Rollo wakes with a groan, the kind that bubbles up from some animal pit at the bottom of the stomach, so deep and involuntary it barely passes for human. He rolls onto his side, pressing an arm to his ribs and feeling every quiver in the new muscle and every tick of the cheap plastic mattress. The cot creaks in protest. The room, for a moment, vibrates with him.
It's still mostly dark—the institutional glow of the security lamps outside painting everything the color of terminal illness—but his body clocks the time to within a minute. He's always been a morning person; it's the only hour you get in places like this where nobody wants anything from you. No staff with their clipboards, no other orphans jostling for bandwidth, no ghosts in the back of your head whispering about how soft you've gotten.
He drags his hand up his chest, feeling the familiar grooves of the runes under the skin, black lines gone faintly violet overnight. They pulse with a slow, sick rhythm—three beats on, two off, a lullaby for the cursed. The sensation is electric, but also warm, like a live wire wrapped in wool. The tattoos climb all the way up his throat now, just under the jawline. They itch, but only when he thinks about them.
He opens his eyes fully and the system window slams into focus: a sheet of glass hovering six inches above his chest, letters bleeding out one by one in crisp military font:
[LUST SURGE INITIATED]
24 Hours: DO NOT CLIMAX
Reward: Shadow God Trait Fragment (Tier 1)
Penalty: Kami Lockout for 48 hours
Rollo blinks, then rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm. "You have got to be fucking kidding."
The window shrinks to a neat rectangle and hovers at eye level, a faint irritation at the edge of his field of view. He can feel the surge already—something primal twisting his guts, a static buzz in his bones that only wants one thing, always more, more, more. His groin is already half-hard, both dicks twitching with the anticipation of a test he never signed up for.
Kami's voice floats up from nowhere, sweet and sharp, like the first line of a dirty joke. "So here's your challenge, sex god: survive an entire day surrounded by girls in heat, and don't nut. If you win? Shadow God piece. If you lose? I ghost you." She pauses for dramatic effect. "Think you're man enough?"
He gives the window the finger, then sighs and swings his legs over the edge of the bed. The cold makes him flinch, and for a second he wishes he could just dissolve into the mattress, let the whole fucking Academy burn down around him while he sleeps. But the world is never that kind. If you don't show up for morning muster, you get flagged; if you get flagged, you lose access, and if you lose access, you're not even a body anymore. Just data, waiting for erasure.
The room is smaller than most prison cells he's lived in. Bare walls, painted that non-color the architects picked to keep you from killing yourself. A single holo-desk, deactivated at night to save juice. The one personal effect: a cracked sticker on the window that reads, "ZERO DAY." It was here when he moved in. He's not sentimental, but he hasn't peeled it off. Maybe he likes the reminder.
Outside, the quad is empty, but the lamp-glow catches on the dew and makes every leaf and blade of grass look edged in silver. The air is cold, crisp, clean. He likes the way it smells—like old money and new beginnings, even if neither has ever been meant for him.
He dresses in silence, dragging sweats over legs that feel both heavier and lighter than yesterday. The dual cocks, now just a regular feature of his morning, settle into the pouch of his boxers with a throb. There's a slickness to the skin, faint but persistent; he wipes at it with the sleeve of his hoodie, but it just beads back up, an endless fountain.
He stands at the window for a minute, head pressed to the chill glass, and tries to focus on breathing. In, two, three. Out, four, five. The system window hovers in the corner, pulsing in time with the amulet at his chest.
"First day of the rest of your life," he mutters. "Try not to ruin it."
The knock on the door is so soft he almost misses it. Rollo stiffens, back snapping upright, senses going instantly alert. No one visits at this hour unless it's a raid or a crisis.
He pads across the tile and opens the door just enough to see who's there.
It's the plant girl from his squad—Miri, or Ivy, or whatever they called her at intake. Today she's more vine than girl: moss-green blush on the cheeks, long brown hair shot through with actual living tendrils, and eyes rimmed in deep gold. She's clutching her elbows, shoulders damp with sweat, shirt sticking to her chest like wet tissue. The hallway light makes her skin glow, and for a second, Rollo wonders if she's photosynthesizing.
She doesn't speak right away, just stares at his feet, then the wall, then back up at his face. Her lips tremble, and when she finally gets the words out, they're so soft he has to lean forward to hear.
"I… I just wanted to say thanks again. For, um. Yesterday."
Rollo's mind flashes back: the way she curled up after the pit fight, the panic attack, the way he'd let her squeeze his hand until the bones ground together. He remembers the smell of her—earth and salt and rain. He remembers thinking she was so fragile she'd snap if you looked too hard.
He shrugs, playing it cool. "Wasn't a big deal."
Miri steps inside without waiting for an invite. Her movements are twitchy, nervous, but she closes the door behind her and leans back against it, breathing hard.
She glances at the system window, and he swears she can see it.
"Are you… okay?" she asks, voice almost a whisper.
"Never been better," he lies. "You?"
She hugs herself tighter, vines winding around her wrists until the skin goes pale. "I couldn't sleep. There was this, um, pressure. All night. Like the air was full of… I don't know. Pollen?"
He barks a laugh before he can stop himself. "Guess I'm not the only one."
She gives a shy, lopsided smile, then looks away. "I feel warm around you," she says, so quietly he almost misses it. "Not in a bad way."
The room goes quiet. Rollo feels the system window pulse, then fade into translucency, as if giving them privacy.
He looks at Miri again—really looks. Her hair is wild, the tendrils alive and searching; her cheeks are flushed deep green now, almost glowing. Her lips part, and for a second he wonders if she's going to kiss him, or maybe just wilt on the spot.
Instead, she turns, cracks the door, and slips back into the hallway, vanishing in a rustle of leaves and embarrassment.
Rollo stares at the closed door, the phantom of her warmth still clinging to the air.
He sits back down on the cot, runs a hand over his face, and laughs until it hurts.
Then, finally, he opens the system panel with a single thought.
The window expands, displaying a 24-hour clock already ticking down. Below it, two bars: one labeled "Lust Pressure," already spiking at 11; the other, "Kami Sync," climbing slow but steady.
He can almost hear her voice, whispering: "Tick, tock."
He glances at his hands, at the runes alive under the skin, and wonders just how much of this is him, and how much is the code. He wonders if he even cares.
One thing's certain: if the day is going to be this weird, he's going to need all the willpower he can find.
Rollo cracks his neck, shakes out his hands, and stands, ready to face the onslaught.
Let the games begin.
First bell hits, and the entire hallway floods with bodies. Rollo stands in the doorway for a beat, letting the current break against him; he tastes sweat, hair gel, cheap perfume, and, under it all, the static of a thousand horny nervous systems grinding against the machinery of a too-bright day. Every eye that lands on him sticks for half a second longer than is polite.
He sets his jaw and dives in.
The system window hovers in his periphery, but now there's a new line under the countdown:
[Lust Pressure: 14 / 20]
[Warning: Kami Sync ≥ 30%. Aura Emission Level 1 Active.]
He checks his hands—violet runes are now leeching up the veins, fingertips faintly glowing. He tucks them deep in the pockets of his hoodie and pushes through the tide of students, keeping his head low. But wherever he goes, the crowd parts just a little, a ripple in the sea of normies.
The first class of the day is "Applied Combat," which sounds like a joke until you see the room. It's a high-ceilinged warehouse of pain, walls lined with scuffed padding and shattered training dummies, every surface painted with warning stripes and blood-colored smears. Rows of weapons hang on racks, locked down with finger-print triggers. Rollo's squad is already clustered by the entrance, and Cassius Vale is waiting, arms folded and smile locked into place like a gun safety.
"Late," Cassius says, voice sharp enough to cut teeth. "Again."
Rollo doesn't dignify it. He slides past, looking for his mark.
Ember stands near the mats, katanas crossed behind her back, hair slicked down today but the undercut still a shock of oil-spill colors. She nods at him, a real one, not the fake social kind. Miri/Ivy is there too, half-drowned in an overlarge hoodie, hands wrapped in a latticework of vines, eyes down and cheeks as green as celery. The last member, Marisol "Flutter" Chen, wears leggings that shimmer every time she shifts her stance—today's print is peacock blue and hot pink. Her wings are out, not real but projected—membrane-thin, patterned in a dozen fractal colors, humming with nano-motors and little bursts of glitter every time she flaps them.
He tries not to stare.
Cassius barks out pairings. Of course, Rollo is matched with Flutter.
She flutters over—literally, two inches off the ground—and lands too close, eyes big and shining. He can smell her perfume: watermelon and something sharper, like battery acid. Her voice trembles with the effort of being heard. "Um. Just don't, like, punch me in the face, okay?"
Rollo nods. He's barely holding himself together as it is.
"Ready?" she squeaks.
He shrugs, "Sure," but before he can brace, Flutter throws herself into a tackle that's all wings and knees and elbows. She's small but wiry, and the impact is more intimate than violent; for a split second, her whole body is wrapped around his, chest to chest, wings buzzing against his cheeks and arms. The static from her projected wings reacts to the runes on his skin, and there's a sharp pop, like a static shock, right at the base of his neck.
They hit the mat in a tangle of limbs. For a second, he's pinned by her thighs and the weirdly strong grip of her hands on his wrists. She's panting, face inches from his, hair in his mouth. The glow from his tattoos reflects off her cheekbones, making her look radioactive.
"Sorry!" she gasps, but doesn't let go.
He can't help it—his body reacts. The double cock presses up, eager and unashamed, and she goes beet red. She releases him like he's a live grenade, then tries to giggle it off, but the sound is more of a whimper.
System message: [Lust Pressure: 15]
"Switch!" Cassius calls, and the sparring cycle resets.
Flutter picks herself up and drifts away, face burning.
Rollo staggers to his feet, not even pretending to hide his erection. He flexes his hands; the runes spark, then settle.
He watches Ember take the mat with a boy from another squad. She's brutal, fast, all blade and bared teeth, but every time she looks up, her eyes are on him. She wants him to see. He does.
After class, Rollo flees to the showers, but they're crammed with Level 10s talking shit about last night's fights. He stands under cold water, trying to will the Lust Pressure down, but the system is a bitch and won't let go. The amulet hums against his throat, the lines on his body glowing brighter with every passing minute.
He towels off and hurries to the next class, hoping to stay invisible.
It doesn't work.
Word has spread. Kids stare, giggle, some whisper to each other and shoot him looks when they think he won't notice. Even the teachers keep glancing at the amulet, like they're waiting for it to explode.
Lunch is a nightmare.
He makes it to the cafeteria, grabs a tray, and tries to duck into a corner, but the food line is a chokepoint of bodies. He waits his turn, keeping his eyes glued to the floor.
Then Ember is right behind him. She's barely a head taller than him, but her presence is a storm system. She steps in close, hip brushing his ass, and leans in to shout over his shoulder, "Double portion, extra protein. He's burning it today."
The foodbot—rust-colored and dented, with a smiley face sticker over its cracked lens—looks them both up and down, then purrs, "Here, big boy," and dumps a steaming pile of noodles and something meat-adjacent onto his tray.
Ember laughs, but the sound is friendly, not mean.
He tries to thank her, but the words get stuck. She just shrugs. "You looked like you needed it."
They sit together, Ember, Rollo, Flutter, and Miri. The plant girl picks at her salad, vines tracing circles in the dressing. Flutter is still blushing, but she glances at Rollo every third bite, like she can't help it. Ember eats like she's fueling up for a war.
The first few minutes are silence.
Then Miri looks up, eyes wide and gold. "Is it true? About the amulet?"
Rollo shrugs. "Guess so."
Flutter leans in, voice barely a whisper. "They say you're, like… contagious."
He almost chokes on a noodle.
Ember snorts, "Don't worry. He only gives you cooties if you ask nicely."
Flutter giggles, and the tension finally breaks. For a few minutes, they eat like a real squad—awkward, but together.
Halfway through lunch, Rollo notices the shimmer: a faint purple haze, curling up off his shoulders. It looks like heat distortion, but it's tinted neon, and the effect is spreading. When he glances around, a few other students are pointing, some fascinated, some just scared.
System window: [Lust Pressure: 16]
[Warning: Pheromone Field Unstable]
Ember leans in, smirks. "You're gonna be legendary, Hartmann."
He grins, teeth bared. "Already am."
They finish lunch, dump the trays, and head for meditation class.
The zen chamber is a box of sand-colored mats and cedar paneling. At the far end is an altar with a low, flickering candle. Everyone sits cross-legged, eyes closed, but Rollo can feel the attention on him, even through the lids.
Instructor drones through the breathing exercises, but Rollo can't focus. The system window is too bright, counting down the hours, Lust Pressure scraping 17 and holding. His skin feels alive, like there's an animal under it, clawing to get out.
He tries to meditate, but every time he inhales, the air tastes like sex and fire and the memory of Ember's breath on his neck.
Halfway through the session, he feels something brush his knee. He opens one eye.
Ember has slipped under the low table, barefoot, crouched on the tatami next to him. She keeps her head bowed, but her fingers—hot and steady—creep up his thigh, then rest on his knee.
He tenses. The double cock goes hard instantly, a surge of blood and shame and want that almost makes him moan out loud.
Ember traces a slow circle on his leg, then moves her hand to his palm. She drags her nail across his skin, then draws a tiny heart at the center of his hand.
"How long can you hold out?" she whispers.
He shakes his head, but doesn't answer.
"Bet you lose before dinner," she murmurs, breath ghosting over his wrist.
System message: [Lust Pressure: 18]
He grits his teeth and focuses on the candle flame.
The session ends. Everyone files out, but Ember lingers, still close. "You want to walk?" she asks, like it's a threat and a promise.
He nods.
They walk the campus, silent, until they reach the edge of the quad. She stops, turns, and looks at him. For a second, the urge to grab her, to drag her into the bushes and fuck until the system breaks, is so strong it almost knocks him down.
But he clenches his fists and steps back.
Ember grins, then winks. "Tomorrow, then."
She heads off, hands in her pockets, leaving him alone in the dusk.
The system window flashes:
[Kami Sync: 31%]
[Lust Pressure: 19]
[Critical threshold in 4 hours]
He wanders back to his dorm, the air thick with the scent of cut grass and ozone. He wonders if he'll make it to midnight.
He sits on the cot, heart racing, every nerve wound so tight he thinks he might vibrate through the floor.
He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, the room is dark.
There are three figures at the edge of his bed.
He can't tell if they're real or just another fever dream. They glow, blue and purple and white, three silhouettes haloed in light.
The first is Miri, vines curling up her arms, eyes bright and unafraid. The second is Flutter, her wings flickering, mouth parted in anticipation.
The third is Ember, naked and electric, hair fanned around her head like a battle flag.
They don't speak. They just watch him, breathing together.
Rollo shudders, the Lust Pressure peaking.
The system window flickers, then collapses to a single line:
[Endurance Test: Final Phase]
He grins, fangs gleaming.
"Let's see who breaks first."