Chapter 1 – Scars of Gratitude

  The night pressed heavy on the land, the wind carrying an eerie stillness through the endless mounds of Mount Trashmore. Shadows danced over heaps of abandoned debris, relics of a forgotten era. Amidst this emptiness, a lone woman stumbled ahead, her body shaking with fatigue and her steps unsteady.

  Her clothes clung to her thin frame, torn and stained, little more than rags. Her hair hung in wild tangles, framing a face etched with years of neglect and despair. Once, there might have been light in her eyes, a spark of life, but now they darted frantically, wide with fear and confusion.

  She hugged her swollen belly, her breathing catching with every wave of pain coursing through her. She ground her teeth, sinking onto her knees on top of a heap of debris, jagged edges of shattered glass and rusted metal pressing into her palms. Hours passed as she struggled against the agony, her cries lost to the wide emptiness surrounding her.

  Then, with one final wrenching scream, the air was split by a new sound, the piercing cry of a newborn.

  The woman stared at the newborn in her trembling hands, her breaths shallow and uneven. The baby’s cries pierced the cold night air, tiny fists flailing as his fragile body trembled. For a brief moment, her hardened expression wavered. Her lips parted as if to speak, as if to comfort him. Instinctively, she pulled him closer to her chest, shielding him from the harsh world around them.

  “Shh,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. Her fingers brushed his damp forehead, her body tense with exhaustion. “Be quiet now… they’re watching. They’re always watching.”

  Then,

  She froze.

  Something wriggled.

  A thin, hair-like tendril slithered along the infant’s damp skin, creeping toward the base of his nape. Its movement was unnatural, deliberate. It pulsed, like a living thread of muscle, searching.

  And then,

  It struck.

  The creature drilled itself into the newborn’s nape, burrowing deep.

  The baby screamed.

  His tiny body convulsed, his cries raw with pain, his back arching unnaturally as the foreign entity forced its way inside.

  The mother’s eyes widened in horror.

  No—no, no, no!

  Panic surged through her veins. Without thinking, she lunged, her fingers clawing at the worm-like strand. Her motherly instincts overpowered her fear, her hands moving on their own.

  She gripped the writhing strand and yanked.

  The baby’s screams escalated. Blood trickled from the wound, staining her hands. The tendril fought against her grasp, twitching violently, refusing to let go.

  She gritted her teeth, her desperation outweighing her fear. With a sharp gasp, she pulled harder, tearing it in half.

  A sickening snap.

  The severed portion of the creature spasmed in her grasp before falling limp. But the other half remained buried deep in the infant’s flesh.

  In her attempt to try and remove then other half, she ended up leaving deep scratches on the infant’s head.

  The baby’s wails weakened into breathless sobs. His tiny frame shuddered against her, his cries raw, but he was alive.

  She stared at the dark blood pooling in her palm, her breaths coming in ragged gasps.

  The baby cried louder, his voice cutting through the silence like shattered glass. She winced, clutching her head as though the sound were clawing at her very soul. Her whispers grew frantic.

  “Stop it. Please, stop,” she hissed, her voice shaking, accidentally inflicting scratches on the baby's scalp. “I can’t, I can’t do this.”

  Her hands trembled violently as she bit through the umbilical cord, her teeth scraping against it with a grim determination. Placing the baby down on the mound of trash, she stumbled back, her face twisted with something between guilt and fear.

  “The trash will keep you safe,” she muttered, her words a frenzied chant. “It keeps everything safe. It keeps secrets. This is better. It’s better this way.”

  The baby’s cries grew fainter as she backed away, her bare feet crunching over the debris beneath her. Tears streaked her face, but she didn’t stop. She turned and fled into the shadows, her sobs and laughter echoing faintly in the distance, while the remaining part of the writhing strand slowly entered the infants nape and settled in its spine.

  A few hours later, Laurie Grimwald climbed the same mound of trash, the dim light of dawn casting her shadow over the debris. She moved with practiced ease, her sharp eyes scanning for anything salvageable, metal, glass, fabric, anything she could trade for a few coins.

  Life hadn’t been kind to Laurie. Once, she’d dreamed of more, of becoming an adventurer and finding her place in the world. But dreams didn’t feed you, and society wasn’t interested in giving chances to someone poor, plain, and unwanted. She had learned to survive in the margins, scavenging from the world’s leftovers and making what little she could.

  Laurie wasn’t just a scavenger. Beneath her rough exterior was a quiet resilience, a strength forged through years of rejection and hardship. People often overlooked her, dismissing her as another desperate survivor of a ruined world. But Laurie had a sharp mind and a heart she rarely let show. She had lived through pain and loss, yet she refused to become bitter. Instead, she found purpose in the small acts of creation, repairing discarded objects, crafting wigs, and piecing together fragments of a life from the broken shards of the past.

  As she sifted through the trash, a sound stopped her cold, a faint cry, weak but unmistakable. She straightened, her heart pounding as she turned toward the noise.

  “Is that…?” she whispered to herself, her voice trailing off as she hurried toward the sound.

  The sight halted her movement, her breath snagging in her throat. The baby lay atop a pile of garbage, his small frame quivering with each weak breath. His head was marked by injuries, sore and bleeding, and his cries were feeble and hoarse, devoid of energy. Laurie’s hands went to her mouth, and for a fleeting instant, she stayed still, unable to comprehend the heartbreaking sight in front of her.

  "Oh, you dear thing," she eventually murmured, her voice trembling as she sank to her knees. She extended her arms and lifted the baby into her embrace, her rough hands surprisingly tender. He was so petite, so delicate, and his little face was marked with dirt.

  Laurie’s stomach churned as she examined the injuries. Someone had done this. Someone had left these scars, cruel marks of pain inflicted on a defenseless child. Her mind raced as she held him close, her body shielding him from the cold wind.

  “Who could do this to you?” she whispered, her voice breaking.

  The infant whined, his wails diminishing as Laurie held him tightly. Without hesitation, she started to hum a gentle, recognizable melody, one that her mother had sung to her during her childhood. The melody spilled from her lips instinctively, wrapping them both in its warmth.

  “There, there,” she murmured, swaying gently as the baby’s sobs turned to quiet sniffles.

  For years, Laurie’s life had been defined by rejection and survival. She had learned not to hope for more, not to expect kindness or purpose. But now, holding this baby boy in her arms, she felt something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time.

  “I’ll call you Nix,” she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. “Like the night, dark but full of light and mystery.”

  Bundling him in her scavenged shawl, Laurie began the long climb back to her home atop Mount Trashmore.

  The sky hung low, smeared with the residue of an era long gone, where nature fought to reclaim a world ravaged by human greed. Among the towering mounds of waste, hidden high on Mount Trashmore, a makeshift home stood. It was barely more than a cave, but it provided shelter, warmth, and a place filled with memories.

  Inside, the walls of the cave were patched with salvaged metal and wood, forming a fragile barrier against the elements. Bundles of fabric and blankets created a modest sleeping area, while makeshift shelves held tools, containers, and the wigs Laurie crafted from discarded hair. A small fire pit cast a flickering glow, warming the space and banishing the chill that crept in from outside.

  Laurie laid the baby down on her bed, wrapping him snugly in her thickest blanket. She sat beside him, her gaze soft as she watched his tiny chest rise and fall with each breath.

  For years she had fought for herself and nothing more, barely surviving on resilience and determination. Now, she had something to fight for other than just survival.

  “Don’t worry, little Nix,” she whispered, brushing a finger gently over his cheek. “You’re safe now. I’ll take care of you.”

  She began to hum the lullaby again, the melody filling the small cave with a warmth that seemed almost out of place in the wasteland outside. For the first time in years, Laurie felt a fragile but persistent hope. In this tiny child, she had found a light worth protecting.

  **Seventeen Years Later**

  Nix had grown strong, his body shaped by years of climbing the treacherous terrain of Trash Mountain. His sharp features and piercing eyes gave him a face that many would find striking, but the scars atop his head told a different story. Laurie often recalled the moment she found him, those scars were already there, etched into his delicate skin.

  For Nix, the scars weren’t a reminder of pain or haunting violence but a quiet symbol of his connection to the mother he never knew. Whoever she might have been, those scars stood as proof that she had carried him into the world, no matter how fleeting her presence in his life had been. He didn’t hold resentment in his heart; instead, he carried gratitude for the chance to exist, finding strength in the belief that, despite her absence, her actions had given him the life he now fought for.

  The scars disrupted the growth of his hair, leaving it patchy and uneven. What hair he had grew wildly, defying any sense of order, as if it, too, bore the chaotic spirit of his beginnings. The combination of his rugged features and the scars gave him an air of someone shaped not just by the harshness of his environment, but by his resolve to find meaning and gratitude in even the smallest of blessings.

  Despite his disheveled appearance, Nix exuded a quiet strength. His scars and wild hair only enhanced the aura of resilience he had developed from years of enduring the harsh environment of Trash Mountain. Every climb, every struggle had not only honed his body but also fortified his spirit, making him a figure of determination and grit.

  This unyielding strength was rooted in a habit cultivated during his childhood. Granny Laurie, his caretaker, had advised him to channel his negative emotions into exercise, urging him to turn pain into power. At first, it was an outlet for his frustrations, but over time, it became more than that, working out turned into an addiction, a relentless pursuit of strength and health in a world that demanded both for survival.

  Whenever they ventured into town to sell Laurie’s wigs or trade recyclables, Nix would watch children his age with bright, shiny toys bought by loving parents, symbols of comfort and wealth he could only imagine. Yet, jealousy never consumed him. Laurie had taught him an invaluable lesson: if life didn’t give you what you wanted, you make it yourself.

  One afternoon, as the sun dipped behind the distant skyscrapers of Waste, Nix sat outside their cave-home, hands busy with his latest project. Around him lay scattered metal scraps, wire bits, and broken plastic, discarded junk to most, but potential in his eyes.

  Since he was four years old, Granny Laurie had taught him the Tenons and Joints technique, a method of crafting without nails, screws, or glue, relying entirely on precise interlocking connections. It had started with simple wooden structures, but over time, he had adapted it to weapons.

  Now, after seven years of refining his skills, he was finishing his most ambitious project, a transforming longbow unlike any other.

  His tablet screen flickered beside him, displaying a holographic model of his design. Each piece, every interlocking component, was mapped out in detail. But he didn’t need the blueprint anymore. He had memorized every part, every angle, every mechanism.

  The weapon had two distinct forms:

  ? Longbow Form – A powerful, precision-crafted bow, reinforced with a carefully fitted metal frame and high-tension synthetic fiber strings.

  ? Long Spear Form – With a shift of its interlocking segments, the bow could collapse and reassemble into a deadly long spear, its flexible limbs locking into a rigid shaft, with a reinforced spearhead hidden within the bow’s structure.

  Unlike normal weapons, this wasn’t a single-piece construction, it was built from multiple interlocking segments, each fitted together seamlessly through precise joint work. The bow’s exotic, layered design made it look like an intricate masterpiece, but its true nature was hidden beneath its craftsmanship.

  Inside the structure, concealed among the fitted joints, was a hidden mechanism, a system of compression locks and tension stabilizers. When the bowstring was drawn, these mechanisms would shift, subtly storing additional kinetic energy and increasing the power of the shot. In spear form, these same mechanisms distributed force along the shaft, making it incredibly stable and capable of piercing even reinforced armor.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Nix ran his fingers over the frame, feeling the smooth, perfect fit of each segment. Seven years of work, of refining and rebuilding, had led to this. Every part was exactly as he had envisioned it.

  He exhaled slowly, pulling the string back to test the motion.

  The parts moved in perfect sync, each one amplifying the force of the pull. The resistance was smooth, the power behind it far greater than any ordinary bow. Every piece, every component, worked together flawlessly, bound not by glue or bolts, but by craftsmanship and technique.

  Then, with a single precise motion, he shifted the structure, locking the joints into place. The bow snapped into its spear form, the limbs locking together as the hidden blade at the tip extended into full length.

  He spun it in his hand, feeling its weight.

  Balanced. Deadly. Perfect.

  A sultry voice hummed from the tablet.

  “Mm, looking good, brother. Strong hands, nice grip… I like it.”

  Nix sighed. “Vix, don’t start.”

  “What? I’m just appreciating my hard-working big bro. Can’t a sister admire talent?”

  He shook his head, exhaling through his nose. “You’re ridiculous.”

  Despite the teasing, Vix wasn’t just an AI, she was family. The only sentient being close to him besides Granny Laurie. Nix didn’t have siblings, but if he did, he imagined this was what it would feel like.

  Granny Laurie had spent years saving coins to buy a Sentient Processing and Adaptive Response Kernel System, also known as SPARKS, a newborn AI chip capable of true independent thought. It is the soul of an AI and can only be activated by embedding them into the host’s chest connected to their heart.

  SPARKS were not simple programs or digital assistants. They represented the first true spark of artificial intelligence, capable of learning, adapting, and evolving alongside their bonded partner.

  Once activated, a name had to be given, and from that moment on, the SPARK would imprint on its user, forming an unbreakable connection. It recognized only that person as its partner, shaping its personality, preferences, and even decision-making based on their interactions. No external force, hack, or override could sever that bond.

  SPARKS were not controlled, they thought for themselves, offering guidance, assistance, and even companionship based on their own evolving perspectives. While they prioritized their partner's well-being, they were not subservient. They could disagree, challenge, and even argue if they believed it was for their partner’s best interest.

  They were self-sustaining, capable of managing their own data, optimizing their functions, and even creating new algorithms to enhance themselves. Over time, each SPARK became entirely unique, shaped by its experiences and the bond it shared with its user.

  A SPARK remained loyal until the day it ceased to exist, whether through destruction, degradation, or reaching the limits of its operational lifespan as shared with the host. No matter what happened, it would always stand by its partner, not because it was programmed to do so, but because just like human that can't live without food, SPARKS cannot live without the host.

  In a world of uncertainty, a SPARK was more than an AI, it was the only true, unwavering companion one could ever have.

  Granny Laurie had spent months repairing an old tablet, turning it into a temporary receiver of its virtual body for Vix. In Tala, only the wealthy could afford personal AIs, luxury constructs designed to be lifelong companions.

  But just like all other SPARKS, Vix could transfer herself to other programmable electronic hardware and use them as her medium, adapting to different systems. If Nix ever got his hands on better hardware, she could evolve beyond the limits of the tablet.

  But for now, this beat-up old device was all they could afford.

  And despite her relentless teasing, she belonged to Nix.

  He glanced toward the other corner of their small home, where a simple trap lay, his latest project. Weeks of careful adjustments had gone into its mechanism, each tweak bringing it closer to perfection.

  Hunting wasn’t just a skill, it was survival. If he could catch something, fish, birds, or even a mutated rodent, it would mean one less meal they had to scavenge or buy, easing the burden on Granny Laurie. Food was expensive, and every coin saved brought them closer to something resembling stability.

  A familiar voice hummed from his tablet.

  “You know, brother, most guys your age are chasing girls, not rats.”

  Nix smirked, tightening the last adjustment on the trap. “Yeah? Well, I’d rather chase a full stomach.”

  “Romantic.”

  He rolled his eyes, but a small grin tugged at his lips. Let them waste time dreaming. He was too busy surviving.

  But this wasn’t just about survival.

  Nix had a dream, to become a great hunter. He had spent years watching the real adventurers and hunters on TV and Movies, the ones who walked the ruined lands with confidence, who could fend for themselves, who didn’t have to beg or steal just to eat. If he could master the art of tracking, trapping, and fighting, he wouldn’t just survive, he would thrive.

  Laurie always said that, in this post-apocalyptic world, people survived only by adapting. Nix had taken that lesson to heart. And for him, adaptation meant sharpening his instincts, perfecting his traps, and preparing for the day he could become an adventurer.

  “Done with that project, boy?” Laurie’s voice broke through the evening quiet. She stepped out from the cave, wiping her hands on her scavenging clothes, a patchwork of fabrics meant more for practicality than appearance.

  “Yeah, Granny. It works, see?” Nix lifted his Long Bow, pulling back the string. His eyes locked onto a rusted tin can perched on a rock nearby. He released, the arrow whizzed through the air, striking dead center with a sharp clang.

  Laurie raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “Well, I’ll be. Always did have a way of makin’ things outta nothin’.” She reached over and ruffled his hair. “Better than those store-bought weapons anyhow.”

  A voice from the tablet hummed in amusement.

  “Told you, brother. You’re a menace with that thing.”

  Nix smirked, spinning the Long Bow in his hand. “Maybe. But it keeps us fed.”

  “Right, right. Survival first. But if you ever wanna impress a girl, maybe don’t aim for her heart.”

  Laurie chuckled as she turned back inside. “Vix’s got a point, boy. Though, I’d feel bad for any girl who tries to mess with ya.”

  Nix just grinned, loading another arrow. He wasn’t worried about girls, only getting stronger.

  Nix smiled, but the envy still lingered beneath the surface. He didn’t resent the life they had, but sometimes, he couldn’t help but dream of more. Yet whenever he felt that way, he reminded himself of what Laurie had taught him: if you want more, you have to work for it.

  As the evening crept in and the stars began to blink in the polluted sky, Laurie prepared a simple dinner. Tonight, it was a stew made from scavenged vegetables and the remains of a bird they had trapped earlier that week. Nix’s handmade traps had been a small blessing in their lives, catching food in a world where survival was uncertain. He watched as Laurie ladled the stew into two worn bowls, her face lined with the years of struggle and sacrifice.

  “Granny, one day I’m gonna make sure we don’t have to live like this,” Nix said suddenly, his voice firm, his grip tightening around the Long Bow.

  Laurie looked up, her eyes soft but full of wisdom. “You’re already doin’ that, Nix. Every time you make somethin’ outta nothin’, every time you help us catch food or fix somethin’ broken, you’re buildin’ a better life. We don’t need to be rich or fancy. We just need to survive, and you’re doin’ that better than most.”

  Nix nodded, but deep down, survival wasn’t enough. He wanted more, not just to scrape by, not just to endure. He wanted to thrive. To be more than just a boy growing up in the scraps of a forgotten world.

  A voice hummed from the tablet.

  “You’re thinking too much again, brother. Should I play something inspirational? Maybe ‘Rich and Handsome’ by the Dreamers?”

  Nix smirked but didn’t answer. Instead, he glanced toward the city beyond the waste, where the lights of the distant districts flickered against the darkening sky.

  For now, his hands only knew how to build, traps, weapons, small creations. But one day?

  One day, he’d build something much bigger.

  A home where Laurie never had to worry. A life where he wasn’t just surviving. And a robot body, one Vix could call her own.

  As the night deepened and they sat in the glow of their makeshift fire, Nix looked out over the expanse of Mount Trashmore. Somewhere out there, in the ruins of the old world, lay the future he'd create for himself and Laurie. That wasn't going to be easy, but if there was one thing he knew, it was that hard work could take even the most broken things and make them whole. For now, that would be enough.

  **The Next Morning**

  Nix woke up with the first rays of sunlight filtering through the cracked window of their small home. He stretched, his muscles sore from yesterday’s workout, but his mind sharp and ready. Today was going to be different. He had a plan.

  He quickly washed up and returned to his cramped space, barely large enough for his single bed and a narrow strip of floor to walk on. He slipped into his clothes, practical for scavenging but still neatly kept, a quiet tribute to Laurie’s teachings of pride even in poverty. As he tied his boots, he glanced at the small, handmade lunchbox on his shelf. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

  “Let’s see how they like this,” he muttered to himself, grabbing the lunchbox and tucking it into Scootie’s basket. Inside was a concoction he’d spent hours perfecting, a mix of spoiled food, sticky syrup, and a special adhesive that would cling to skin like glue. The smell alone was enough to make anyone gag. He’d made sure to pack a second, real lunchbox for himself, hidden safely in his backpack.

  As Nix stepped outside, a determined expression set on his face. He walked over to his trusty scooter, "Scootie," a patchwork vehicle he'd pieced together from parts scavenged at the junk graveyard near the foot of the trash mountain. He patted it affectionately. "Alright, Scootie, let's get to work," he said with a smile. He had made sure Scootie was in top shape, always keeping it well maintained to avoid any breakdowns. The scooter could go as fast as 30 km/h, perfect for the 15 km distance ride to the nearest trade station.

  After the train ride, he arrived at the school station and hopped back on Scootie for the final leg, another 10 minutes to school. As he approached the familiar alleyway near the school, his path was blocked by a group of teenagers wearing clothes that screamed trouble, leather jackets, oversized chains, and arrogant smirks plastered on their faces. These were his regular bullies.

  “Well, well, look who decided to show up today,” Jared sneered, his towering frame blocking Nix’s path. His voice dripped with mockery as he leaned in, his shadow stretching across the alley. Behind him, the rest of his gang tightened their circle, effectively trapping Nix. The alley behind the school was their usual spot, a secluded area where no one would interfere.

  “Got anything good for us today, trash boy?” Jared asked, his arms crossed in mock patience.

  Nix didn’t respond. He kept his face neutral, his eyes focused on the ground. He had learned long ago that silence was his best defense. Words only fueled their cruelty, and fighting back physically was a battle he couldn’t win. His quiet wasn’t cowardice; it was survival. Granny Laurie had taught him that reacting only gave them power. “If you don’t feed the fire, it’ll burn out on its own,” she’d say.

  The group sensed his tension and fed off it, their taunts growing bolder. Jared stepped closer, shoving Nix backward. Nix stumbled but quickly caught himself, refusing to fall. Falling meant weakness, and weakness only encouraged them.

  “Nothing to say? Fine,” Jared muttered, before slamming a fist into Nix’s stomach. The impact drove the air out of Nix’s lungs, and he doubled over, gasping. Jared grabbed him by the collar, shoving him hard against the wall. “Remember this next time you think about skipping out on us.”

  The punches came next, sharp and calculated. Jared and his gang knew where to hit so the bruises wouldn’t show. Each blow was precise, meant to hurt but not leave evidence. Nix clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out, even as his ribs screamed in protest.

  But Nix had learned to take the hits. He twisted his body just enough to absorb the force, minimizing the damage. He kept his head down, protecting his face, and used his legs to brace himself against the wall. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to keep the worst of the pain at bay.

  When they finally grew bored, they let him drop to the ground like a discarded toy. Jared spit on the ground beside him. “See you tomorrow, trash boy,” he said with a grin as they walked away, laughing and high-fiving like they’d just won a championship.

  As the bullies laughed, high-fiving each other after their assault, Jared suddenly noticed Nix’s backpack lying nearby. “What’s this? Lunch money? Or did trash boy actually bring something edible today?” Jared sneered as he bent down and grabbed the bag.

  Nix lay there for a moment, steadying his breath. The pain that had gripped his body was already fading, the dull throbbing in his ribs easing with each passing second. He could feel the bruises diminishing little by little, his body recovering faster than expected.

  He was grateful for the years of relentless workouts and training, without them, he’d still be curled up on the ground. By now, getting beaten was just another part of life. The sting was familiar, almost routine, and his body had long since learned how to endure it.

  He winced but remained silent, his heart sinking as he watched Jared rummage through his bag. His fingers twitched as Jared pulled out the decoy lunchbox, the one Nix had carefully prepared the night before.

  “What is this, some kind of treasure?” Jared taunted, shaking the lunchbox. The rest of the gang hooted in amusement. “Bet this is all the kid’s got.”

  The bullies opened it, expecting food or something valuable, but the moment the lid popped, a putrid stench wafted out, hitting them like a wall. Jared’s smirk turned into a grimace, and the others recoiled, gagging.

  “Ugh! What the hell is this?” Jared shouted, dropping the lunchbox in disgust as its contents spilled out, a sticky, foul-smelling mess of spoiled food, thick syrup, and an adhesive that clung to everything it touched.

  The gang stumbled back, but the damage was done. The stench clung to their clothes, and the sticky substance was impossible to wipe off. “You’re dead, trash boy!” Jared growled, glaring at Nix, but he was too preoccupied trying to get the mess off his hands to act on his threat.

  Snatching Nix’s bag, Jared and his gang stormed off, laughing as they went. Nix remained on the ground, his face twisted in pain, his breaths ragged, playing the part of someone too beaten to fight back. But beneath the act, he was steady, his body already recovering, the aches fading faster than they should.

  Deep down, past the bruises and feigned weakness, a small sense of satisfaction burned.

  The trap had worked.

  As he sat there, Granny Laurie’s words echoed in his mind, soft but steady. “Everyone has their own battles, Nix. Sometimes people do bad things because they’re hurting inside. That doesn’t excuse it, but it helps us not carry their hate as our own.” She had smiled at him that day, her calloused hands resting gently on his shoulders. “Think of them like sandpaper; they may scratch and hurt you a bit, but in the end, you end up polished and they end up useless. Reserve your strength for when it matters most, fight back only when your life is truly at stake.”

  He repeated those words silently like a mantra, the sharp edges of his anger dulling slightly. Granny had taught him to understand people, even the ones who hurt him. It didn’t erase the pain, but it gave him perspective, and perspective was power.

  Later that day, as Nix walked home with acootie, he passed the town square where a small crowd was gathered. Among them, he caught sight of his bullies, their menacing swagger replaced by irritated grimaces. Jared and his gang stood to the side, frantically trying to scrub themselves clean at a public fountain, but the adhesive clung stubbornly to their skin and clothes.

  Nix hid behind a corner, his lips twitching upward in the faintest hint of a smile. The smell from his decoy lunchbox was unmistakable, it clung to them like a cloud, making people nearby wrinkle their noses and step away.

  “Man, what is that smell?” one passerby muttered as they hurried past.

  “Some kids messing around, probably,” another replied, shooting Jared and his gang a disgusted glance.

  Nix watched from the shadows, a strange sense of triumph washing over him.

  Jared’s face burned red with embarrassment as he splashed water on his jacket, only for it to smear the adhesive further. The gang’s frustration was palpable, their earlier arrogance now reduced to helpless anger.

  He might not be able to fight back directly, not against those with status and connections, but he would always return the shame to those who wronged him.

  They wouldn’t know it was him. They wouldn’t suspect. But that didn’t matter.

  Humiliation was a language everyone understood.

  With that thought, he turned and continued home, the bruises on his body now fully healed.

  When he finally made it home, Laurie sat at the small wooden table, humming softly as she mended an old jacket. The warm glow of the lantern flickered, casting gentle shadows across her face. Her eyes brightened the moment she saw him.

  “Hey, Nixie. How was school today?”

  Nix grinned, lifting his scooter like a shield. “Got a flat tire. Took a spill off Scootie. I’m fine, though.”

  Laurie’s smile faded slightly as she took in his appearance. No bruises, no limp, but he was covered in dirt from head to toe. She set her needle down, her brow furrowing.

  “Hmm. You sure you’re okay? You look like you crawled through a mud pit.”

  “Yeah,” Nix lied quickly, rubbing his arm as if brushing off dirt. “I just need to patch Scootie up.”

  Laurie didn’t press further, but a flicker of relief crossed her face as she noticed he had no bruises. Her shoulders relaxed slightly, though a hint of worry still lingered in her eyes.

  “Alright… just be careful, okay?”

  “Got it,” Nix replied before retreating to his room.

  Once inside, he locked the door and pulled off his shirt. Standing in front of the cracked mirror, he examined his body. There, on his ribs, the last fading bruise twitched unnaturally. His breath caught as he watched a thin, worm-like movement ripple beneath his skin. It slithered for a brief second, then stopped.

  A strange warmth spread through him. The pain vanished. The bruise, once deep purple, faded away before his eyes, leaving nothing behind.

  Nix watched in silence, then turned away from the mirror and grabbed a clean shirt.

  He grabbed a small notebook from under his pillow and flipped to a blank page. Picking up a pencil, he wrote down what he’d learned today: *Block ribs faster. Keep head down. Use legs to absorb force when shoved.*

  This was how he fought back, not with fists, but with strategy. Each day, he found a way to make the next encounter less painful. Over time, the bruises became smaller, the damage less severe, and his self healing got faster. Laurie noticed less often, and Nix took that as a victory.

  That night, lying in bed, Nix thought about the bullies’ laughter. It echoed in his head, loud and cruel. He clenched his fists, anger bubbling up again. But then he remembered Laurie’s words from years ago: “When life knocks you down, you get back up stronger. Even if it’s just a little stronger each time.”