"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?" the principal's voice rang out clearly as she gave the microphone a light tap. The chatter in the assembly hall died down and was replaced with a hushed silence as all eyes turned toward the lectern. "The Heiss school board has approved a change to our after-school schedule. Effective immediately, evening prep sessions will now run from the nineteenth to the twenty-first hour. Following that, at lights out—now beginning from the twenty-second hour—students are strictly prohibited from leaving the hostels. Teachers will be stationed around the school to ensure compliance with this policy. In addition, armed security personnel will now begin patrolling the grounds each night after lights out. These measures are being implemented solely for your safety, and violating them will attract serious disciplinary consequences."
Principal Miriam Carve took a moment to scan the rows of young, uniformed students watching her attentively.
"I also want to strongly urge each and every one of you to please stay within the school premises at all times," the principal continued, her voice softening with concern. "Do not attempt to leave the grounds without proper authorization. That means no scaling of fences, no forging of teacher's signatures to deceive the gatekeeper, no slipping out during visiting hours." Her eyes swept the crowd. "And certainly no sneaking into the delivery vans—yes, I know about that!"
A wave of laughter rippled through the hall and some students exchanged amused glances—clearly, there was an incident behind that. Two in fact.
"...or bribing of staff members," she added with a raised brow, waiting patiently for the commotion to subside.
Once the laughter faded, hey voice grew solemn again.
"I say this because lately, there have been reports of disturbing occurrences happening in town. The most recent one occurred not far from our school. And so for your own safety, I am asking that you all follow the rules and cooperate fully with the new measures being put in place." As she adjusted her glasses her hand gave a slight tremble. Her final words hung in the air like a warning not fully understood. The students, now fully silent, sat in rapt attention, the quietness so thick, it seemed to be pressing down like a held breath.
"And finally," the principal announced with a genial smile, gesturing towards the back of the hall. "Please join me in giving a warm welcome to our newest student, Oliver Swells."
All heads turned as a slender boy rose to his feet. Oliver was a very handsome boy with silver hair. His skin was very white, almost unnaturally pale that it gave the impression he'd just stepped out of a snowstorm—or an ice bath. His expression was unreadable; a mix of cool composure and quiet detachment, as he made his way to the front of the hall.
The students murmured as he passed by. Whispers followed him, especially from the girls, whose curious and admiring glances trailed him all the way to the front.
When Oliver reached the stage, he paused beside the principal, who offered a warm pat on the shoulder—an encouraging gesture that Oliver neither leaned into nor pulled away from. He simply stood there, poised and composed, surveying the hall with an aloof calm. The cool detachment in the way he carried himself was enchantingly perfect.
From where he sat among the rows of students, Robert watched the new student intently. "Does anything about that guy seem awkward to you, Poison?" he mentally reached out to Poison. There was no answer. But Robert could sense Poison was there, silently studying Oliver from behind his eyes.
There was something about Oliver that didn't sit right. It wasn't anything obvious. He didn't act suspiciously, nor did he look particularly threatening—but the feeling was there, a subtle dread curling in Robert's gut. It gnawed at his instincts, whispering hide, get away, don't let him see you. A quiet, irrational fear that tightened his chest with each passing second. He glanced around, but no one else seemed to share his unease. They were whispering, smiling, entirely unbothered.
As the final words of the principal's announcement faded from the speakers, the students rose in their usual chatter and began filing out of the assembly hall—which was located on the lowest floor of the classroom block. They dispersed through the building, heading off to their respective classrooms.
Robert climbed the stairs to his classroom at a much slower pace compared to the students around, his mind trailing behind with thoughts of the new student. That feeling... he had experienced something similar before, when that same guy—the new student—had walked past him and Vanessa with his suitcase earlier in the week. The air around the boy had felt... wrong, in a way Robert couldn't explain. Now, after seeing Oliver again, that odd sensation had grown more insistent. It wasn't anything physical. There was something about Oliver; something intangible and buried beneath the surface, like some sort of presence, one which made Robert feel very uncomfortable. It was as though the boy's very shadow radiated danger.
As Robert arrived at his classroom's doorway, he tried to shake the uneasy feeling and focus on something else. His eyes instinctively scanned the room as he walked in—and almost immediately landed on a familiar group huddled around a desk near the wall. Robert recognized them as Jackson and his usual crew, and they were all scowling down at the new student, Oliver, who sat stiffly at the desk, situated at the column before Robert's.
Robert felt a knot of suspicion and irritation form in his chest as he took in the scene. The body language, the positioning, and the low voices—it wasn't an unfamiliar sight to Robert. Everything about it screamed one thing: the new kid was getting mugged. Fresh students — easiest targets.
Jaw tightening, Robert began his way through the maze of desks and students, eyes fixed on the group at the back of the class.
"Come on. You dumb or something?" sneered Gerald, the smallest of the group encircling Oliver. And his words reflected the thoughts of his friends—Oliver had not uttered a single word since they surrounded him. He'd just sat there, stiff-backed, eyes forward, almost detached from what was happening.
From behind, Frank stepped in with less patience. He smacked the back of Oliver's head with enough force to jerk it forward. "Listen weirdo," he growled, voice low and full of threat, "your parents certainly left you with something, a lot more gold coins than you'll need before mid-term no doubt. You know what you need to do in order to walk out of this in one piece. We're not exactly in the mood to wait around!"
Jackson was sitting casually atop the desk positioned in front of Oliver's, one leg dangling while the other rested calmly on the seat below. His expression was calm and collected as he surveyed the classroom like he was far above the noise. Every now and then, he returned waves or offered a faint, charming smile to passing students who greeted him—and nearly all of them did. Behind him, his crew was unmistakably pressuring the new kid. Jackson of course, was perfectly aware of what was happening. He didn't flinch, didn't glance back, didn't need to. He could hear every word.
Though the whole extortion routine wasn't exactly his style, Jackson was no stranger to it either. He wasn't the kind to rough people up or demand valuables, but that didn't mean he stood in the way of those who did. Despite his effortless popularity, his self-assurance, and the influence he held in the room, he understood a crucial truth: control had its limits. Especially when it came to the kind of boys he kept around. They weren't just his crew—they were a force of their own. And as much as Jackson might've wanted to distance himself from their acts, he also knew better than to interfere.
So he stayed quiet, calm, and unbothered. Let it play out. That was how things worked.
Around them, the classroom bustled with the usual morning disorder, a blend of routine and restlessness that defined the start of a typical school day in Solar Springs High. The eleventh-grade art class was immersed in its usual chaos, and whatever Jackson's crew was doing went largely unnoticed, either because the other students were too absorbed in their own affairs or they simply chose not to get involved.
At the rear of the classroom, a few students were busy rummaging through their lockers, the clatter of metal and the shuffling of books adding to the din. Others had begun settling into their desks, flipping through notebooks or unpacking their bags in preparation for the first lesson. Laughter bubbled from one corner as a group of boys and a girl playfully tossed crumpled scraps of papers at each other. Pockets of both soft and loud chatter erupted across the room. Altogether, it was a scattered storm of movement and sound; a general ruckus.
As Robert approached from the side with creased brows, Jackson's eyes flicked towards him. His gaze sharpened with annoyance, and a curse passed through his thoughts.
"Hey, give the guy a break, he's only just enrolled!" Robert snapped as he reached them, his voice sharp with irritation. "Let him get settled in before you start mugging him!" He shoved Gerald aside, and though the push wasn't forceful, Gerald stumbled backwards, his shoulders bumping against the wall before he could regain balance. The rest of the crew—three other boys—moved away from the new boy a step, casting hard, challenging looks at Robert.
It was in that moment that Robert looked down and truly took in Oliver's appearance. The boy's complexion was startlingly pale—disturbingly white— ghostly even, like something drained of life. He looked like a corpse that had just been thawed from ice!
Frank, the tallest among the group, with neatly trimmed hair, scoffed loudly. "And what exactly are you gonna do, Manwell? Hallucinate us into submission?" Frank mocked as he squared his shoulders, drawing laughter from his crew.
Robert remained unfazed. His expression darkened, and voice dropped, low and dangerous. "I'll make you understand what real pain feels like, Frank."
Frank's smirk barely had time to fade before he lunged at Robert with flailing arms—clumsy, fists swinging more in bravado than aim. But Robert was quicker, calmer. In a blink, he countered with a clean, devastating strike to Frank's chest. The impact lifted Frank clean off his feet, sending him crashing against the whiteboard few meters away with a loud thud that echoed across the classroom. The sudden violence snatched the air from the class — chairs froze mid-scoot, mouths hung open.
Stunned, dazed and terrified, Frank stared up at Robert in utter disbelief. Panic overtook him, and he scrambled to his feet and fled the classroom.
Jackson let out a low, angry curse under his breath, fists tightening at his sides. The fury in his eyes burned bright, fueled by resentment and a deep-seated need to assert dominance. Despite what had happened in the lab the night before and in the bathroom days ago, Jackson clung to the belief that he was stronger—physically superior to Robert—and that whatever had transpired then had been a fluke. He didn't let Robert's impressive takedown of Frank intimidate him either.
He stalked towards the other boy, his eyes blazing with malice. "You think you're some kind of tough guy now, huh?" he sneered.
Robert met Jackson's gaze calmly, a small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Didn't last night clear that up for you?"
Jackson's face twisted with rage. "You got lucky last night. Won't happen again!" Jackson struck out with all his might, his fist striking Robert squarely on the check with a heavy, bone-jarring thud. He pulled back, fully expecting to see the other boy reeling in pain or any telltale signs of damage—inflammation, a bruise, something. But to his utter astonishment, Robert remained where he stood, face unmarred, his skin as smooth and unblemished as ever.
"What the—?" Jackson muttered, his eyes wide with disbelief.
Robert stood tall and composed, his expression stony and impassive. "That's it?" he asked, his voice calm and even.
Jackson felt a surge of panic rise up in his chest.
"Pathetic," Robert scoffed and began advancing towards Jackson. He flexed his hand slightly, noticing a gritty sensation—his palm was growing unusually, rougher than he'd grown accustomed to.
An overwhelming sense of fright suddenly washed over Jackson. "Stay away from me!" He barked and stumbled backward, but by now, several students had gathered, drawn by the commotion. A few of them laughed mockingly and shoved him forward, calling him a coward and urging the spectacle on.
Robert continued advancing toward Jackson, determined to humble him this time, but someone stepped out of the small cluster behind him. It was Dora.
Gently and quietly, she simply asked him to calm down and let it go.
Dora's voice, more than her words, halted Robert, and his resolve melted away in an instant.
You see, Dora was not just Robert's only friend, she was THE friend; the one who truly mattered. There was something about her that held a space in his heart no one else could touch—though it was one of the things he would never admit, because it went against his image of being tough, detached and unemotional. But in that moment, her presence was enough to shift everything.
And it did.
Robert's clenched fists relaxed, his stern expression melted, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips.
Inside his mind, Poison raged. "What are you doing?! Hurry up and show that impudent child the consequences of angering the descendant of an Ancestor soul!"
Robert felt the grains of sand coating his palm become more pronounced, and a strong wave of energy surged through him.
However, he only released an even warmer smile and turned towards Oliver.
"You alright?" he asked.
Oliver met his gaze. For a second, they stared into each other's eyes until—and it only lasted a split second—the boy's pupils twinkled, froze into solid white ice and returned to normal.
Robert blinked. What had he just seen?
But before he could ask, Oliver gave a faint scoff and in a very low, hoarse and other-worldly voice, not very different from Poison's, a voice only Robert seemed to have heard, the boy said, "At last," before rising from his desk and walking out of the classroom.
A second later, the room suddenly erupted with cacophony as the students scrambled back to their seats, the air filling with the sound rushed whispers and the screeching of desks being dragged across the floor.
With a calm that greatly contrasted with his surroundings, Robert glanced at the doorway and there, Robert caught sight of the tall, stern figure of Mr. Williams.
"Robert Manwell, my office, now!" Williams ordered, turned sharply, and strode off.
Robert sighed inwardly and exited the classroom, finishing behind, his steps quickening to match the teacher's brisk pace as they climbed the stairs.
"That kid," Poison's deep voice rumbled quietly in Robert's head as he reached the landing and began to approach the office. "...That kid."
Inside, Mr. Williams was already seated behind his oversized desk—a desk that groaned beneath the weight of scattered papers, opened files, and long-forgotten stationery. The entire office looked like a barely-contained paper explosion, more chaotic than organized, more clutter than command center.
"Take a seat," Mr. Williams said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. That was when Robert noticed his white shirt and tie—perfect; Mr. Williams's body was built for long-sleeved shirts.
Robert sat down, his back straight and his hands folded in his lap. Williams leaned back in his own chair, his eyes fixed on Robert. The silence was palpable, as if the air itself was being sucked out of the room. Finally, Mr. Williams spoke with a stern and serious voice. "Robert, I understand that you had an altercation with a fellow student three minutes ago."
"He was the first to attack me, sir," Robert said and swallowed.
Mr. Williams fixed Robert with a stern stare, his gaze unwavering as the seconds ticked by. After ten long seconds, he finally spoke. "Go to Miss Greene's office, get me a red pen from her..."
Robert pointed at the teacher's shirt pocket. "But you've got one already, sir," he said.
Williams ignored Robert's words completely. "Your belt stays here while you go the pen."
Robert's brow sank in resignation. Classic tactic—one teachers often used to make sure a student followed through on instructions. Leave something important behind, something you couldn't just walk away from, and you'd have no choice but to come back for it—though only after doing exactly what you were told.
With a shrug that seemed to say, "I don't see the point—it's just to fetch a pen, not like I'm going to make a run for it," Robert rose to his feet and unfastened his belt, then placed it on the broad desk.
"Now go."
As soon as Robert walked out the door, Williams reached for the belt and slipped a tiny, pea-sized black object from his pocket. He fiddled with the belt for a moment, then placed the object in a discreet location and placed the belt back where it had been. His hands worked quickly and precisely, as if he had done this many times before. Then, he sat back and waited, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Now I'll get to hear him talk with the Ancestor soul," Williams muttered. He then reached for his briefcase on the floor beside him and withdrew from it a fist-sized green glowing orb, his eyes gleaming with anticipation. "Then, I'll proceed to Phase Two... extraction."
He gently placed the orb inside a drawer beneath his desk. He left the drawer ajar. "Well first, let's confirm if he really harbors an ancestor-soul." He settled back to his seat with calculated calm.
Meanwhile, Robert was already making his way back toward the office, the red pen he'd borrowed clutched loosely in one hand, the other anchoring his trousers to his waist. He moved at a steady pace, passing several rows of offices doors along that corridor, his mind adrift until something caught his eye: the familiar line of potted plants just outside Mr. Williams's office.
They sat in a neat row of identical orange plastic pots, and to Robert, there was nothing remotely ordinary about them.
At first glance, the plants' general form resembled an extension of tentacles—like those of an octopus, though without suckers. But the longer Robert stared at it, the more unnatural they appeared. Their tentacles—or tendrils? stems? branches? vines? Robert had no idea—had a pale grey-green hue with a faint blue undertone, curled upwards in a way that did not quite fit Robert's memory. Weren't they straight just minutes ago when he'd left the office?
Then Robert saw it.
A flicker—tiny spots of brightness and darkness scattered across the surface of each tendrils, spots that... wasn't quite there. If he tried to look directly, the spots vanished. Only from the corner of his eyes could he catch it, like a trick of the light... or of something else.
Robert felt a shiver passed through him—not of fear, but of discomfort. He wondered briefly, and involuntarily, what the strange tendrils would taste like, and instantly recoiled from the thought.
The other students had told exaggerated tales of Williams's plants moving when no one was watching—that they swayed and danced at night. Silly tales, he'd always thought. But as he passed by the plants now, he felt something from them. Nothing particularly alarming, just a cold, calm sensation. For a moment, an awareness of being observed flooded his mind. He shook it off quickly, as he recalled what had happened back at the classroom.
"Poison, did you see that guy's eyes? The new guy? They froze! I mean, literally froze! I told you there was something odd about him. When I asked if he's okay, he just said 'at last' with that crazy voice and walked off...without a thank you!" Robert jibbered between clenched teeth.
Poison's tone was noticably weary. "Listen, kid, you need to be careful. My father, he had a uhh... personal servant, yes, a personal servant who also caught the curse," Poison said, sounding a little frightened. "Back then, he caused my brother and me all kinds of trouble. We despised him, and I think he became an ancestor-soul when he died. And uhh... I might have done something that really pissed him off then. He was a real ice freak, you don't wanna mess with him."
"Let me guess, another one of your ridiculous lies?" Robert asked, wearing a jaded expressions.
"In a way, yes. But..." Poison started to explain, but his words were cut short by a sudden, pained outburst from Robert.
"Argh!" Robert groaned, staggering into the office, his hands clutched tightly at his temples as a wave of crushing dizziness seized him. The sensation was unimaginably intense and horrible, like the world, both inside and out, had begun to spin in multiple directions at once while he remained trapped at the center.
But it wasn't just dizziness.
There was another layer to the sensation. A strange pressure rising from deep within him, as though his very consciousness was being yanked downwards, tethered by some invisible force. It felt like nausea, but not quite. It was heavier, deeper... like an overwhelming, irrational urge to vomit not the content of his stomach, but his very mind — as if his very head were trying to expel itself.
Behind the desk, Mr. Williams watched Robert for two seconds and then calmly slid the drawer where the green orb sat shut, before putting on a mask of concern.
"Manwell, are you alright?" he asked.
The moment the drawer was closed, the heavy, overwhelming sensation weighing on Robert vanished — not gradually, but in an instant. The shift was so sudden, it felt like being yanked from an airless void and into a windstorm in the blink of an eye. The relief was near overwhelming—it hit him like a wave; sharp, disorienting, and almost intoxicating. For some seconds, Robert stood there, slightly dazed his mind reeling from what just happened to him... and Mr. William's question.
"No sir, I just, uhh... felt a little dizzy, here's your pen," Robert managed to say, handing the object to Williams.
"Appreciated," Mr Williams said, receiving the pen. "You can go now, and don't forget your belt."
Robert snatched his belt from the table and left the office hastily.
Left alone, Williams leaned back in his chair, watching the door with quiet satisfaction. A slow smile crept across his face. With a swift, almost maniacal motion, he reached under an exercise book on his paper-strewn desk and pulled out that old, yellowed piece of paper. His eyes scanned the paper with glee. "The parchment... it was correct. That boy carries an ancestor-soul!" He giggled. "Now all that's left is to identify and acquire."
— — — — —
Robert descended the staircase leading to his classroom, his mind whirling with confusion and curiosity. The lingering sensation of dizziness weighed heavily on him, prompting a cascade of unanswered questions to spill from his lips in a flurry of words. "Poison," he murmured, "why did I feel dizzy all of a sudden? Was that to your doing? What did you do?"
"That wasn't me, and I'll be honest with you, kid, I've felt that before," Poison said, as if he had been waiting to answer. "The only thing I can think of that's capable of creating that particular sensation and making you dizzy while I'm in your body is the orb that sat atop my father's staff. Or perhaps you've got a fever or something, but that's not possible 'cus I'm in you and I granted you rapid regeneration abilities and all, so, I'll go with the former."
Robert's eyelids lowered slightly. "Please, don't lie to me on this one," he muttered.
"I'm going lie, but just a little," Poison said. "I'm charming like that. You'll manage."
Robert rolled his eyes with a soft, half-amused sigh.
"Staffs like that are called Soul Sceptres," Poison clarified. "Extremely rare and powerful—relics, really. They're primarily used as shield against magic that usually target the workings of the body and the soul — shadow, blood, necromancy, that sort of thing. My father owned one. Kept it really close. I once toyed with it when I was younger, unaware of what I was holding. But I soon learned it could extract souls — literally pull the life-force from a person's body. The result? That sensation we just felt but amplified a thousand fold, then comes total collapse of every organ in your body, and finally... death. If used on you, you'd survive, but I risk being torn from you, and that couldn't happen without disastrous consequences. That Sceptre is still out there, and I believe, in that man's possession one way or another. We'd have to be cautious when dealing with him, but for now, our priority lies with Oliver."
Robert looked puzzled and excited at the same time as he digested the information. "Magic?" He asked incredulously. "Like wizards? Are you magical? I mean, can you cast spells or something?"
Poison offered no answer.
As Robert reached the landing that branched into his classroom's hallway, his eyes caught Dora approaching. He instinctively straightened, a subtle smile blooming across his face. She returned it with a warm, flirtatious grin, and as she drew close, a delicate fragrance trailed with her, wrapping itself around Robert's senses.
"Williams punish you?" she asked, grabbing his hand affectionately.
"Nah, how's Jackson?"
"He's ranting in class. He said he was so close to knocking you out before Williams interrupted."
They both shared a laugh.
"You know, Robert, I didn't think you had it in you," Dora said, eyeing him with open admiration. "I mean... the way you tanked Jackson's blow and hurled Frank away was incredible! What's your secret? I wanna be able to hurl jerks away too!"
Robert looked into her eyes with a soft, affectionate smile. But how could he explain to her that he was possessed by a magical spirit that granted him unusual abilities... and also loved telling make-believe stories? He instead, playfully deflected her question with a gentle laugh.
"Sometimes I wonder if you do realize strong perfumes are against school rules." he said with a teasing grin, stepping a little closer as the scent of her sweet fragrance grew more pronounced. His eyes lingered on the vibrant waves of her red hair, clearly captivated.
She rolled her eyes with a playful scoff. "Ugh, please. As if that matters. Most of the teachers end up asking me what brand I'm wearing instead of writing me up," she quipped with a smirk. Then, tugging gently at his hand in a more affectionate gesture, she added, "Come on, it's canteen time. You ditched our last ice cream 'date,' remember?"
"Uhh, technically, it's not ditching if I had to run off and throw up," Robert replied. "Not everyone has a stomach as ironclad as yours, ice cream junkie..."
They shared a laugh and, together, descended the stairs, their conversation continuing in soft tones—centered on nothing but Dora's unwavering love for ice cream, and how Robert, try as he might, couldn't quite keep up. Their paces were unhurried—just two close friends drifting off during break, simply enjoying the simplicity of each other's company.