Season 1 chapter 10
The Calculus of the Ghosts
The iron gates of Seistain High groaned as Malesh and Kniya stepped through. They were nineteen now, no longer the bruised kids from the park, but young men wearing expensive, tailored coats that fit their frames perfectly.
"First day of college," Kniya muttered, staring at the towering stone architecture with pure irritation. "Eight years of school bullshit just to end up in a different set of hallways. And you know the best part, Malesh? The General got sacked last month. New administration, new rules. My stipend is gone. The 'Charity' tap has officially run dry."
Malesh adjusted his collar, his eyes scanning the courtyard for threats with a clinical precision he'd honed during his night shifts at the docks. "I told you that gravy train would derail eventually, bro. You can't blackmail a ghost. But don't act like you're heading for the slums. We've been smart."
The Private Ledger of 5B
They found a secluded stone bench near the engineering wing, away from the prying eyes of the other freshmen. Malesh pulled out a worn notebook—the same one he'd used to calculate the tension for the Stone Gun years ago.
"Let's look at the reality, because your math is as lazy as your patience," Malesh said, clicking a pen. "For the last seven years, since we were in the 6th grade, we've been ghosts. We didn't fight, we didn't curse in class, and we didn't spend a single credit on nonsense."
He began scratching the numbers into the page:
Kniya's Contribution: 80,000 credits/month (Stipend). You lived at home, eating your parents' food.
Malesh's Contribution: 80,000 credits/month (Stipend).
Total Monthly Savings:160,000 DI'an credits.
"I spent my entire 90,000 salary from Durkan on my life," Malesh muttered, his voice low. "30,000 for that shithole Room 5B. The remaining 60,000 went to food, taxes, bribe-fees for the landlord, and keeping my 'invisible' status. I didn't save a cent of my salary, but our shared account? That's the real weapon."
The 7-Year Ghost Fund:
Monthly Savings: 160,000 Credits (80k from Malesh + 80k from Kniya)
Annual Savings: 160,000 x 12 months = 1,920,000 Credits
7-Year Total: 1,920,000 x 7 years = 13,440,000 Credits
Less Expenses: - 1,000,000 Credits (Stone Gun materials, R37 mods, forest setups)
FINAL BALANCE: 12,440,000 DI'an Credits
"Twelve million, four hundred and forty thousand credits," Malesh finished, tapping the notebook hard. "We're sitting on over twelve million in a private, untraceable account, and you're complaining because you lost your 80k monthly allowance? Fuck you, Kniya. We have enough to fund a small revolution."
Kniya stared at the number, a slow, predatory grin returning to his face. "Twelve million... Yeah, okay. I guess I can survive without the allowance. But we need a new stream, Malesh. I'm not touching that twelve million for groceries. That's our 'fuck you' money."
The Dean's Interruption
Before Malesh could respond, a shadow fell over them. A stiff, stone-faced proctor stood there, holding a silver-edged envelope.
"Malesh Bulwadi? Kniya Anderson?" the man asked, his voice like cold iron.
"What do you want?" Kniya snapped, crossing his arms.
"The Dean of Seistain High requires your presence in his office immediately," the proctor stated.
Malesh and Kniya exchanged a look. Their first day. Not even two hours into their college careers.
"Are you serious?" Kniya groaned, standing up and brushing dust off his trousers. "It's the first hour of the first day. What could we have possibly done already? We've been sitting here doing math!"
"The Dean does not explain himself to freshmen," the proctor replied coldly. "Move."
Malesh closed his notebook, his eyes narrowing. "Seven years of being ghosts, and the moment we step onto this campus, the light finds us. This isn't a coincidence, Kniya."
"It better be important," Kniya hissed. "Because if he's calling us in just to give a welcome speech, I might actually show him why we were 'ruined' at eleven."
The Sum of All Fears
The Dean's office was a cavern of mahogany and velvet, smelling of old paper and expensive polish. The Dean himself—a man named Varek—sat behind a desk that looked like it cost more than Malesh's entire apartment building. He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot and frantic.
"Leave us," Varek ordered the proctor.
The proctor hesitated, looking at the two nineteen-year-olds. "Sir, are you sure? These two—"
"I said get out," Varek barked, slamming a hand on the desk.
The proctor scurried out, the heavy oak door clicking shut with a seal-like finality. The room plunged into silence. Kniya and Malesh stood in the center, not sitting, exchanging a look of pure confusion. What does this guy want?
The "SUM" Joke
Varek didn't offer them a seat. He leaned forward, clasping his hands until the knuckles turned white. "I don't have time for pleasantries. My daughter, Alina, was taken three days ago. She has been kidnapped by a terrorist organization known as SUM."
There was a pause. A beat of silence.
Then, Kniya snorted. Malesh let out a dry, sharp chuckle.
"SUM?" Kniya laughed, looking at Malesh. "What the fuck is 'SUM'? Is that a math problem? Do you want us to audit their taxes? Do you want to do some kind of addition?"
Malesh shook his head, a smirk playing on his lips. "Mr. Dean, if you called us here to help you with basic arithmetic, the math department is down the hall. We don't do 'sums' for free."
Varek's face didn't change. He looked at them with a mixture of hatred and desperation. "Suleikh Ul Muleikh," he whispered. "It stands for Suleikh Ul Muleikh. The 'Path of Kings.' You don't understand. They aren't just some separatist group from the borders. SUM—Suleikh Ul Muleikh—is an international-level terrorist organization. They operate out of hidden cells across the globe and maintain total control over several private islands in the Neutral Seas. Their goal isn't just land; they want to topple governments and replace them with a terrorist regime. They are powerful, they are global, and they are invisible to the public eye."
The Logic of War
The laughter died instantly. Kniya's face hardened. Malesh crossed his arms, his mind shifting from mockery to analysis.
"Okay," Malesh said, his voice dropping to a professional monotone. "Suleikh Ul Muleikh. Sounds dangerous. Sounds foreign. But here is the obvious fucking question, Dean Varek: Why are you telling us?"
Kniya stepped forward, his aggression returning. "Yeah. You're the Dean of Seistain High. You have the Republic's military on speed dial. You have the DI Intelligence Agency. Why don't you call the guys with the tanks and the badges to go save your daughter? Why call two freshmen on their first day?"
"Because," Varek said, standing up and walking to a safe embedded in the wall. "The military is a blunt instrument. And the DI Agency is drowning in red tape."
The Ghost File
Varek pulled out a thin, dusty file folder. It wasn't a student record. It was marked with the seal of the General's Office—the old General, the one Kniya had blackmailed.
"I inherited some very interesting reading material from the previous administration," Varek said, tossing the file onto the desk. It slid across the mahogany and stopped right in front of Malesh.
"I know who you are," Varek said, his voice dropping to a hush. "I know about the 'incident' in the woods eight years ago. I know you didn't just 'survive' a crash. I know you two—at the tender age of eleven—nearly killed a police officer and left him bleeding in the dark. I know you blackmailed a Four-Star General to control your own destiny."
Malesh and Kniya went rigid. The air in the room turned ice-cold. Their "Ghost" status had just been shattered.
"You aren't students," Varek continued, staring them down. "You are operators. You are capable of extreme violence and extreme logic, and you don't answer to the law."
"If you know all that," Kniya said, his hand twitching near his pocket, "then you know you shouldn't be threatening us."
"I'm not threatening you. I'm hiring you," Varek said, desperate. "If I go to the military, there are forms to fill out. There are committees. Bureaucratic delays. By the time they authorize a raid, SUM will have moved her. And worse... if the military gets involved, it becomes an international event. The press, the limelight, the scandal. My daughter becomes a political pawn."
Varek leaned over the desk, his eyes pleading. "I need this to be secret. I don't want the limelight. I want ghosts. I want the two bastards who outsmarted the General to go into the dark and bring her back before anyone knows she's gone."
Malesh leaned against a heavy bookshelf, his eyes scanning the leather-bound spines. "Suleikh Ul Muleikh," he repeated, testing the weight of the name. "An international syndicate with island strongholds. That's not a kidnapping, Mr. Varek. That's a war. And we are just two students who haven't even attended our first lecture."
The Five-Million Credit Contract
Kniya didn't look at the Dean. He was looking at his own hands, calloused from years of secret work. "We aren't philanthropists, Mr. Varek. We don't spend our time doing 'good deeds' because it feels right. If this organization is as lethal as you say, our involvement carries a specific price."
He looked up, his gaze sharp and unforgiving. "Five million DI'an credits. Upfront. I don't risk my life for free, especially not against an international terrorist cell."
Varek didn't even blink. "Done. I will authorize the transfer to your private account within the hour. Just save her."
The Academic Leverage
Malesh stepped forward, the gears in his head turning with the same cold efficiency he used to manage the Durkan warehouse. "The money covers the risk. But for an operation of this scale in the year 1422, we need more than credits. I have conditions."
Malesh held up his fingers, counting them off with clinical precision:
Academic Immunity: "We want a guaranteed 'Academic Breakthrough' status—perfect marks for the entire year, regardless of our attendance. We can't be sitting in history lectures while we're hunting terrorists."
Archival Access: "I want the keys to the University's Restricted Archives. I need the physical maps, the shipping ledgers, and the telegram logs from the Southern Ports. No faculty questions."
Unlimited Logistics: "This is the most important one. We are two nineteen-year-olds. If we are going to fight an army, we need rifles, transport, and equipment. Every single cent of the military expenditure—the guns, the steam-carriages, the supplies—goes on your personal tab. We don't spend a single credit of our million on the gear."