By lunch, Arga had solved equations like a machine.
By afternoon—
he would hit steel hard enough to bend it.
The sky burned orange above the school field.
Students shouted.
Laughed.
Ran through clouds of dust.
Everything looked normal.
Arga knew it wasn't.
He stood near the sideline, silent, staring at his own hands.
They looked the same.
But nothing about him felt the same anymore.
He had always hated sports class.
Too slow.
Too weak.
Too tired.
Always the last one running.
Always the easiest to beat.
That was who Arga was supposed to be.
"ARGA!"
Bimo jogged over with a ball under one arm.
"One more round. You're striker."
"I'm not playing."
"You say that every time."
From midfield, Sinta crossed her arms.
"If you sit out, we lose."
Arga clicked his tongue.
Normally, he would ignore them.
Today—
something inside him pulsed.
Warm.
Waiting.
"…Fine. One round."
The game restarted.
The ball moved fast across the field.
Students shouted for passes.
Feet pounded over dirt.
Someone kicked high.
The ball flew across the field.
Far.
Too far.
"Get it!"
Bimo sprinted first.
Arga moved after him.
One step.
Normal.
Two steps.
Fast.
Three—
something broke.
The ground vanished beneath him.
Wind exploded past his ears.
His body surged forward with terrifying force.
Faster.
Then faster again.
"What the—?!" Bimo's voice dropped behind him instantly.
Sinta stopped running.
"…no way."
Arga tried to slow down.
His legs ignored him.
He leaned back.
Nothing changed.
He was still accelerating.
Panic slammed into his chest.
"I can't stop—!"
The ball landed ahead.
He reached it in seconds.
Instinct took over.
His leg swung.
THUD!
The sound cracked across the field like a gunshot.
The ball became a blur.
Students ducked as it flew past them.
Then Arga planted his foot.
Tried to stop.
Too late.
Momentum dragged him forward.
Straight toward the goalpost.
"ARGA!"
BANG!
Metal screamed.
The goal shook violently.
Dust rose.
Silence swallowed the field.
Arga stumbled backward.
Breathing hard.
Waiting for pain.
None came.
Not in his head.
Not in his ribs.
Not even in his shoulder.
Nothing.
"…what?"
Bimo ran to him first.
"ARE YOU INSANE?!"
Sinta arrived a second later, eyes sharp.
"That hit should've dropped you."
Arga slowly touched his chest.
No injury.
No bruise.
No pain.
His hands trembled.
Not from damage.
From fear.
He turned toward the goal.
The metal post had a deep dent in it.
Clean.
Visible.
Impossible.
The entire field stared at him.
Someone whispered:
"…did he do that?"
Arga stepped back.
His pulse pounded in his ears.
Inside him, the warmth returned.
But now it wasn't warmth anymore.
It was something alive.
Something enjoying this.
"I need to go."
Bimo blinked.
"What? Now?"
Arga grabbed his bag.
"I'm leaving."
He didn't wait for permission.
Didn't wait for questions.
He walked off the field with every eye still on his back.
Sinta watched him go.
"…something's wrong."
Bimo swallowed.
"…yeah."
Outside the School
Evening shadows stretched across the road.
Arga walked fast.
Then slower.
Then stopped completely.
He could still feel it inside him.
Moving.
Watching.
Waiting.
With shaking hands, he opened his bag and pulled out the lunch box.
Empty.
But not silent.
The symbol at the bottom glowed brighter than ever.
Pulse.
Pulse.
Pulse.
Arga's throat tightened.
"…what are you?"
For one second—
the light shifted.
And it felt like something inside the box looked back at him.
He slammed it shut.
His heart pounded wildly.
Across the street, under the shadow of a tree—
someone was watching.
A man in a hat.
Dark glasses.
Still as stone.
He slowly raised his phone.
"The first subject has fully activated."
A pause.
Then a faint smile.
"Guardian One confirmed."
Another pause.
"Prepare the next lunch box."
The call ended.
The man turned and disappeared into the dark.
Arga stood alone on the sidewalk.
Breathing hard.
Unaware of one truth already moving toward him.
He wasn't the only one changing anymore.
And tomorrow—
someone else would awaken.