Chapter 189: 189: The First semester XII

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Benches scraped. Conversations erupted like shaken soda. Fizz and John did not need words; they traded a look that was mostly arithmetic. Between them, with the right angle, a third-class beast was a problem, not a crisis. But attention was another predator.

"Too much noise if we show off," Fizz murmured.

"We do not need to," John said. "We need five points. Ten cores. We can do that and pretend it was hard."

Meanwhile others around them.

The benches breathed out a hundred little noises as the crowd stood, then kept not quite leaving. Heads tilted toward John and the orange spark at his shoulder like iron to a quiet magnet.

"Look at those two," a boy in a too-new cloak whispered. "They just glared at each other. That is either murder or a plan."

"A plan," his friend said. "With them it is always a plan. Murder is for people who run out of plans."

Across the aisle a girl with ink on her cuffs hugged her notes. "Do you think the spirit professor will come to the Jungle? I saw him teaching. He said fire and water are cousins who bicker. I want to see his cousins bicker at a beast."

One of the upperclassmen leaned on a pillar and smirked. "First-years always look brave in warm rooms."

"Not all of them," his companion replied. "That one is the disposal room boy. East House talks. He scrubbed the floor until the floor bragged about it."

A knot of Fizz Club initiates tried to whisper in unison and failed. "Lord Fizz will triumph. Lord Fizz will roast. Lord Fizz will sign a biscuit if asked politely."

"Shh," their Sergeant of Orderly Swooning hissed. "We swoon only on even beats."

Near the aisle, Ray Flame hovered like a candle that could not decide whether to gutter or blaze. He glanced at John, looked away fast, then glanced back as if curiosity had tripped him.

Two nobles in silver piping sized John like a tailor taking measurements. "He is the commoner who speaks to the Black girl."

"The priestess," the other corrected. "Your gossip is loud and inaccurate."

Rhea Flame tugged her red ribbon tight and bit back a smile. "He listens when teachers talk," she murmured. "That is rare. The small one bounces like a cute toy. That is rarer."

A farm-born boy with forearms like rope scratched his jaw. "Third-class beast cores... two for one point. Ten cores for five points. If the spirit can light a camp fire, can it light a trap line."

His partner shrugged. "If it cannot, it can probably insult the beasts until they die of shame."

"Do you think they will team with anyone," a fan girl asked no one, half hopeful, half afraid of the answer.

"Maybe," said the quiet fan boy beside her. "Maybe not. They look like a knife and the hand that knows what to cut."

Near the door, a prefect with a ledger watched the room and then those two in particular. "If they break rules," she said to the page at her side, "they will do it politely and then apologize with results."

"Can results be an apology," the page asked.

"In this school they can."

A trio of first-years from North House rehearsed courage out loud. "We need ropes. We need oil. We need someone who does not scream."

"We need luck." another said.

"We need to not chase anything with horns." The third one added.

Someone behind them snorted. "That is everything in the Black Jungle."

Fizz rolled one shoulder as if shrugging off a cape. John’s mouth did not move, but his eyes did. The small war between caution and mischief flickered between them like a coin flipping.

"See," said the too-new cloak boy. "A plan."

"Or murder," his friend argued weakly.

"Or both," a third voice offered reverently.

Fizz’s eyes glittered. John and Fizz continued the talk, "Or we can do it and make it look like art. Slightly hard art."

John’s mouth tugged. Then he shook his head. "Teams will form tonight. We should not commit to anything in public."

Fizz stuck out his lower lip. "I like refusing enthusiasts."

"Then refuse them tomorrow," John said. "We travel alone. We will meet them (students) at the Jungle. We find two, maybe three quiet people who want to live and are not in love with their own reflections. We hunt with them. We bring back our ten."

Fizz opened his mouth to argue. John cut gently. "You remember the thing..."

Fizz blinked. "What thing.... ??? "

"The one you wanted to ride so badly you tried to bribe me with a stale muffin."

Fizz gasped. "The two wheeled machine?"

"The mana bike." John corrected Fizz.

Fizz clapped both paws to his cheeks. "We are going to take it out for a ride?"

"We are going to test it," John said. "If we travel with a group, we cannot show it. If we travel alone, we can ride before sunrise and be two days away before anyone else has found their boots."

Fizz bounced in the air, suddenly twelve years old and made of fizz. "What was its name again? I must respect it by naming it right."

"Mana Bike M15," John said. The memory of it brightened him despite himself — the clean lines, the rune arrays along the frame, the whisper of power through stone inlays, the promise of speed like a long answer finally said aloud.

Fizz’s eyes went wide. "M15," he breathed reverently. "I will write a song called M15 and the Wind’s Jealousy."

"You are not riding it alone," John added. "Your feet do not reach the break."

"If I were human-sized," Fizz argued instantly.

"You can ride it alone but you are not." John replied.

Fizz slumped for one dramatic beat, then popped back to grin. "Fine. I will sit in the front."

He murmured to himself, " Huhh!! Once I am human I will ride it by myself. That time you can’t say no to me."

"You will sit wherever keeps us legal," John said, but he was smiling. He didn’t hear what Fizz said about him being human size.

They filed out with the others. The room boiled with plans. Ray Flame, of all people, was listening to a tall boy from North House talk about traps and pretending he was not interested. Rhea Flame —red ribbon bright in her hair— laughed with two girls and a quiet boy whose hands were scarred from honest work. John cataloged faces. He was not choosing yet. He would choose when the trees had a say in it.

"Tomorrow we leave," Fizz said, already humming something that could become a triumph march or a dessert prayer depending on the chorus.

"Pack light," John said. "And do not tell anyone about the bike."

"I will not even tell myself," Fizz said solemnly.

They crossed the quad toward East House. The evening was clear. The banners made long, sensible shadows. The door to the dorm breathed them in and clicked shut like a secret that respected itself.

Up the stairs. Down the hall. Their room was a rectangle of familiar. Ray’s bed was empty; his trunk sat open and half-packed with things that claimed they were necessary and were mostly shirts that had an opinion about themselves.

John set his bag on the chair and began to lay out what seven days asked for: rope, flint, oilskin, a small roll of tools, a spare shirt, a blanket that did not mind being damp, a packet of dried fruit that tasted like the memory of summer, a flask, and the duty slate that had become something like a charm now that the disposal room gleamed.

Fizz hovered over the pile, nodding like an auditor. "Acceptable," he said. "Add sweets."

"We will buy them on the road," John said.

Fizz gasped. "From a vendor with a cart that squeaks and a wife who knows exactly what the brown sugar is worth. Yes. We will."

John tucked the communication stone Sera had sent into his inner pocket. It warmed his hand for a heartbeat like a yes.

Fizz drifted toward the window and looked out at the amber line the sun makes when it is deciding how to leave. "Do you think we will see something excellent in the Jungle," he asked. "A beast with a ridiculous hat. A plant that insults its gardener. A rock that sells secrets."

"We will see work," John said. He drew the bag shut with a clean pull, then paused. The line inside him did something odd: it reached backward.

He looked at his palm. He looked at the faint nick across the knuckle that he had earned in a way no one here knew. He thought of the stretch of road behind the capital, of a night that tasted like copper and chance, of a moment when a boy decided to be larger and the world decided to let him.

Fizz turned from the window and caught the way John’s gaze had gone distant. "What are you thinking?"

"How I reached Circle Two," John said softly.