Dr. Victor Zhao, despite his official title as a Senior Cultech Researcher at Grimstone, spent most of his days in a state of carefully managed professional boredom. He taught the same introductory courses, supervised the same predictable third-year projects, and maintained the same meticulously cynical distance from the academy's idealistic goals. He was a jaded scientist, a former top researcher at Leading Star Academy whose career had been derailed by a catastrophic, high-risk project years ago.
Anaya Patel's technical inquiry landed on his desk, routed as "Analysis of Asymmetrical Energy Anomalies." He frowned, already anticipating a flawed sensor report.
He brought up the data: the initial trace of the chaotic energy spike, followed by the complex firewall from the confirmed location in Sector 4.
Zhao's initial reaction was pure, professional skepticism. "A malfunction," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "Low-grade equipment mimicking high-level flux. Typical low-born charlatanism."
But as he began to analyze the firewall code, his skepticism fractured. The code wasn't just complex; it was brilliant. It used energy distribution patterns that mirrored theoretical applications he had once researched but deemed too unstable for practical use. The structure of the code, much like the energy spike itself, was asymmetrical, yet terrifyingly efficient—the work of a mind that treated established protocol as optional.
His cynical expression cracked, replaced by a flash of old, almost forgotten intensity. This wasn't a malfunction. This was intentional.
He brought up the full analysis of the initial energy spike. He realized the pattern of the flux—the Divergent Flow—was similar to the theoretical instability that had caused his own research failure at Leading Star. But this flux was contained, albeit briefly, by sheer, reckless will.
"They're a mirror," Zhao whispered, his voice dry. "A perfect reflection of my own greatest mistake, only younger and more volatile."
He felt a conflicted mix of admiration and deep, professional fear. This boy was walking the same disastrous path he had, but was doing it with less training and more success.
Anaya Patel knocked and entered, her gaze fixed on the terminal screen. "Dr. Zhao, the source responded with a technical defense, not an evasion. I believe this isn't low-born tampering, but an unaccredited genius."
Zhao looked up at the young theorist, recognizing her bright-eyed, unearned idealism—the same idealism he had possessed before the system crushed him.
"Genius is defined by results, Ms. Patel, not chaotic potential," Zhao replied, his tone clipped and precise. "This individual represents a significant resource risk. If their technique is what it appears to be, it is a danger to themselves and any project they touch."
He was projecting his own failure onto Kai. He secretly believed that Kai would inevitably crash and burn, just as he had, and he wanted to stop the inevitable destruction. His cynicism was a defensive shield for his hidden idealism—the fear that a true revolutionary would fail again.
Zhao grabbed a blank data chip. "I will investigate this personally. Do not mention this to Administrator Hart, and do not route this information through standard channels. I need to confirm the instability before we risk Grimstone's limited reputation on another catastrophic failure."
He set the chip to record only the subject's Force signature during the observation, determining to conduct a secretive, real-time assessment. He was looking not for talent, but for the predictable signs of collapse.
As he left the lab, driven by a reluctant sense of duty and a morbid fascination, he felt a strange sense of déjà vu. The fate of his own career, and perhaps the fate of the one chaotic idea that could save Grimstone, now rested on the unpredictable shoulders of a low-born boy.