The Cursed Extra-Chapter 103: [2.51] Stolen Goods

"Power doesn’t care who owned it first. Only who owns it now."

***

"How long?" she asked. Her voice came out hushed. Intense. Almost desperate. The question scraped raw by need.

"Until we possess the strength to seize what we desire instead of lurking in shadows. Until the Twilight Society becomes more than just a fragile dream." I released her and eased back against the pillows. Ignored the fresh wave of pain that movement brought. "Until I’ve become worthy of what you’re offering me."

She rose abruptly. Smoothed her skirt with hands that weren’t quite steady. The tremor in her fingers was visible even in the dim light of the infirmary.

"I should allow you to rest. The medic was quite insistent about it."

"Lyra."

She halted at the foot of my bed. Her gaze not quite meeting mine. As if afraid of what I might see there.

"Patience may be virtuous," I said quietly, "but it makes our eventual victory infinitely sweeter. Remember that."

A visible tremor passed through her at my words. A shiver that had nothing to do with the temperature. Her hands clenched briefly at her sides before she forced them to relax.

She offered a perfect curtsy. The consummate servant acknowledging her master’s command. But at the threshold, she turned back.

"Master? The next time you decide to let someone fracture your ribs for power, perhaps a warning would be appreciated?" Her voice had regained some of its composure. The hungry edge remained audible beneath the formal politeness. "I nearly eliminated three innocent bystanders today simply for looking at you incorrectly. Their fear was... satisfying."

I laughed despite the pain that lanced through my chest.

"I’ll remember that."

====

After her departure, I lay in the deepening shadows of the infirmary. Listened to the distant sounds of academy life filtering through the windows.

Out there, students were attending evening lectures. Hunching over ancient tomes in the library’s hushed corners. Exchanging excited whispers about the day’s events. Normal activities for normal people living their scripted lives. Blissfully unaware of the narrative chains binding them to fates they couldn’t comprehend.

But I was anything but normal.

I was a glitch in their perfect system. A rogue variable the author never planned for. And with each passing day, each carefully stolen skill, each meticulously recruited ally, I was becoming increasingly dangerous to the story’s predetermined path.

The original plot was already beginning to unravel at the seams. Threads coming loose wherever my influence touched.

And I’m only getting started.

The pain in my ribs had subsided to a dull, persistent throb. I sat up gingerly. Tested my limits. Everything worked as intended, though each movement sent sharp reminders of my encounter with Vance shooting through my torso.

The medic knew her craft. At this rate, I’d be back to playing my pathetic role within days.

Weakness wasn’t an option. Even when no one was watching. The original Kaelen might have wallowed in self-pity.

That’s not my style.

Time to test out my first stolen power.

I dragged myself upright. My hand clamped onto the iron bed frame with crushing force. The metal groaned beneath my grip. Protested the strength that shouldn’t have belonged to such a pathetic failure.

The infirmary tilted around me in a dizzying lurch. The pristine white walls blurred at the edges of my vision.

Just a symptom. Ignore it.

Each breath was an intake of broken glass scraping against my damaged ribs. Lightning bolts of agony through my torso with every shallow inhalation.

A price I’m willing to pay. Gladly, even.

The copper taste of blood lingered at the back of my throat. Fresh and metallic.

Pain is just another variable to manage. Another obstacle to overcome.

Another testament to what I’m becoming.

Time to see what I’d bought with my blood and suffering.

I closed my eyes and reached inward. Past the physical discomfort. Into the metaphysical landscape of my being.

The inner world of my soul stretched before my consciousness like a vast, dark ocean. But instead of water, it was filled with something else.

Threads.

Countless threads of narrative power. Each one humming with potential. Each one connected to the fundamental forces that governed this story-world.

My consciousness probed delicately. Searched for the foreign presence that had taken root in my soul.

There.

Nestled between my own abilities. A jagged, ugly thing that pulsed with borrowed malice and arrogance.

Vance’s [Power Strike] sat in my spiritual core like a splinter of broken glass. All sharp edges and hostile energy. Still carrying the essence of its former wielder. I could feel his brutish nature embedded within it. The skill itself tainted by his desire to crush and dominate rather than simply defeat.

It reeked of insecurity masked as strength. Of a second son desperate to prove his worth through violence.

Charming. I stole a skill that comes with emotional baggage.

I grasped the skill with my consciousness. The moment I tried to channel mana, it ignited.

Not a clean burn. A violent, sputtering deflagration.

Vance’s arrogance. His raw need to dominate. It was all still there. Tangled in the mana pathways like spiritual barbed wire.

The energy slammed into my injured ribs with the subtlety of a sledgehammer. As if Vance himself was reaching through the skill to deliver one final blow.

White-hot agony exploded behind my eyes.

I held on.

Teeth clenched so hard I thought they might crack. Sweat beaded on my forehead and dripped down my temples.

Brute force. That’s all he knew.

The realization came through the pain like a blade through fog.

This wasn’t a contest of wills. It was a hostile system takeover. I couldn’t overpower the flood of Vance’s ego.

So I didn’t try.

Instead, I began to reroute it.

I treated the skill like an engineering problem. A system with corrupted code that needed to be rewritten rather than overwritten. I carved new channels around the spiritual barbed wire. Created bypass routes that avoided the most contaminated pathways entirely.

The process was agonizing. Like performing surgery on my own soul with nothing but stubbornness as anesthetic.

But I felt the jagged edges of the stolen power begin to smooth out. The hostile energy slowly, grudgingly, bending to my design.

The problem isn’t the skill itself. It’s the methodology.

Vance used brute force because that’s all he understood.

But I’m not Vance.

I don’t need to dominate the power. I need to redirect it.

My world narrowed to a single, sharp point. The agonizing surgery of carving my will onto a stolen power. Reshaping it from a hostile parasite into a usable weapon.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as I worked. Each adjustment brought fresh waves of pain. Each successful modification brought me closer to true ownership.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of silent struggle, I felt the skill click into place.

The mana flow stabilized. No longer fighting against my control. The hostile presence of Vance’s ego had been quarantined. Isolated from the core function of the ability itself.

What remained was power.

Raw, useful power that now answered to a new master.

Me.

I opened my eyes and raised my right hand. Channeled energy through the newly tamed pathways.

A corrupted light sputtered to life around my knuckles.

It held none of the confident gold of Vance’s original skill. That color had belonged to the arrogance and certainty of its former wielder. Neither of which I possessed or wanted.

This was a bastardized version. Flickering between the bruised red of raw meat and a sickly, jaundiced yellow.

It was ugly. Imperfect. The color of my arrogance. A flame fed on the rotten wood of my soul.

Beautiful in its ugliness.

Perfect in its imperfection.

But it was mine.