Chapter 2: The Cleansing Pool

At Silver Peak, mentors are as legendary as the students.

Some of the sharpest minds in the state roam these halls—coaches, scientists, artists, and a few with backgrounds you’d never believe. Staff meetings are more like think tank debates, each trying to outdo the other with wild ideas.

Quinn Lane kept his head down, never acting too soon.

He blended in, doing just enough to avoid suspicion. He knew eyes were on him, but he didn’t flinch.

He started living a life of “pretending to take the miracle pill.”

Every morning, same routine: a little sleight of hand, like a kid faking his vegetables. The others watched, whispered, but no one called him out. Even I played along, letting the act continue.

I didn’t call him out—just let him keep up the act.

Sometimes, the best way to learn is to let the story unfold. I wanted to see if any staff would notice. They didn’t.

My students were even more anxious than I was, pacing the halls, whispering about their youngest classmate.

They cared about Quinn. Maybe too much. The dorms buzzed—text chains lighting up, nervous glances in the cafeteria. Even the football team rooted for him.

Adam Carter, big-brother mode in overdrive, led Quinn to my office—hoping for a shot at the Cleansing Pool.

Adam’s always had a way of carrying the whole school on his back. When he brought Quinn to see me, hope and fear warred in his eyes. He was betting everything on the system giving his friend a chance.

Inside the auditorium, watching them fidget, I felt uneasy myself.

The auditorium’s got that old-school vibe—vaulted ceilings, stained glass windows, Friday night football banners. Today, it felt like the walls were closing in. Adam’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the chair.

The Cleansing Pool is a legend here, a resource most kids only hear about.

Even alumni whisper about it. It’s part science, part ritual, part gamble. Most never get close.

Everyone who goes through it gets a big boost in their abilities.

Kids come out different—faster, sharper. It’s the great equalizer, the thing that turns underdogs into contenders.

But underneath, it’s just a pool full of dead insect husks.

Beneath the shine, there’s darkness. That’s the burden of leadership: seeing through the curtain, knowing you still have to play along.

Those who enter endure pain, then come out changed, stronger than ever.

It’s not just physical. The process breaks you down, then rebuilds you. Some come out with haunted eyes, scars no one else can see.

That rebirth? Just parasites feeding on their own kind, channeling strength into a puppet’s body.

It’s the Academy’s greatest secret—hidden in plain sight. The cost of greatness is always higher than advertised.

As I considered this, the glass doors slid open.

The auditorium doors are heavy, like something out of an old courthouse. When they open, everyone looks.

From the blinding gold light stepped a bloated old man.

The light cut the room like a sunrise. Dr. Kent Turner, my own mentor, stepped out—cheeks flushed, eyes sharp. He moved slow, like a judge about to pass sentence.

It was the Grand Dean—my own mentor, Dr. Kent Turner.

His legend’s huge at Silver Peak—part founder, part mystery, part boogeyman. Even the bravest students lower their voices about him.

I hadn’t expected him, locked away for years, to show up now.

Last anyone heard, he was sick—or maybe just tired. His sudden appearance meant trouble or a miracle, maybe both.

The Academy is strictly hierarchical:

The ladder’s set in stone—Foundation, Core, Soul, Spirit, Void, Merge, Master, and maybe something higher. The kids joke about it, but it’s no joke when you’re climbing.

My mentor, the Grand Dean, is already at the top of the Master level.

That means nobody says no to him—not even the Board. His word is law, with a lifetime of secrets behind it.

Some say he’s already more myth than man. All I know is, you never want to be called into his office unless you’re ready to pay a price.

Even after decades here, in front of my mentor, I’m just a kid again, hoping to sound smart.

The dynamic never changes. My pulse picked up, a nervous habit I never lost.

Fresh from his absence, he radiated a heavy, intimidating presence.

It was the kind that makes you check your tie, your shoes, and hope you didn’t forget anything. Some people command a room; Dr. Turner makes you forget what room you’re in.

Seeing Dr. Turner, Adam Carter bowed. “Adam Carter reporting, sir.”

Adam’s always the model student. He dipped his head, hands folded. The formality felt right, like a championship dinner.

Quinn, though, avoided his gaze, body trembling as he bowed beside Adam.

He tried to match Adam’s gesture, but tension showed in his shoulders, fingers curled tight. Sweat beaded on his brow; his eyes dropped to the floor. Was he terrified, or just desperate?

My mentor stepped up to Quinn, staring him down:

“Kid, why haven’t you managed to draw in any energy and build your foundation yet? Slacking off?”

The old man’s voice was gruff, like a coach who’s seen too many wasted talents. He looked Quinn over as if searching for a hidden flaw.

Quinn dropped to his knees.

His knees hit the floor so hard I winced. Was he terrified, or just desperate?

“I’ve been working hard, sir. Please see for yourself.”

Quinn’s voice was steady—barely. He spoke like he knew this was his shot, the way a kid pleads his case before the principal.

Dr. Turner lifted him right off the ground.

It wasn’t gentle. One second Quinn was kneeling, the next he was yanked up, sneakers scraping the floor. The Dean’s hands looked like they could crush steel.

A surge of energy crackled through the air.

If you were tuned in, you felt it—like the tingle before a thunderstorm. Even the lights flickered.

The check lasted just a moment, then he muttered, suspicious:

“No sign of energy in your body, and no trace of a foundation forming—how odd.”

He said it low, but I caught every word. The tension spiked.

His grip tightened. “So you haven’t taken the miracle pill.”

You could see Quinn’s color drain, lips going blue at the edges. The Dean’s fingers dug in—no idle accusation.

Quinn’s face turned purple, legs kicking helplessly.

His sneakers squeaked on the waxed floor. The silence was broken only by gasps from the onlookers. No one dared move.

Then, a hint of menace crept into Dr. Turner’s voice.

“You haven’t taken it... Or you don’t want to?”

That was the real question, the one that could make or break a student. It landed like a gavel.

Looking at nearly fainting Quinn and the Grand Dean’s fierce glare—one a student who’d seen through the Academy’s secret, the other my mentor who gave me everything—I knew what I had to do.

In that split second, I remembered every lesson I’d learned, every line I’d crossed for my students. The room felt like the eye of a tornado. It was time to step in.