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Chapter 4 – The Password of Gods
The school bell rang.
Students poured out of the building in waves, laughter and chaos echoing through the gates. I stood across the street, hood up, heart pounding. I wasn’t here for just anyone.
I was here for him.
Then I saw it—shoulders back, chin high, surrounded by a horde of overhyped fanboys. His friends cheered and shouted:
> “There he is!”
“The greatest writer that’s ever lived!”
“Peak fiction himself!”
That was him.
The author.
The one who wrote El SHARKAWY.
I approached, drenched in sweat and adrenaline. My hands shook as I pulled the book from my bag.
“I need your help,” I said.
The crowd fell silent.
I held the book out. “I need the password to El SHARKAWY School’s database. I think it’s in here.”
He took the book with reverence. Then one of his friends snatched it midair, flipped it open, and started reading like he’d found the Holy Grail.
The writer closed his eyes, thinking. His friends circled up with him, all of them muttering names, cross-referencing plotlines, and whispering things like:
> “Didn’t he use that move in the Gojo arc?”
“Wait, no, he didn’t unlock Kaioken ‘til chapter 8!”
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
“It has to be the form he used when he fought Saitama.”
Ten minutes passed.
Then the writer opened his eyes and said, dead serious:
> “The password is: ElSharkaways010sGOKU1-8.”
I blinked. “Bro… that’s dumb.”
He smirked. “You still have some reading to do, kid.”
Right then, the guy who was reading the book looked up. His eyes were misty.
> “Shit so peak,” he whispered.
The writer immediately snatched the book back. “This is the original copy, bro. You wanna cry on something, cry on a printout.”
I nodded. “I need a copy. For my investigation.”
He didn’t question me.
It was like… he knew.
Without a word, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a full, mint-condition copy. Like it was nothing.
> “Bro,” his friend muttered, “you got everything in that bag?”
He didn’t answer.
I was already gone.
---
I was halfway down the street when I ran into him.
Mo.
He stood there like he’d been waiting.
“I know what you’re trying to do,” he said, “and I know that you’ll fail.”
I smirked. “Bro, you aren’t Johan Liebert.”
And I ran.
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Thirty minutes later, I was back at El SHARKAWY School.
Snuck in.
Same blind spot. Same window. Same silence.
I slipped back into the data vault. Entered the password:
> ElSharkaways010sGOKU1-8
It worked.
The computer wheezed like it hadn’t breathed in a decade. Took thirty minutes just to load the desktop.
> “They cheaped out on an SSD?” I muttered. “In this school?”
I opened “This PC.” Navigated the folders. Scanned endlessly—past students, successful admissions… and finally:
Admissions.
I scrolled.
Thousands of files. Tens of thousands. Millions.
Then—finally—I found it.
Mo_Sobhy_Pending.pdf
I clicked.
And that’s when the door creaked open.
> “Huh. Must’ve forgotten to close the computer,” said a voice.
I froze. Still hanging from the ceiling tile I had hidden in.
He walked in.
Clicked “Log Out.”
Typed a new password.
> ElSohagyisc00ked
He walked out and locked the door behind him.
I dropped to the floor like a spider ninja.
The room was empty again.
I logged in.
Typed the new password.
> Access granted.
I exhaled.
Opened the folder again. Found Mo’s file.
Right-clicked.
Delete.
> “File cannot be deleted.”
My heart dropped.
I checked the drive structure. Only three folders.
Past Students
Successful Admissions
Admissions
There was no “rejected” folder.
No fail switch.
I couldn’t stop him.
I ran. Left the building. Slipped back out the same way I came.
My mission had failed.
---
Meanwhile…
Mo was thriving.
Top of every class. Destroying every exam. Submitting every assignment early. Laser-focused.
He was on a mission.
A mission to enter that school.
And impress his “crush.”
The thought made me want to puke.
---
I knew what I had to do.
If I couldn’t stop him from getting in, then I had to prepare for what would happen if he did.
I trained.
I went to the home of a military veteran—rumored to be untraceable, off-the-grid, a man who could survive in the woods with just a spoon and a vendetta.
I learned how to shoot. Not to kill—just in case.
Just in case things went too far.
I trained with ladders. How to collapse them instantly. Expand them silently. Run up and down without hesitation.
Time was my enemy now.
I wouldn’t waste a second.
Because Mo… was coming.
And I had to be ready.
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