Chapter 17
Elijah pulled the car into the college parking lot, the tires crunching over loose gravel. The building loomed ahead—three stories of gray concrete, narrow windows, a clock tower that hadn't worked in years. It wasn't much to look at, but it was the closest school to the 7th District border, and it was paid for.
He killed the engine and sat for a moment, his hands on the wheel. The gym session had been simple—weights, the heavy bag, the breathing technique running the whole time. His body had held up better than yesterday. Stronger. Faster. The adaptation was already working.
He checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. The bruises on his face were gone. The cut on his cheek had closed completely. He looked normal. Like a college student showing up for classes, not someone who had been in a fighting ring twelve hours ago.
He grabbed his bag and walked toward the main entrance.
The halls were half-empty this time of day, most students already in their morning classes. Elijah kept his head down, moving past the lockers, the bulletin boards covered in faded flyers, the water fountain that hadn't worked since his first year.
"Elijah!"
He turned. A guy was jogging toward him, lanky, with glasses perched on a sharp nose and a book tucked under his arm. Derek. They'd been playing chess together for two years now, ever since Derek had walked into the common room and found Elijah sitting alone, moving pieces against an empty chair.
"You're alive," Derek said, stopping in front of him. "I heard about the party. People said you went crazy."
"People say a lot of things."
"They said you fought Frank. Actually fought him. Like, with fists." Derek's eyes were wide behind his glasses. "You hate fighting."
Elijah shrugged. "I had a bad night."
"A bad night," Derek repeated. "You had a bad night and you decided to beat up your bully and kiss Lisa? That's not a bad night. That's a movie."
Elijah let out a breath. Derek didn't mention the car. No one was supposed to know about the car except Kai.
"What kind of car did you get? I saw you pull in. Black, tinted windows. Looks expensive."
Elijah's hands tightened on his bag strap. "I bought it."
Derek raised an eyebrow. "With what money? You work at that factory, what, twenty hours a week? You've been saving for a car since I've known you, and you've never mentioned it once?"
Elijah smiled. "I'm private."
Derek laughed, the sound sharp and quick. "You're the least private person I know. You sit in the common room with your face wide open, letting anyone read whatever they want. That's why Frank picks on you. You don't hide anything."
Elijah's smile faded. "Frank picks on me because he's angry and I'm there."
"That's not it." Derek adjusted his glasses. "He picks on you because you don't react the way he wants. Everyone else gets scared or angry or they laugh it off. You just stand there. It makes him crazy."
Elijah thought about that. About the way Frank's face twisted when Elijah wouldn't lower his head. About the satisfaction Frank got from finding new ways to hurt him. About the night at the party, the other Elijah, the feeling of his fist connecting with Frank's face.
"Maybe I should react more," Elijah said.
Derek studied him for a moment. "You're different today."
"Different how?"
"I don't know. You looking even better then before." Derek shifted his book to the other arm. "Oh, Lisa's been looking for you. She came by yesterday, asked if I'd seen you."
Elijah's stomach tightened. "What did you tell her?"
"That you don't come to school when you don't have class." Derek smiled. "Which is true. You never come here unless you have to. Why does she want to see you?"
"We hooked up at the party."
Derek's eyebrows went up. "You hooked up with Lisa. The Lisa. The one you couldn't talk to without turning red."
"Yea."
"what?"
He just shook his head. "It was a party. People do things at parties."
Derek laughed again. "Elijah Ashford, wild man. Who would have thought." He clapped Elijah on the shoulder. "I have a class. You should come play chess sometime this week. I've been practicing the Sicilian."
"You always practice the Sicilian."
"Because you always beat it. One day I'll figure out why."
Elijah watched Derek jog toward the stairs, his lanky frame disappearing around the corner. Then he turned and walked toward the administration office.
The office was small, cramped, the walls covered in forms and schedules and notices no one read. A desk sat at the back, and behind it was Professor Vane.
She was in her early thirties, with dark skin and hair pulled back in a loose bun, a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose. She was beautiful in the way old books were beautiful—worn in places, but rich with something deeper than surface. She looked up when Elijah entered, and her face softened into a smile.
"Elijah. I didn't expect to see you today."
"Professor Vane."
She set down her pen. "You missed my class yesterday. Something about a family emergency, according to the note."
"My mom had to work. I was watching my sister."
"That's the note you sent. Yes." She folded her hands on the desk. "You've never missed my class before. "
Elijah stood in front of the desk, suddenly aware of how out of place he was. He hadn't come to class. He hadn't read the assigned chapters. He hadn't thought about history in days, not since the book the system had made him read.
"I need to register for early graduation," Elijah said.
Professor Vane's hands stilled. She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes moving across his face like she was reading something written there.
"Early graduation," she repeated. "You're in your second year."
"I have the credits. I checked this morning."
"The credits, yes. But early graduation requires more than credits. It requires a thesis. A defense. Approval from three faculty members." She leaned back in her chair. "You're asking to compress two years of work into one semester."
Elijah nodded. "I can do it."
Professor Vane was quiet for a moment. Then she stood up, moving to the filing cabinet against the wall. She pulled out a folder and set it on the desk between them.
"This is your file. Your grades, your essays, your exam scores." She opened it, flipping through pages. "You're my best student. Not because you work harder than everyone else—you don't. You barely show up to class. You submit your essays on time, but you never ask for extensions, never come to office hours, never participate in discussions."
She looked up at him. "You're my best student because you understand things. History, to you, isn't dates and names. It's patterns. You see the shape of things before most people see the things themselves."
Elijah didn't know what to say to that. He stood there, his bag heavy on his shoulder, and waited.
Professor Vane closed the folder. "I'll approve your thesis. But you have to write it. And you have to defend it. And you have to convince two other faculty members that a second-year student deserves to graduate early." She sat back down. "Do you have a topic?"
Elijah hadn't thought about a topic. He hadn't thought about any of this until the system told him to do it this morning.
"The rise and fall of the Tier system," he said. "And what it means for cities like Blackridge."
Professor Vane's expression shifted. Interest, maybe. Something deeper. "That's a large topic."
"I have a lot to say about it."
She studied him for another long moment. Then she pulled a form from her desk and slid it across to him.
"Fill this out. Bring it back with a thesis proposal by the end of the week. I'll sign it, and I'll talk to Professor Harlow and Professor Meeks about serving on your committee."
Elijah took the form. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." She picked up her pen again. "You're asking me to believe you can do something no one has done at this school in ten years. Prove me right."
Elijah folded the form and put it in his bag. He turned to leave, then stopped.
"Professor Vane."
"Yes?"
"What you said about understanding things. Seeing the shape before the thing itself." He looked back at her. "What does that mean?"
She smiled, small and knowing. "It means you're not a historian, Elijah. You're a strategist. You just haven't realized it yet."
He walked out of the office with the form in his bag and the professor's words echoing in his head. The hallway was empty now, the morning classes in full session. He was halfway to the exit when he heard the footsteps behind him.
He knew them before he turned. Heavy. Deliberate. The sound of someone who wanted to be heard.
Frank.
He was bigger than Elijah remembered. Or maybe Elijah just saw him differently now. Broad shoulders, thick arms, a face that had been handsome once before anger had carved it into something else. His jaw was still bruised from the party—yellow and purple fading into green.
He grabbed Elijah by the collar and shoved him against the lockers. The metal rattled, the sound echoing down the empty hall.
"There you are," Frank said, his face inches from Elijah's. "I've been looking for you."
Elijah didn't struggle. He didn't speak. He just looked at Frank's face, at the bruise on his jaw, at the anger in his eyes.
"You were so confident at the party," Frank said, his voice low. "So tough. But we both know why." He shoved Elijah harder against the lockers. "Kai was there. Kai always saves you."
Elijah's back pressed against the cold metal. He could feel the Ki in his chest, waiting. He could end this in seconds. A circulation, a punch, and Frank would be on the floor.
"You want me to show you what you can do without Kai," Frank continued. "Without anyone holding your hand. Just you and me. No friends, no backup. We settle it."
The system screen appeared.
[Quest: A King doesn't waste time with low life. Leave him be.]
[Reward: 10 System Points | 10 EXP]
[Punishment for failure: Intense pain for one hour]