By lunch, Arga had solved equations like a machine.
By afternoon, he would hit steel hard enough to bend it.
The sky burned orange above the school field.
Students shouted across the grass. Laughed. Kicked up dust as they ran. The whistle of the PE teacher cut through the noise every few seconds.
Everything looked normal.
Arga knew it wasn't.
He stood near the sideline, staring at his hands.
They looked exactly the same.
But nothing inside him felt the same anymore.
He had always hated sports class.
Too slow.
Too weak.
Too tired.
Always the last one running.
Always the easiest to beat.
That was the version of Arga everyone knew.
"ARGA!"
Bimo jogged toward him with a ball tucked under one arm, sweat soaking the collar of his shirt.
"One more round. You're striker."
"I'm not playing."
"You say that every time."
From midfield, Sinta folded her arms.
"If you sit out, we lose."
Arga clicked his tongue.
Normally, he would have ignored them.
Today, something inside his chest pulsed.
Warm.
Waiting.
"…Fine. One round."
Bimo grinned. "Knew you loved me."
"Don't push it."
The game restarted.
The ball flew from player to player. Shoes pounded against the dry field. Someone shouted for a pass. Another missed and cursed under his breath.
Then a kick sent the ball high into the air.
It sailed across the field.
Far.
Too far.
"Get it!" Bimo yelled.
He sprinted first.
Arga ran after him.
One step.
Normal.
Two steps.
Fast.
Three—
something changed.
The ground seemed to vanish beneath him.
Wind roared past his ears.
His body shot forward with terrifying force.
Faster.
Then faster again.
"What the—?!" Bimo's voice dropped behind him almost instantly.
Sinta stopped running.
"…No way."
Arga tried to slow down.
His legs ignored him.
He leaned back.
Nothing happened.
He was still accelerating.
Panic hit him like a punch.
"I can't stop!"
The ball bounced once ahead of him.
He reached it in seconds.
Instinct took over.
His leg swung.
THUD!
The sound cracked across the field like a gunshot.
The ball became a blur.
Students ducked as it tore past them.
Then Arga planted his foot and tried to stop.
Too late.
His own momentum dragged him forward.
Straight toward the goalpost.
"ARGA!"
BANG!
Metal screamed.
The goal shook violently.
Dust rose around him.
The entire field went silent.
Arga staggered backward.
Breathing hard.
Waiting for pain.
None came.
Not in his shoulder.
Not in his ribs.
Not in his head.
Nothing.
"…What?"
Bimo reached him first.
"ARE YOU INSANE?!"
Sinta arrived a second later, eyes narrowed.
"That hit should've dropped you."
Arga touched his chest slowly.
No bruise.
No blood.
No pain.
His hands began to tremble.
Not from injury.
From fear.
He turned toward the goal.
A deep dent marked the metal post.
Clean.
Visible.
Impossible.
The entire field stared at him.
Someone near the benches whispered,
"…Did he do that?"
Arga took a step back.
His pulse hammered in his ears.
Inside him, the warmth returned.
But it wasn't warmth anymore.
It felt alive.
And worse—
it was enjoying this.
"I need to go."
Bimo blinked. "What? Now?"
Arga grabbed his bag from the sideline.
"I'm leaving."
He didn't wait for permission.
Didn't wait for questions.
He walked off the field with dozens of eyes fixed on his back.
Sinta watched him go.
"…Something's wrong."
Bimo swallowed.
"…Yeah."
Outside the School
Evening shadows stretched across the road.
Arga walked fast.
Then slower.
Then stopped.
He could still feel it inside him.
Moving.
Watching.
Waiting.
With unsteady hands, he opened his bag and pulled out the lunch box.
Empty.
But not silent.
The symbol at the bottom glowed brighter than ever.
Pulse.
Pulse.
Pulse.
Arga's throat tightened.
"…What are you?"
For a single second, the light shifted.
And it felt like something inside the box looked back at him.
He slammed the lid shut.
His heart pounded wildly.
Across the street, beneath the shadow of a tree, someone stood watching.
A man in a hat.
Dark glasses.
Still as stone.
Slowly, the man raised his phone.
"The first subject has fully activated."
A pause.
Then a faint smile.
"Guardian One confirmed."
Another pause.
"Prepare the next lunch box."
The call ended.
The man turned and disappeared into the dark.
Arga stood alone on the sidewalk, breathing hard.
Unaware of the truth already moving toward him.
He was no longer the only one changing.
And tomorrow—
someone else would awaken.