Instability is a tool.
I had orchestrated a fabricated "episode" to transport myself into the heart of Fravikveidimadr's operations. Now, I resided in the West Wing's Medical and Research Facility, a sterile bunker that had become my new cage. Yet every cage has a flaw, and every warden has a blind spot. My task now was to find it.
The first phase of my larger scheme, codenamed the Grand Plan of Hundreds in my mind, was intelligence gathering. Naturally, my efforts weren't limited to the Chimera Project or Silas alone. I needed to chart the full ecosystem of this academy. Who held true power? Who harbored ambition? Who could be exploited, and who must be eliminated? Every student, professor, and even the janitorial staff were chess pieces on my board, whether they realized it or not.
I spent my first few days in this facility playing the role of the perfect patient. I was obedient, quiet, and appeared fragile. I allowed Elias and his team to run their meaningless tests, occasionally giving off controlled surges of anomalous energy to maintain their interest. At night, I released threads of my Essence, not to explore, but to listen. I mapped the medical facility's layout, the guards' positions, and their patrol rotations. I discovered that Silas's cell was two levels beneath my room, in an area shielded by an energy field far too strong to breach directly for now.
After a week, they labeled me "stable but unpredictable." I was granted permission to return to classes under the condition that I return to the facility each night, and that Grisa Rash accompany me at all times. A compromise I could accept. Grisa's surveillance was a nuisance, but the freedom to interact once more with the academy's population was far more valuable.
My return to the dorms was met with awkward silence. Roshtov glanced at me briefly when I entered, then returned to his book without a word. He knew I had been relocated. He likely had his own theories about what had occurred. He was an intriguing piece, possibly a sharp observer operating beneath the radar of other variables. Fascinating. I would place him in the "unknown variable" category of my plan.
My status at the academy had changed. I was no longer just the strange failing student. I was now the "mental patient," or perhaps a walking time bomb. The other students avoided me, whispering as I passed. Some looked at me with pity, others with revulsion. I welcomed the isolation. It gave me more room to observe without interference.
In the midst of this social exile, I began noticing one person seemingly unaffected by my reputation. A new student, like myself, named Irene Cheva. She was a visual anomaly in the sea of monotonous gray uniforms. Her long, wavy brown hair seemed alive, and her vivid green eyes radiated sharp intelligence. Her posture was tall and graceful, but there was something out of sync in her mannerisms. When speaking to professors, she came off as poised and articulate. Yet alone in the library, I once caught her absentmindedly biting her finger while reading, a childish habit from my first life, clearly at odds with her elegant image.
She rarely socialized. Like me, she preferred to observe from the sidelines. Unlike me, though, she wasn't shunned, she chose to be ignored. A few times, I caught her eyes meeting mine from across the room. There was no pity or disgust in her gaze. Only quiet, analytical curiosity. Much like the way I looked at her. Perhaps she was a variable that would prove difficult to move later on. I would need to exercise caution around her.
I hadn't yet decided her role in my plan. She could become a powerful ally or a dangerous opponent. For now, she was simply another subject of observation.
---
In a dim corner of the library, William Salwors resumed writing in his notebook. The light from the Essence-lamp above his head gleamed on the tip of his pen.
Day 48 of Subject W-01 observation.
The subject has returned from the West Wing Medical Facility. Public behavior remains unchanged: self-isolation, subpar academic performance. However, micro-behavioral shifts have occurred. Alertness levels have increased. He now consciously scans his surroundings every few minutes. His assigned supervisor, Lieutenant Grisa Rash, is a constant shadow, but her effectiveness as an observer is questionable. She focuses too much on physical threats and neglects psychological maneuvers.
The subject has also identified a new observer: Irene Cheva. The two display similar behavioral patterns (isolation, passive observation). Thus far, their interactions are limited to mutual glances from a distance. Too early to conclude the nature of their connection.
Primary concern: the incident in Symbology class. My analysis indicates it was a fabricated event with a specific purpose, gaining access to the medical facility. What was he seeking there? What did he find? The level of planning and execution displayed suggests operational intelligence far beyond his age. This is not a matter of being gifted. He is disturbingly willing to act. As if he were a strategist playing a long game.
William paused. He looked across the library. There, in the ancient history section, Welt Rothes was reading a thick book. At another table nearby, Irene Cheva was also reading, occasionally glancing at Welt when she thought no one was watching. And William, from his shadowed corner, observed them both. A silent triangle of surveillance.
His obsession wasn't without reason. Years ago, his sister, a talented Evolver, had undergone a similar "Resonant Backlash Reaction" during an experiment. Fravikveidimadr had taken her to the same facility, promising treatment. She never returned. The official explanation was "Essence disintegration due to innate instability." William never believed it. He believed they had done something to her, turned her into a test subject.
In Welt Rothes, he saw a reflection of his family's tragedy. He saw the same abnormality, the same veil of secrecy from Fravikveidimadr. He didn't know whether Welt was a victim or a perpetrator, but he was determined to find out. This boy was the key.
---
Social friction in this academy was inevitable. One day, as I walked to class, a burly senior cadet from a minor noble family deliberately bumped my shoulder, sending the books I carried tumbling to the floor.
"Watch where you're going, you weird little freak," he growled, his friends laughing behind him.
A standard provocation. A test to see how I'd respond. I didn't show anger. I simply stared at him with empty eyes, crouched down, and began picking up my books one by one, ignoring him entirely. My lack of reaction denied him any satisfaction. Irritated, he snorted and walked off, leaving me alone in the corridor. The few students who witnessed it just shook their heads and moved on. Here, the weak were not defended.
I knew this wasn't a random incident. This minor act of bullying had likely been instigated, perhaps by Lian Valerius, still nursing a grudge, or another party probing the limits of my restraint. I noted the senior cadet's name in my mind. A small piece for now, but possibly useful later.
Another discomfort came from Roshtov. He had grown quieter, more withdrawn. One night, I "accidentally" dropped a pen under his bed. When I bent to retrieve it, I saw a hidden pile of books. I caught a glimpse of one title, "One Thousand and One Hermits", before standing back up. The book was clearly not part of the curriculum. He was conducting his own research, and becoming increasingly cautious in hiding it. The wall between us was thickening.
Yet in the midst of this pressure and surveillance, there were absurd moments that reminded me this world, despite its cruelties, was also inhabited by fools.
One afternoon in the library, a pale, long-haired poetry student approached Irene Cheva's table. With dramatic flair, he began reciting a poem he had written for her. Something about "your eyes are emeralds in a sea of milk" and "your hair is a chocolate waterfall in a porcelain valley." It was truly terrible.
Irene listened patiently until he finished. She didn't laugh or mock him. She simply looked at him with her clear eyes and replied in a cool, diplomatic tone,
"Thank you for your sentiment. Your metaphors about dairy products and tableware are quite original. I suggest submitting this piece to an alchemical journal. They may better appreciate your material references."
The poet froze, unsure if he had just been praised or subtly insulted. He finally gave an awkward bow and retreated, face flushed. I, seated a few tables away, almost smiled. Almost.
Another absurdity occurred after Applied Herbology class. Irene and I happened to walk side by side, heading in the same direction. We didn't speak, only moved in a shared, quiet silence. Suddenly, Finnian, the boy who once served as my catalyst, ran up to us, face pale with panic.
"Welt! Irene! This is bad," he gasped. "Professor Sirus wants to see both of you in his office. He said it's about... your potential pathway synergy!"
Irene and I exchanged our first glance. In her eyes, I saw the same confusion I felt. Synergy? Between my "unstable" Oneiric Pathway and whatever hers was? This had to be a colossal misunderstanding.
"I believe there's been a mistake," Irene said calmly.
"No, no, I heard it myself," Finnian insisted. "Some students saw you two together in the library a lot and assumed you were... you know... secretly training together. They reported it, and now Professor Sirus thinks you're a hidden pair."
I closed my eyes briefly. This was the true texture of the world. Not just high-level intrigue and dark conspiracies. Sometimes, you had to deal with stupid rumors born of misunderstanding and student boredom. A different kind of chaos, born not from malice, but from idiocy. And sometimes, it was far more troublesome.
Eventually, we managed to convince Finnian it was just gossip, and that there was no need to meet Professor Sirus. But the incident left a mark. Now there were new rumors linking me and Irene. It could be a nuisance, or a useful cover. I was still evaluating.
That night, I returned to my room, my mind processing the influx of new data. My plan to create an incident had succeeded, but it had also generated unforeseen complications. William's surveillance, hostility from Lian's faction, and now a ridiculous rumor tying me to Irene.
The chessboard was more dynamic than I had expected. There were more players, and the pieces moved in ways I couldn't always predict. My Grand Plan of Hundreds couldn't remain a rigid blueprint. It had to be fluid like water, able to take the shape of its container.
I lay down, letting my consciousness sink into my aperture. The sea within had reached forty-five percent. Slowly, but surely. I felt raw power within it. I could see the elements forming into creatures I had seen in dreams, there was even a massive skull looming in the distance.
I wasn't ready.
But I would be.
I would continue gathering information, mapping alliances and rivalries, and placing my pieces in the right positions. One day, when every seed I had planted had taken root, I would reap the harvest. And this academy, Fravikveidimadr, the entire Kingdom of Cledestine, would become something truly delightful to me.