Most of our teachers lacked abilities entirely, but they compensated with military training and iron discipline. Professor Bagins was no exception—an aging academic who'd somehow become the school's leading expert on pre-war mythology. He maintained one sacred rule in his classroom: absolutely no modern slang during his lectures. Period.
Ability testing was scheduled for tomorrow, and if I checked level 1 for the third consecutive time, everyone would officially classify me as stuck. Now that we'd reached A-Level, testing meant receiving our permanent monitoring watches.
[Break one rule and acquire a skill.]
Whatever this system was, it had to be connected to the cosmic war I'd witnessed in my dream. The seven gods had united against that fire-entity for a reason, and I was starting to understand why.
I'd like to break the Bagins' rule.
"You're young, but your great-great-grandfathers created the marvels we enjoy today," Professor Bagins announced, pausing dramatically. This was his favorite moment—commanding absolute attention before dismissing class, basking in the reverent silence he'd cultivated.
Do it now, Ernesto.
"Bruh, what the heck?" I muttered, the words escaping before I could stop them.
The classroom erupted. Professor Bagins' face went through several shades of purple as laughter exploded around us. He'd once given a student two weeks detention for saying the F word during his closing remarks.
"Who said that?" he demanded, his voice cutting through the chaos. "This is NOT amusing!"
[Rule Broken: Corruption of tongue in the presence of Dildo Bagins]
[SKILL GAINED: Temporal Mind Tap]
Telepathy? Thought I'm supposed to be clairvoyant. What is this thing doing to me?
And suddenly... I could hear him. Professor Bagins' thoughts crashed into my consciousness like a tidal wave:
These disrespectful brats have no appreciation for history. When I find whoever said that, they'll learn what real discipline means. Probably that Marvel boy—always causing trouble.
The invasion of his mind was overwhelming, but intoxicating. I was drowning in someone else's thoughts until I heard Frank Caleb's voice cut through the mental noise.
"Professor, it was Ernesto Mela."
I spun toward Frank, but his mouth was firmly shut, his expression neutral. The professor was already storming toward the door, his anger radiating like heat.
Wait. That was Caleb's thought, not his voice.
Frank Caleb is thinking: "I should tell him it was Ernesto. He needs to learn consequences for his actions. Someone needs to hold him accountable."
But Frank said nothing aloud. He just sat there, organizing his notes with mechanical precision.
Professor Bagins swept out of the classroom without another word. Break time commenced, and several students had heard my outburst, but they attributed it to Marvel's hypnotic influence—assuming his power had accidentally slipped and controlled "the blue-haired freak." Marvel himself looked confused, probably wondering if he'd subconsciously used his abilities.
I gripped the desk until my knuckles turned white, but not from anxiety. My heart was racing with exhilaration. This felt... incredible. Like I was finally accessing something that had always belonged to me.
For the first time in my life, I wasn't clueless. I wasn't just the genetic anomaly with blue hair hiding in back corners. I possessed knowledge no one else could access. This power...
I love what I'm becoming.
I surveyed the classroom, testing the boundaries of this new ability. Camilla. Frank. Marvel. What else could I discover if I focused? I reached out with this strange new sense, straining to penetrate other minds, but the connection flickered and died.
I need to develop this. How did I even access their thoughts initially?
I knew I was special—I was beginning to love my transformation—but I still needed mastery. Control and understanding would come with practice.
"Let's go for break," Frank said aloud, already packing his materials with the methodical efficiency of someone who prioritized academics over ability development.
No freaking way I'm walking with you.
That's when Derrick materialized at our desk like he'd been monitoring the situation, waiting for the perfect moment to rescue me from social catastrophe.
"Hello, Caleb," he greeted Frank with exaggerated formality. "I'm requisitioning him."
Thank God. I didn't want to be cruel to Frank—he deserved at least one friend in this place—but it wasn't going to be me.
We stepped into the hallway and were immediately engulfed by break-time chaos: hundreds of students flowing through concrete corridors, voices echoing off institutional walls, the distinctive aroma of whatever synthetic protein they were serving in the cafeteria today.
We existed in a society where traditional currency held no value. At School Central, your level was everything. It determined access to better food, small privileges, even protection from bullying. Your ability level was your worth as a human being. You mattered only if you had power.
Through the massive windows lining the corridor, I could see the transport van had already arrived. Twenty students would graduate to Upper today—the chosen ones with developed abilities heading toward real training and eventual positions of authority. Ten others would be shipped to the South with regulation luggage and forced smiles, disappearing into whatever unknown fate awaited the stuck.
We'd witnessed this ceremony dozens of times, always wondering when our turn would come. But now, for the first time, I felt like I might actually have a choice in my destination.
If I can master this power, if I can control what's happening to me...
I touched my chest where that divine fire still burned, feeling the alien energy responding to my thoughts. Tomorrow's testing would be interesting. Very interesting indeed.
"You feeling alright?" Derrick asked, studying my face. "You look... different. Like you just figured something out."
More than you know, brother.
"I'm perfect," I said, and for the first time in years, I actually meant it.