CHAPTER 13: ALMOST A MURDERER
The system window appeared the moment Rayan’s eyes opened.
[STATUS WINDOW]
Time Until Entrance Exam: 5 Days 19 Hours
5:00 AM.
The number no longer carried fear. It wasn’t a threat or a reminder of failure. It was simply information—precise, neutral, manageable. For the first time, a countdown didn’t feel like a blade hanging over his head. It felt like a schedule.
Rayan sat up, rolled his shoulders once, and reached for his books.
Morning study flowed without resistance. He moved steadily through problems, not rushing, not forcing speed, letting clarity do the work. When his mother called him for breakfast, he stopped immediately, marked his place, and closed the book without irritation.
That small act told him more about his change than any system stat ever could.
At the table, Lyra stared at him with open suspicion.
“You’re smiling,” she said. “That’s illegal this early.”
Rayan smirked faintly. “I always smile.”
“No, you don’t,” she shot back. “You usually look like you’re fighting the universe.”
Sophie laughed softly as she set down the plates. “Let him be. Maybe he’s finally enjoying learning.”
John raised his cup in mock ceremony. “Miracles before exams. I’ll take it.”
Rayan didn’t reply. He was already mapping the day ahead, calmly, without pressure or dread.
School felt different now. Not quieter. Not kinder. Just clearer.
Bear Carter squinted at him in the hallway. “You’re different, man. It’s creepy. You’re so… calm.”
“Just focused, Bunty.”
“Too focused,” Bear muttered. “It’s like talking to a polite robot.”
Rayan almost smiled. It wasn’t far from the truth.
His eyes met Selene’s across the corridor. She didn’t look away. There was no shyness today, only intense, analytical curiosity. He gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. She returned it. A silent exchange between two people who understood what it meant to live under pressure.
Peter Wells ignored him entirely in class. That, somehow, felt more dangerous than open hostility.
George Yung noticed everything.
His usual smugness had curdled into something darker, something watchful.
Elara would occasionally glance toward Rayan, her expression tangled with confusion, regret, and a strange new wariness.
The boy she had once pitied was gone, replaced by someone unnervingly composed.
George saw every look. Each one was a drop of poison seeping into his pride.
Three days passed like this—grinding, productive, relentless. Rayan didn’t hate the 5 AM alarm anymore.
He welcomed it. It marked the start of another day spent building something solid inside himself.
Elara didn’t understand the shift. She wasn’t choosing Rayan. She wasn’t rejecting George.
But George didn’t need certainty. He only needed doubt.
In physics class, Aria Reed moved between the rows while the room worked in silence.
She stopped at Rayan’s desk.
“May I?” she asked, holding out her hand.
Rayan passed her the notebook without comment.
She read slowly. Thoroughly. When she straightened, her expression didn’t soften, but her voice sharpened with interest.
“This is clean,” she said. “Not just correct—efficient.”
A few heads turned.
“You didn’t overcomplicate the solution,” Aria continued. “That shows control, not memorization.”
She handed the notebook back. “Well done, Mr. Balthorne.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Rayan replied.
No smile. No reaction.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
That restraint cut deeper than pride ever could.
George felt it like a fracture spreading.
The day ended heavy with unspoken tension.
Rayan took the longer route home without consciously deciding to. The sky was already dimming when footsteps sounded behind him.
“Still pretending you don’t notice me?”
George stepped closer, his voice sharp with contempt. “Think you’re smart now, Balthorne? Walking around like you own the place. Even Elara’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle. Did you forget what you are?”
Rayan stopped, hands still in his pockets. His focus narrowed instinctively, analyzing positions and intent. George in front—aggressive. One friend to the left—heavy, slow. Another to the right—twitchy. A third hanging back.
“I know what I am,” Rayan said evenly. “Do you?”
George swung without warning, a wild, angry right hook.
Rayan didn’t flinch. His enhanced Focus traced the trajectory instantly. He shifted his head just enough for the fist to pass by his ear.
George swung again. Another dodge. Rayan’s hands remained in his pockets, his movements minimal, efficient.
He wasn’t fighting. He was observing.
Humiliation ignited George’s rage. He feinted high and drove a brutal punch toward Rayan’s gut.
This time, Rayan reacted.
His Focus snapped into alignment, isolating movement, angle, and vulnerability in a single instant. He caught George’s wrist mid-swing, but the raw strength behind the blow surged through his arm like a shockwave. His muscles trembled. He couldn’t stop it completely.
So he didn’t try to.
Rayan stepped in instead.
With a sharp, controlled motion, he drove his knuckles upward into the soft hollow just beneath George’s ribcage—the solar plexus.
The strike wasn’t wide or heavy. It was precise. Surgical.
The air vanished from George’s lungs.
A strangled gasp tore out of him as his body folded forward instinctively.
His knees slammed into the ground, hands clutching his abdomen as pain exploded through his chest.
His face twisted, eyes watering despite himself, breath coming in broken, panicked bursts.
“Y-you—!” George choked, rage and shock mixing into something humiliatingly helpless. “What the fuck are you idiots doing?!”
He turned his head, voice cracking as he screamed at his friends. “Get him! Kill that bastard! Don’t just stand there!”
The momentary silence shattered.
Still, it was three against one.
Rayan lasted longer than anyone expected—but numbers were merciless.
A fist cracked against his jaw, snapping his head sideways. Pain flashed white. Another blow slammed into his ribs, driving the air from his lungs. A kick smashed into his knee, and his leg simply gave out. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked out of him in a choking gasp.
For a split second, the world blurred.
Then the boots came.
Heavy impacts crashed down on him—back, shoulder, ribs—each strike landing before the last could fade. His Focus screamed warnings, tracked angles, predicted motion, but his body was finished. Knowledge meant nothing without strength.
Nearby, George dragged himself upright.
His breathing was ragged, one hand still pressed against his abdomen, pain pulsing with every inhale. But the humiliation burned hotter than the pain. Rage carried him forward.
He limped toward Rayan and drove his foot into his side with deliberate force.
“You almost dropped me,” George snarled. “Do you have any idea how fucking humiliating that was?”
He kicked him again.
“You think that makes you special?” George spat. “You’re still nothing. Still the same piece of trash.”
Another kick.
“Your mother’s a bitch who cleans toilets for people who don’t even remember her name,” George continued, his voice shaking with hatred. “And your father’s a useless bastard breaking his spine every day just to stay poor.”
Something inside Rayan tore open.
George leaned closer, eyes burning.
“That’s your blood,” he said viciously. “That’s what you come from. That’s all you’ll ever be.”
The world narrowed.
Sound dulled. Pain receded.
There was only George.
I could kill him.
The thought come with extreme rage.
Get up. Kill him. Shut him up.
Rayan’s fingers dug into the ground as his body tried to rise, muscles screaming in protest. His vision darkened at the edges, his face twisting—not in pain, but in something far more dangerous.
George saw it.
The smile slipped for half a second.
Then he laughed, sharp and mocking, stepping back.
“Look at you,” he sneered. “You want to do something? Huh... Go on. Try.”
He spread his arms slightly, daring him.
“You can’t touch me. Not in this life. Not ever.”
He turned, then spotted Rayan’s old bicycle.
With deliberate cruelty, they lifted it and slammed it against the brick wall. Once. Twice. Metal bent. The frame collapsed into useless scrap. They tossed it onto Rayan’s legs and walked away, laughter fading into the night.
Rayan lay there, his body broken, his fury boiling.
[WARNING: Critical psychological anomaly detected.]
[Host neural patterns indicate surge of homicidal ideation.]
[Willpower is straining to contain amplified Focus under extreme emotional stress.]
[You are becoming psychologically unstable.]
The system’s voice was not calm.
It was urgent.
[You must suppress this.]
[This path leads to fracture.]
[You will gain power—but lose the self you are trying to build.]
[Remember the purpose: beyond the constant. Not become the monster.]
The words cut through the red haze like a blade.
Lose the self you wish to empower.
Rayan clung to the thought, forcing the rage back into containment with trembling will.
At home--Sophie gasped when she saw him.
“Rayan—what happened?”
“Thieves,” he said hoarsely. “They tried to take the bike.”
John’s face darkened. He reached for his phone. “We’re calling the police.”
“No,” Rayan said immediately. He met his father’s eyes. “Dad. It’s just an old bicycle. Highschool is almost finish. We can’t afford the time, the money… the complications.”
John studied him. He saw the bruises—but also the warning in his son’s gaze. This wasn’t random. This was power they couldn’t fight.
The fight drained from John’s shoulders.
Sophie cried. “It’s not about the bicycle. It’s about you!”
John placed a firm hand on her arm. “Enough. Rayan, clean up. Rest. I’ll… handle the bike in a few days.”
They understood each other without another word.
Later, Rayan lay in bed, bruised and silent.
“System,” he whispered. “When do I become strong enough that this doesn’t happen?”
[Physical enhancement follows measurable achievement and resource allocation.]
[Today’s outcome defines a new parameter: necessary strength.]
[Continue.]
There was a pause.
[You controlled the anomaly.]
[That is a greater victory than winning the fight.]
[Rest.]
Gratitude—cold, precise—settled over him. “Thank you,” he murmured, and sleep took him.
He did not wake at 5:00 AM.
Not at 5:30.
Not at 6:00.
Not at 7:00.
At 8:20 AM, a searing siren screamed inside his skull.
[ALERT! ALERT!]
[BELVARIS UNIVERSITY ENTRANCE EXAM COMMENCES IN: 70 MINUTES]
[ESTIMATED TRAVEL TIME: 95 MINUTES]
[DEFICIT: 25 MINUTES]
[PRIMARY TRANSPORT DESTROYED]
Rayan jolted upright, staring at the clock, then the burning countdown.
0 Days. 1 Hour. 10 Minutes.
No bicycle. No margin.
Cold despair flooded him as his future collapsed into a narrowing window.
“Fuck,” he whispered—then shouted into the empty room, voice breaking.
“Oh! Shit...... FUCK!”
End of Chapter 13
Author Note
