The blade bit.
It didn't slice cleanly. The gray skin was tough, resistant like cured hide. Cassian had to push with his full weight, the muscle in his right shoulder burning as he forced the steel through the adaptation.
When the edge finally broke through, there was no blood at first. Just a split in the gray matter, revealing the dark red meat beneath. Then the pain hit.
It wasn't the sharp sting of a paper cut. It was a deep, throbbing violation. His nervous system, previously numb, screamed into life all at once. Cassian gasped, his knees buckling. He gripped the edge of the desk to stay upright, his knuckles white.
He didn't stop. He dragged the dagger down the forearm, opening the wound further.
*Adapt,* he thought. *Learn.*
The reaction was instantaneous. The flesh around the new cut writhed. It wasn't healing; it was restructuring. The gray hardness receded from the fingers, pulling back toward the elbow like a tide going out. The rigid lock on his tendons loosened.
Cassian dropped the dagger. It clattered on the floor. He lifted his left hand.
He commanded the fingers to open.
They moved. Slowly, stiffly, but they obeyed. The pinky uncurled. The thumb rotated.
He stared at them. They were free. But when he brushed his right hand against the left palm, he felt nothing. No texture. No temperature. No pressure. The skin was smooth, gray, and completely dead to the touch. He had traded sensation for motion.
He looked at the wound. The new scar was forming already, knitting together with a wet, sucking sound. The gray patch had grown. It now covered half his forearm, creeping toward the elbow. Verra's warning echoed in his head. *If that gray stuff moves past your elbow, you lose the whole limb.*
He had bought back the use of his hand, but he had spent another inch of his flesh to do it.
Cassian wrapped the arm in a strip of cloth from his bag. He tied it tight, hiding the gray skin. He couldn't let anyone see the rate of growth. If the academy knew his body was consuming itself, they would dissect him before he graduated.
He sat on the bed, waiting for the shock to pass. His heart rate was slowing, but his hands were shaking. Not from fear. From exhaustion. The adaptation drained him. It felt like he had run a mile in full armor.
A key turned in the lock.
Cassian stood up instantly, shoving his left hand into his pocket.
The door opened. Julian stepped in. He was a minor noble, distant cousin to the Vane line. Useful for gossip, useless for protection. He stopped in the doorway, seeing Cassian standing there.
"You're back early," Julian said. He didn't look at Cassian's eyes. He looked at the bandaged arm. "Heard about the duel."
"Who told you?"
"Everyone knows," Julian said. He walked to his own bed, keeping distance. He started unpacking his satchel, movements hurried. "They say Elian didn't even break a sweat. Until you... headbutted him."
Cassian said nothing. He watched Julian's reflection in the small mirror on the wall. The boy was nervous. His hands were trembling slightly as he removed his books.
"Is it bad?" Julian asked. He gestured vaguely at the arm.
"It's handled."
"Verra let you out?" Julian finally looked at him. There was pity in his eyes. Pity was dangerous. It meant weakness. "She usually keeps duelists overnight. Especially when Elian is involved."
"I refused treatment."
Julian paused. He held a book in his hand, forgotten. "Refused? Why?"
"Personal reasons." Cassian turned away, walking to the window. The view overlooked the training wards. Below, students were sparring. Small figures moving in the dirt. "Close the door."
Julian hesitated, then pushed the door shut. The click of the latch sounded loud in the small room.
"Cassian," Julian said, his voice dropping. "Be careful. The Duke's people are asking questions."
Cassian turned back. "What questions?"
"About your family's holdings. The borderlands." Julian swallowed. "They say if you fail out of the academy, the Vane succession gets... complicated. There are rumors that your father's health is failing."
Cassian felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. In the original novel, Duke Vane died halfway through the story. Assassinated by the Protagonist's allies to secure the northern supply line. If the timeline was accelerating, if his father was already sick, then Cassian's exile wasn't just a threat. It was a countdown.
"When?" Cassian asked.
"When what?"
"When do they decide?"
"End of the term," Julian said. "Three months. If you aren't ranked in the top fifty, the council reviews the duchy's charter."
Three months. In the book, Cassian died on day three. He had bought time, but the clock was still ticking. The academy wasn't a school; it was a filtering process. Only the useful survived.
"Thanks," Cassian said.
"Don't thank me," Julian muttered. He sat on his bed, opening a book but not reading it. "Just don't bleed on the carpets. I don't want to explain that to the matron."
Cassian turned back to the window. He looked at his reflection in the glass. Pale face. Dark circles under the eyes. The left sleeve hung slightly heavier than the right.
He needed to rank in the top fifty. To do that, he needed to fight. To fight, he needed to adapt. To adapt, he needed to bleed.
It was a loop. A closed circuit of violence and survival.
He looked down at the courtyard again. He saw Elian walking across the stone, surrounded by a group of students. They weren't talking to him. They were watching him. Waiting for him to speak. The Hero's gravity was already pulling people in.
Cassian touched the bandage on his arm. He could feel the heat radiating through the cloth. The flesh beneath was still moving, settling into its new form.
"Top fifty," he whispered.
It wasn't enough. In the book, the top fifty were still cannon fodder for the later arcs. They died in the dungeon raid. They died in the siege. They died to make the Hero look merciful when he couldn't save them.
Cassian couldn't just rank. He had to break the ranking system itself.
He turned away from the window. He walked to his desk and pulled out a sheet of parchment. He dipped a quill in ink.
He didn't write a letter. He drew a map.
He marked the training wards. The infirmary. The library. And the locations of the three upcoming events from the original script.
*The Dungeon Trial.* Day 30.
*The Grand Tournament.* Day 90.
*The Border Skirmish.* Day 180.
He circled the Dungeon Trial. That was where the Protagonist got his first artifact. The *Sunheart Blade*. It was the tool he used to kill Cassian in the original timeline.
Cassian stared at the circle.
If Elian got the blade, Cassian died. If Cassian took the blade, the script broke.
But the dungeon was lethal. Magical beasts, traps, environmental hazards. It was designed to kill students who weren't ready.
Cassian looked at his left hand. He flexed the fingers. They moved silently, like puppets on a string. He couldn't feel the quill in his right hand, but he could see the ink staining his skin.
He needed to be ready. He needed to be harder.
He picked up the dagger again. He looked at his right leg.
*One more adaptation,* he thought. *Just to test the limit.*
He stopped. He put the dagger down.
No. Not yet. He needed to conserve his body. If he turned himself into a monster too fast, he might lose his mind along with his flesh. He needed to stay human enough to plan.
He blew out the candle. The room plunged into darkness.
"Julian," Cassian said from the shadows.
"What?"
"Wake me at dawn. I'm training."
"You're injured," Julian said. "Verra said—"
"Wake me."
Silence. Then a sigh. "Fine. Dawn."
Cassian lay down on the bed. He didn't sleep. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the rhythm of his own heartbeat. It was steady. Strong.
But beneath the skin, the gray tissue pulsed in time with it. A second heart. A parasite.
He closed his eyes. He visualized the dungeon. The traps. The beasts. He memorized the layout from the book. He didn't need magic to win. He needed knowledge. And he needed a body that could survive hell.
Tomorrow, he would start the real work. Not sword forms. Not mana meditation.
He would learn how to break himself without dying.
The night stretched on. The cold seeped into the room. Cassian didn't shiver. His blood was running hot, burning through the winter chill.
He was no longer Cassian Vane, the footnote. He was the error in the code. The glitch in the story.
And he was hungry.