"Thud. Thud. Thud."
Bare knuckle met half-rotten bark, again and again. It wasn't rhythmic. It wasn't meditative. It was just noise and splinters, like violence trying to imitate self-care.
Adyanth stood in front of the same tree he'd beaten for the past two weeks. The bark had long since been pulverized. Now he was punching into raw wood—softened slightly by days of assault but still stubbornly solid. His fists weren't bleeding anymore. That stopped after the third morning. Now it was just dull shock that ran up his forearms like a familiar itch.
He pulled his hand back. Flexed his fingers. No bruises. No swelling.
"...It's starting to feel like I'm hitting cardboard."
He didn't say it out of pride. More like concern.
So he hit harder.
Each punch thudded deeper, sending chips scattering around his feet. The tree creaked under the abuse, but it wasn't dramatic. It just took it. Like him.
After twenty hits, he switched to kicks. Sharp, fast, jarring enough to rattle the old roots.
Still no pain.
"Well, that's unsettling."
Not that he was complaining. But when your leg smashes into aged wood and the tree seems to wince more than you do—it raises questions.
Like, "Should I test this on stone next?"
Then common sense slapped the back of his head.
'That's how you shatter your leg and explain to the doctor you were shadowboxing a boulder. No thanks.'
He stopped and rolled his shoulders. And stretched his legs.
Every morning for last two weeks, he came to this field—always before dawn, always alone. Not to train like a soldier. Not to unlock mystical powers. Just… to move, to test his limit and understand the thing he'd become.
And what he found was strange.
Every time he pushed himself, his body adapted. Endurance rose. Pain tolerance sharpened. His recovery accelerated. Like his body wanted to be punished. Like it thrived on damage.
He'd tested it.
One day he deliberately fell while sprinting—scraped his palms and shoulder bloody. The next morning? No scabs. No stiffness. His body just... absorbed the lesson.
'Either the explosion did something... or Doctor Creeps-in-Lab-Coats decided I was fun to tinker with.'
He refused to entertain the second thought for too long. Even he has limits when it comes to sanity.
'Training helps keep the act in place, he reminded himself. Acting is exhausting. Even spies get breaks. I don't.'
Because he wasn't just pretending to be likable—he was performing a script written for idiots. Being polite, fragile and humble. People accepted that. Anything real would scare them. He had to be the echo of a damaged boy, not the weapon they tried to break.
'So I punch trees. To keep the mask from cracking.'
He exhaled. Wiped sweat from his brow—more habit than need—and took off in a barefoot sprint across the field.
Not out of warrior-pride. His shoes were about to decompose. Running barefoot was economics, not enlightenment.
---
His little plan within the orphanage?
Going splendidly.
No, better than that—almost too well.
He had expected resistance. A few clumsy obstacles. And a full blown paranoia.
Instead?
The whole system was cracking like an overcooked egg.
'Those three clowns are surprisingly competent. Especially Clown One. Didn't know he had the social grace of a disease vector.'
Infighting had erupted between the new kids and the old blood. Three serious brawls already. More whisper-wars brewing.
And that was before the leaf powder came into play.
Ah, yes.
His little nostalgia bag from the field.
After confirming the old leaves were still in storage, he crushed them down and began small tests. Just a few grams, slipped into the puting cups of his clowns are passed it to some of known meatheads. Delivered, of course, by his three angels of corruption.
Results?
Mixed.
First, the test subjects got unusually mellow. They smiled a lot. That was suspicious.
Then, after three days off the powder?
Violent mood swings. Bizarre outbursts. One guy socked a new kid in the jaw because he sneezed too close. Another beat up someone for "looking hungry."
Beautiful chaos.
'At last. A chemical catalyst to pair with my social toxin. How poetic.'
Of course, he kept the doses small. If anyone collapsed or died, things would escalate. Right now, it was just tension. Controlled burns.
He adjusted the powder strategy. Alternating doses. Rotating targets. Waiting.
It was working.
And today?
Time to escalate again.
---
Post-run, he returned to the orphanage.
As always, nobody noticed him slipping in. Between underpaid caretakers and chaos-loving children, surveillance was nonexistent.
He washed off at the well. Dressed. Headed to the cafeteria.
This morning, the air was different.
He felt it before the door even opened. Tension vibrated under the floorboards.
Inside?
Faces were tighter. Eyes sharper. Some bore silent rage. Some, exhaustion. Some, fear.
None looked at him.
Perfect.
The "ghost boy" phase had lasted only six weeks. Now he was background noise. Just another limp in the hallway. A wraith with chores.
They all had their own mess now. Cleaning duties had become spiritual warfare. They hated it. Hated the dirt. Hated the idea. Hated watching Mukir and Harun bark orders while lifting nothing heavier than a clipboard.
'They're kids, sure. But resentment doesn't care about age. It festers the same.'
New kids blamed the old ones for the workload. Old kids saw the newcomers as entitled parasites. Add a sprinkle of drug-induced rage and unjustified punishments from staff, and you had the perfect emotional stew.
'All it needs now is a gentle stir.'
Adyanth moved toward the food counter.
Maya—the human personification of botulism—raised an eyebrow.
She assumed he wanted a second helping.
"Back off, kid. No seconds. Especially not for you."
She was already bracing to swat the request down.
What she didn't expect?
"Good morning, Ma'am," Adyanth said, voice soft. Smile shy. Tone rehearsed to near-saccharine levels.
The cafeteria stuttered.
Maya blinked.
"...What?"
"I'm not here for more food. I was wondering… if I could help in the kitchen. I can't do heavy chores yet, but I don't want to sit around while everyone else works."
His eyes glistened. Just a little.
Maya stared like he'd grown wings.
Kids didn't talk like this. Especially not to her. Especially not him. Not after getting demolished in public weeks ago.
'Not that I care what she thinks. But people are suckers for sad puppy routines.'
From behind, someone scoffed.
"Isn't that the ghost boy? What's he need kitchen duty for? Ain't like he works anywhere else."
Another voice chimed in.
"He's injured, you idiot."
"So are we! Doesn't mean we get extra rice!"
The crowd muttered.
Adyanth didn't flinch. Didn't even look at them.
Instead, he turned slightly toward Maya with a grateful nod.
The woman, stunned by the sheer absurdity of kindness, caved.
"Fine. But don't screw it up."
---
Across the room, the three clowns watched the exchange in uneasy silence.
They knew exactly what was happening.
This wasn't a wounded boy volunteering to pull weight.
This was strategic infiltration. A chess move disguised as charity.
And Adyanth? He wore the costume flawlessly.
"Look at him," Clown Two whispered. "You'd think he actually meant it."
Erwan didn't speak at first. His eyes were locked on Adyanth's face. Not the expression. The stillness behind it.
Not blank. Not numb.
Controlled.
Like a hunter waiting for a breath in the trees.
"We made a mistake," Erwan said finally.
The others turned to him.
"What?"
"We picked the wrong target. We thought we were messing with a spoiled brat." He swallowed. "We weren't messing with a spoiled brat. We were poking around devil's hide."
"But he didn't kill us," Clown Three muttered. "He made us part of his plan."
Erwan nodded slowly.
"I know."
"So what do we do?"
He looked at them. Voice low.
"We do everything he says. And pray he finds us too useful to get bored of."
They fell silent.
Because none of them missed it anymore.
The way he moved.
The way he smiled at Maya like gratitude was a language he spoke natively.
The way he never looked directly at anyone who wasn't useful.
He wasn't trying to be better.
He wasn't forgiving them.
He was waiting.
---
That night, as Adyanth scrubbed a pot in the back of the kitchen—dismissing the roaches and ignoring the mold—he caught his reflection in the metal surface.
The smile was still there.
A practiced, gentle and likable smile.
He tilted his head.
'Not bad. Better than yesterday's version.'
He closed his eyes for a second.
The cafeteria's noise hummed behind him.
The loud voices. The Laughter and Anger.