The greenhouse incident was a declaration of war. Zero no longer felt the oppressive, hunted paranoia of the past week. It had been replaced by the cold, sharp clarity of a confirmed threat. The fear was gone, burned away by the certainty that his enemy was not just a bully to be avoided, but a predator to be put down. He spent the next two days in a state of heightened, analytical awareness, his glitched perception constantly scanning, his mind weaving a web of potential traps.
He knew Marcus would not let the failure stand. The attempt had been too clean, too clever. Its failure would be a stinging insult to the noble's pride. The next attack would be cruder, more direct. Marcus was growing impatient.
The trap was sprung on the third day, in the one place Zero had once considered a sanctuary: the library.
He was in the upper stacks, a labyrinth of towering, book-laden shelves that smelled of dust and decaying paper. It was a quiet, forgotten section dedicated to pre-Imperial agricultural ledgers, a place so mind-numbingly dull that no student ever ventured there. A perfect place for an ambush.
He was searching for a specific text on ancient irrigation techniques, a piece of research for a paper he was deliberately writing to be mediocre, when he heard it. The soft, deliberate scuff of a boot on the wooden floor at the far end of the long, narrow aisle.
He didn't look up. He didn't tense. He simply continued to scan the spines of the books, his posture that of a bored, focused student. But his senses were screaming. His [Intuitive Analysis] flared, his gaze flicking to the polished floor.
[ANALYSIS: Two sets of footsteps detected. Weight distribution indicates two male targets, approximately 180-200 lbs. Approaching from opposite ends of Aisle 7.]
[TACTICAL ASSESSMENT: Pincer movement. Escape route has been cut off. Probability of hostile intent: 99.8%.]
They had him. He was trapped in a narrow, fifty-foot-long canyon of old books, with an enemy closing in from each side.
He heard the other set of footsteps now, a soft tread from the direction he had just come. He was perfectly, beautifully cornered.
He slowly turned, feigning surprise. He recognized them. The same two students who had been watching him in the greenhouse. Brawlers from the general combat track, their class rankings irrelevant next to the simple, brutal fact that they were both a head taller and fifty pounds heavier than him.
"Lost, Porter?" the one in front of him asked, a cruel, confident smirk on his face. He began to walk forward slowly, cracking his knuckles. The one behind him did the same, a perfect, mirrored image of brutish intent.
Zero backed away, his eyes wide with a practiced, convincing fear. He was playing the part of the cornered rat. "I was just looking for a book. I don't want any trouble."
"Too late for that," the first one sneered. "Lord Marcus is tired of your games. He just wants to send a message. A permanent one."
His hand reached inside his tunic and produced a small, heavy, leather sap. Not a lethal weapon, but one designed to break bones, to cripple, to maim.
Zero's mind raced, his analytical perception working in overdrive. The shelves were packed too tightly for him to climb. The aisle was too narrow to outmaneuver them. A physical confrontation was suicide. He was out of options. He was out of clever tricks.
The ghost of Ashe screamed in his mind, a sound of pure, final despair. This is it. This is the end. Just like the throne room. Trapped. Helpless.
The two thugs were closer now, their smirks widening as they saw the genuine terror in his eyes. They were savoring the moment, drawing out the kill.
It was in that moment of absolute, hopeless terror that something deep inside Zero, something that was not Ashe and not even the cold, calculating Zero persona, finally broke its chains.
It was the Glitch. The alien consciousness. The parasitic god in his soul. It was a being of pure, unadulterated chaos, and it did not like being cornered.
He felt a strange, cold, and utterly alien sensation in his palm. It was not a thought. It was not a command. It was an instinct, a primal, reflexive lashing out of a power he did not understand and could not control.
[WARNING! UNSTABLE SKILL MANIFESTATION DETECTED.]
[HOST'S SURVIVAL INSTINCT HAS FORCED A PREMATURE EVOLUTION.]
The thug in front of him was only a few feet away now, his sap raised, a look of triumphant cruelty on his face. "Nighty night, F-Rank."
He lunged.
Zero reacted on pure, screaming instinct. He threw up his left hand, not to block, but as a desperate, warding-off gesture.
His palm, without his conscious will, began to glow with a faint, sickly, purple light.
He slapped his hand against the charging thug's chest.
The effect was instantaneous and horrific.
The thug's body locked up in a violent, full-body spasm, his muscles contracting so violently that a sound like a wet branch snapping echoed in the silent library. His eyes went wide, not with pain, but with a profound, neurological shock. A low, gurgling, animalistic sound escaped his lips as his nervous system was flooded with a torrent of pure, chaotic, corrupted energy.
He did not scream. He simply collapsed, his body twitching and convulsing on the floor like a fish thrown onto dry land, foam beginning to bubble at the corner of his mouth.
The second thug, the one behind Zero, froze, his jaw hanging open in utter, horrified disbelief. He had just seen his partner, a powerful C-Rank Brawler, felled by a single, glowing touch, as if struck by a bolt of invisible lightning.
Zero stared at his own hand, at the faint, dying purple glow. He felt… strange. A bizarre, exhilarating, and deeply sickening sensation was coursing through his veins. It was a feeling of power, yes, but it was also a feeling of profound violation, as if a part of his own soul had just become addicted to a new, terrible poison.
[NEW SKILL ACQUIRED: NERVE-WRACK STING (ACTIVE, LVL 1)]
[Description: A reflexive, chaotic discharge of corrupted energy. Your next unarmed strike can deliver a jolt that causes intense pain and temporary motor function failure in the target. Warning: Use of this skill creates a psycho-addictive feedback loop in the host. Use with caution.]
Psycho-addictive? The System's warning was another drop of poison in his already corrupted soul.
The second thug finally broke from his stupor. He did not charge. He did not attack. He let out a choked, terrified whimper, turned, and ran. He fled down the long, silent aisle, his heavy footsteps echoing his panic.
Zero did not give chase. He had his opening. The shocking, chaotic, and utterly terrifying nature of his new power had created the escape he needed.
He looked down at the convulsing student on the floor. He should have felt relief. He should have felt triumph. Instead, all he felt was a deep, chilling dread.
He had survived. But he had just traded one cage for another. He was no longer just the host of a parasitic System. He was now its addict.
He turned and vanished into the labyrinthine stacks of the library, leaving behind the twitching body of his attacker, a new, terrible weapon in his arsenal, and another layer of horrifying mystery about the true, terrifying nature of the ghost that haunted the academy.