Adyanth woke up early. Unreasonably early.
The kind of early that made roosters roll over and hit snooze.
He blinked at the ceiling.
Sleep wasn't restful. Not anymore. It reduced fatigue, sure—but his dreams hadn't offered comfort in years. Most nights, he just drifted through fractured memories stitched together with resentment.
Right. Another cheerful start.
He sat up on his bunk. The three clowns—his newly minted sidekicks—were still snoring. Piled in like mismatched socks.
He didn't wake them. Last night's demonstration had carved the message in deep: he was serious. There was no need to overdo it. Push too far, and they'd break—or worse, start acting brave.
Can't have that. Puppets with ideas are messy.
It was a little after 4 AM. Breakfast wasn't until six. Two hours of freedom. Two glorious hours of no noise, no groveling, no circus-level orphanage politics.
He stepped out quietly and slipped past the gate. No one noticed.
Which was exactly the point.
---
Outside, the air was cool. Crisp.
He looked down the cracked concrete path.
Let's see how this new body holds up.
He took off running.
First, a steady pace. Then faster. He sprinted past abandoned sheds and rusted wheelbarrows, past the old washing lines and the rat pit that used to be a playground.
The wind stung his skin, but his muscles didn't protest. No burning lungs. No stitch in the side. His feet barely made sound on the ground.
Okay... this is definitely not normal.
He pushed harder, letting himself fly.
A minute. Three. Five.
He only stopped when his calves twitched and his chest stung slightly with effort. Bent over, hands on his knees, he let out a short breath.
Finally, some resistance. Was starting to think I got swapped with a track star clone.
He straightened, not even winded.
No aches. Barely a bead of sweat.
It's not cartoonish strength, but yeah—I could probably go toe-to-toe with a grown man like my father at full strength.
That thought made him pause.
His mind wandered—for the briefest moment—to the creepy man in the lab coat.
...Did Yurrel do something to me?
He shivered and immediately shut that door in his brain.
Yeah, no. We're not thinking about him at sunrise. Boundaries.
He exhaled.
Okay. Body's supercharged, fine. Career plans...
He tilted his head.
I could go pro. Either sports or boxing. Even as a manual labor. That's still a thing, right?
He imagined himself in some dingy underground league, knocking out grown men with minimum paperwork.
If I can't afford therapy, I might as well get paid to punch people legally.
---
He found a thick low-hanging tree limb and leapt up with practiced ease.
Then came pull-ups. Dozens.
Followed by one-armed reps.
Then push-ups. Sit-ups.
He hoisted a boulder—one of the orphanage landscaping failures—and tested his grip strength.
Definitely above average. Maybe I should start charging them rent.
Eventually, his healing wounds started to bleed through the gauze. He sat down beneath the tree, annoyed.
'Right. I'm still a mortal. Got it.
But after a few minutes of rest, even the pain faded. His body cooled, his breath stabilized, and the bleeding slowed.
'What even are you...'
---
By the time he slipped back into the orphanage, it was past five.
He showered quickly, dressed in silence, and headed to the cafeteria.
As he passed through the hall, whispers followed him like flies.
"Is that the ghost kid?"
"He was basically dead last week…"
"Guess he's harder to kill than we thought."
Adyanth smiled.
Not warmly.
More like someone acknowledging the punchline to a joke he hadn't even told yet.
---
The porridge was as offensive as ever.
Gray. Gloopy. Texture of betrayal.
His taste buds—still remembering the absurd luxury of hospital food—put in a formal complaint.
'Sorry, fellas. Luxury's over. Misery is familiar. Let's eat'.
He swallowed each spoonful like a monk embracing penance.
Tasteless? Yes.
Comforting? Also yes.
At least this didn't lie to him.
---
After breakfast, he flagged down the three clowns.
"All right, idiots," he muttered. "Time to put yesterday's fear to good use."
They snapped to attention like trained dogs with trauma in their eyes.
No hesitation. No backtalk. Not even side-eye.
Clown One looked excited. Which was... concerning.
But Adyanth decided not to look a gift lackey in the mouth.
---
Just as he was about to slip out again, Mukir—voice like a malfunctioning toilet—called out to him.
"Kid. Harun wants to see you."
Adyanth didn't sigh.
He let himself chuckle instead.
'Ah, here it comes. The awkward attempt to silence me pre-inspection. I wonder if I get a fruit basket with my hush money'.
---
He stood outside Harun's door, back straight, expression molded to soft perfection.
Then, in a voice barely above a breeze:
"Excuse me, sir. Can I enter?"
Meek. Polite. A touch of fear. Just the way slime like Harun liked it.
"Come in," came the bored reply.
Inside, Harun was scribbling something in a ledger he clearly didn't understand.
He looked up, narrowed his eyes.
"You look better."
Adyanth bowed slightly.
"Thanks to you, sir. Still a little sore, but I'm managing."
Obedience. Humility. A touch of weak gratitude. He even blinked a little slower, like he was nervous.
Harun almost smiled.
Almost.
Then quickly remembered he was supposed to be authoritative.
"You caused a lot of trouble," he said. "The hospital may be government-run, but medicine isn't free. You know how expensive things are with the war? We had to cut procurement to cover your expenses."
Adyanth widened his eyes. Let them water slightly.
He nodded, voice cracking just enough.
"I... I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to be a burden."
Inside?
'Wow, my medical expenses nearly sank the ship, huh? Bet Yurrel ran up a cosmic-level tab with his little science fair. And these clowns probably didn't pay a single dime. But hey, let's pretend this stick has a carrot at the end.'
Harun watched his expression—pleased with the guilt. He wanted to see shame. Submission.
And he did.
At least, he thought he did.
"Well," Harun said, "what's done is done. Don't cause more trouble, and we'll let it go."
He leaned back. Noticed the bloodstain seeping from Adyanth's bandages.
"Take it easy. No need to join the cleaning for now. Let your wounds heal."
'There it is. The carrot. How thoughtful'.
And with that, Harun rummaged in a drawer and handed over a small parcel.
"There are some fruits, snacks in there. Take them. You've earned a break."
Adyanth took the packet with both hands.
He bowed again.
"Thank you, sir. I'll be careful."
'These people are really worried about inspection week, huh. Well then... let's put this goodwill to use.'
---
Back outside, Adyanth didn't hesitate.
He walked straight to the fields.
No one noticed.
Four caretakers watching over 133 kids—all distracted with cleaning duty and chaos, courtesy of Clown Division.
'Perfect cover for some agricultural detective work'.
Ever since the hospital, a scent had lingered in his mind. Something from the farm. A pungent memory sitting just beyond reach.
Yesterday, while scolding the clowns, something clicked.
A forgotten moment with his father.
---
They were in the fields.
Three strangers had approached, offering some "special seeds" that would "bring in money during a crisis."
His father—a man who had never so much as raised his voice—exploded. He chased the men off. Beat them with a hoe. Other farmers had to break it up.
Young Adyanth, maybe five or six, had cheered like it was a circus show.
Later, he'd found a bag the men left behind—curious, oddly heavy.
Inside?
There were tried leaves. Which gives off strong smell.
He remembered sniffing them, getting dizzy, and then his father snatching them away, furious.
"Don't ever touch that garbage!"
'I cried. Told on him. Mother made him apologize. Classic.'
Today, standing in the similar fields, he took a slow, deliberate breath.
The same scent.
The same dizziness.
The same memory.
But still… no emotion.
He sighed.
Even nostalgia's afraid of me.
He made his way to the storage shed.
Most crops were gone. But a few bundles remained, half-packed, shoved in corners.
He searched.
And he found it.
The same leaf. Dried. Crumb
The same leaf. Dried. Crumbling under his fingers like rotten parchment. He crushed a few into powder and carefully folded them into a makeshift paper sachet.
'Let's see what secrets you're hiding, mystery plant. You better be more exciting than the cafeteria porridge.'
He stood, slipping the packet into his pocket like contraband.
'Time to make some controlled chaos'.
He didn't plan to test it on his own three stooges—not yet. They were too useful to risk damaging. But others?
There were plenty of kids in the orphanage who'd raised fists or cheered when he got dragged out broken. Volunteers would be easy to find—especially if a few snacks were involved.
'Thanks for the fruits, Harun. You may have just bribed three little drug mules and helped accelerate your own downfall. Heartwarming'.
The powder might be nothing. Or it might be the edge he needed. If it caused hallucinations, dizziness, or spiritual instability? That'd be gold. A perfect tension-builder during inspection.
He turned back toward the main buildings, walking steadily.
'My plan's held together with string and spite, but maybe this stuff will be the spark that keeps the fire from dying out.'
'Let's make things interesting, shall we?'
With that final thought, he left the fields behind—head filled with blueprints, pocket filled with powder, and a future that, for once, was starting to feel just dangerous enough to be fun.