Math class had barely begun when Arga realized the problem wasn't on the board.
It was inside him.
The warmth from lunch was still there.
But now it had changed.
It no longer rested quietly in his stomach.
It moved.
Sharper.
Faster.
Aware.
Something inside him had awakened—
and it was learning how to use his body.
Arga gripped his pencil tighter.
CRACK.
The pencil snapped in half between his fingers.
He froze.
The classroom hadn't noticed.
Yet.
"Arga."
His head lifted instantly.
Ms. Rini stood at the front, chalk in hand, eyes narrowed.
"Come solve number three."
Several students turned.
Whispers spread.
Arga almost laughed.
He was never the one teachers called first.
Never the smartest.
Never the fastest.
Never the one anyone expected anything from.
He stood.
And nearly stumbled.
His body felt too light.
Like gravity had weakened around him.
Each step toward the board felt effortless.
Wrongly effortless.
The equation stretched across the chalkboard.
Long division.
Normally, numbers like this tangled in his head.
Today—
they unfolded.
Patterns separated.
Answers aligned.
Mistakes revealed themselves before he could make them.
The entire problem became clear in a single glance.
Arga stopped breathing.
Then picked up the chalk.
His hand moved.
Line after line.
Fast.
Certain.
No hesitation.
No checking.
No doubt.
It didn't feel like solving math.
It felt like remembering something he had always known.
He stepped back.
Finished.
Silence hit the room.
Even Ms. Rini blinked.
"That was…" she glanced at the board.
"…quick."
She checked each step.
The class waited.
Then she looked at him again.
"Correct."
The room erupted into whispers.
"No way."
"That's Arga?"
"He usually takes forever."
Bimo stared like he'd seen a ghost.
Arga didn't hear them properly.
Because inside his chest—
something pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
Satisfied.
He returned to his seat slowly.
Bimo leaned across the desk immediately.
"Since when are you secretly a genius?"
"I'm not," Arga muttered.
Sinta leaned forward from behind.
"Maybe hunger upgraded his brain."
"Then I should be a scientist by now," Bimo shot back.
Usually, Arga would smile.
Usually.
Today, he only stared at his hand.
It looked normal.
But it didn't feel normal.
The warmth inside him was still growing.
Flowing under his skin.
Through his arms.
Through his fingers.
Like something alive had entered his bloodstream.
He clenched his fist.
Just slightly.
KRAK.
Arga's eyes dropped.
The wooden edge of his desk had splintered beneath his grip.
Not badly.
But enough.
His pulse spiked.
This was real.
Not imagination.
Not adrenaline.
Not luck.
Real.
"Arga?"
Bimo's voice sounded strange.
Too clear.
Too close.
Arga looked up.
And the world changed again.
The scrape of chalk across the board stabbed into his ears.
Whispers from the back row sounded like they were beside him.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Someone coughing two rooms away.
Pages turning.
Heartbeats.
Everything was louder.
Sharper.
Nearer.
Too much.
He grabbed the sides of his chair.
His breathing became uneven.
"Hey—what's wrong with you?" Bimo asked.
Arga couldn't answer.
Because beneath the noise—
he felt something deeper.
Something inside him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Hungry.
Not the hunger of an empty stomach.
Not the hunger of a poor kid skipping breakfast.
Something colder.
Older.
It didn't beg.
It expected.
Slowly—without meaning to—Arga turned toward his bag.
Toward the lunch box inside it.
Through the thin fabric, a faint golden light pulsed back at him.
Calling.
His throat tightened.
He looked away immediately.
No one else seemed to notice.
No one else could feel it.
But Arga knew one thing with terrifying certainty.
The food hadn't given him power.
It had started something.
And whatever was growing inside him—
wasn't finished.
The classroom door suddenly slammed open.
A student stood there, shaking, eyes wide with panic.
"Teacher—someone collapsed in the cafeteria!"
Every chair scraped back at once.
But Arga had already risen.
Because deep inside his chest—
the thing awakened by the lunch box pulsed again.
This time—
excited.