Chapter 2: Strength in Numbers
The cafeteria resonated with the clatter of trays and the low buzz of conversation, overlaid with the sour tang of overcooked vegetables and industrial cleaner. Landon shuffled through the lunch line, deliberately keeping his posture hunched, his movements hesitant. The nervous energy wasn't entirely fake—his new speed abilities occasionally surged without warning, sending jolts of hyperawareness through his system that made the fluorescent lights overhead pulse uncomfortably.
One power down. A dozen more to go if I want to survive this place.
His tray wobbled in his hands as he scanned the crowded room, searching for his next target. He spotted her almost immediately—Tara Wilson, sophomore, her bulky frame taking up space at a corner table like she owned it. The strength supe's reputation preceded her; she'd broken three students' bones last semester for minor infractions, and Vought had buried the complaints.
Perfect.
Landon's mouth went dry as he charted his approach. Death by speedster had been excruciating but quick. Death by crushing? That would linger.
Worth it. I need strength to balance speed.
He navigated between tables, letting his enhanced speed guide his movements while appearing clumsy to observers. When he reached Tara's table, he executed a carefully calculated stumble, sending his cup of soda spilling directly onto her pristine white Godolkin Athletics shirt.
The cafeteria fell silent, the sudden absence of sound pressing against Landon's eardrums like cotton wool.
Tara stood slowly, dark liquid seeping through the fabric of her shirt, highlighting the muscle definition beneath. Her eyes—a flat, predatory brown—fixed on Landon with reptilian stillness.
"Did you just," she said, voice low and controlled, "ruin my fucking shirt?"
Landon backed up a step, letting his tray clatter to the ground. "I-I'm so s-sorry, it was an accident, I d-didn't—"
"You didn't what? Look where you were going?" Tara stepped over the bench, closing the distance between them with deliberate slowness. "Or you didn't think about what happens to weaklings who make me look stupid?"
Students nearby began edging away, forming that familiar circle of spectators. Landon's heart hammered against his ribs, a primal fear response that had nothing to do with his calculated plan. His body knew what was coming, even if his mind had orchestrated it.
"P-please, I can clean it, I can—"
Tara's hand shot out, fingers closing around his throat, lifting him until his toes barely scraped the floor. Her grip was bruising, precise—the practiced hold of someone who'd throttled many before him.
"You know what I think?" she said, her breath hot against his face, reeking of protein shake and peppermint gum. "I think nobody will miss you when you're gone."
That's what you think.
Landon clawed weakly at her wrist, making sure to position himself for maximum impact. When Tara's fist connected with his sternum, he felt his ribcage collapse inward, puncturing lungs, heart, everything vital. The pain was blinding, consuming—bones splintering into organs never meant to hold such sharp intrusions.
He was dead before he hit the wall, the collective gasp of the cafeteria fading to silence.
Consciousness returned like a rubber band snapping against raw skin. Landon gasped, body arching off the cold concrete floor of a storage room, muscles spasming with the memory of trauma. Phantom pain radiated from his chest, though his ribcage was now intact, lungs drawing in desperate, shuddering breaths.
[ENHANCED STRENGTH (E-RANK) ACQUIRED. NOW YOU CAN CARRY YOUR OWN BAGGAGE—BARELY.]
The system's message pulsed blue in his peripheral vision, its mocking tone almost welcome compared to the disorienting silence of death. Landon pressed a trembling hand against his sternum, feeling the solid bone beneath, whole again. But his muscles ached like he'd run a marathon, tension knotting through his frame, a cruel souvenir from his revival.
E-rank again. Better than nothing.
He tested the strength cautiously, pushing himself upright. Objects felt lighter, his own body more responsive, but the post-revival muscle cramps made every movement a negotiation with pain. He wouldn't be bench-pressing cars anytime soon, but he could probably break a door down if needed—assuming his muscles stopped protesting long enough to try.
Landon's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as the memory of his death replayed behind his eyes. The sickening crunch of his own ribcage. The look of casual disdain on Tara's face as she killed him, like swatting a fly that had irritated her.
He'd chosen this. Calculated it. But knowing didn't make the trauma less real.
Focus. Get up. Return to normal before someone notices you're missing.
He struggled to his feet, leaning against a shelf of cleaning supplies for balance. The storage room door was unlocked—the system's small mercy, depositing him somewhere he could easily leave. He'd need to be more careful moving forward. Two deaths in two days would draw attention if he weren't strategic about his reappearances.
Landon forced his breathing to slow, centering himself. Then he pushed the door open and limped into the hallway, rehearsing his cover story with each painful step.
"You again?" Marie's voice cut through the haze of pain. She stood by the water fountain, dark eyes narrowing as Landon limped past. "Let me guess—another 'accident'?"
Landon managed a weak smile, one hand braced against the wall. "B-bad luck seems to follow me."
"Bad luck doesn't usually have a name and a strength rating." Marie stepped closer, the subtle scent of iron following her. "Tara Wilson could have killed you."
She did.
"J-just bruised," Landon lied, forcing his stutter back into place. "I've had worse."
Marie's expression shifted, skepticism giving way to something softer—concern layered with calculation. "You need to be more careful. Godolkin isn't kind to people who make the wrong enemies."
"I'll try to s-spill my drink on friendlier people next time."
A flicker of amusement crossed her face, there and gone. "There won't be a next time if you keep this up." She hesitated, then added, "Medical wing's this way. I've got supplies that'll help with those muscle spasms."
Landon blinked, surprised by the offer. "How did you—"
"Your posture. The way you're bracing yourself against the wall. Classic symptom of deep tissue trauma." Marie shrugged, professional detachment not quite masking her concern. "I've seen it before."
She had, Landon knew. In her parents, after she'd accidentally killed them with her newly manifested blood powers. The thought made his chest tighten with something dangerously close to genuine emotion.
"Thanks," he said, the stutter momentarily forgotten. "I'd appreciate that."
As they walked toward the medical wing, Landon stealing glances at Marie's careful profile, he felt something shift in his carefully constructed facade. The plan had been simple: acquire powers, maintain cover, survive. People were meant to be tools, not... connections.
Don't get attached. You can't afford it.
But as Marie's steady presence guided him through Godolkin's halls, he wondered if perhaps survival might require more than just power after all.
The gym reeked of sweat and rubber, the rhythmic thud of weights punctuated by grunts of exertion and the occasional encouraging shout. Landon pushed himself through a modest workout routine, careful to stay within the bounds of what would appear normal for someone of his supposed abilities—which was to say, not much.
Andre Anderson claimed the bench press station beside him, his dark skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat as he racked weights with casual confidence. The magnetism manipulator moved with the fluid grace of someone completely at home in his body, a stark contrast to Landon's deliberate awkwardness.
"Surprised to see you here after Tara's greeting yesterday," Andre commented, adjusting his gloves. "Most freshmen would be hiding in their rooms."
Landon shrugged, wincing at the lingering muscle pain. "N-not much point in hiding. She'd just f-find me later."
"True that." Andre loaded another plate onto his bar, the metal gliding into place with a hint of magnetic assistance. "You've got balls, Vale. Stupid, but balls."
"I'll t-take that as a compliment."
Andre's laugh was unexpectedly genuine, a warm sound that drew glances from across the gym. "You should. Most freshmen are too busy kissing ass or crying in the bathroom to show any personality."
Landon set his weights down, studying Andre through his peripheral vision. The son of a second-tier hero, Andre carried the particular burden of legacy supes—the pressure to outshine a parent whose shadow loomed large over every achievement.
"Not all of us are b-born with flashy powers to show off," Landon said, a calculated jab wrapped in self-deprecation.
Andre's eyebrow rose. "You calling my magnetism flashy?"
"If the m-metal sticks..."
For a moment, tension crackled between them—then Andre laughed again, shaking his head. "You're either suicidal or the ballsiest nobody I've ever met."
"Maybe both," Landon offered, allowing a genuine smile to crack his facade.
"Maybe." Andre extended a fist, the gesture casual but the intent behind it significant. "Just try not to die before midterms, Vale. You're making things interesting around here."
Landon bumped his fist against Andre's, feeling the slight magnetic pull as their knuckles connected—Andre's subtle display of power, a language of dominance and acceptance rolled into one.
"I'll d-do my best."
As Andre returned to his workout, Landon caught a flicker of blue text in his peripheral vision.
[BANTER SUCCESS: RIVALRY WARMING. NOT BAD, QUIPSTER.]
The system's mockery couldn't quite dampen the satisfaction of making progress. Andre might not be a friend yet, but he was a potential ally—and in Godolkin's cutthroat hierarchy, that counted for something.
Landon's dorm room was small but private—a rarity at Godolkin, where most freshmen shared cramped quarters. He'd lucked into a single after his assigned roommate had dropped out suddenly, a stroke of fortune he suspected might be the system's subtle manipulation.
Night had fallen, the faint glow of his desk lamp casting long shadows across the cinderblock walls. Landon sat cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed, focusing on the dual sensations of his newly acquired powers.
Enhanced speed felt like electricity beneath his skin, a constant hum urging motion. Enhanced strength manifested as density, a gravitational pull at his core that made his movements more deliberate, more grounded. Separately, they functioned as expected—E-rank abilities, useful but limited.
But together?
Landon's lip caught between his teeth as he concentrated, imagining the powers not as separate forces but complementary energies—speed's kinetic potential channeled through strength's structural framework.
A tingling sensation spread from his solar plexus outward, followed by a bone-deep warmth that intensified until it bordered on pain. The air in the room seemed to thicken, pressure building against his eardrums as the powers merged, transformed, became something new.
[MERGE: SPEED + STRENGTH = KINETIC FORCE (D+). JOINT PAIN'S A MOOD-KILLER, HUH?]
The system's message flashed as a sharp, stabbing pain lanced through Landon's joints, making him gasp. It felt like someone had replaced his synovial fluid with ground glass, every movement sending shards of agony through elbows, knees, wrists, ankles. The price of power, extracted in suffering.
Landon pressed a hand against the wall to steady himself, and the plaster cracked slightly beneath his palm—not from strength alone, but from the kinetic energy flowing through him, amplifying force beyond what either ability could generate independently.
D+ rank. Better. Still not enough.
He practiced carefully, ignoring the persistent joint pain, learning to channel Kinetic Force in controlled bursts. A pencil flicked across the room embedded itself in the opposite wall. A gentle tap on his desk left a fingertip indentation in the wood. Power, multiplied but requiring precision.
A soft knock at his door interrupted his experimentation.
"Landon? Are you okay in there? I heard something break."
Shit.
Cate Dunlap. Telepathy. Empathy. Vought's pet project, though few knew it yet.
"F-fine," he called, scrambling to mask his thoughts with the static of anxiety and self-consciousness that had served as his mental disguise so far. "Just dropped something."
Through the narrow gap beneath his door, he could see her shadow lingering, a weighted pause that made his pulse quicken. Could she sense what he was doing? What he was?
"If you're sure," she said finally, her honeyed voice carrying a note of skepticism. "Let me know if you need anything."
Her shadow retreated, footsteps fading down the hallway, but the tension in Landon's shoulders remained. Cate had been watching him since his first "miraculous" recovery, her calculated interest masked behind friendly overtures. She was dangerous—not just for her powers, but for her connection to Vought's inner circle.
Landon eased himself onto his bed, muscles protesting, joints screaming. The merge had been successful but costly, leaving him drained and vulnerable. He would need to be more careful moving forward, more strategic in both his deaths and his power usage.
Two powers. One merge. Not enough to survive what's coming.
He stared at the ceiling, mapping out his next moves as the system hummed quietly in the back of his mind, its sardonic presence a constant reminder of his precarious position in this blood-soaked world.
Outside, Godolkin University slept, unaware of the dying boy in Room 237 who kept coming back stronger—and less human—each time.
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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