When I regained consciousness, it was already late morning.
The pale sunlight filtered through the dusty window of my makeshift room, casting long shadows across the floor. My head still throbbed, but the worst of the pain had subsided into a dull, persistent ache—a reminder that the tumor wasn't going anywhere.
I sat up slowly, my body protesting every movement. My mouth was dry, and my clothes were damp with sweat. I must have been out for hours.
The money from Camelia lay on the table beside my bed—1,000 dollars in neat bills. I stared at it for a long moment.
100,000 dollars for proper treatment. At this rate—one day, one thousand dollars—I'd need 100 days. More than three months. And that was assuming I could maintain this "job" with Camelia, assuming I didn't get caught living in an abandoned building, assuming my body didn't completely give out before then.
The math was brutal.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the College Board participant list again. The preliminary rankings showed the expected hierarchy: Amada Black (S+), Emma Rivers (S+), Ren Dover (S), Lyra Hall (S). All of them had resources, family backing, magical training, and stable lives.
And then there was Kevin Voss, D-, homeless, with a terminal illness and a part-time job as a gigolo.
My hands clenched into fists.
There had to be another way. Camelia was a temporary solution, not a strategy. And if anyone found out, it would compromise everything. The College Board had strict conduct codes, and students caught engaging in "inappropriate employment" faced immediate disqualification.
But what choice did I have?
My phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number:
*"Kevin, it's Camelia. Same time tomorrow? I have friends who might be interested. The payment is better. -C"*
I stared at the message for a long time.
This was how desperation worked. It started with one compromise, then another, then another, until you couldn't remember who you were supposed to be. I'd seen it happen to people in the orphanage—they'd accept help from Aulria, then favors, then obligations, until they were completely entangled.
And now it was happening to me.
But I didn't have the luxury of principles.
I typed back: "What time?"
***
By the third day, I'd learned to hide the physical toll better.
Camelia introduced me to her circle—wealthy women, bored and looking for discretion. The pay was inconsistent, but it ranged from 800 to 2,500 dollars per encounter. I'd accumulated nearly 6,000 dollars in a week, which meant I was on pace to reach my financial goal in less than three months.
It was also destroying me.
Not just physically—though the repeated episodes of dizziness and nausea were getting worse—but psychologically. Each transaction felt like another piece of my humanity being sold off. And yet, I couldn't afford to stop.
In Basic Swordsmanship, I was performing at exactly the right level: competent but unremarkable. The instructor, an older man named Master Kaine, barely paid attention to me. Good. I needed to be invisible.
But in Nobel Language, something unexpected happened.
The instructor was a woman in her fifties with sharp gray eyes and an even sharper mind. Her name was Professor Ashland, and she seemed to notice things. On the second day of class, she asked me to stay after.
"Your essay was interesting," she said, gesturing to the paper on her desk. "For someone with your academic record, the syntax and philosophical depth are... unusual."
My heart rate spiked. This was dangerous. If a teacher started investigating my capabilities, I'd draw the wrong kind of attention.
"I've been studying more," I said neutrally. "Trying to improve."
"Hmm." She didn't look convinced. "Do you know what 'Nobel Language' was originally used for?"
I shook my head.
"Deception," she said simply. "The aristocracy developed it as a way to communicate in layers. What you say on the surface is never the same as what you truly mean. It's a language designed for people who can't afford to be honest."
She leaned back in her chair, studying me.
"You're a fast learner, Kevin. But be careful. In Elite, the ability to think clearly is sometimes more dangerous than the ability to cast spells. People notice, and people fear what they notice."
"I'll keep that in mind," I said carefully.
I left Professor Ashland's classroom with a nagging feeling that I had made a mistake.
Not because of what I'd written in my essay, but because I'd underestimated her.
Most instructors at Elite Academy were concerned with measurable results. They wanted students who could cast stronger spells, wield sharper swords, or memorize complicated theories. As long as I maintained an average performance, they had little reason to pay attention to me.
Professor Ashland was different.
She seemed more interested in how people thought than in what they could accomplish.
That made her dangerous.
I walked down the corridor, keeping my expression neutral as students passed by. The afternoon classes would begin soon, and I still had Basic Magic Theory to attend.
Unfortunately, my head had started hurting again.
I pressed my fingers against my temple and took a deep breath.
Not now.
I couldn't afford another collapse.
I'd already missed enough sleep, and the money I'd accumulated was still nowhere near what I needed for treatment.
I needed to find a better solution.
Basic Magic Theory was held in a lecture hall large enough to accommodate nearly a hundred students.
I chose a seat near the back, placed my notebook on the desk, and prepared to endure another tedious lecture.
The instructor, a thin man with silver-rimmed glasses, began explaining the relationship between mana circulation and spell efficiency.
I'd already read about the subject in the academy's introductory textbook.
Mana wasn't simply a source of energy. It was a force that responded to the user's mental state, physical condition, and innate affinity. The more efficiently someone circulated mana through their body, the less energy they wasted when casting spells.
At least, that was the conventional explanation.
I frowned slightly as the instructor drew a diagram on the board.
Something about it seemed wrong.
The diagram showed mana circulating through a series of channels before converging at the core. According to the instructor, this process minimized energy loss and maximized spell stability.
However, the illustrated channels formed a closed circuit.
If mana circulated continuously through the same pathway, wouldn't resistance accumulate at certain points? And if that happened, wouldn't the user eventually experience diminishing efficiency?
I studied the diagram for another moment.
There was a possibility that I'd misunderstood the underlying principle. After all, I had only recently begun studying magic in this world.
Still, the more I examined it, the more convinced I became that the explanation was incomplete.
I picked up my pen and wrote a question in the margin of my notebook.
What happens when the circulation reaches its saturation point?