The first class of the morning was Ether Properties and Manipulation.
Theoretical, dry on paper. Necessary if he wanted to understand what this body could actually do.
When the teacher entered, the class stood as one. Tyler stood with them. The simple act of rising with everyone else already felt strange in this body. The teacher—a thin woman in her thirties with glasses that kept sliding down her nose—froze for half a second when she saw him upright and quiet near the window.
"Sit down," she said.
Chairs scraped, the room settled. Tyler kept his eyes on her as she arranged her notes. He could feel the tension coming off her like heat. Every time her gaze flicked in his direction, her shoulders tightened.
She's scared of me.
The realization sat uncomfortably in his chest. The old Tyler had clearly left marks on more than just students.
"I want a word with Tyler Mason after class," the teacher said, trying to keep her voice even.
A few heads turned. Whispers moved through the rows. Tyler didn't react. He simply watched her begin the lesson, noting the way her hands trembled slightly when she picked up the chalk.
She launched into the day's material, voice a little too fast at first. Ether as the medium of ability. The rarity of true users. The difference between raw output and refined control. Tyler listened, actually listened, while keeping his expression flat.
Outside the window, a PE class ran laps under the morning sun. Shoes slapped against the track. Someone shouted instructions. The normal sounds of the academy felt distant compared to the tight atmosphere inside the room.
The teacher's eyes kept drifting toward him. Each time they did, her rhythm faltered.
If I keep staring she's going to break.
Tyler turned his face toward the window and let his eyes half-close, as if the lecture bored him. He crossed his arms on the desk and rested his forehead against them, the picture of a student checking out.
The change in the room was immediate. The teacher's shoulders dropped. Her voice steadied. She even managed a thin smile at a student who asked a basic question.
Good. Now I can actually hear her.
She wrote on the board. The chalk screeched once, a sharp sound that made several students wince. Tyler cracked one eye open just enough to read the heading.
**Ether Applications – Elemental / Physical / Metaphysical**
"Ether is the vehicle," the teacher said, gaining confidence now that the academy's most unpredictable student appeared to be asleep. "It carries your stamina and intent, then shapes it into an ability. One in every ten thousand people can manipulate it at a usable level."
One in ten thousand.
The old Tyler had been one of them. From the memories, he had treated that fact like a joke—something to flex in alley fights and then ignore when the next bottle appeared.
What a waste.
Tyler kept his head down and continued listening. The teacher covered conductivity, saturation limits, the danger of forcing too much Ether through an untrained body. She spoke about elemental affinities and the rarer metaphysical applications that required both talent and discipline. Every piece of information settled into place against the System's earlier stats. Ether Control: 10. Still low.
A student asked about overuse. Another asked whether Ether could be stored externally. The teacher answered both with more confidence than she had shown at the start of class.
Tyler's hand rose before he fully decided to move it.
The room went silent.
Chairs creaked as people turned. The teacher's chalk froze against the board. Color drained from her face so quickly that for a second he thought she might drop the chalk.
Mistake.
He could already feel the weight of every stare. The delinquent who never paid attention, who skipped more classes than he attended, had just raised his hand like a model student. The contradiction was too sharp. It drew the exact kind of attention he was trying to avoid.
Tyler let his arm fall and dropped his head back onto his folded arms, feigning a return to sleep. After a long, awkward moment the teacher cleared her throat and called on someone else. Questions resumed. The tension eased only slightly.
He kept listening anyway.
By the time the bell rang, he had a clearer picture of how Ether was supposed to work—and how poorly the old Tyler had used it. Students began packing up. Bags zipped. Chairs scraped back. The room emptied in ones and twos until only Tyler and the teacher remained.
He stood and walked toward her desk.
She flinched when his shadow fell across her papers.
"Please don't hurt me," she said in a rush. "I'm only doing my job."
Tyler stopped a respectful distance away. "I'm not here to hurt you."
The words came out calmer than he expected. The teacher risked a glance at his face, then another. Whatever she saw there seemed to confuse her more than the old Tyler's usual scowl.
She adjusted her glasses with a shaking hand and forced herself to continue. "The faculty reviewed your performance from last year. Your attendance… your grades… the incidents. The guidance counselor wants to speak with you."
Of course they do.
"I'll go after class," Tyler said.
The teacher blinked. She had clearly braced for an argument or a threat. When neither came, some of the fear in her posture loosened.
"There's something else," she said, still not quite meeting his eyes. "A special assignment. If you complete it properly, the points will be enough to pull your first-semester average out of failure range."
Tyler tilted his head. "What kind of assignment?"
She hesitated, then seemed to gather her courage. "You've been… attentive today. More than I've seen from you before. I want to know how much of the material you actually absorbed. The assignment will test that."
She pulled a thin folder from her desk drawer and held it out. The cardboard felt dry and slightly rough under his fingers when he took it.
"Read the instructions carefully," she said. "You have until the end of the week."
Tyler nodded once. "Understood."
He turned and left the classroom before the silence could stretch again. The hallway outside was louder—lockers slamming, students talking over each other, the smell of floor polish and warm bodies moving between periods. A few people glanced at him and quickly looked away.
Reputation is a cage, he thought. The old Tyler built it. Now I have to live inside it.
He slipped the folder under his arm and started toward the stairs. The System window flickered at the edge of his vision, as if considering whether to comment. For once it stayed quiet.
Behind him, the classroom door clicked shut.
The teacher remained standing at her desk for a long moment, staring at the space where the academy's most problematic student had just spoken to her with something that almost sounded like respect.
Chapter discussion