The morning sunlight filtered through tall glass windows of the campus library, casting long golden stripes across the polished wooden tables. Students clustered in quiet groups, half-studying, half-chatting. The low murmur of conversation mixed with the occasional scrape of chairs.
He sat at his usual spot near the far corner, a strategic position: not isolated enough to appear suspicious, not central enough to draw unnecessary attention. His notebook lay open, filled with equations and cryptic annotations. To anyone glancing over, it looked like the messy work of a struggling student. Only he knew the neat symphony hidden in those pages — layered codes, formulas decades ahead of Earth's current understanding.
But appearances mattered. He had built his disguise carefully. Mediocre, unremarkable, harmless.
The perfect camouflage.
"Hey, loser."
The voice broke the library's quiet hum. A few heads turned as a tall, broad-shouldered figure loomed over his table.
Derek Hughes. Quarterback of the college football team, textbook bully, self-proclaimed king of campus. His reputation stretched further than his actual abilities, but reputation was often enough.
Derek smirked, flanked by two equally smug teammates. "Didn't see you at the party last night. Oh wait—" he feigned a dramatic pause, "—you don't get invited, do you?"
His friends chuckled like hyenas, drawing more attention from nearby students. The MC didn't look up immediately, his pen still scratching calmly across the page.
When he did raise his eyes, his expression was flat. Cold.
"No," he said quietly. "I wasn't invited."
Derek grinned wider, mistaking indifference for weakness. "Figures. You don't really belong anywhere, do you? Just hiding back here like some rat. You even take notes wrong—look at this mess."
He reached forward, snatching the notebook. Pages fluttered as he flipped through them, brow furrowed at the strange symbols.
"What the hell is this? Looks like gibberish." He laughed, tossing it to one of his lackeys. "Maybe he's writing love poems to himself."
The library rippled with stifled laughter. Students tried not to stare but couldn't help it.
For a moment, silence hung in the air.
Then the MC stood. Slowly. Deliberately.
He adjusted his jacket, his expression unchanged, eyes cool and steady.
"You're right," he said softly. "I don't belong."
The words made Derek pause, confused.
"Because I don't belong in the same category as you."
A faint ripple of whispers spread through the tables. Derek's grin faltered, pride stung.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded.
The MC's gaze was piercing now, voice cutting through the air like a blade.
"It means," he said evenly, "that comparing me to you is like comparing a surgeon's scalpel to a caveman's club. Both are tools, but only one is precise. Useful. Evolved."
Gasps broke out. Derek's face flushed red as his friends shifted uncomfortably.
"You think you're better than me?" Derek growled, stepping closer.
The MC tilted his head, eyes glinting. "I don't think. I know."
His hand slipped casually into his pocket, brushing the surface of the Celestial Inventory. In an instant, a small object materialized in his palm — a sleek, black gadget no bigger than a deck of cards.
He placed it gently on the table.
Students leaned forward, curious. Derek frowned. "What the hell is that supposed to be?"
The MC pressed a button.
The gadget whirred to life, projecting a three-dimensional hologram into the air above the table. A rotating sphere of blue light appeared, its surface shimmering with complex data points, orbiting lines, and cascading streams of equations. The air hummed faintly with energy.
Gasps erupted. Someone whispered, "What the hell… is that a real hologram?"
The MC's voice was calm, measured.
"This is a visualization of gravitational lensing models. Current technology on this planet won't be able to replicate it for another forty years."
Derek's mouth opened, closed, then opened again. His teammates exchanged nervous glances.
The MC continued, tone clinical.
"While you waste your brain cells memorizing football plays, I design frameworks that rewrite physics. While you spend nights drowning in cheap beer, I hold the future in my hands." He gestured slightly at the glowing projection. "And you think I don't belong?"
The library was silent now, every eye fixed on him.
He leaned closer, voice dropping into a cold whisper audible only to Derek and his friends.
"I could make you vanish from this campus in less than a week. No one would question it. No one would miss you. And I wouldn't even need to touch you."
Derek froze, the bravado draining from his face.
The MC straightened, pocketing the device. The hologram winked out, leaving only stunned silence.
He retrieved his notebook calmly from Derek's frozen hands, brushing invisible dust from the cover.
"Now," he said, voice returning to its quiet steadiness, "unless you want to be remembered as the fool who picked a fight with something far beyond him, you'll walk away."
For a long moment, Derek didn't move. His fists clenched, jaw tightening. But under the weight of that cold, merciless gaze, he faltered.
He turned abruptly, muttering something under his breath, and stalked off. His friends scrambled after him, faces pale.
The whispers erupted instantly, buzzing across the library like wildfire. Students exchanged wide-eyed glances, phones already out, texting furiously.
He sat back down, flipping open his notebook as though nothing had happened. His pen resumed its deliberate scratches across the page.
Inside, his thoughts were as sharp as ever.
Another pawn neutralized. Fear is as useful as loyalty. Sometimes more so.
He didn't need to fight with fists. He didn't need to shout. All it took was precision — a scalpel to a club.
And he was very, very good with scalpels.
That night, his dorm room was silent except for the hum of his desk lamp. He wrote in his logbook, the neat strokes of his pen cutting across the paper.
Experiment Log – Phase Three:
Target C (Derek Hughes): Ego dismantled in public. Reputation destabilized. Influence decreased.
Outcome: Social standing increased indirectly. Fear established.
Conclusion: A single demonstration, carefully calculated, outweighs months of brute conflict.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
The Celestial Inventory held infinite power. But power was only effective in the hands of someone who knew when to use it, and when to hold back.
He smiled faintly, though there was no warmth in it.
Chaos will come. But it will be my chaos. On my terms. Always.