The next morning, Adam woke up looking worse for wear.
He had barely slept last night—a rare bout of insomnia.
His blood was surging wildly, making it impossible to think clearly. It felt like a hyperactive husky had taken up residence in his body and was now tearing the place apart.
It was, in essence, puberty—a sign that his bloodline was nearing maturity.
Once he got through this phase, he would gain complete control over it.
"I need to be careful," Adam muttered. "My mind's all over the place. I might slip up and leave behind a trail. I should come up with some excuses—buy myself some alone time over the next few days."
Agitated, he left the house quickly and headed toward the church. He wasn't sure if he could hide his condition from Alva. The man's senses were too sharp—he'd probably see right through him.
"So I'll need to plant the right clues," Adam thought. "Not by explaining, but by acting—let them figure it out themselves."
Because if he explained it outright, people would just think he was lying. But if he showed it—subtle signs of distress and imbalance—it would feel real.
And believable.
"An illness or minor injury could give me a few days off, enough time to ride this out."
He had already started brainstorming on the way.
Adel's recent injury had inspired him, but he quickly dismissed the idea.
He and Adel were different.
Adam had built strong relationships with a number of clerics. If he showed up with even a scratch, there was a good chance some passing cleric would toss a healing spell his way.
As a human, Adam could accept divine healing. But it would come with excruciating pain—like consuming holy bread. It wouldn't hurt him physically, but it would feel awful.
Pain aside, if he healed too fast, the whole injury excuse would fall apart.
And given how well-liked he was, the chances of that happening were high.
"So being too well-connected can backfire too, huh?" Adam frowned.
What had seemed like the perfect plan was now off the table—and he didn't have anything better.
"I need to cover up my bloodline symptoms and also secure more personal time and space."
"One step at a time."
He spotted a muddy puddle at his feet. Then he heard a carriage speeding up behind him.
He didn't move.
The splash hit him head-on, coating him in cold, filthy water.
Adam had seen a scene like this before—back when he was selling pickled flatbread on the streets. A carriage had hit a man who couldn't dodge in time. The driver had sneered and barked out, "Get lost, mud-blood trash."
"Something bad happens, your mood crashes, you spiral—makes perfect sense."
He stared down at the mud soaking his clothes, letting the bitterness settle in.
He was still just Adam the commoner.
No matter how hard he tried—apprenticed to a painter or not—people still saw him as a "mud-blood." It fed his insecurities and cast doubt over his future.
He let these emotions build, threading them into the narrative he'd prepared.
By the time he arrived at the church—still soaked and barely smiling—his inner turmoil was all too visible.
Everyone who knew Adam could tell right away:
Something was wrong.
They watched as he forced himself to work.
But his distracted mind betrayed him, and he botched a materials mix. Alva scowled and had him redo the whole batch.
The others, witnessing the mistake, began to feel sorry for Adam.
Everyone knew he was smart and hardworking.
Alva, too, could sense the shift in how the other clerics were looking at him—some with concern, some with disapproval.
But that only made Alva's gaze toward Adam more conflicted.
"That kid's affinity is terrifying. If he'd been born into a better family, he probably could've built an empire by now."
Alva had seen many people in his lifetime.
He knew some folks were just different—born with traits that made others trust them, admire them, even love them.
People like that were called geniuses.
Put them in the right environment, and they could do in months what others couldn't in a lifetime.
Adam was one of those people.
But Alva had seen something else in him, too—something sharper.
Ambition.
From the very beginning, Alva had known that Adam's goals went far beyond becoming a painter.
He didn't like that type of person. If not for Flah's personal request—and the pleading of his old friend Shaya—Alva wouldn't have agreed to teach him so quickly.
Adam frowned as he started mixing the materials again.
His bloodline's agitation was seriously interfering—he was making mistakes he would never make otherwise.
Then, suddenly, he noticed Alva's expression shift.
He glanced around and caught a few clerics giving him sympathetic looks—and others casting unfriendly glares at Alva.
"Has my affinity increased?"
"Or maybe... showing vulnerability makes people more protective of me?"
"Could my awakening ability be something like charm?"
The thought froze him.
His hand trembled, pouring too much pigment. The mixture turned darker than it should have.
"Go home."
Alva shoved him aside and took over. Without even looking at Adam, he said,
"Your mind's a mess."
"If you stay, you'll wreck my entire workshop. Come back when you've calmed down. I'll make it simple—next time you screw up like this, don't bother coming back."
It was the most Alva had ever said to him.
"Master, I…"
Adam tried to speak, but Alva ignored him.
And this time, Adam's frustration was real.
These screw-ups weren't part of the plan. They were actual failures.
He'd accidentally created better results than expected—but it still felt like a loss.
Because if you can succeed beyond your expectations, then you can also fail in ways you never anticipated.
Losing control of his actions meant giving his fate over to chance.
And that was something Adam absolutely despised.
If he couldn't even control himself, how could he control his future?
He walked out of the church, head down.
Most of the clerics passed him with quiet concern—but didn't say anything.
Just as Alva had suggested:
Let him cool off on his own.
"I have to get this bloodline situation under control."
Adam clenched his fists. "At the very least, I need to understand its true nature."
"I know too little. If bloodlines act up during maturation, could they flare again under other conditions?"
"Two accidents today... both turned out fine. But what if next time, it all goes to hell?"
Adam didn't reject the power of his bloodline.
That would just be another form of denial.
Nor would he ignore the problems it was causing, assuming they'd vanish after full awakening.
That kind of wishful thinking would only lead to ruin.
When he got home, he explained his situation to Aris and Maggie.
They comforted him, and even little Lina cheered him on with a heartfelt "You've got this!"
Reassured, Adam returned to the attic and shut his eyes—beginning the struggle to suppress the storm in his blood.
Tonight, he still had to meet with the other hybrids. He couldn't afford to mess it up.
He didn't even know how many of them Adel had managed to gather.
While Adam repeatedly went over the possible scenarios in his head—rehearsing responses, preparing for anything—Adel was limping off on his own mission.
His task:
Track down a "friend" as instructed by Mr. Riggs.
Eventually, he arrived at a modest home and knocked on the door.
The man who opened it was a burly guy with shoulder-length, wavy brown hair.