Chương 25: Act 1, Chapter 25: Siblings quarrel

Day in the story: 2nd October (Thursday) I visited the toilet again. If I kept doing that, someone's bound to think I've got digestive issues or some weird fixation. Could be fun, honestly. I portaled to Mr. Penrose's office, grabbed the binoculars from his desk and then jumped straight back to the overlook with an umbrella already open. It wasn't raining here anymore, not like in the city, where it poured like it was the clouds' only purpose in life.

I scanned the camper for a few seconds to make sure no one was inside. All clear. Another blink and I was in. Three jumps in under a minute. Not bad. I set up by the window again, pressing close to the edge, peeking out toward the house. From this angle, I had a clean line of sight into what looked like a hall-turned-dining-room, spacious, formal, a little too clean. The long table stretched through the center, surrounded by chairs like chess pieces waiting to be moved.

A massive glass chandelier hung dead-center above it, flanked by two smaller ones farther out. Cabinets lined the back wall, holding god-knows-what. I counted three doors, maybe storage, maybe exits. Hard to tell from here. The table was dressed with a long, draped cloth— good —I could dive under it if I landed there and needed cover. The windows had curtains too, though they were tied aside for now. Useful details.

I sketched everything quickly onto a spare piece of paper, rough lines, messy shadows, enough for reference. I'd transfer it into the travel Grimoire later, give it the care and color it needed to become an anchor. When I was done, I portaled back to Penrose's office, returned the binoculars and left a quick thank-you note next to them. Then, one more portal, back to campus, umbrella still open. Can't believe I lived most of my life actually walking everywhere. What a waste of perfectly good time.

I still had at least forty minutes before my next lesson, so I made my way toward the Dining Hall. As I entered alongside a trickle of other students, I glanced at Ella, my fantastic umbrella. The paint held perfectly, not a drop lost to the city's relentless downpour. I could enhance her at any second if needed. She'd hold my Authority like a perfect vessel. I grabbed a plate of delicious-looking Asian food and scanned the hall for any familiar, friendly faces.

I spotted Hannah and Elena at a corner table—no sign of Sophie. Tyler and Jason were eating by the window. And then I saw Peaches, sitting alone. That wouldn't do. Peaches was too much of a sweetheart to waste her fantastic personality in silence. I headed her way.

"May I join you?" I asked, out of courtesy.

"Hi, Alexa. Sure, take a seat."

"What are you up to?" I asked as I settled in.

"Eating," she replied, then laughed.

"I'm working on an AI that generates images for ads. Yeah, save me the 'evil tech overlords' speech. It's interesting."

"I wasn't going to critique. I'll get my fill of that in the next lesson anyway," I said.

"It actually does sound interesting. When your AI generates these images, do you see them as art?"

"Can any advertisement be art?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Of course it can. If there's creative expression or cultural commentary involved, why not? A good ad can evoke emotion, right? You've never felt anything from one?" She gave me a look like I was reciting a conspiracy theory.

"I might've," she admitted.

"Can't remember the last time I actually watched an ad. I skip them the second I can."

"So when you look at your own AI-generated images, do they make you feel anything?"

"Sometimes?" she answered, uncertain.

"One image yesterday showed a condo on this perfectly trimmed lawn, a white house in a row of identical white houses. Caption said 'Would you live here?' I felt like—no. Like it was too clean. Too copy-paste. I'd need something more personal."

"So was it art?" I kept probing.

"If it made you feel something and had commentary baked in?"

"I'm not the one studying art, Alexa. You are. You tell me." Just then, Peter and Zoe slid into our booth. Zoe sat beside me and gave me a quick side-hug. Peter, across from her, next to Peaches. His eyes were sharp, colder than usual. What's his deal today?

"I don't know, Peaches," I said, still holding the thread of our talk.

"That's the question: can a computer create art? Does the author matter, if a piece moves you or says something true? People once argued whether ads could be art. Now we're wondering if art has to be made by a human. Maybe it doesn't." Peaches nodded slowly.

"You guys have philosophical convos over lunch. I love it," Zoe said, smiling. Peaches smiled back.

"I think it doesn't matter," Zoe continued.

"Like you said Lex—nature can make art, sometimes better than humans can. Right?"

"You mean landscapes?" Peaches asked.

"Sure, but also people, animals, flowers. Isn't a beautiful person a work of art?"

"She has a point," I said.

"But beauty and art aren't the same. Beauty is a quality, something pleasing, harmonious, emotionally striking. It can be natural or crafted. Art, though, it's an intentional act. A decision. That's why despite me teasing, I still think that human touch is needed. Computer works without an intention, just a script." Zoe nodded thoughtfully. Peaches gasped, then said:"So, if Zoe here makes babies with Peter, are the babies art? If they had sex with the intention of creating something beautiful?"

She said it completely straight-faced. Zoe turned crimson. Peter looked like someone had hit him with a chair, but still, no smile, no warmth. Just that icy expression.

"Well, I'd call those babies a work of art, for sure," I said, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Speaking of making babies," Peter said. Oh no. Don't do this.

"Sorry, Lex, but I can't get it out of my head, why would you sleep with that guy?" Zoe whipped around to glare at him. Peaches just looked stunned.

"Peter, brother," I said calmly, though my pulse was a slow thunder under my ribs.

"First of all, this? Not the time or place. Don't you think?" I wanted to tell him it was a lie, just a cover story for Sophie. But not now. Not like this.

"Second, —" I went on before he could open that mouth again, "—it's none of your business who I spend my nights with."

"Yeah—Peter, what's wrong with you?" Zoe snapped.

"Sorry Zoe, but you don't know this guy. He's bad news."

"I don't know who you're even talking about," Zoe said, voice sharper now, "and that makes me uncomfortable. Peaches too, judging by her face, "Peaches nodded, still wide-eyed." and Lex? She's clearly the most uncomfortable of us all. You disappointed me, Pete." She said it with equal parts anger and heartbreak. I liked her more every second.

"More than that," she continued as Peter sat stunned, "I've gotten to know Alexa. If she decides someone's worth her time, she deserves trust."

"Oh no, Zoe, sorry but you're wrong. Lex makes a lot of stupid decisions. All the time." God, I wanted to smack that smug face. But he wasn't wrong.

"Everyone makes bad decisions, Peter," I said, still cool.

"You starting this conversation right now is one."

"Not on the level of your decisions," he shot back. I gritted my teeth. I kept my voice steady. But he was getting close to that line. Really close.

"Do you have something particular in mind?" I asked, keeping my voice flat.

"You know I can't talk about that," Peter replied.

"Oh, so you do have lines you don't cross in public?" I shot back, thick with sarcasm. He noticed, of course, but didn't respond with bile. Instead, he said:"He might be your biggest mistake." My blood boiled.

"Wonderful, Pete. Just what I needed, someone to point at my life and declare what my biggest mistake is. Lucky for me, it's my choice in men. Let's hope I survive it." I stood up, plate in hand.

"I'm sorry you had to be part of this," I said to the girls. Then I turned and looked Peter dead in the eyes.

"Not my best choice either." Before he could get another word out, I turned and walked away. Zoe followed a few moments later, catching up to me outside the hall.

"I'm sorry, Alexa. I'll talk to him."

"No need, Zoe," I said, forcing a smile that probably didn't fool her.

"Let him stew in the emotions he tried to feed me. When he learns the truth, it'll teach him something." I regretted those last words the second they left my mouth.

"What truth?" she asked, keeping pace with me. She already knew about my magic, there was no point in lying now.

"The whole sex thing?" I said, dropping my voice.

"It didn't happen. I portaled into my room with the guy because some bad people were tailing us. It was a cover story. For Sophie, she's a sleeper." Zoe's eyes went wide.

"I was going to tell Peter, privately. But after today? He doesn't deserve it." Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

"Should I keep it to myself too?" she asked gently. I shrugged as I put my tray on the conveyor.

"Do what you want, Zoe. I won't mind either way. Also… thanks. For standing up for me. It meant a lot." I hugged her and then turned toward the next lesson. I'd already had a pretty good warm-up.

Critique was a battlefield. We met in the main gallery space, raw concrete walls, unforgiving lights and paintings lined up like soldiers awaiting judgment. Each week, a handful of us offered something new, unfinished, fragile and let the room tear it apart. It was brutal. But usually honest. Of course, when it rained, it poured. That day, it was my turn. Thanks again Peter, for ruining my mood. I had brought a piece I prepared the week before, before I even faced Shiroi.

It was a painting I titled The Silence Between Stars. A wide, cinematic dusk draped the scene, an empty gas station sat just off-center, flickering weakly under buzzing fluorescents. The building wasn't abandoned, but it felt untouched, forgotten. The cracked pavement reflected broken neon in shallow puddles. No figures were present, but their absence echoed louder than presence, an overturned chair, a still-lit cigarette, a dangling phone receiver swaying in the unseen wind.

The road curved off into the darkness, wet and gleaming, leading nowhere you could name. Behind it, a forest stood tall like a row of silent spectators, symmetrical, expectant. Above, a satellite glided through a starless sky, the only motion in a world too still. Everything was paused. Not empty—waiting. The perspective felt like a car had stopped just out of frame, engine idling, headlights off, watching. The light didn't warm, but exposed instead. This painting wasn't about space.

It was about the weight of absence. A moment stretched too long. A breath held for no one. Loneliness, not as a feeling, but as a landscape. And it never looked away. That had been the intention, anyway. The room circled like vultures. Observations flew.

"It feels cinematic."

"Is it about loneliness?"

"Why no figures?" I nodded. I answered. I deflected. I lied, just enough to keep them interested. Mark hadn't been there that day. He usually was. Always cut through the theory and abstraction with something blunt and too real. I wondered what he would've said. Something that stuck in your ribs. Someone asked about the forest in the background.

"Is it threatening or nostalgic?"

"Both," I said. That answer landed. One girl wrote it down like it meant something. Maybe it did. By the end, I was wrung out but steady. They liked it. They didn't understand it, but they felt it. And maybe that was what mattered. The professor gave me a single, short nod. That was as close as he ever got to praise. I lingered behind after the discussion, my fingers brushing the edge of the frame. That painting had been the last thing I made just because I felt it.

Not because I needed a door, or a weapon, or a tool. Just art, for the sake of art. I needed to do more of that. [Yes.] What? That again. Not a voice, exactly, but not my thought either. I scanned the room, but no one seemed to notice anything. I hadn't spoken aloud. Are you my Domain? [I am an anima. I am what remained of your shadow's intellect.] So… a part of the Domain? Or the soul core? [Yes.] You were the one I spoke with inside the Domain, right? The one who helped me make sense of it? [Yes.] You responded to what I thought, about needing to make more art. Why? [Soul core power grows as you use your authority, not just the power of it, but its essence. That was how it grew enough to become a soul core in the first place.] That… made sense. Could I control the Authority itself? I mean, the light. Could I shape it into something more than just infusing art? [I have no knowledge in relation to that question.] So that's not a no. I'd keep experimenting.

Could you tell me how close you were to "growing," or whatever it was soul cores did? Was there a name for that? What would it change? [Would you like to be presented with percentages until growth occurs?] Yes. [You are at 4%. You need 96% more essence of authority to initiate growth.] Essence? [A byproduct of using Authority. It fills the soul core gradually, when full, the core grows. Growth enables the advancement of one of your soulmarks.] Advance? How?

[You will be presented with choices when growth happens. I do not possess those parameters yet.] Got it. Do you have a name? [I do not.] Wait, were you the one who acted as the trial spirit in the Domain? [Only partially.] Then I'll name you Anansi, like the spider god of artists and cheaters. You'll respond to that, okay? [Yes.] So what else could you do for me, Anansi? I'd never had a spirit in my head before. [That is not true. I am not a spirit, I am an intelligence remnant and I had been in your mind since the moment you first touched the soul core. I can answer questions related to your Domain of power.] You sound like a computer program. I don't like that. Do you have emotions? [No.] Could you develop them? [I have no knowledge in relation to that question.] I packed up my piece and walked out of the class. Why did you start talking to me today, if you'd been here from the start?

[You had never addressed me directly before, until yesterday.] But I didn't really do it directly now either, did I? [It seemed directed enough.] Huh. So it did have some kind of feelings. Good. I'd have hated for it to stay that bland forever. Maybe it would grow some personality with time. Okay then, answer me this. Would a text be enough to create a portal anchor? [If there is an art in it.] Yeah, I kind of figured that out already.

Alright, Anansi, from now on, only speak when you have something useful to say, or when I call you by name. Got it? [Understood.] It still felt weird, talking to some—what exactly? Intelligence? Residue? Not quite a spirit, not a person and definitely not a voice I'd invited. But it was in there. Part of me now. Part of this. I wonder, does every growth only let me advance my soulmark? [No. Some growths will unlock additional room for new soulmarks as well.] Now that was genuinely useful, Anansi. Thanks.

I'll keep that in mind.

I was back in my room the moment people looked away. I touched the grimoire inside my bag and wished to go home. The portal pulled at my soul, more than it did when I used a painted anchor, just like it had when I jumped to the camper. But it was quicker. I stepped into the hall, hung my wet clothes on the rack and headed into the kitchen for a snack before retreating to my room.

The interior of the de Marcos dining hall still lingered fresh in my mind and with my sketch as a guide, I started painting it into my Travel Grimoire. Before long, I had a new anchor etched onto the page, an exact memory made real through art. There was still nearly two hours before the match started at the frat's private sports hall. Jason had texted me the address earlier, it wasn't far from campus. I'd portal over when the time came. No need to waste time walking.

It struck me then how strange it was: Shiroi, with his obsession for threads and materials, ended up with destructive power. While I, with my passion for paint and image, was gifted creation. He tore the world apart. I stitched it back together. That wasn't an accident. Our Domains weren't handed down, they were shaped. Influenced. Built from the things we loved and the choices we made with them. I had helped form my Domain by being who I was and now, it would shape me in turn.

Like a feedback loop between the soul and its art. That train of thought pulled me toward an old question, one I had no answer for, until now, maybe. Anansi, can a soulmark be removed from a soul core once it's placed? [Yes. When a soul core is shattered and must be regrown, soulmarks are sometimes lost beyond recovery. Only then can a new soulmark take their place.] Soul cores can be destroyed? How? [I have no knowledge in relation to that question.] If it was a crystal, maybe it only took enough force, physical, magical, emotional, to fracture it. Not something I intended to test. And I definitely didn't want to find out whether it hurt, to have part of your soul annihilated. Besides, I didn't want to change my soulmarks. I couldn't imagine any that fit me better than the ones I had now. I turned back to the work that still lay ahead, my thoughts still tumbling and focused on my armor-making. The storm outside was a perfect soundtrack.

I could hear the rain tapping on the windows like a soft metronome, steady and syncopated, guiding the rhythm of my thoughts. Thunder growled now and then, a reminder of the kind of power I wanted to mirror in fabric and form. The silver base suit was already laid out on my workspace, a sleek second skin of high-compression athletic material that shimmered with a faint metallic sheen.

I didn't want to build armor that just protected the body from outside threats, I wanted to give the impression of armor that suggested invincibility, strength and sleekness. A look, not a function. Something futuristic, almost alien. But not rigid. My suit needed to move like skin, stretch with my limbs and still look like a sci-fi combat shell. That was the real challenge. So I began with segmentation.

I pulled out a thick sketchbook and drew rough thumbnails, blocking out where plating would be if this were real power armor. Chest plates curving beneath the collarbones, segmented obliques to echo abdominal armor, layered "ribs" made of fabric mimicking overlapping titanium. I broke the legs into thigh, knee and shin sections, leaving the joints untouched so flexibility wouldn't be compromised. I envisioned articulated sections wrapping around my arms like the exoskeleton of some advanced pilot suit.

To trick the eye into seeing plates instead of fabric, I had to simulate volume and boundary, mimic the hard edges of molded armor using soft materials. Every false "plate" would be defined not by bulk but by seam, shape and light. Raised edges stitched into the suit. Lines like ridges. Angular symmetry to make it look mechanical, almost printed onto the body. I cut paper stencils based on my drawings, refining the angles and curvature to follow my body's movement.

I tried some out directly on the mirror, taping them to my base suit to make sure the proportions were right. It couldn't just be cool, it had to flow with how I moved, where the muscles stretched, how the fabric behaved when I bent or twisted. Each section was labeled, measured and marked with chalk onto the silver material I'd chosen for plating, fabric that had a subtle reflective quality, like brushed aluminum.

A soft vinyl-backed knit that wouldn't fray, easy to topstitch, sturdy enough to hold shape but still yield under pressure. This first step took longer than I thought it would, because it wasn't just about looks. The illusion of plating depended entirely on how well I mapped movement and anatomy to the visual language of armor. There was a balance between intimidation and grace that I didn't want to lose.

By the time I pinned the first mock panels onto the suit, the thunder had faded and only the soft hum of my desk lamp remained. The armor didn't exist yet, but its ghost was already here, hovering on the edge of fabric and form. As I moved away from the desk, a dull ache pulsed through my shoulder and curled tight into my side. My body protested each motion, every step a quiet rebellion. Noxy's shot had left me with bruised body. I breathed through it. I'd felt worse. I'd been worse.

But the match tonight wouldn't wait for recovery. I slipped out of my clothes with a careful grace, avoiding pulling at the shoulder too sharply. In the mirror, the bruises greeted me like a twisted bouquet of color, swollen violets and sickly greens across my ribs and upper arm. My right side looked like I had been struck by lightning. The swelling had gone down some, at least. I could lift my arm now without cursing under my breath. Progress. Not enough, but progress. The pain was manageable, but visible.

Too visible. I opened the drawer where I kept my makeup kit and set it on the bathroom counter. I didn't reach for the foundation first. Instead, I stared at my reflection a moment longer. I looked like a fighter, but not the kind I wanted to be today. Today wasn't about surviving. Today was about winning. It took time to get the tones right. The bruises weren't just one color, they were layered, shifting. A little yellow here. Some lavender to balance the deeper shadows. A peach-toned concealer over the red.

I blended with care, brush strokes steady, expression blank. Layer by layer, the damage vanished beneath pigments and powder until the only thing left was smooth-looking skin. Then, quietly, I reached inward.

"Be healed," I whispered, barely audible. The Authority flowed at once, like a spark. Warmth swept through my frame, sinking into joints and muscle fibers, knitting things into place. The tightness in my ribs eased, the stiffness in my shoulder softened. I rolled my arm, tested the range. Back to full. I exhaled, flexed my fingers and let the illusion of fragility go. Good as new. Almost. But I wasn't done. Not tonight.

Tonight I needed something more—an edge, a symbol, a weapon that whispered without words: don't underestimate me. I opened the smaller box next to the makeup case and took out my body paints—waterproof, metallic and precise. I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled one leg up, rolling my pant leg past the ankle. With a practiced hand I painted fine silver lines along the curve of my ankle and Achilles, mimicking the delicate joints of a cybernetic brace.

Tiny circuits, false tension coils, the suggestion of servos hiding just beneath the skin. I did the same to the other ankle, then moved to my right wrist, my strike arm. I imagined it wrapped in a mechanical cuff, power concentrated at the joint like a spring waiting to uncoil. They weren't just for looks. When I finished painting, I leaned back slightly, feeling the stretch in my ribs as I raised my arm. Then, once more, I tapped into my core, not just for healing, but for function.

"Be my powered braces," I murmured, focusing on the painted lines.

"Give me strength." A faint shimmer sparked across the painted areas. Authority accepted. The enhancements settled into place, ready to be called on in the heat of a jump, a kick, a sprint that needed to leave someone like Peter two steps behind. I slid long socks over the painted ankles and tugged a black sweatband over the wrist. Hidden and tucked away. I dressed with quick efficiency: sports bra, athletic shorts, cropped tee. Everything functional. Everything meant for speed, grip, movement.

I tossed the rest into my duffel, extra shirt, spare water bottle, sneakers and zipped it shut. I covered myself with a long coat and grabbed Ella. I was ready. Let the boys try to match me. Let Peter stew in whatever half-baked drama he'd cooked up. I didn't need to argue anymore. I would prove everything on the court.