Math class had barely started when Arga realized the real problem wasn't written on the board.
It was inside him.
The warmth from lunch was still there.
But it had changed.
It no longer sat quietly in his stomach. It moved through him in thin, restless currents—sharper now, faster, almost aware.
Something had awakened inside him.
And it was learning how to use his body.
Arga tightened his grip on his pencil.
Crack.
The pencil split cleanly in half.
He froze.
The broken pieces slipped from his fingers and rolled across the desk.
For a second, he simply stared.
Pencils weren't supposed to break like that.
Not in his hand.
Not by accident.
A knot formed in his stomach.
This wasn't normal.
"Arga."
His head snapped up.
Ms. Rini stood at the front of the room, chalk in one hand, impatience in her eyes.
"Come solve number three."
A few students turned in their seats.
Whispers spread through the classroom.
Arga almost laughed.
He was never the first student a teacher called.
Never the smartest.
Never the fastest.
Never the one anyone expected anything from.
He stood.
Then nearly lost his balance.
His body felt too light.
As if the floor had less hold on him than it should.
He walked carefully toward the board.
Each step felt effortless.
Wrongly effortless.
The equation stretched across the chalkboard.
Long division.
Usually, numbers like that tangled themselves into knots the moment he looked at them.
Today, they opened.
Patterns separated.
Connections appeared.
The answer revealed itself piece by piece before he even touched the chalk.
Arga's breath caught.
He picked up the chalk.
And began to write.
His hand moved quickly.
Smoothly.
No hesitation.
No second guesses.
No need to check his work.
It didn't feel like solving a problem.
It felt like remembering something he had somehow forgotten.
A few students stopped whispering.
Others leaned forward.
Arga finished the last line and stepped back.
Silence spread through the room.
Even Ms. Rini blinked.
"That was..."
She looked at the board.
"...fast."
She checked each line carefully.
The class waited.
Then she looked back at Arga.
"Correct."
The room immediately exploded into whispers.
"No way."
"That's Arga?"
"He usually takes forever."
Bimo stared at him like he had grown another head.
Arga barely heard any of it.
Because something inside his chest pulsed.
Once.
Then again.
Satisfied.
He slowly returned to his seat.
Bimo leaned across the desk the moment he sat down.
"Since when are you secretly a genius?"
"I'm not."
Sinta leaned forward from the row behind them.
"Maybe hunger upgraded his brain."
"Then I should be a scientist by now," Bimo replied.
A few students laughed.
Normally, Arga would have smiled.
Normally.
Today, he only looked at his hand.
It appeared normal.
But it didn't feel normal.
The warmth inside him was still spreading.
Moving beneath his skin.
Through his fingers.
Through his arms.
Like something alive had entered his blood.
He made a fist.
Only a little.
Krak.
His eyes dropped to the desk.
The wooden edge had splintered beneath his grip.
Not shattered.
But cracked enough to leave a mark.
His pulse jumped.
This was real.
Not imagination.
Not adrenaline.
Not luck.
Real.
"Arga?"
Bimo's voice sounded strangely clear.
Too clear.
Too close.
Arga looked up.
The world sharpened all at once.
The scrape of chalk against the board pierced his ears.
A whisper from the back row sounded like it came from beside him.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Someone coughing in another classroom.
Pages turning.
Breathing.
Heartbeats.
Everything was louder.
Nearer.
Too much.
He grabbed both sides of his chair.
His breathing became shallow.
The sounds kept coming.
Layer after layer.
Faster.
Closer.
Overwhelming.
"Hey—what's wrong with you?" Bimo asked.
Arga couldn't answer.
Beneath the flood of sound, he felt something else.
Something deeper.
Something inside him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hungry.
Not the hunger of an empty stomach.
Not the hunger of a poor kid who skipped breakfast.
Something colder than that.
Older than that.
It didn't beg.
It expected.
Slowly, without meaning to, Arga turned toward his bag.
Toward the lunch box hidden inside.
Through the thin fabric, a faint golden light pulsed back at him.
Calling.
His throat tightened.
He looked away immediately.
No one else seemed to notice.
No one else could feel it.
But Arga knew one thing with terrifying certainty.
The food hadn't given him power.
It had started something.
And whatever was growing inside him—
wasn't finished.
The classroom door slammed open.
A student stood there.
Pale.
Shaking.
Eyes wide with panic.
"Teacher—someone collapsed in the cafeteria!"
Every chair scraped backward at once.
The room erupted.
Students jumped to their feet.
Questions filled the air.
But Arga was already standing.
Because deep inside his chest, the thing awakened by the lunch box pulsed again.
Once.
Twice.
Faster.
This time—
it wasn't reacting to the collapse.
It was anticipating it.