Marigold tea still held the crown as the number one horror in my morning routine. And yet — habit is a strange thing. Today I woke up already anticipating the taste of that yellow filth. My body reached for the kettle before my brain could protest, as if it had decided that if the horror couldn't be avoided, it was best done quickly and without thought. Quick brew, three sips — three steps through hell — and I was human again. More or less.

At least breakfast, following the infusion of dead flowers, tasted like a royal feast by comparison. Or, if not that, then at least it didn't make me gag anymore.

Rene was busy with a new first-year student and didn't have much time for me when I first arrived at the hall, so I started with the usual: basic movements, channel work, projection bursts, and venting — until Rene freed up.

"So. The shield," he said. "You don't realise it, but your qi has already formed fragments a few times. You didn't see it, but I did. Now we'll try to do it on purpose."

"Is it like a projection?" I asked. "That's solid too, right?"

Rene shook his head.

"Projection is strength, determination — and just a touch of hardness. The shield is hardness with a bit of determination. It is a controlled side effect — triggered by redirecting excess hardness instead of releasing it.

"Remember our first training sessions — the first time you formed a projection?"

"Roughly," I nodded, unsure which part he meant.

"Remember how you hurt your hand?"

Oh. That was hard to forget. It felt like someone had cracked my knuckles with a hammer.

I winced and flinched at the memory.

"Good!" said Rene.

"Not good," I muttered, but he ignored me and kept going.

"That feeling — like you're pushing against a wall — remember it? A lot of people at your level forget."

"Not me," I said. "Still there." Every time I released a projection, I felt my fist push against something solid. The sensation had become fleeting, but it had never fully gone.

"Perfect! That wall doesn't go anywhere. It's always here, with you, around you. You just need to learn how to activate it."

I raised an eyebrow.

"Waiting for details."

"You're pushing the wall." Rene slowly extended a classic straight punch and held the position. "You've formed a projection — the energy's left your hand. The pressure on your fist is gone, but the wall is still there, and it's under your control. Now do the opposite. Imagine not pushing it, but pulling it toward yourself."

"Last time the wall hit back so hard my knuckles swelled up."

"Last time you didn't push properly," Rene pointed out. "Push right, and anything that could injure you gets thrown forward. Pull, and the wall will manifest in front of you. Well... not a wall — a shield. Think of it more like a cocoon that surrounds your body at arm's length. It won't stop you from using techniques, but it will block anything it's strong enough to resist. Chain Punch can't generate a proper shield, but there are nuances we'll get to later. For now, all you need to know is the shield is densest in front. It's weaker on the sides and at its most fragile behind you. So don't turn your back on an opponent. And keep an eye on point cultivators — those bastards love a good backstab."

I smiled but didn't argue. Striking where the enemy was weakest seemed entirely reasonable. The idea of activating the shield with a pull rather than a push was stranger — but Rene didn't give me the luxury of pondering it.

"Let's go! Show me a series. As usual, but on my command — pull back."

"Not right away?" I asked. That seemed easier.

"No, first you need to thicken the qi in the air a bit."

"So the shield doesn't just stay around me all the time?" I followed up — a point I found genuinely interesting.

"You can do that, but it'd be a crap shield. Normally it's triggered only to block something serious. And that's not the kind of detail your head needs to be cluttered with right now!" Rene snapped. "Focus and follow the command! I've got more cadets than just you."

I tugged on the plexus-reactor and started the sequence like always: inhale–exhale — punch–punch–punch–punch–punch.

Bam–bam–bam–bab–bam.

The projections flew like bullets from a machine gun.

"Feel the wall!" Rene ordered… "Now!"

I didn't think. I just pulled. Something inside clicked, like a lever shifting. The wall that had just been flying forward with the projection suddenly clung to my knuckles, and in the same instant, it took on weight and detached from my hand, solidifying in a silver veil behind my eyes.

It lasted only a moment — less than a second — and then the shield vanished. Gone even before I released the next projection. Which I did out of habit, then looked at Rene.

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He was smiling.

"Good! Good!" Rene clapped me on the shoulder, nearly knocking me to the floor.

I hissed in pain.

"Third stage!" I reminded him. "Watch the strength, or you'll kill me by accident — one less client for you!"

Still, this time his "good" actually meant good.

"Oh come on, how much are you even paying me?" he waved me off. "Not a big loss. Again," he ordered.

"On your signal?"

"Can you do it without one?" he asked.

"Signal, please," I decided.

I managed to replicate the success almost exactly, so Rene clapped me again and told me to keep practising on my own — try to trigger the shield without a cue.

Doing it without the signal was harder.

The shield made me think. It wasn't protection, not exactly. At least not in the traditional sense. To activate it, you had to go forward — strike, unleash projections. You couldn't raise it while cowering. It didn't grow out of fear. On the contrary — it came from determination.

If it was a defence, it was an aggressive one.

Shame I couldn't use it during the training session with Kate. In our last meeting before her isolation, she'd put me through hell. Afterward, we wished each other luck and parted ways.

Lunch passed quietly. No talk of breakthroughs today. The guys had switched to discussing the latest rumours about new techniques. Denis had read something about a "Black Dragon Palm" — supposedly it could punch through almost any armour at the second stage, but was useless at the first.

After lunch, Omar and I set out for round two of negotiations. First up was a jumpy but talkative cadet who'd already been ambushed twice — once on the stairs and once in the showers. He talked fast, his eyes darted around, and he kept asking whether he'd 'really be safe.' Even after I'd explained everything, he still refused. Omar stayed quiet the whole time, not wanting to mess anything up. And he didn't — I managed on my own.

The second candidate I spoke to for ten minutes, but got nothing but a blank stare. He wasn't afraid. He was already completely broken.

"There's no spirit left in them. Like plants. Just missing the green glow," Omar said sadly.

As harsh as it sounded, I had to agree. Sun Hao really had drawn the short straw with those two. But he and Dubois managed to persuade one more on the second try. Kowalski and Lin Jiao, though — they got two.

"Full set!" Kowalski declared. "I don't think there's any point dragging this out further."

"Not unless we want the bullies to come up with countermeasures," Lin Jiao agreed.

"Has word already started to spread?" Omar asked.

Lin Jiao shrugged — and he was right. It didn't matter anymore. It was too late to back out; we'd promised too much already. Still, somewhere deep under my solar plexus, a tight knot of bad premonitions had begun to form.

Dinner came early — not just for me, but for all the assistant supervisors and the six cadets targeted by the bullies. Six, not eight, because as soon as two of them heard our plan, they backed out immediately. Marek's group, they said, had never touched them. They only wanted revenge on the ones who had hurt them — no one else.

Dubois and Lin Jiao scrambled to find replacements from among the cadets who hadn't yet resisted, while the four of us moved on to execute the plan.

The block was unusually quiet. Maybe it was always that quiet — but this time, the silence pressed down on you.

Sun Hao hung around the cafeteria, waiting until Marek and his gang had finished eating. Unlike most, that group never split up. All four were Palm cultivators — they worked, trained, and ate together. Only their rooms were separate.

Sun Hao warned us when Marek had finished his meal, but the bastard didn't go to rest right away — he had "business on the stairs." Kowalski had to shoo them off to get them moving.

Marek returned to the block heading toward his room with the confident look of someone convinced they'd already won a fight that hadn't even started. Most had already eaten, so the corridor was busy. Not quite like the breakfast rush, but there were enough cadets around.

Weltman was waiting at the far end of the hall. Hands in pockets, gaze steady. As Marek approached, he stepped out to meet him.

"So," Marek said with a smug grin, "am I getting a gift?"

"Oh, absolutely," Weltman nodded. Then, without warning, he slapped him across the face so hard the sound echoed down the corridor.

We had suggested spitting in his face — but Weltman insisted on something more physical.

Marek clutched his cheek, eyes wide with shock and the beginnings of rage. His three minions stared in disbelief.

"From today on, you'll suffer. Constantly," Weltman declared.

"You threatening me?" Marek hissed. "Not thinking about your cultivation, are you?"

That was my cue. I'd stayed nearby for a reason. And thankfully, they hadn't issued us any special uniforms — so blending into the crowd had been easy.

"What's going on here?" I interrupted.

Weltman tilted his head mockingly and asked Marek,

"What's going on here? You threatening me?"

"N-no! Of course not!" the bully backed down immediately.

Damn — can't even write him up now.

"Then get moving — both of you — before I give you matching penalties."

Just in case, I sent a message to the chat:

Sullivan: Marek's pushing, but I can't pin him down!

That's how we agreed to stage a show — for an audience of one: Liang Shi. We needed his Penalty Points.

"Suffering!" Weltman repeated, then stepped aside.

I backed off too and turned in the opposite direction.

Behind me, Fernandez stepped up and spat right in Marek's face. Marek had no beef with Fernandez before, so it completely caught him off guard.

"What the hell!" Marek shouted, wiping the spit away.

"What's going on?" I turned sharply.

"He spat in my face!"

"Either you both walk away, or I penalise you both," I said flatly.

"He spat in my face!" Marek insisted again.

I exhaled in relief.

"One point each."

Then I typed into the chat:

Sullivan: Got him! Liang Shi — mark the penalty point!

"For what?!" Marek protested, then turned a furious stare on Fernandez. "You're dead, you idiot!"

Fernandez silently flipped him off and walked away.

Fuming, Marek quickened his pace towards his room — and walked straight into Arada.

Arada shoved him back so hard that Marek crashed into one of his own cronies and landed flat on his backside.

"You son of a—" Marek started, then looked up and hesitated. Arada was big. At least one and a half times the size of the biggest guy in Marek's gang.

"Go on," the big man said, calmly.

Now Marek could tell something was wrong. He looked from Arada to me, then found Fernandez again, then Weltman…

He clenched his jaw, scrambled to his feet, and ran for his room — leaving his lackeys behind. They hesitated, and I decided it would be a sin to waste such a golden opportunity.

"You three!" I barked. "Eyes on me!"

Marek didn't get far — ten metres at most. Raimondo, the next cadet in our line-up, just so happened to stick out a foot. Marek tripped, went down hard, but didn't injure himself — just let out a loud curse.

"You alright?" Raimondo bent over and grabbed his hand to help him up.

The moment Marek reflexively took it — Raimondo spat right into his eye.

"You bastard!" Marek howled and swung at him, but missed. Raimondo had already stepped back — just as we'd instructed all of them to do, the moment Marek lashed out.

"Marek!" Dubois barked. It was his patrol, after all. "Penalty point!"

Marek stood in the middle of the corridor — covered in spit, red-faced, eyes blazing with hatred. It was going to be hard for him to mock anyone else after that.

"You set this up! This was a setup!" he roared at Dubois.

"A setup?" Dubois echoed. "I don't know… I'm not as much of an expert on those as you are."

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