The medic scanned my head first. He frowned and scanned again, as if something didn't add up.

"Neural cortex is damaged. Multiple micro-traumas… Care to tell me what happened here?"

"I was practising a movement technique that lets you run through the air, forgot the limitations, built up too much negative qi, it blew up and I kissed the ceiling first, then the floor."

"Then why's your cortex shredded like that?" the medic asked.

"You're asking me?" I widened my eyes, which somehow triggered a pain spike in my shoulder and made me wince.

He swept the scanner over my shoulder, then, without waiting for permission, gave it a sudden yank. I barely had time to grit my teeth before the joint popped back into place.

"Fuck!" I hissed, but at least half the pain vanished instantly. "Thanks."

"You didn't use any mental technique recently?" the medic pressed on.

"Not just now. Thousand Sparks of Awareness a few hours ago."

He scanned my head again.

"Hmm, could be…" he muttered. "I'd recommend resting in a pod until morning. And no more Sparks for a few days. You've got a decent concussion, add anything else to it and you might just stay a halfwit forever."

"Got it," I mumbled. Becoming a halfwit wasn't on my wishlist.

The medics loaded me onto a stretcher and pumped something into my bloodstream.

I woke up already inside a pod.

Still had my underwear on.

That had become a sort of unofficial indicator for me. If I woke up with no pants — it was serious. If my boxers were still on — injuries weren't too bad.

Also, Zola wasn't around. Which further confirmed my theory that the medic had been more alarmist than genuinely concerned about my brain.

I didn't feel stupid. Just really, really hungry.

Even after tournaments, my stomach had never cramped like this. And back then, it usually craved meat. But now, even before the pod lid opened, my brain was locked onto the idea of croissants smothered in thick butter, jam, and a sweet milkshake.

Normally, I preferred bitter flavours, but now I was practically drooling over sugar.

Basically, I decoded it as a need for fat and carbs.

It was an interesting state.

I got a fresh jumpsuit from the attending nurse and stepped into the corridor. The question was where to go. I could have gone to the mess hall, but I doubted it would satisfy my current cravings with the standard menu. And if I dropped by Marco's, no guarantee he'd be open yet, and that would bankrupt me.

The obvious choice was Tangerine. The food quality was far from the best, but they had carbs and fat in abundance.

So, Tangerine it was.

On the way, I checked my messages.

There were three: one from Zola, one from Novak, and one from Artem. Plus a few updates in the assistant chat.

Zola showed friendly concern, Novak wrote with the worry of a master, and Artem was asking whether my current condition would interfere with technique training. I replied that it would.

To Novak, I wrote about my breakthrough with Air.

To Zola, I said I was having a savage hunger, and she was welcome to join me at Tangerine.

Then I messaged the chat to say I was fine and thanked the guys who'd covered my sudden shift.

Tangerine was empty. Just a few second-years sipping morning coffee. I grabbed a tray and started piling it high with pastries from the vending walls.

Given the price range and the general setup of the place, all the sweets came either in flashy cellophane wrappers or in clear plastic tubs with disposable spoons.

One by one, my tray filled with: plump, round eclairs stuffed with different creams, apple charlottes dusted with cinnamon, raspberry cheesecake, croissants filled with condensed milk, and thick slices of chocolate cake.

The whole thing became a precarious mountain, so I had to carry it to a booth with a sound-blocking formation before heading back for drinks.

For drinks, I ordered three milkshakes at once: strawberry, banana, and classic vanilla.

By the time Zola arrived, I was already halfway through it all. The dessert mountain had shrunk, but the wrappers and empty containers now covered the entire table.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She raised her eyebrows the moment she walked in and pulled a mask of light surprise over her face.

"Impressive," she said as she got closer.

"My cerebral cortex is damaged... And as we all know, the brain is made of fat cells. So I need fat. And carbs," I replied.

I sucked the last of the banana milkshake through the straw and pointed to the seat opposite.

She glanced at the table, sighed, and headed off to the vending machines, returning with a coffee and a slice of peach pie.

I had to shift some croissant and éclair wrappers aside, stuffing them into the cake boxes so she could set her tray down.

"Jake," she said, "the brain isn't made of fat cells. It's made of neurons. Those are nerve cells that conduct signals."

"Really?" I scooped out a piece of cake with the plastic spoon. "And neurons aren't fat?"

"Not quite." She sipped her coffee. "Neurons have nuclei, mitochondria, loads of protein structures. Yes, they've got lipid membranes, but the main work they do is electrochemical. Grey matter is the neuron bodies, white matter is the axons covered in myelin. Myelin is fat-like, true, but it's produced by specialised insulating cells. So fat isn't the brain itself, it's the insulation for the wiring."

"Hm..." I thoughtfully drew up some vanilla milkshake through the straw. "So my insulation's blown out?"

"I don't know, I haven't seen your med file this time, but if your cortex is damaged, you need protein and glucose. Glucose is fuel, protein's for rebuilding.

"Besides, there's way more carbs than fat here. And the craving for fat isn't because of brain damage — it's because the pod drained some of your glycogen stores to accelerate healing.

"Also, sweet and fatty stuff stimulates your dopamine system. After stress and pain, the brain asks for a 'reward', and the easiest way to give it one is food."

"Good to know," I said, pretending I understood her. "You sound like a proper doctor."

"Bulsaara's dead set on making one out of me," Zola sighed bitterly.

"Oh don't start whining now," I teased. "You said it yourself — you're not a fighter. You've got to be useful for something."

"Excuse me!?" Zola put on a mock pout, grabbed a crumpled eclair wrapper, rolled it into a ball and chucked it at my face. The plastic wrapper unfolded mid-air and would've hit the floor if I hadn't caught it.

"I'm going to remember that!" she warned.

We chewed and sipped in silence for a few minutes, but Zola couldn't stay quiet for long.

"Did you call me here just to sit in silence?"

"I called you to keep me company."

"Then talk. I get it, you're the mysterious type, but seriously, I'm sick of you never telling me anything. Like, how the hell did you manage to damage your cerebral cortex? What were you doing in the pod?"

I glanced at the second-years, and the newly minted third-year sipping tea nearby. This wasn't the kind of conversation serious enough to warrant activating the privacy formation.

"Well, in the pod I slept," I joked, "and the cortex got damaged from a brain-acceleration technique."

Zola grimaced.

"Yeah, they can be tricky."

"Wait! You know a technique like that?"

"Of course! Cerebral Cascade – Memory Acceleration. How else do you think I keep up with all the crap Doc throws at me?"

"And I'm the one not telling you anything?"

"Oh right, of course!" Zola smacked her forehead in mock revelation and began dripping sarcasm. "You totally told me about your mental technique. We totally talked about it last time."

"You're insufferable sometimes," I said.

She shrugged.

"I don't have any friends, and you're the only person I can talk to. Tell me something."

I sighed and told her about my progress with Mad Monkey of East and the stagnation that preceded it. I also mentioned Thousand Sparks of Insight.

"Thousand Sparks?" Zola repeated. "You do realise that's literally the third hardest mental technique in the school registry, right? The only ones harder are the two mind-splitting ones."

"Let me guess — Mind Parallelisation?"

"Exactly!" Zola frowned and clearly started putting something together. She began feeling around the tabletop with her finger until she found the control node and activated the privacy field. "You're not trying to become a Puppeteer, are you?"

"No," I replied. "I can't tell you."

"Well, not many options then," Zola said. "Mind-splitting is only useful for researchers or Puppeteers. And you don't look like a researcher."

"You don't look much like a doctor either," I shot back, but she decided to ignore the jab.

"Something new brewing with our old 'friends'?" she asked.

"It never really stopped," I replied.

At that, Zola quieted down a bit and got lost in thought.

She finished her coffee and the rest of the pie, while I polished off two more milkshakes and three slices of cake. We went our separate ways, and she told me to take care of myself and try not to end up in the pod again.

I assured her I wasn't planning to end up there on purpose.

My stomach was bloated from all the food, and the sugary aftertaste made my jaw ache. Strangely, I still didn't feel full — just drowsy.

So sleep it was.

I returned to our empty room and crashed out until lunch.

When I woke up, I felt full, but remembering Zola's advice about protein for brain recovery, I headed to the cafeteria.

After lunch, there wasn't much time left before my shift in the block. Probably not the smartest idea, but I had to make sure I could repeat yesterday's breakthrough, confirm that the insight hadn't vanished. Judging by the fact that my Air Root was still sitting at 54, it hadn't, but I still had some doubts.

This time, I didn't skip the prep. I found a proper sand hall, took my time, walked slowly to the centre, extended my arm and began channelling Qi along it.

This time, my palm didn't even glint with silver. Air currents burst from my fingertips — pure Air Qi. They kicked up a small sandstorm, and I had the urge to try trapping some grains mid-air. But the wind kept blowing everything away from me, so I sent out a few more whirlwinds and whipped up a proper miniature storm in the hall.

Only then did I release the Qi into the air, but not completely. I guided the currents, telling them to twist into a tight sphere.

And it worked!

The sand quickly settled, and I pulled closer a transparent, glassy sphere, looking like liquid glass. It hovered a few centimetres from my fist and refracted the light like water. Inside, the currents swirled, and a few grains of sand floated in their flow.

Perfect.

Now I just had to let it go without—

Boom!

The air still had a mind of its own. Lose focus for just a moment and it did whatever the hell it wanted.

The burst of air slammed me in the chest, and one rogue grain scratched my cheek open. Letting go still needed work.

Monkey time.

I dashed — one, two — jumped up, wind underfoot — jump again!

Move diagonally, zigzag, use your arms!

After two jumps with my legs, I grabbed onto the air with my hands and swung like a proper monkey on a branch, pushed off with my arms again and launched myself in a massive leap towards the ceiling. Caught the air again with my hands, pulled up, spun mid-air and braced both feet against the ceiling. Then I kicked off into a dive straight for the sand.

While falling, I spun again, making sure my feet hit the ground first, and a massive detonation of Qi beneath my soles scattered the sand. It cushioned the impact.

And though my feet went a bit numb...

That was damn cool!

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