frowned, the mask of arrogance faltering for a millisecond.
"What do you mean? I'm great. I'm Jackson Whittemore."
I took a step forward, invading his personal space. The green mist around him recoiled, as if the creature inside was afraid of my mana.
"And the wound?" I asked, my eyes fixed on his neck, where I knew the bite mark was hidden under his polo collar. "Has it healed? Have you transformed for the first time yet?"
Jackson froze. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale. He looked around, paranoid, checking if Danny or Lydia had heard.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Salt," he hissed, trying to regain composure, but his voice came out shaky. "Have you been drinking?"
I let out a short, dry laugh.
"Come on, Jackson." I tilted my head, letting a little of my mana leak out, making the air around us heavy and cold. "We both know the truth. You found out Scott's furry little secret. You found out what runs in his veins and thought you could buy the same upgrade package."
Jackson's eyes widened. He opened his mouth to deny it, but I cut him off.
I looked at him, and disbelief took over my face. I had to laugh. Not out of humor, but out of pure shock at his ignorance.
"Shit..." I shook my head, staring at him. "You don't even know you already got what you wanted, do you? Holy shit, Jackson, you really are dumb."
Jackson blinked, the offense stuck in his throat due to confusion.
"What are you talking about?"
"The wound on your neck, idiot," I pointed aggressively at his shirt collar. "That is your 'bite.' You already got your bite, but you're so dumb you don't even know it."
Jackson went silent. His jaw clenched. He looked down at his own hands, which were trembling slightly on the table. The arrogance dissolved, revealing only a scared boy desperate for power.
"Not yet," he whispered, his voice loaded with frustration and contained fear. "Nothing happened. It just... bleeds. And hurts."
I nodded, confirming my suspicion. His body was fighting against the transformation, twisting it.
"You know, Jackson..." I began, letting a tired sigh escape. "For someone so popular and obsessed with perfection, you are incredibly naive."
Jackson blinked, shock momentarily overcoming fear. The mask of arrogance cracked. He was used to me being the "chill rich new kid" who stroked his ego to get favors. Hearing a direct insult, without a filter, caught him completely off guard.
He brought his hand to his neck instinctively, touching the hidden bandage.
"You don't see the big picture," I continued, relentless. "You don't know the rules and yet you went after Derek to ask for the bite. You don't know what kind of position you put yourself in."
I leaned over the table, lowering my voice to a lethal whisper.
"Allison's parents? Hunters. And now they think you are the Beta, not Scott. They just need to confirm it and then put an arrow in your temple."
Jackson paralyzed, the air trapped in his lungs.
I took a step to the side, lowering my voice to a conspiratorial and lethal whisper.
Jackson's eyes widened, his breathing becoming short. The green mist around him agitated violently.
Jackson opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He was pale as wax.
"The bite reacts to who you are, Jackson," I explained, observing his sickly aura. "It is a reflection of the soul. And so far? Your body hasn't reacted well. The rejection... that's not normal. Maybe you won't become a werewolf. Maybe your body will simply collapse, reject the magic, and you'll end up dying of internal hemorrhage in the middle of lacrosse practice. Maybe your body accepts it and you transform in front of Chris Argent."
I gave him two condescending pats on the shoulder. He was stiff as a statue.
"But come on, Captain!" I smiled, a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "Have faith! Who knows, maybe you're special?"
I turned my back and started walking away, feeling his energy crumble behind me. The arrogance had been vaporized. What was left there was just a terrified kid realizing he had stepped into a cage with lions.
I took three steps. Four.
"Salt!"
I stopped. I didn't turn around immediately.
"Nathan... wait."
I spun on my heels slowly. Jackson wasn't looking at me with anger. He was looking at me with despair. For the first time, the defensive posture was gone. His hands were gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles were white.
"It's..." his voice failed, and he had to swallow hard to continue. "There's a black liquid coming out. From my nose. From my ear. I feel... I feel there's something wrong inside me. Something that isn't a wolf."
He looked around, making sure no one was listening, and then whispered, his voice broken:
"You know what's happening. I know you know. Help me. Please."
I watched him for a second. Magical Vision showed the shadow of the Kanima hissing, but the human Jackson was begging.
What I saw wasn't just physical rejection. It was spiritual corruption. A black, oily mist was starting to wrap around his pale green aura, suffocating it. It didn't look like a wolf. It looked like something ancient, cold, and reptilian, trying to take control of the host by force. Jackson's body was fighting a war he couldn't win alone.
I sighed, uncrossing my arms. "Charity" wasn't my strong suit, but having a loose and uncontrolled Kanima in the city would be a much bigger problem for me in the future.
"Of course I'll help you, Jackson," I said, softening my tone but maintaining firmness. "We're friends, after all."
Jackson let out a breath, his shoulders dropping in visible relief.
"But..." I raised a finger, interrupting his thanks. "I need a favor in return. A serious favor."
He frowned, suspicious again.
"What? Money?"
"No. I want you to take Allison to prom."
Jackson blinked, confused.
"That's it? You're going to help me with... this," he pointed to his own neck, "just so I take Argent to prom?"
"Allison is important," I replied, serious. "And I need someone capable to keep an eye on her. Someone who can defend themselves if things get ugly. And, despite everything, you're the toughest guy in this school."
The flattery worked. Jackson's ego inflated enough to push away the fear for a moment.
"Fine. Deal. I'll take the girl. Now..." he looked sideways, nervous. "Can you really help me?"
"Come with me."
I signaled with my head and guided him out of the cafeteria, ignoring the curious looks from Scott and Stiles. We went to the second-floor boys' bathroom, which was deserted at that hour.
Jackson entered and went straight to the sink, leaning his hands on the cold porcelain and staring at the mirror. He looked sick. His skin was pale, sweaty.
"Show me," I ordered.
He hesitated but pulled down the collar of his polo shirt.
The wound on the nape of his neck was ugly. It wasn't a clean cut. The edges were darkened, and black veins pulsed around it, extending downward toward the spine. The black liquid he mentioned—the body's rejection of the Alpha's magic—was leaking slowly.
I instantly remembered the conversation I had with my father the night before, when I asked about bites and cures.
"This isn't a normal infection," I said, positioning my hand a few inches from his neck, without touching. "Your body is fighting against what Derek put in you."
"Can you take it out?" he asked, his voice trembling. "Can you make it stop?"
"I can't take it out," I was honest. "If I try to rip this out, you die. What's in your blood is already part of you now. But... I can make it stop hurting. I can clean the filth that is preventing your body from accepting or rejecting this naturally."
"Do it," he begged, closing his eyes. "Just make it stop."
I took a deep breath and concentrated my mana.
I didn't use brute force. I used the Flow. I visualized the structure of the "filth"—the necrosis caused by rejection—and isolated it from the healthy tissue.
"This is going to sting," I warned.
Before he could react, I pushed a pulse of purifying mana into the wound.
"AHH!" Jackson screamed, gripping the sink hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
The black substance hissed and evaporated under my magic, turning into acrid smoke. The dark veins receded. The skin around the wound lightened, returning to a healthy pink tone, although the teeth mark was still there, deep and permanent.
I withdrew my hand.
Jackson gasped, looking at the mirror. Cold sweat ran down his face, but the expression of pain was gone. He touched his neck, incredulous.
"It stopped..." he whispered. "The burning stopped."
"I cleaned the toxicity," I explained, washing my hands in the sink next to him. "But Jackson... this is a bandage. What is inside your blood is still there. Your body still has to decide what it's going to be."
He turned to me, his blue eyes focused and, for the first time, with genuine gratitude mixed with fear.
"What do I do now?"
I dried my hands on a paper towel and faced him.
"You keep your end of the deal. Take Allison to prom. Protect her. And don't leave the party. The safest place for you right now is in the middle of people."
He nodded, fixing his shirt collar.
"I will. I promise."
"Great."
I grabbed my backpack and left the bathroom, hoping everything would work out.