In the days that followed, Xolomon never truly left Robert alone. The ice monster's voice constantly echoed into his mind, hurling threats after threats until Robert felt perpetually tense and always on edge. Even moments of quiet offered no relief; silence itself became suffocating. Whenever Robert closed his eyes, the same image returned—Xolomon looming over him, cold and merciless, promising pain with a calm far more frightening than rage. The fear seeped into every corner of his mind, warping his thoughts and steering his imagination toward all the ways things could go wrong. Robert found himself constantly thinking of the ways Xolomon might hurt him, and soon these thoughts began to dominate his waking life.
To cope a bit, Robert developed new habits born of fear. After evening prep, he would rush back to the hostel, eager to crawl into bed and fall asleep before lights-out. He had learned the hard way that once the dormitory sank into total darkness, sleep became impossible. His imagination would spiral out of control, conjuring images of Xolomon standing silently at the foot of his bed or hovering unseen above him in the gloom, massive hands poised to drive an icicle straight through his skull. His usual tendency to downplay danger failed him now; the fear was too vivid, too persistent to be dismissed.
During the day, however, Dora's presence had been a welcome relief from the stress of Xolomon's threats. They'd begun to spend more time together. Being around her eased something inside him. With her, Robert could briefly forget the constant dread. Plus, to his delight and surprise, Dora was an extraordinary kisser. Her lips were tantalizingly soft and her touch gentle and electrifying. Yet there was an urgency to her kisses that made his heart race, as they were always heavy with desire. At times, it felt like she never wanted their lips to part, revealing a possessive side that both thrilled and intimidated him. Robert often found himself looking forward to their moments alone together, when they could steal a few moments of peace from the troubles of school life and his own fears.
Still, Xolomon's telepathic threats persisted. Yet, for several days Robert did not cross paths with Oliver. That is, not until Novaday.
That Novaday that would irrevocably alter the course of Robert's life. A day that would stand out in his memory long after.
That morning, as the final echoes of the chapel canticles faded and the students streamed out of the wide chapel doors and dispersed towards their dorms, Oliver fell into step beside Robert with an air of deliberate casualness and asked—almost offhandedly—whether he would like to play a board game with him in their classroom.
The invitation caught Robert completely off guard. He slowed, studying Oliver's face for any hint of mockery or malice. After a brief pause, he agreed, though unease tightened like a knot in his chest. Despite his reservations, a part of him clung to the hope that perhaps this was an olive branch, an opportunity to smooth over whatever lingering hostility existed between them—or their Ancestor souls—and move on.
With a heavy feeling in his gut, Robert returned to the hostel, changed into his casual clothes, and made his way to the eleventh-grade art classroom.
Oliver was already seated there when Robert arrived. The room was empty and quiet, sunlight filtering in through the windows. As Robert entered, Oliver glanced idly out toward the distant chapel — white, pristine, with colorful windows.
"Sometimes," he said as Robert took the seat set across from him. "I can't help but wonder who you all think actually has the time and energy to listen to all those prayers."
A desk separated them, with a Magoras board set atop. The board itself was smooth and wooden, its surface marked with twelve rows and columns of alternating black and white pentagonal spaces. Carefully arranged on either side were carved wooden pieces, each shaped to represent its role—assassins, swordsmen, beasts, wizards, kings, and queens—placed neatly in a pyramid-like formation. One army, Oliver's, gleamed white; the other was grey.
"Lord Valmnar, of course," Robert replied. "Creator of Kreete, the entire universe, and you."
Oliver turned away from the window with a faint smirk. He picked up a swordsman piece, and moved it forward, setting the game in motion.
"Valmnar... The great God..." He snorted, watching Robert contemplate his next move. "Ignorance dressed up as faith."
Robert didn't retort right away. He studied the board, weighing his options, before sliding an assassin two steps forward.
"To you," he said evenly. "Some of us are wise enough to accept that there are things far bigger than ourselves."
Oliver laughed— a short, sharp sound devoid of warmth. "God isn't real, Manwell. Valmnar isn't real. What you worship is an idea—something clever people cooked up centuries ago to keep people as gullible as you in line." He nudged an assassin forward and looked up, a smug glint in his eyes. "The fact that millions believe it doesn't make it true."
Robert didn't rise to it. Without a comment, he shifted a wizard piece and eliminated the assassin Oliver had just moved.
"There are plenty of beliefs out there," Oliver went on, moving his other swordsman piece. "Samaline, Cropas, Zophatograt. Hundreds of them. What makes Valmism the true one? What makes it special? Cus nearly every city in Comset recognizes it as their official religion?"
Robert advanced a beast piece and shrugged faintly.
"I don't even know why we're having this conversation," he said. "I doubt that's why you asked me to come here." He tapped the board once. "If you want answers, read the holy book. I'm sure you were given a copy of the Vas-Amota once you were cleared."
Oliver chuckled, clearly amused. He moved an assassin piece to the position of one of Robert's and flicked it off the board. "You're up."
They played quietly on in silence, the sharp clatter of pieces marking each quiet elimination as they were knocked from the board. Before long, only a few remained—assassins, wizards and a queen scattered across the polygons, with both kings still standing… more or less. But as the board emptied, Robert's discomfort only grew. Oliver hadn't spoken since his last remark. His unwavering focus on the board, that deliberate, oppressive silence, began to crawl under Robert's skin, gnawing steadily at his nerves.
Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Robert glanced up from the board with a forced casual smile and broke the silence, "Ever notice how Novadays always seem to be sunny?" He asked, feigning idle curiosity as he moved his queen to eliminate Oliver's last wizard piece, sending the wizard skidding across the desk.
"Can't say I have," Oliver replied without lifting his face, still focused on the board. "But I do like Novadays. It's the only day of the week I can truly... rest."
Robert frowned slightly. "Rest? From what?"
Oliver responded with nothing more than a light chuckle.
Robert's uneasy piqued. That was enough. He stopped and leaned back on his chair, sighing resignedly. "Alright," he said firmly. "What's this Oliver? Why make me come here to play a board game? You and the other guy... you're up to something, aren't you? Maybe this is part of some plot you two cooked up to kill me." He shifted uneasily in his chair, his eyes darting from Oliver's unreadable face to the empty classroom. "You know I don't trust you one bit," he added bluntly even as his hand nudged an assassin piece out of the direct path of Oliver's king.
Being invited by Oliver to play Magoras in their empty classroom had unsettled him from the start. Unsettle wasn't even the right word—it felt like a warning bell blaring in his head. This wasn't paranoia. No. Robert was certain of that much. If Oliver was suddenly this close, this active around him, then Xolomon couldn't be far behind. He had lived too long with that constant, crawling sense that something terrible was waiting to happen... something Xolomon intended for him.
Maybe this was it...
Nearly all of the students were at the hostels, changing out of their blue worship robes into casual wears, preparing for the quiet, ritualistic, last-day-of-the-weekend routine. The classroom block was empty and still, with the possible exception of Tom and Zarie, who were likely holed up in the computer lab, busily typing and printing their papers. Nevertheless, sitting there alone with Oliver, surrounded by silence and empty desks, felt wrong. Exposed. Dangerous. What if Oliver suddenly transforms into Xolomon and shatters his skull with a ferocious blow?
"Manwell, I'm just a bored, friendless student in a boarding school trying to enjoy a game of Magoras on a Novaday morning. Why don't you trust me?" Oliver asked.
He did let the expression on his face betray him. A smug, taunting glimmer danced in his eyes, and Robert answered it with a hard glare of his own.
Their gazes locked in a battle of wills, until Robert's eyes reshaped into a mass of fine sand and then back to their normal form. At the same instant, Oliver's eyes frosted over, becoming cold lumps of ice. Then, just as quickly, they reformed back to their ordinary form, as though nothing had happened.
"That's why!" Robert snapped, pointing accusingly at Oliver's eyes.
Oliver let out a short laugh and refocused his attention on the Magoras board. "I'd be honest with you, Manwell, I have nothing personal against you. Truly." He paused, then added with a chilling calm. "But that thing inside of you had done some very terrible things, and consequentially, the thing inside me has you firmly in its sights. There's no going back from that." He gently moved a swordsman backwards before continuing. "I'm sure you understand that it's not my fault that all this is happening."
Robert said nothing.
"Anyway," Oliver continued, his tone more lighter, almost friendly. "Since enrolling here last week, I noticed something about you. You're a bit of a loner. Just like me. You barely have any connections with any of our classmates or students from the other classes." His eyes flicked up briefly. "That is, except for Dora."
Robert stiffened, though he said nothing.
"You two seem close," Oliver went on smoothly. "Very close. I even heard you've made it official." He smiled faintly. "With that in mind, I think it's safe to say she's very important to you?"
Robert shrugged in response, his unease deepening.
"You know," Oliver continued, "Most Magoras players understand that the king is technically the most important piece on the board. But in practice, they value the queen more than any other piece because of her seemingly unlimited moves. Makes her indispensable." He gestured to the grey queen piece. "If the rules allowed it, I'd wager many players would happily sacrifice their king just to keep their queen, wouldn't they?"
Robert nodded carefully.
"Which is your most valued piece?" Oliver asked.
As Robert answered "the queen," Oliver reached for the only queen piece on the board, the grey one. He picked it up with two fingers and studied it for a brief second. Frost began to creep from his wrist until they got to his fingers, freezing the piece into solid ice. He then close his fingers around it. His hand clenched and crushed the chess piece into fine, icy dust.
Before Robert could make sense of what was happening, Oliver's body began to blur and distort. Slowly but rapidly, he disintegrated into a swirling cloud of cold, white mist. He blew past Robert, sending a bone-deep chill through him, and just as the mist thinned and dissipated, a faint whisper brushed against his ear. "She's next."
"Who's she?" Robert demanded aloud, looking around in confusion, but Poison yelled in his head, stupefied.
"Who else but Dora?!"
"What!" Panic seized him. He bolted out of the classroom and sprinted towards the hostel. Students had just begun to fill the grounds. He didn't slow as he charged into the girls' hostel, racing up the stairs to the senior dormitory, colliding with startled students along the way. He burst into the white-painted dorm, breathless, but his panic eased the instant he spotted Dora—safe, unhurt—sitting on her bed, dressed in her casual gown, with a book (titled: The God in Me) open in her hands. Her bed was messily made, the red sheets rumpled and uneven, as though she'd climbed onto it without a second thought.
"Phew," Robert exhaled, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "At least the ice freak isn't planning to make a move in broad daylight."
Robert moved through the dorm towards Dora's bed, taking in the sight and scent of the female hostel as he went. The environment felt oddly unfamiliar and vaguely disorienting to him, an introverted loner, who had ventured here only five times since seventh grade, put off by the hostel's frilly decor, pastel tones, and delicate decorative touches that catered strongly to a distinctly feminine taste, in stark contrast with the functional simplicity of the boys' hostel.
Moreover, the girls' hostel was a typical "girl-flanking" zone; dominated by females, with a few males present, unlike in the boys' side where females came and stayed much too often. Why? Well, it was a result of an unspoken practice that had formed over time: the girls usually visited the boys in their hostel, and just like Robert, most of the boys preferred being visited rather than visiting the girls in theirs. As a result, the boys' hostel had become the social hub for students of both genders.
However, upon scanning the senior girls' dorm now, Robert noticed a few boys scattered around, which somewhat alleviated his feeling of being out of place. However, other details left him mildly uncomfortable. A few girls were still in their underwear, changing into casual clothes or practically moving around the room. Not an unfamiliar sight within the girls dorm, but for Robert who hadn't been used to it, it left him a bit flustered.
Eventually, Robert settled at the foot of Dora's bed. The soft chatter and laughter of the girls around him blurred into background noise as his thoughts drifted back to the chain of events that had driven him here in a panic. He looked at Dora with quiet affection, his gaze lingering as he wondered what Poison could possibly have done to Xolomon to provoke such relentless hatred—such a determined effort to tear his life apart.
"Are you okay?" he asked gently, tapping Dora's toes to pull her attention away from her book.
"Oh—hi, dear," she said, blinking in surprise before smiling warmly at him. "Uh, I'm fine, I'm fine. Why do you ask?" she closed the book and looked at him closely, studying his face. "You seem worried, is something the matter?" Her voice was soft and gentle, full of affection.
"Yeah," Robert replied quickly, forcing a reassuring smile. "Everything's fine."
Then, out of nowhere, a telepathic message thundered in his head.
"You're not gonna stay by her side forever."
Xolomon.
That deep, icy voice ignited Robert's anger instantly.
"I will!" he shot back, even as he realized how pathetic, desperate and utterly futile his reply sounded. His jaw clenched hard as a violent surge of fury crashed through him. Frustration roiled inside his chest, threatening to burst out at any moment. Outwardly, however, he remained composed, his expression betraying none of the storm raging beneath the surface.
"What was that?" He heard Dora ask, and confused, he looked at her, noticing she was surveying him with a slightly confused expression. Only then did Robert realize—with a sinking feeling—that he had spoken out loud.
His chuckle sounded awkward. "It's nothing," he said, quickly forcing a careless smile. "Just a silly daydream, you know... pet dog stuff." Before she could question him further, he leaned in and pressed a brief kiss to her forehead. Then, without another word, he rose and hurried out of the dormitory.
By the time Robert reached the boys' hostel, his restraint had shattered. He stormed inside, practically vibrating with anger. He had had enough—enough of constantly watching over his shoulder, enough of living in fear of Xolomon's next move, enough of the threats, enough of the relentless pressure that had made the past few days unbearable. So what if he was harboring some strange, magical entity that had angered an ice monster? He hadn't asked for any of this. He hadn't done anything wrong.
This had to end.
It was time to take his life back!
He marched straight to Oliver's bed. The boy was lying there, relaxed, his gaze tracking Robert's furious approach with that utterly calm look Robert now found infuriating. Reaching the bedside, Robert planted one knee against the mattress and seized Oliver by the collar of his sweatshirt, shaking him roughly until he was forced upright—only for that same smug grin to spread across Oliver's face, as if the whole outburst amused him. Robert's own face was red with anger, and he looked like he was about to explode. His eyes locked onto Oliver's, blazing with barely contained fury.
"Listen, Oliver — if that's even your real name," Robert snarled, voice low. "If all this has been a joke to you then you'd better sober up right now because I seriously mean every word I'm about to say. You so much as lay a finger on Dora or anyone I care about, and I'll make sure you never see another afternoon." His fists trembled at his sides. "And if you even think about attacking me, I will destroy you. I'll tear you apart down to your last particle—even if it costs me everything."
Robert abruptly paused when a gentle male voice cut in from behind him. "I'm so sorry to interrupt Robert, but Mr. Williams has requested your presence in his apartment. Right now."
Robert shoved Oliver back onto the bed, watching as the junior student scurried away without another word. He glared back at Oliver, who just laid there, silent, smiling. Straightening, Robert turned on his heel and stormed out of the hostel, fury still crackling through him as he moved across the grounds toward the tall brown gates standing east of the classroom block.
"I dug up his grave and burned his body just after he was buried."
Poison's calm voice surfaced in Robert's mind as Robert drew closer to the gates that separated the cream apartment building from the rest of the school. "I couldn't let him escape with his dignity intact after all the trouble he put my brother and me through. Yeah, I know it was a stupid thing to do, but I hated him more deeply than you could possibly imagine. That's the reason he's been trying to hurt me — or rather, you."
Robert shoved the gate open and stepped into the lodge grounds. The compound stretched wide before him, soothingly tranquil. A deep, almost unnerving quiet hung in the air, the kind that felt carefully maintained rather than naturally occurring.
Small circular lawns dotted the space along the fence line, perfectly trimmed and in an odd way, charming. There was an outdoor lounge at the far corner with black metal chairs, completely deserted. Not a single teacher was in sight. Students were hardly ever seen here; the lodge was a place entered only if summoned.
From an open window above, Robert caught the faint sound of a teacher answering her phone, her voice low and absent-minded. Somewhere else, a song drifted through the stillness—one he recognized but paid no mind to.
"Poison, look—I'm sick of these stories," he snapped aloud as he moved deeper into the compound. "Every time you tell me something about your past, it's just another lie layered on top of the last."
He reached the main entrance to the building and pushed through.
"No, this one's kinda true," Poison replied immediately. There was a brief pause, as if he were choosing his words carefully. "Although it's a lot more complicated than that. Very much complicated."
Robert gave a dry chuckle as he started up the staircase, gripping the railing. "That essentially means that whatever you just told me is still a lie," he said bitterly. "Just like everything else you've ever told me about your past."
"Robert..."
"But I'll humor you," he cut in. "How long has this feud been going on? You and Xolomon."
"Thousands of years," Poison answered quietly.
"Figures. That ice maniac sure is stuck in the past," Robert scoffed. "But I don't think we'll be hearing from him soon."
He reached the third landing at last, where the stairwell opened into a narrow corridor washed in dim light. Robert made his way to Mr. Williams's apartment—seventh door to the left. A small plaque bearing the man's name was affixed above it.
Robert raised his hand to knock.
And then it struck him. Out of nowhere.
That vile, abominable sensation surged through his body. It was unmistakable — it was that same sensation that had plagued him the last time he was at Mr. Williams's office. It was there, that crushing dizziness that made his vision swarm and blur, accompanied by that horrifying sense that his consciousness was being tugged at violently. Nausea clawed at his insides, so severe it felt as though his very mind were being wrenched out and expelled.
He staggered forward, clutching his head as pain throbbed behind his eyes, and slammed into the door, leaning against it desperately to keep himself upright.
The door opened.
Robert barely registered it. He stumbled into the apartment and collapsed onto the floor. Through the haze, he managed to catch sight of Mr. Williams standing over him. In the teacher's grip was a glowing, pulsing green orb.
Mr. Williams looked down at Robert with a triumphant scowl.
"Manwell," he said coolly. "It's of no use hiding it from me." He raised the orb slightly. "All you have to do is tell me the name of the Ancestor soul possessing you and I will let you go!"
Robert struggled to regain control of his senses, but a sharp pain tore through his head, as though his brain were rattling violently within his skull. Tears ran down his cheeks, and he could feel the pressure from the green orb growing stronger with every passing second. Summoning every ounce of his strength, he tried to transform, to let Poison take over, but nothing happened.
Infact, he couldn't understand what or how, but he could feel his connection to Poison weakening!
"You won't last long, Robert," Mr. Williams snarled, patience clearly eroding. "Just give me the damn name! Is it Theodore? Gabor? Lithigan? Gidlock? Celice? Who?!"
But then, just as suddenly as the pain and vertigo had begun, it vanished. The overwhelming pressure lifted. The dizziness dissolved.
It stopped? Oh, thank goodness!
Robert had barely enough time for that fragile thought to form when, without warning, that same overwhelming surge of relief and reorientation washed over him—the very sensation he had felt the last time this occurred at the office. It flooded his senses, made his ears ring and his muscles tighten in reflex. For several seconds, Robert remained sprawled on the floor, unmoving, chest heaving as he breathed heavily. Two questions spun relentlessly through his thoughts as his mind steadied: What in the world was that green object in Williams's hand? And why had its effect stopped?
The answer, or at least part of it, seemed to trouble Williams as well. The teacher stared down at the orb, turning it over with a frown, before flicking an uncertain glance back at Robert. Why had the boy stopped writhing?
Slowly, Robert turned his head. His eyes lifted to meet the teacher's and a sharp, twisting scowl overtook his features. Part of his face lost its firm, solid form and began breaking down into fine grains of sand. Within moments, that half of his face had reshaped itself into Poison's visage and he spoke in a deep voice that was both his and not his, "Poison," he growled. "The name is Poison."
"Poi.. what? There's no Ancestor soul bearing the name Poison!"
Williams was cut off as Robert's body began to enlarge and transform into sand. He began to rise from the floor as the transformation accelerated, and by the time he was standing straight, he had fully morphed into Poison — a towering and hulking sand elemental. He had to hunched forward to avoid pressing against the ceiling.
Poison looked around the room. He registered what little caught his interest — the deep red carpet beneath his feet, still rich in color and clearly new; the plush sofas and couch upholstered in white and red fur; and a framed photograph of Williams with his square glasses perched on his brows. Then, his attention settled fully on the teacher.
Mr. Williams stared up at the grotesque sand creature looming before him, a mix of stunned awe and creeping terror tightening his features. Though he had been aware that Robert was possessed by an ancestor-soul and should have the ability to transform into an elemental, witnessing it at such close range sent a chill through his bones... it would send a chill through anyone's bones!
Instinctively, his hand slipped into his pocket.
Oh yes— the teacher had considered this possibility. He drew a gun and fired. The weapon was fitted with a silencer; instead of thunderous blasts, two sharp, muted whistles cut through the air as the bullets struck Poison squarely in the chest.
Poison lowered his gaze to the impact site, examining the hollows with mild curiosity. Then, slowly, a broad, almost amused grin spread his lips. His body was nothing but sand—entirely sand. True harm was nearly impossible to inflict upon him. Grains of fine sand flowed back into place and the hollows filled up instantly.
"Your understanding of ancestor-souls, though impressive, is awfully limited," Poison remarked coolly.
He gently seized Williams by the throat and hoisted him effortlessly into the air.
"Allow me to enlighten you.''
He landed a single, powerful blow on Williams's face, sending the man crumpling to the floor. The green orb slipped from the teacher's fingers and rolled across the room, coming to a stop in a corner, close to a standing fan.
"The first lesson," Poison growled, his voice heavy with menace, "is never to ask them for their names."
And then, something seemed to catch his attention.
Poison paused, expression shifting sharply. In a snap, his immense form unravelled, disintegrating into a swirling cloud of sand that scattered into the air.
At that very moment, the door burst open. Miss Spine rushed in, her breath catching as her eyes swept the room and landed on Mr. Williams, who was struggling unsteadily to sit upright.
"Williams! Are you alright?" she exclaimed, hurrying to him. "I heard a commotion—did something happen? Oh God—" She bent down at once to help him, her confused gaze flicking around the room, taking in the strange sight of fine grains of sand scattered across the floor and furniture.
"Nothing to worry about, Tricia," Mr. Williams said tightly, allowing her to help him up. "Everything is fine."
"Nothing?" she repeated incredulously. "Look at your face, Lector. Something definitely happened here." She straightened abruptly. "Don't move, I'll go get my health kit."
Before he could stop her—before he could even protest—she had already darted out of the room.
After the door closed behind her, Mr. Williams turned back to the space where Poison had stood moments earlier. "You'll pay for this, Robert." He growled, rubbing the side of his face where the blow had landed. The skin there was already reddening, inflamed and sore. Something shifted uncomfortably in his mouth. He grimaced.
He'd lost a molar.
"You'll pay!"
As he finally forced himself to his feet, the throbbing pain in his face surged in waves. But the pain only added to the rage simmering just below the surface. Yet mingled with that anger was a trace of bitter disappointment. Robert wasn't possessing exactly what he'd been searching for—but that was irrelevant now.
The boy and his cursed magic spirit had nearly cracked his skull with that single blow.
And they had broken his damn tooth!
Before Tricia could return, Williams quickly exited his apartment and made his way up toward the principal's apartment, muttering curses under his breath with every step. When he finally reached the door, he paused. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, he struggled to suppress the boiling anger churning inside him.
Then, carefully—almost politely—he raised his hand and knocked.