Lin Chen made it three days without trying again.
That, more than anything, convinced him this wasn't a dream.
Dreams faded when ignored. Hallucinations softened. Whatever this was sat patiently in the back of his mind, unchanged, waiting for him to acknowledge it.
Classes came and went. Lectures blurred together. He took notes, answered questions when called on, laughed at the right moments. From the outside, nothing about him seemed different.
Inside, he was constantly aware of how *careful* he was being.
Every movement felt deliberate. Every thought checked and rechecked.
By the third night, the restraint started to crack.
Not from excitement.
From doubt.
*What if I imagined it?*
*What if it only worked that once?*
Uncertainty was worse than fear.
Lin locked his door.
Not because he planned to do something dramatic, but because he didn't want interruptions. He sat on the floor, notebook beside him, lights dimmed.
"Once," he told himself. "Just enough to confirm."
He didn't widen his perception.
He didn't scan the room.
He focused on his hands.
In *Eternal Grid*, formations weren't built in the environment first. They were planned internally. Visualized. Tested mentally before a single line was placed.
Lin closed his eyes.
A triangle formed in his mind.
Three points. Balanced. Minimal.
The same stabilization pattern.
He did not reach outward.
He *aligned*.
The headache came immediately—sharper than before.
Lin clenched his jaw and held the structure steady.
Something shifted.
Not in the room.
In him.
A pressure built behind his sternum, like holding a breath he hadn't taken. His heartbeat slowed, each thud heavy and deliberate.
The air around his hands cooled.
Lin's eyes snapped open.
The lines were there.
Clearer than they'd ever been.
They weren't on the floor this time.
They were… closer.
Too close.
"Stop," he whispered.
He released the visualization.
The pressure vanished instantly, leaving him gasping. He leaned forward, palms flat against the floor, fighting the wave of dizziness that followed.
"That was stupid," he muttered.
He waited for the world to settle.
It did.
Mostly.
But something was wrong.
Lin lifted his right hand slowly.
The faint distortions followed.
Not the room.
His hand.
His breath hitched.
"No," he said quietly. "No, no, no."
He flexed his fingers.
The lines tightened, converging around his wrist, responding to motion, to intent.
He hadn't drawn a formation *on* the world.
He'd drawn it on himself.
Panic flared—hot and immediate.
In the game, personal formations existed, but they were advanced. Dangerous. Buff arrays that interacted directly with a character's stats.
He hadn't meant to—
A sharp pain lanced through his arm.
Lin cried out and staggered back, collapsing against the bed. The pressure spiked, then wobbled, unstable.
"Release," he gasped. "Release—"
He forced his mind to let go.
The lines shattered.
Not explosively.
They unraveled, snapping back into nothing like stretched rubber bands released all at once.
Lin screamed as agony tore through his nerves. His arm spasmed violently, knocking over a chair as he convulsed on the floor.
Then—
Silence.
He lay there, chest heaving, sweat soaking through his shirt.
Minutes passed.
Maybe more.
When he could finally move, Lin rolled onto his side and stared at his right arm.
It was shaking.
Not injured. Not burned.
Just… exhausted.
Like he'd overused a muscle he didn't know he had.
"Idiot," he whispered hoarsely.
He pushed himself upright, every movement cautious now.
The lines were gone.
Completely.
No matter how he focused, nothing responded.
For a terrifying moment, he thought he'd lost whatever ability he'd stumbled into.
Then the headache returned—dull, deep, and unmistakable.
A reminder.
Not gone.
Just inaccessible.
Lin dragged himself onto the bed and lay staring at the ceiling, heart still racing.
He'd made a mistake.
Not a small one.
He'd assumed formations were external tools.
He'd forgotten that structures could exist *anywhere*.
Including inside a human body.
Sleep claimed him eventually, dragged him under by sheer exhaustion.
---
He woke to the sound of his alarm.
For a moment, everything felt normal.
Then he moved his arm.
A sharp twinge shot through his shoulder, and he winced.
"Still there," he murmured.
He sat up slowly and tested his fingers.
They responded.
But when he gripped the edge of the bed—
The strength wasn't quite right.
Not weaker.
*Denser.*
The bedframe creaked softly under his grip.
Lin froze.
He released it immediately, heart pounding.
Carefully, he placed his hand back on the frame and applied pressure again—just a little.
The metal bent.
Not much.
But enough.
Lin stared at it, breath shallow.
The formation had collapsed.
But it hadn't vanished completely.
Something had changed.
He swallowed.
Whatever rules governed this power, they weren't clean.
They didn't reset.
They *left traces*.
Lin leaned back, a mix of awe and dread twisting in his chest.
He finally understood something fundamental.
This wasn't like a game.
Mistakes didn't just fail.
They lingered.
And if he wasn't careful—
The next one might not let him walk away at all.