I stumbled into the washroom and doused myself with cold water, but my skin felt like it was burning from the inside out. This wasn't normal fever heat—this was something alien consuming me from within. And the thirst... Christ, the thirst was overwhelming.
I bent over the sink and drank directly from the tap. Not sipping—gulping desperately like something inside me was dying of dehydration. Liters and liters of water poured down my throat, but it wasn't enough. When I finally came up for air, gasping and wiping my mouth, I stared at my reflection in the cracked mirror.
Now you look normal. This is the Ernesto I know.
[DEVINE FRAME: THE LAW OF TIME]
[User: Ernesto Mela, Age 18]
[XP: 65/100] [Level: 1]
[HP: 4/10]
[SKILLS: 0/5]
[SYSTEM CHALLENGE: Break rules and acquire new skills]
What the fuck is this?
No way was I breaking rules. No way was I getting in line of being expelled. Life beyond the walls was a death sentence—I'd seen that firsthand yesterday.
The last time I'd been tested, I was barely level 1, though I suspected I'd improved over the past year. But I wasn't trusting some mysterious system that had hijacked my brain.
I didn't look normal, but I felt marginally more human. The fire had quieted to a simmer. The golden veins had faded beneath my skin. I could almost pretend yesterday had been an elaborate nightmare.
I wrapped a towel around my waist and stepped out, immediately colliding with Derrick.
"Damn, bro, looking good," he said, giving me an appraising once-over. "I still don't understand why you're terrified of girls."
I shot him my best leave-me-alone glare, but he just grinned like I'd complimented his mother.
"Sometimes I wish I had your problems," he continued. "Blue hair, mysterious issues, brooding good looks. It's a whole aesthetic."
"Derrick," I said, grabbing my uniform, "please shut up."
We were already running late for class, and my brain was operating in overdrive. A-Level was serious business. Students spent six years in O-Level with standard academics, then got promoted to A-Level where sixty percent of coursework focused on ability development.
You had until twenty-five years to reach your maximum potential—research showed that abilities plateaued after that age. Successful students advanced to Upper for mastery training. The stuck got shipped to the South.
Derrick and I had just been promoted from Ordinary to Advanced the previous week. New classrooms, new teachers, same recycled propaganda.
As we approached the A-Level block, a familiar voice echoed through the hallway speakers.
"Centuries ago, Earth supported vast human civilizations, but—"
"Professor Dildo Bagins," I muttered under my breath.
Derrick nearly choked on his own laughter. "Dude, you cannot keep calling him that."
"Why not? It's literally his name."
And it was. Professor Dildo Bagins wore his name like a badge of honor, always emphasizing that it was Bagins, not Baggins, and yes, Dildo was an ancestral name with great historical significance. Whatever helped him maintain his dignity.
We followed classroom protocol: knock and enter. Simple enough. Except our usual back row seats were occupied by Marvel and his enormous pale companion—two upperclassmen who'd been held back so many times they practically owned their own wing of the detention center.
When are you turning twenty-five? Can't wait for them to ship you to the South, I thought, glaring at Marvel's smug expression. He was talented enough—level 5 hypnosis—but his discipline issues kept him trapped in academic purgatory.
Derrick, being naturally quick, snagged a front-row seat, leaving me standing there like an idiot, scanning desperately for somewhere to sit. This was exactly why I hated being late—it reduced you to a scavenger fighting for scraps.
"Please sit down. You're disrupting my lecture," Professor Bagins said without looking up from his holographic display. Trust me, Professor. I want to sit more than you want me to.
"It is believed that Earth possessed technology so advanced it would take Vezia a millennium to recreate," he droned on.
I spotted two desks in the middle rows with only one occupant each. The first belonged to Camilla Mendy, widely considered the most beautiful girl at School Central, with her perfect auburn hair and the kind of smile that could stop traffic.
The second desk was Frank Caleb's territory—a confirmed stuck and the school's resident genius, already taking meticulous notes despite class having barely started.
Ernesto, try your luck.
I didn't voice the thought, but I felt every eye in the classroom tracking my movement as I approached Camilla's desk. The room had gone suspiciously quiet, and I could practically hear the collective breath-holding from every boy present. Students were probably thinking, What is this blue-haired freak attempting?
All the boys in our class were terrified of Camilla—not because she was cruel, but because she existed so far beyond our social stratosphere that even attempting conversation felt like academic suicide. Rumors suggested she was a level 5 telekinetic, which would make her one of the most powerful students in the school.
"Mind if I sit here?" I asked, fighting to keep my voice steady.
I swear to God, Professor Bagins might as well have been speaking to an empty room. Everyone was watching history unfold—the blue-haired outcast about to get publicly destroyed by the school princess.
Camilla looked up with those emerald eyes that had probably inspired a thousand teenage fantasies. For a moment, something flickered across her features—surprise, perhaps? But then her expression turned to stone.
"I prefer sitting alone," she said, her voice carrying just enough volume for nearby students to hear clearly.
Dear God, please let that have been a whisper. I offered a prayer to whatever deities might be listening and glanced around to assess the damage. Every student was suddenly fascinated by Professor Bagins' lecture, their ears straining to catch every syllable of my humiliation. I could feel my face burning—not the supernatural fire from before, but the very human heat of embarrassment.
I shuffled over to Frank Caleb's desk, my footsteps echoing in the too-quiet classroom. What a disaster.
Frank looked up at me with genuine sympathy behind his thick glasses. "Rough morning?" he whispered as I collapsed into the chair beside him.
"Says the expert," I muttered, pulling out my textbook and pretending to care about Earth's lost civilizations.
But as Professor Bagins continued his lecture about humanity's fallen glory, that alien fire stirred inside me again, and I pressed my palm against my chest, willing it to remain dormant.
[Break one rule and acquire a new skill]
Absolutely not.
[Fear is temporary. Power is eternal]
The system's response appeared immediately, almost mockingly. I could feel something pushing against my consciousness, urging me toward rebellion, toward breaking the careful order that kept me safe within these walls.
No, I thought firmly. I'm not your puppet.
But even as I tried to focus on the lecture, I could feel that divine hunger growing stronger, more insistent. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I heard the echo of grinding stone laughter.