With money in my pocket, I suddenly felt like sweetening life a little. Besides, I needed to test the interface’s payment system… Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
At the first vending machine I came across, I bought four packs of crisps and two cans of cola. My pockets couldn’t hold more cans, and I had to carry the crisps in my hands. The whole lot cost me twelve units and went through without a hitch.
Of course, I wasn’t planning to feast alone—that would have been rude. Back in the room, I tossed a pack to Denis and Marlon, then called out to Bao, who was once again glued to his crystal, eyes shut.
"Bao… Bao!"
He opened his eyes and snapped, "What?!"
I tossed a pack his way and set a can of cola on the table.
"I’ve only got two pockets, so I’ve no idea how you lot are splitting that."
"What’s this?" Bao asked, as if he’d never seen crisps before.
"Oh!" Denis crunched into one. "Ohhh! This… this is the food of the gods!"
His enthusiasm was infectious—I could practically taste it already. I flopped onto my bed, tore open my pack, and took a deep breath, inhaling the divine scent of salt, pepper, numbered flavourings, and taste enhancers potent enough to dissolve a stomach lining under the right conditions. After the disaster that was the cafeteria food, I kept my expectations in check—at least until the first crunchy, unmistakably synthetic bite hit my tongue.
"Ohhh, yes!" I crunched. "The Lord has not abandoned this sinful world just yet!"
"This thing belongs in a toxic waste dump, not a human stomach," Bao muttered, reading the ingredients list.
"If you don’t like it, hand it over," Denis declared, tipping the last crumbs into his mouth.
"Here," Bao said, holding the pack out over the edge of his bunk.
Denis blinked. "Seriously?"
"Take it."
Denis hesitated before reaching for the pack. Meanwhile, a suspicion formed in my mind.
"Mate," I asked. "Be honest—have you ever actually tried crisps?"
"Of course I've had crisps!" Bao huffed. "Our chef made them all the time."
"Your chef?" I echoed.
"I am Bao! Of course we had our own chef."
"Alright," I said, standing up and holding out the pack. "Try one."
"What for?"
"I want to know just how different this crap is from what your chef made."
"Are you joking? This rubbish doesn't even come clo—"
"Do me a favour," I insisted. "One crisp won’t kill you."
Bao rolled his eyes in irritation. "Fine!"
He grabbed a crisp, grimaced, and tossed it into his mouth. I watched his face closely. He was about to chew quickly and swallow the disgusting thing—but the moment the flavour hit his taste buds, his jaw slowed, and his eyes widened in surprise.
"This... isn’t that bad," he admitted.
"Oh, it’s bad! This stuff definitely belongs in a landfill," I said. "But it’s damn tasty!"
Denis sat up and tossed his empty pack onto Bao’s bed. Then he grabbed the can of cola from the table and cracked it open for a sip.
"Marlon, shall we stock up?" he asked.
Kay nodded eagerly and jumped down from his bunk.
While they were off raiding the vending machine, Bao finally caved and started snacking, even setting aside his crystal for a while. When the others returned, a whole mountain of junk food and cola had piled up on our table, courtesy of Marlon’s bony arms.
"You lot might’ve gone a bit overboard," I remarked.
"Couldn’t help it," Denis admitted. "I haven’t had anything salty in a month, and Marlon was craving chocolate."
I missed chocolate too, but the vending machine I used didn’t have any. Long story short, the only thing that saved us from a sugar-and-salt overdose was the fact that lunch hadn’t been too long ago, so we physically couldn’t fit much more in. I made sure the guys stashed the leftovers in their lockers—out of sight, out of mind, and most importantly, out of reach.
After that, we sort of got back to our own business, which mostly meant staring at our tablets. Except Bao, of course—he was back to sucking on his crystal. Rank 37 – Score: 71/2845
Meanwhile, I had dropped another eight places, landing at Rank 95 – Score: 27/2467. Looked like the fluctuation had finally settled, and Doc was right—this was normal.
I opened my interface a few times, staring at his contact, but in the end, I couldn’t bring myself to message him.Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.
I still had questions—just how "normal" was his normal? And how did this dispersion even work? But since it had stopped…
In the end, I opened my interface and tapped on a different contact.
Outgoing message to: Diego 0015
Subject: Need advice
Content: Hey. Got a question about mentors. Can you recommend someone? Also—where can I find a decent job that doesn’t take up too much time? Points aren’t a priority right now.
I hit send and sighed. The list of available mentors for first-years was easy enough to find on the academy’s database, topped by fourth-stage cultivators. But there were thousands of them! How was I supposed to choose?
The reply came almost instantly. It contained nothing but a name.
Incoming message from: Diego 0015
Subject: Re: Need advice
Content: K. L. Wong
She wasn’t on the mentor list. I searched for "Wong" in the database—forty-three matches, but no K. L. Wong. Still, I doubted Diego was messing with me.
I sent a short message.
Outgoing message to: K. L. Wong
Subject: Mentor
Content: Hey. Diego recommended you as a mentor. Interested?
Silence. A few minutes passed, then a brief reply.
Incoming message from: K. L. Wong
Subject: Re: Mentor
Message: Which Diego?
"Thinhorn," I answered.
"Which thinhorn?!!!" she shot back.
What the hell—could she not read properly?
"Diego," I typed.
"I don’t have time for this shit. Don’t message me again."
So Diego had screwed me over…
Outgoing message to: Diego 0015
Subject: Re: Re: Need advice
Content: You could’ve just said you didn’t have time, or that it wasn’t your thing.
Suddenly, a sharp ringing filled my ears, and a notification popped up on my tablet—one I’d never seen in the interface before:
Incoming call: Diego 0015
Accept / Decline
I glanced at Denis and Bao. They were completely focused on their own stuff, oblivious to the sound. Keeping quiet, I got up and slipped into the corridor. Only then did I tap Accept.
"Is it because she’s only second-stage?" Diego’s voice came through my ears.
"She didn’t even talk to me!"
"That doesn’t sound like her. I’ll call you back."
The line went dead, leaving me to process the fact that I apparently had a phone inside my head. Way cooler than just a messenger. Honestly, I wasn’t a fan of the email-style format—they should’ve made it a proper chat.
A few minutes later, another call came through.
Incoming call: K. L. Wong
Accept / Decline
"Hello," I answered.
"Sorry, I thought you were messing with me. I haven’t even applied as a mentor."
"I did say Diego recommended you. Thinhorn Diego."
"There are about fifty thinhorn Diegos at this school," she replied. "I personally know four. Diego is a model name. If you’re talking about thinhorns, always include their numeric ID."
"Damn, I had no idea! I—"
"I know," she interrupted. "Diego told me."
We fell silent for a moment.
"So…" she prompted. "Mentorship. There are plenty of more experienced cultivators out there."
"The list is longer than the one for first-years. How am I supposed to make sense of it? Besides, keep my… special circumstances in mind. Most of the time, I don’t even know what I’m doing."
"Hmm… I need to think about it. Let’s meet by the Fist Garden in an hour. Sending you the location now. You’ve figured out the navigator, right? You don’t still have it on full-screen mode?"
"I use the minimap."
"Good. Here you go. See you in an hour—wait above the station."
A new message from Kate popped up. After unpacking it, a red arrow appeared at the edge of my minimap, pointing beyond its borders.
An hour to kill.
She was probably looking me up already. But how could I find out who Kate Wong was?
If I dug through the school’s database, I’d probably find some mentions of her. But for a quick lookup… the second-year cultivation rankings were the obvious choice.
There she was. Rank 156/1876 overall. Rank 149/624 among third-year second-period cultivators. Not exactly impressive, to be honest…
But at least her primary root was Fist—180. That was a solid score for a second-year. And then there was Lightning in second place—116. I thought we didn’t study Lightning here…
Setting aside my search on Kate, I checked the map. The location she’d sent me was way out in the middle of nowhere. Estimated travel time—thirty-seven minutes. Sixteen on foot, fourteen by metro, then another seven on foot.
Yeah, the school had its own metro. That explained which station she meant.
But no—it was just a normal metro. Tunnels, stations, platforms, trains. Just sealed and pressurised. Everything looked way cleaner and more high-tech than the ones I remembered.
Well, I didn’t actually remember it. Random images still surfaced now and then, but nothing solid. Damn memory still hadn’t coughed up my actual name. I was starting to get used to Jake. And I realised—I didn’t feel out of place in this body anymore.
I tossed my tablet back into the room and followed the navigator’s arrow through several corridors and a lift. That’s where I ran into a problem. The damn arrow didn’t tell me which button to press. It just turned into a round blue blob on the floor.
But as soon as I reached the right level, it morphed back into an arrow.
On the platform, I quickly noticed that first-years didn’t come here.
The crowd consisted mostly of third- and fourth-period cadets, along with a handful from the second period and some staff—mostly in black jumpsuits or lab coats, plus a few thinhorns.
But the ones who stood out the most were the armoured ones. They looked like a cross between Iron Man and Stormtroopers from Star Wars—only more colourful, with custom helmets and unique patterns. None of them carried firearms, but one had a massive jet-powered surfboard strapped to his back, while another rested a giant mace on his shoulder.
Unlike the metro I was familiar with, this one was silent. The only warning of an approaching train was a thick gust of air rushing through the tunnel. The doors slid open, and I stepped inside. The carriages were spacious, lined with soft seats along the walls. There was plenty of room to avoid getting in each other’s way. I took a seat near the door. The armoured guy with the mace sat next to me, lowering his weapon to the floor. His armour was mostly black with red accents, and his helmet’s faceplate was flipped back, revealing a fairly young man with European features.
"Where you headed, freshie?"
His voice boomed in my ears, even though he didn’t seem to be speaking that loudly.
"Fist Garden."
"Bit early for that," he frowned.
"I’ve got a meeting with a potential mentor."
"Ah…" He nodded, relaxing. "Just don’t do anything stupid."
I got off at my stop and took the lift to the surface.
Panoramic windows offered a view of the garden. Beyond the glass stretched a field of low-growing flowers in strange colours. There weren’t many trees, and the ones that did exist were thick-trunked, with dark leaves. The air outside had a faint haze, though I couldn’t quite tell what caused it.
The exits were blocked by airtight chambers, similar to airlocks. I watched as thinhorns in breathing masks with oxygen tanks, along with cultivators in full armour, passed through them to join the others already in the garden.
With nothing else to do, I decided to observe—and immediately spotted something interesting. One of the cultivators stood on an elevated platform. He pulled his arm back and struck the air. A silvery energy trail burst from his fist, shooting forward like a projectile, gliding several metres above the flowers before fading away.
For a split second, just before it dissipated, I could swear the trail had kept the exact shape of a fist—only larger.
A hundred questions flooded my mind at once, and my hands itched with the urge to finally learn my first technique.