The past days' frantic trials—the bear, murder, the escape, the internal reckoning, and the terrifying Void Delve—left Gio with an energy surge but a deep, physical emptiness. It was past 23:00, and his stomach demanded immediate attention. The adrenaline had worn off, and the reality of starvation set in.
He scrounged through Wyatt's sparse room. Wyatt wasn't a planner. Gio found just enough stale, but edible rations to last him until morning. His new, immediate goal was clear: locate the cafeteria or chow hall or whatever they call it here by following a random student.
Before that however, he had to address the new reality. He spent an hour in painstaking examination and note-taking, determining the density and behavior of the internal Void Taint. He needed a clear baseline so he could track his progress—and his regression.
His short-term strategy was firm:
Meditation: Achieve a baseline capability in proper meditation, focusing primarily on Mana cleansing and expelling impurities.
Basic casting whether it be CCR or whatever I need to be able to do something for the exam.
Rote Memorization: Save the rote memorization for last. He was confident Wyatt's perfect affinity and residual memories would make this the fastest task.
With the plan set, Gio went to work. The night was a blur of constant internal struggle. He did not achieve the smooth, effortless flow of an experienced mage, but the "purposeful spasm" he had discovered grew more reliable. He focused intensely on using his new senses to filter the impurities and remove them from his man's accumulation practice, feeling the slow, grinding work of purification.
The breakthrough arrived just before sunrise. If not for the residual instincts and memory structures of Wyatt's mind, Gio knew the task would have taken a week, perhaps longer. Instead, by dawn, he was confident he could be called capable of proper meditation. He was stable, at least for the moment.
Locating the Chowhall or whatever it is here.
Gio grabbed a few of Wyatt's fundamental theory books to read during breakfast—an easy way to blend in. Heading out the door, he spotted a couple of early risers heading West, away from the residential wing. He followed them, keeping a discreet distance of about a building's length, hoping they were moving toward food.
His gamble paid off. The students led him directly to a large, imposing structure—the academy's cafeteria. The facility was quiet and inviting, a welcome contrast to the cold austerity of the dorms. It was temperature regulated, well lit, and smelled delicious.
Gio followed the early risers deeper into the cafeteria. Copying their actions, he approached a large, vending machine-like object set into the wall. He scanned his bracelet—the same one that unlocked his door—against the reader, and a projection displayed the menu and prices.
The food was outrageously priced, confirming the ruthless economic reality of the academy. A small loaf of bread was 5 credits; a steak was 50; and some magical version of seafood was 150. He instantly cross-referenced the price with Wyatt's spending records: one of the notebooks detailed that Wyatt used to buy a whole loaf of bread for 2.5 credits outside the academy. This thing wanted 5 credits for just two slices! It better be made of some magically enriched wheat!
Gio skipped the exorbitant bread and went for a whole roast chicken, sensibly priced at 12 credits. It was the most value for the lowest cost, a logistical win. The device accepted the transaction and ejected a small, printed ticket for the roast chicken.
Unsure what to do with the slip of paper, he retreated, following the small gaggle of students who had also retrieved tickets. They settled down at a random table, and Gio found his own seat just within earshot, discreetly observing the scene.
Not long after, he noticed the peculiar delivery method. A couple of plates, shimmering faintly with a magical blue outline, were floating silently through the air near the ceiling. They then began to descend toward the table where the students had placed their tickets. The ticket, Gio realized too late, was a magical beacon for the food.
He quickly fumbled for his ticket, which was still crumpled deep in his pocket. But he was too slow.
The plate descended to his lap just as he managed to grasp the ticket. The collision sent the ticket flying and the ceramic plate clattering to the cold floor. Gio instinctively grabbed the food before it could spill, grasping a whole, hot roast chicken with both hands.
The sound of the plate hitting the floor—followed by the sight of the pale, exhausted student juggling a greasy, whole chicken—was too much for the other students. All red ties (not his class, confirming they were older students), they erupted in uproarious laughter.
Deciding staying here to salvage the situation was a waste of time and dignity, Gio hopped up, still awkwardly juggling the hot chicken. He quickly began heading back toward the dorms, his escape accompanied by the loud, mocking cheers of the students.
He had food, though so the rest was just background noise.
Gio, juggling the hot, whole roast chicken, headed across the Eastern lawn toward the sanctuary of his dorm room. The laughter of the red-tie students was a dull roar behind him, but he was focused solely on the uneven terrain and his destination.
Just as he reached the halfway point, his enhanced senses registered a small group approaching from the West. They were clearly heading toward the cafeteria, and at their head was Rikkia Stone-Pelt. She was flanked by two other students he vaguely recognized from Wyatt's class memories—a stocky, serious-looking boy, and a girl with an exasperated expression.
Rikkia spotted him instantly. Her golden eyes narrowed, immediately fixing on the ridiculous sight: the exhausted, pale figure of Wyatt, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, awkwardly clutching a whole roasted bird with both hands.
This was her chance. She wanted to get a look at his eyes again—to confirm the memory of that terrifying pressure—or perhaps question him directly about leaving the tower two days ago, reeking of blood and chaotic mana.
Rikkia began to quicken her pace.
Gio saw the group, noted Rikkia's intent gaze, and calculated the social threat: Engagement is catastrophic.
He didn't speed up or flinch. Instead, in the middle of the lawn, the chicken momentarily held high. Without looking at Rikkia, Gio executed a flawless, precise military right face with a sharpness that startled the chickens' greasy carcass. His movement was not natural; it was the product of severe, internalized discipline.
He immediately began marching sharply back toward the North Wing—the direction opposite his room and away from the confrontation.
Rikkia stopped mid-stride, her Beastkin instincts screaming with confusion. "Wyatt!" she called out, a note of challenge in her voice.
Gio ignored her completely. He was running now, maintaining steady foot falls high.
Rikkia's friends glanced at each other, perplexed. The stocky boy frowned. "Why is Wyatt hauling food away from the cafeteria? And why did he just salute the grass?"
Rikkia didn't bother to answer the questions. The feeling of wrongness she'd felt earlier, the inexplicable sense of extreme danger emanating from the pathetic student, was now compounded by this, this…. Whatever this is
"Wait here," she commanded, not explaining anything. The moment Gio had evaded her, Rikkia was forced to abandon her companions and begin a pursuit of the most evasive, secretive, and ridiculously food-laden student in the academy.
Gio, now safely across the lawn and moving into the residential hallway, knew he'd bought a few precious seconds. He still had the chicken, and Rikkia was now invested in his mystery.
Gio was halfway down the residential hall when the humor of the situation—the precise military maneuver executed to evade a girl, all while carrying a greasy whole roast chicken—finally hit him. He laughed. It wasn't the weak, nervous sound of Wyatt, but a raw, booming laugh of pure, absurd relief. It was a release of the tension of the last 24 hours.
"It's my chicken, Rikkia!" he yelled back, speaking for any onlookers and not her to hear. "I got it fair and square!"
He made it to the Eastern Wing stairs and scrambled up the four flights. His lungs burned, but the adrenaline of the chase propelled him. He reached Room 412, fumbling with the brass doorknob to engage the bracelet lock. The mechanism clicked, and he burst inside, slamming the heavy door shut behind him.
Leaning against the door, he chuckled to himself. He could only imagine the complete turmoil and confusion Rikkia's friends must be feeling, trying to process the logic of a student who runs from a conversation with a military right-face, then yells proprietary claims over poultry.
He finally settled the hot chicken on a piece of clean parchment pulled from the desk pile. He didn't bother looking for cutlery. His hands were already greasy from the transfer, and his body screamed for calories. He dug in with both hands, tearing off a piece of the crispy skin. The meat was delicious, providing a much-needed surge of real energy that instantly cut through his exhaustion.
He was halfway through the meal when a furious, persistent banging rattled the door.
"Wyatt! Open this door!" It was Rikkia Stone-Pelt, her voice sharp with annoyance and demand.
Gio froze, a piece of chicken held mid-air. His mind, already strained, was struck by a far more pressing logistical failure than the lack of silverware.
I hardly know where I live! Gio thought, his surprise turning to genuine confusion. I'm surprised Sarya knows where I live! Why does Rikkia know too!
He shoved the thought away, reverting to the only defense he had left.
"Go away!" he shouted, projecting his exasperation. "It's my chicken! I'm not sharing!!!"
He ignored the continued pounding, the absurdity of the situation now the only thing keeping the terror of the void at bay. He had survived the morning and even gained a committed pursuer. He needed to eat, then hide the evidence of his corruption, and then, he absolutely had to read Wyatt's notes on Rikkia Stone-Pelt. All teen boys have that kinda thing.