David's eyes blazed with sudden intensity, the dim glow of his computer screen casting sharp shadows across his face.
In that fleeting moment, a cascade of memories and calculations surged through his mind, each thought a spark igniting his resolve.
This was his chance, a narrow window to outwit fate and claim the power he needed to rewrite his destiny.
The forum post was a gamble, its legitimacy shrouded in skepticism.
In Frosthaven's online circles, most people were convinced the seller—hiding behind the alias Meteor Shower—had staged the whole thing. The Spirit potion? Just bait. He'd posted a screenshot to flex, only to pull the listing down seconds later.
It was a stunt, a way to save face after a grand gesture gone awry. The transaction could be undone in under a minute, exploiting a rigid rule of the city's internet: a mandatory one-minute delay between a screenshot's posting and the seller's ability to remove the item.
Within that window, the potion had to remain available, a tantalizing prize for the swift.
The post had materialized only moments ago. When David's eyes locked onto it, a mere seven seconds had ticked by.
His pulse quickened, the weight of the moment pressing against his chest. Others might falter, lost in the maze of the online mall, especially since Meteor Shower had used an alternate name—a clever ruse to obscure the stall's location.
In Frosthaven's digital marketplace, anonymity was a shield, and sellers often posted under pseudonyms while listing goods under their real identities, a trick that could delay all but the most determined.
David's online handle was unadorned—David Holt—tied to his ID, unchanged since his youth. Like others, he could adopt a second name, but he hadn't bothered in this life or the last.
Now, that simplicity was his advantage. He knew the game, knew the player behind the post.
In his past life, he'd learned too late that Meteor Shower was Alex Reed, his rival, his classmate. Back then, he hadn't connected the alias to this incident, dismissing it as another of Alex's flamboyant missteps.
But now, with the clarity of rebirth, the pieces snapped into place. This was Alex's doing, and it was no surprise.
Alex had always been a showman, strutting through Northview High like a peacock unfurling its plumage.
To win Claire's affection, he'd spared no effort, flaunting his family's wealth, his chiseled physique, his influence as the son of a Frosthaven official.
Every gesture was a performance, a bid to catch her eye.
In David's previous life, he hadn't pursued Claire, his heart too weighed by survival to dare. Yet Alex's pursuit had crumbled all the same.
Claire's cool gaze never softened for him, her indifference a quiet rebuke that left Alex grasping at empty air. His grand displays, his lavish gifts, had amounted to nothing.
David's lips curved into a faint, bitter smile. Alex was no fool, for all his theatrics.
This potion, priced at a absurd 100 Dollars, was a calculated move—a public spectacle to prove his devotion, but one he'd likely retract before anyone could claim it.
David was certain Alex would pull the listing soon, perhaps even using Meteor Shower to deter buyers in that critical minute.
The clock was ticking, and hesitation was not an option.
His fingers danced across the keyboard, swift and sure.
Opening the Northview High communication group, he zeroed in on Alex's profile, its familiar avatar a taunt from his past. A single click revealed the stall's coordinates, buried in a forgotten corner of the online mall, a digital back alley few would stumble upon.
To the uninitiated, it was a needle in a haystack. To David, who knew Alex's habits from a lifetime of rivalry, it was a beacon.
In three seconds, he found the stall, his breath catching as the screen loaded.
A row of trivial potions cluttered the display—cheap tonics, useless elixirs—but at the center, glowing like a jewel in the dust, sat a Spirit potion. Its price: 100 Dollars. Nestled among the decoys, it was easy to miss, a deliberate trap for the careless. But David's eyes were sharp, his purpose unshakable.
He clicked to purchase, his heart pounding as the transaction locked in an instant. The system prompted him to arrange delivery through an agent, a cornerstone of Frosthaven's online commerce.
Even fighters, with all their strength, couldn't defy the market's rules. Once bought, the potion's unique code was registered, sealing the deal.
David paid the modest fee, requesting an online supervisor to retrieve the item. The supervisory committee—a global authority, backed by Frosthaven's council, the military, and elite academies like Storm Academy—was a force no one crossed.
They'd collect the potion within three minutes and deliver it to a designated spot in ten, their efficiency unmatched. For a small cost, they ensured no seller could renege, no buyer could be cheated.
David glanced at his watch, the seconds etched into his awareness. Thirty seconds had passed since he'd seen the post. His chest swelled with quiet triumph.
"Snapped!" he said aloud, snapping his fingers, the sound sharp in the cramped room. A grin broke across his face, fierce and unrestrained. Perfect.
He'd come to outmaneuver Alex, to chip away at his rival's arrogance, but fate had delivered more—a chance to claim a prize that could redefine his future.
Satisfaction coursed through him, warm and electric. Let Alex groom, let him parade his wealth—this loss would burn, a wound to his pride.
Five million Dollars wasn't a crippling sum for Alex's family, rooted in official power rather than commerce.
But it was no trifle, either. The sting would linger, a reminder of his recklessness. David savored the thought, his mind already racing to the next step.
To shield himself, he acted quickly, adopting a second name—Galaxy—and setting it as his display. If Alex traced the buyer, he'd find only a ghost, not David Holt. The precaution was small but vital, a layer of protection against his rival's inevitable wrath.
------
The delivery agent was swift, their knock echoing through the apartment eight minutes later. David opened the door, his hands steady as he accepted the package.
James and Mary glanced over from the kitchen, their eyes flickering with curiosity, but they held their questions. To them, David was more than their son—he was their hope, a young man on the verge of greatness, his grades a lifeline for their struggling family.
They trusted him implicitly, living for the day he'd lift them from the slums. This package, whatever it was, was his to handle.
In his room, David closed the door, the faint hum of the city filtering through the thin walls. He unwrapped the small box, revealing a glass bottle, ten centimeters long, its vacuum seal gleaming under the dim light. The numbered stamp was unmistakable, proof of its authenticity.
"Spirit potion," he murmured, his voice low with reverence, "a necessary item for the awakening of a spiritual fighter, extracted from the genes of mind-controlling mutant beasts. This bottle's worth 5 million now, but in half a month, it'll climb to 7 million."
He turned it in his hands, the glass cool against his skin. "Awakening mental power can not only greatly increase neural response," he continued, speaking to himself, "but also boost strength and speed slightly. It's the fastest way to grow stronger before the exam."
The awakening process was not instant. It demanded time, focus, and endurance.
David approached his parents, his tone calm but firm, explaining he'd train indoors for two days, sealed in his room.
They didn't need to worry, he assured them.
They agreed, retreating to their evening tasks, leaving David to his work.
That night, he slept deeply, the weight of the day settling into his bones.
The next morning, he woke with a clarity he hadn't felt in years, his body thrumming with anticipation.
After a hearty breakfast—soy milk and buns, a humble meal that tasted like home—he returned to his room, the potion bottle waiting on his desk. He lifted it, the liquid inside catching the light, and drank.
A cool rush flooded his throat, pooling in his stomach before igniting into a searing heat. The sensation surged through his veins, racing along his limbs and crashing into his mind like a storm.
He'd endured this once before, in his past life. The memory steadied him as he clenched his teeth, the sting sharp, like needles piercing his skull.
The potion, a marvel of genetic science, was designed to awaken dormant mental power, stimulating the brain through relentless pressure. For the gifted, the process could take hours; for others, days.
In his previous life, David's awakening had spanned 48 hours, his talent respectable but unremarkable.
This time, as the potion's fire coursed through him, he sensed a difference. His mental power felt richer, more potent, as if his reborn soul had carried fragments of his past strength into this new life. The pain was fierce, but he embraced it, his breath steady, his focus absolute.
In his mind's eye, a cyan energy cloud took shape, its edges shimmering with silver threads—his spiritual power, alive and growing.
Mental power was tiered: cyan marked the bronze level, followed by silver, gold, dark gold, purple gold, and the fabled diamond level. David had never seen diamond-level power; the pinnacle he'd witnessed was dark gold, wielded by legends. In his past life, he'd climbed to advanced silver, awakening as a bronze junior, a modest start.
Now, as the cyan cloud solidified, it pulsed with the strength of bronze high-level power, teetering on the edge of silver.
The silver threads were faint but undeniable, a sign of genius among spiritual fighters. His heart pounded, a surge of exhilaration breaking through the pain.
"It's actually bronze high-level spiritual power, with signs of silvering," he thought, his mind alight with possibility. "With this starting point, I'll become a powerful spiritual fighter in this life!"
The potion's effects began to fade, the blazing heat in his mind settling into a steady hum. David opened his eyes—bright, almost blinding. They glowed with a sharp, radiant intensity that cut through the dim room like a blade.
If anyone had looked into them now, they would've recoiled. Not out of fear, but instinct. That kind of light—too fierce, too alive—wasn't meant to be stared at.