Newton's Third Law says: for every action, there's an equal and opposite reaction.
It was the kind of line teachers loved because it sounded clean—like reality followed rules instead of habits.
But watching that boy earlier, watching his technique mirror mine after taking a hit, I understood why the reader who wrote his skill had chosen it.
It wasn't flashy.
It wasn't loud.
It was… elegant.
[Action and Reaction {0}]
A skill that copied a technique only after receiving its blow.
Not the ability itself. Not the rank. Not the "name."
Just the movement and the energy flow.
A perfect predator's tool—if the user had the brain to match it.
He didn't.
He thought he was copying fire.
He wasn't.
Fire was just the wrapper. The performance.
What he copied was my circulation pattern—the way I pushed magic through my arm, the sequence, the rhythm, the timing.
That meant something important.
It meant he didn't understand his own mechanics.
Which meant he was dangerous… but not yet deadly.
I exhaled slowly as I walked away from that back passage, the stolen manual tucked under my arm like contraband.
"That's comforting," I muttered. "At least he's not from Earth."
Petty.
But true.
In a world where the plot was already drifting, I needed every advantage I could keep.
If another transmigrator existed, they'd remember the same things I did—major events, hidden resources, the academy's habits, the future villains, the points where the story broke.
I couldn't afford someone else holding the map.
Not when I was barely surviving my first day.
And right now, I had one advantage no one else here could replicate:
I knew what mattered before it mattered.
The Triangle didn't reward morality.
It rewarded timing.
By the time I returned to the dorm wing, the sun was already low enough to paint the windows in pale gold. Students moved through the corridors in layered currents—Class A drifting like they owned the air, lower classes hugging walls, heads lowered, steps quick.
No one spoke to me.
Not directly.
But I felt eyes track the badge on my chest like a laser dot on prey.
Dreyden — 165,983 pts
Numbers were a language here.
And my number was a loud sentence.
I unlocked my room and stepped inside.
It wasn't a luxury suite. The Triangle didn't waste comfort on "potential."
A bed.
A desk.
A closet.
One narrow window.
Clean enough to feel sterile. Functional enough to feel temporary.
The room wasn't meant to be lived in.
It was meant to be used.
I didn't sit down immediately. I checked the corners out of instinct—old habit, old paranoia.
No hidden cameras that I could see.
No obvious listening rune.
That didn't mean there weren't any.
It just meant the Triangle didn't advertise when it watched.
I put the manual on the desk and stared at it for a long moment.
Magic Control.
The key to increasing Magic Energy.
The key to not dying when someone stronger decided to "test" me.
I'd written Dreyden with a loophole ability, but I'd also written him fragile in all the places that mattered.
Strength: 12.
Toughness: 15.
Agility: 13.
If I fought like a brute, I'd snap before I ever climbed.
If I grew my energy control fast enough…
I could make brute force irrelevant.
I opened the book carefully.
The pages weren't ancient. No mystical leather. No dramatic glow.
Just printed instruction and diagrams.
That was what made it terrifying.
Any idiot could have found this and used it.
Which meant the reason it mattered wasn't rarity.
It was neglect.
Most people didn't want the boring foundation.
They wanted explosive skills and visible wins.
They wanted to look strong.
I wanted to be strong.
I read the first line twice.
"Step one: establish an energy core. Position: right side of the chest, parallel to the heart."
My throat tightened.
I closed the book, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at my hands.
Magic Energy surged easily when I called Status.
It flowed automatically when the system responded.
But manipulating it?
That was different.
That was a language my body hadn't spoken yet.
"Fine," I whispered. "Let's learn."
I closed my eyes.
At first, there was nothing—just darkness, the muffled sound of the dorm's hum, distant footsteps, someone laughing too loudly in the hallway like they needed the noise to prove they weren't afraid.
Then I felt it.
Not as heat.
Not as light.
As pressure.
Like invisible water trying to move through me.
Blue sparks drifted in my mind's eye—thin, flickering, inconsistent.
The manual said to gather them, not force them.
To guide, not squeeze.
I tried.
The sparks moved slowly toward the right side of my chest.
One.
Two.
Three.
They touched—
Pain exploded.
White-hot, sharp, internal, like something tearing a hole through muscle that wasn't meant to be torn.
My teeth clenched so hard my jaw ached.
"Grr—!"
My hands curled into fists.
Instinct screamed at me to stop.
To recoil.
To break the contact.
But the manual had warned about that too.
Interrupting core formation midway could cause permanent instability.
In other words:
If I panicked now, I could cripple myself forever.
So I didn't stop.
I breathed through it.
Slow.
Measured.
Like I was trying to convince my body that suffering didn't mean death.
The sparks compressed tighter.
The pain flared.
My vision shook.
Sweat slid down my temple.
And then—like a switch flipping—the core formed.
A bright sphere pulsed faintly in my chest.
The pain vanished instantly.
I sucked in air like I'd been drowning.
"…Damn."
My hands trembled.
Not from weakness.
From the aftershock of surviving something my brain had labeled as lethal.
I opened the manual again with shaking fingers.
Step two: circulation.
This was where most people failed.
Creating the core was violent.
Circulation was precision.
The manual described the core like a pump. You didn't just feed it energy—you created a loop so the body learned the rhythm.
I focused.
Green sparks—ambient mana.
Blue sparks—my own energy.
They began drifting toward the core, drawn by it like gravity.
I guided them into the path the book outlined.
Slowly.
Carefully.
A winding river of power moved through my body.
If I pushed too hard, it would surge and tear.
If I moved too weakly, it would stagnate.
I found the middle.
A pulse.
A rhythm.
One circuit.
Then another.
Time blurred into repetition.
Breath in.
Guide.
Breath out.
Loop.
My body began to understand.
Not intellectually.
Muscle-deep.
Like learning how to ride a bike in the dark.
Two hours passed without me noticing.
My shirt clung to my back.
My fingers were numb from tension.
My chest felt warm—not painful, just alive.
I opened my eyes.
The room looked sharper somehow.
As if a layer of haze had been scraped off reality.
"Status," I said.
The glowing square appeared.
===== Status =====
Strength: 12
Toughness: 15
Agility: 13
Intelligence: 20
Perception: 17 (+7)
Magic Energy: 102 (+72)
===== Skills =====
[Celestial Library {0}]
Stored Volumes:
• Eyes of Truth {1}
• Fire Fists {7}
• Action and Reaction {0}
• None
My breath caught.
I stared at Magic Energy: 102 like it was a typo.
"…That's insane."
Seventy-two points.
In two hours.
Low-level circulation manuals gave +1 per cycle.
Mid-tier gave +2 or +3.
Family-grade control? +5 if you were talented.
This one?
This one was a cheat code wearing plain clothes.
The Perception increase made sense too—Eyes of Truth wasn't just a lens. It was training wheels for awareness. Every time I used it, my brain learned to notice.
Potential.
That word echoed.
Not raw power.
Not technique.
But the kind of growth that made people uncomfortable.
Because growth this fast didn't happen without a story behind it.
I checked my merit balance next, pulling up my student ID.
Name: Dreyden Stella
Class: A1
Score: 165,983
Balance: 1600 Merits
History:
+500 Merits (Entrance Reward)
+1000 Merits (Class A Admission)
+100 Merits (Mr. Lean's Reward)
Merits were the Triangle's leash.
Give students just enough currency to feel invested.
Let them buy a level 1 skill.
Make them think the academy "gave" them their future.
I wasn't falling for it.
I slid the ID into my pocket and left my room.
If I stayed inside too long, I'd start feeling safe.
And safety here was how people died.
The hallways were wide and metallic, lit with institutional blue light. The Triangle's architecture didn't try to inspire—it tried to contain.
I walked for twenty minutes, letting my senses catalog everything.
Where cameras were likely placed.
Where blind corners existed anyway.
Where the sound carried too far.
That's when I saw it.
A Class D boy pinned against a wall by another student.
The attacker wasn't strong.
Not really.
But he was higher.
That was enough.
"Do you think you can bump into me and just apologize!?" he snarled, and slammed his fist into the boy's face again.
The victim's knees buckled.
He didn't fight back.
Not because he couldn't.
Because he knew the rules.
Students passed by.
Some looked away.
Some slowed down like it was entertainment.
No one intervened.
Not because they were evil.
Because they were trained.
The Triangle didn't teach kindness.
It taught risk calculation.
I watched for three seconds.
That was all I needed.
This wasn't dominance.
It was cowardice dressed up as hierarchy.
I walked past them—close enough to shoulder-bump the attacker.
Hard.
He stumbled.
"What the hell—!?"
He turned, rage already loaded—
Then his eyes landed on the gold stripe on my uniform.
Class A.
His anger evaporated like it had never existed.
"C-Class A—"
Before he could finish, I drove my knee into his stomach.
WHAM.
He folded with a wet gasp, collapsing to the floor, hands clutching his gut like he could hold himself together by force.
I leaned down slightly, not to threaten.
To make sure the words landed.
"Look at you," I said quietly. "Afraid of the strong. Bullying the weak. Typical."
His eyes watered.
Not from pain.
From humiliation.
Behind him, the Class D boy flinched when I stepped closer, raising his arms defensively.
"P-please don't hurt me—!"
I stopped.
Let my posture soften by a fraction.
"You're fine," I said. "Go."
He blinked.
Then bolted down the hall like he didn't trust the miracle.
Good.
Trust got people killed too.
I straightened, hands sliding into my pockets.
Other students watched from a distance.
No one said anything.
No one challenged.
Because they weren't sure what I was.
And uncertainty was expensive.
"Tsk," I muttered. "Mood's ruined."
The Triangle's internal alarm chimed the next morning.
Not my phone.
Not my old world.
A clean tone embedded in the walls.
06:00.
I sat up with a groan, stomach twisting like it wanted revenge.
"…Should've eaten more."
I dressed quickly and headed for the cafeteria.
It was massive—modern stations, long lines, trays clattering, conversations overlapping like layered static.
But what stood out wasn't the noise.
It was the structure.
Tables arranged by class rank.
Like a kingdom's seating chart.
Class D huddled far back.
Class C held the middle.
Class B lounged with confidence.
Class A sat in the top-center section, not separated by walls…
…but by fear.
Higher-ranked students cut lines whenever they wanted.
No one complained.
No one even looked offended.
It was normal here.
I grabbed my tray and walked to Class A.
An empty table.
As expected.
Nobody wanted to sit with the "unknown" A-Class late arrival.
Not Silvius.
Not Dogers.
Not the kids with families powerful enough to insulate them from consequences.
I ate in silence.
Until—
"Hey. Can we sit here?"
A calm voice.
I looked up.
Lucas Væresberg stood there, tray in hand, red right eye quietly observing me.
Next to him—
Arlo Stanford.
The strongest in Class B, grinning like he didn't understand the word "danger" the same way other people did.
Lucas smiled politely, like this wasn't an act of social warfare.
"You saved us a spot," he said. "Thanks."
Right on cue.
The protagonist had finally approached me.
I leaned back slightly and nodded.
"Make yourselves comfortable."
And just like that—
My life in the Triangle officially began.
Not with a fight.
Not with a speech.
With a table.
And the quiet understanding that every seat here was a decision.