It didn't take long before he reached the edge of the clearing surrounding his forest home. The house, modest and comfortably tucked beneath tall firs, looked like salvation after everything he'd just been through.
Inside, the quiet was comforting. He stepped onto the hardwood floors, leaving a trail of dried earth and forest behind him as he peeled off what remained of his clothes. A hot shower washed away the grime, steam curling around him as he stood under the water, head tilted back.
No bruises. No cuts. His body was fine.
But his mind? Still spinning.
He wrapped himself in a towel, combed fingers through his hair, and padded into the kitchen. There was something grounding about the smell of home—wood, coffee, and the faint, clean scent of soap clinging to his skin.
He opened the fridge, still humming faintly with power, and pulled out a carton of eggs.
He stared at them for a second.
Then blinked.
Then slowly closed the fridge again.
"...I've had enough egg for a lifetime," he muttered to himself, then sighed and reopened it anyway.
A few minutes later, he was at the stove, flipping eggs with the skill of someone who'd cooked for himself for years—despite the fact that his body no longer needed food. He didn't need warmth either. But eggs and toast and hot tea meant something. They were real. They were normal.
And normal was precious right now.
Sitting at the small table by the window, he looked out into the woods beyond his house, the sun rising slowly behind the trees, casting long golden beams across the floor. The tranquility of the moment began to give way to thought.
He couldn't go back to Port Angeles.
He'd been reckless. Foolish, maybe. But he didn't regret his actions—it had been the right thing to do. Perhaps he should've worn a mask though. His only consolation was that they hadn't managed to get a picture of his face.
He'd run through it a million times in his mind. The flash had come from the woman behind him. Not from in front. And at the time his hood had been up. All she could've captured was his back. His silhouette.
He sighed.
He still remembered the gaze of the father as he had looked upon Kal. Shock. Fear. Awe. He didn't know what he had seen, only that it was something super.
And even if the man didn't remember Kal's face… the others almost certainly would.
He sighed again, slower this time. Then rose and crossed the living room to a map pinned on the far wall.
His eyes swept westward at first—toward the sea. Then north, toward Port Angeles. Then east, as if following an invisible thread pulled taut by necessity.
Seattle.
A major city. Far enough from Port Angeles that he'd be unknown. Much larger too. At least twenty times bigger in fact. Much more crime, and large enough that supernatural activity could hide in the shadows.
A perfect place to continue gathering XP.
Kal's jaw set with quiet determination. But first, if he was going to start soaring across the skies like a rocket again, he had to learn to fly. Not just survive flight. But control it.
The memory of tumbling through the sky at sunrise, of treetops flashing past his vision like blurs of green and brown, flashed through his mind. That wild rush of freedom, wind howling in his ears—countered by the chaos of not knowing up from down.
He knew where to start.
The Trial Quests. The System had made them available the moment he'd unlocked the ability to fly. And they came with a nice chunk of XP too.
He was ready.
Kal cleaned up the kitchen, washed his plate, and made his way back upstairs. His bedroom was simple—clean lines, warm lighting, wooden floors. The kind of place meant to be lived in quietly. Not by a flying superhuman who crashed into mountains. Oh well.
He sat down on the edge of the bed. Adjusted the System Band on his wrist.
"Let's do this," he whispered.
The screen appeared in his vision.
[Trial of Flight I]
Initialising…
Mindscape Synchronising…
Kal laid back and let the world slip away.
Kal's vision blurred for a heartbeat as the world dissolved around him.
The transition from reality to the System's mindscape was never graceful—but this time, it was jarring.
There was no warning.
No loading screen.
Just air.
And gravity.
Kal materialized mid-air with a gasp, the wind roaring in his ears before his mind even registered what was happening.
Then—
WHAM.
He hit the ground with a thud, skidding through what felt like coarse gravel and landing face-first in a shallow ditch.
"…Oof."
He groaned into the dirt, lifting his head to see dry, cracked terrain stretching out before him—wide and barren, like some hybrid of desert floor and windswept canyon. The sky above was bright, cloudless, tinged with soft violet hues that weren't quite earthly. The air tasted faintly of ozone.
A voice crackled into existence nearby, cheerful and absolutely amused.
"Well that was... not ideal."
Kal rolled onto his back with a sigh. Standing just a few feet away, wearing a three-piece suit with loafers that somehow didn't sink into the dust, was Tad.
The AI's ever-grinning expression had returned in full force, his clipboard tucked beneath one arm, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the complete lack of sun.
"Honestly, 0.3 seconds into the Trial and you've already kissed the floor. New record."
Kal groaned again, brushing dust off his face. "You dropped me in mid-air."
Tad held up a finger. "The System dropped you. I just supervise. And point. And laugh, occasionally."
He tapped his clipboard, and in response, the air shimmered around them. Two large circles formed on the dusty ground—one where Kal now lay, and another about a hundred meters away, marked with fine, white grains.
Flour.
Literal flour.
Kal pushed himself up onto one knee, raising an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
Tad grinned wider.
"Welcome to Flight Trial I: Takeoff and Landing. In this challenge, you'll master the art of gracefully leaving the ground... and returning to it without leaving behind a trail of destruction."
Kal's eyes narrowed.
Tad gestured dramatically to the second circle in the distance. "Objective: Take off from this ring, fly to the other, and land without disturbing a single grain of flour in either."
Kal glanced down, now realizing the entire circle beneath him was dusted in a perfect white powder.
He gave Tad a flat look.
"After all, before you can learn how to fly, you must learn how to take-off…" his voice quirked, "...and land."
He gave Tad a look, something about his tone made Kal self-conscious, had Tad seen his god-awful landing earlier that morning?
"Landing's the part I've already failed once today," he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.
Tad's grin somehow widened further. "Exactly why this is your first Trial. You've got the power, Kal. You just lack... finesse." He leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice conspiratorially. "And maybe the basic motor coordination of a baby giraffe."
Kal groaned. "I knew you saw the crash."
Tad coughed delicately into his hand, but the twinkle in his eye said it all. "The System sees everything."
Kal stepped back into the circle of flour, brushing his hands on his pants. The terrain around them stretched flat and featureless—an artificial blank slate. No distractions. No excuses.
He inhaled slowly.
Focused.
"Okay," he murmured to himself. "Just take off. Hover. Land. Easy."
Tad chuckled from behind him. "Oh, we'll see about that."
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The mindscape had shifted over the hours. Not in shape or structure, but in feeling. Kal's muscles didn't ache—his Kryptonian physiology spared him that—but his mind felt exhausted. Time flowed ten times faster here, and he'd spent over a full subjective day repeating the same delicate sequence over and over again.
Takeoff. Drift. Overcompensate. Overshoot. Land too fast. Flour explosion.
Reset.
Try again.
Flour explosion.
Reset.
By the final few attempts, Kal had managed to narrow every movement down to precision: gentle pressure in the calves, slight forward lean, breath control. Stabilizing with micro-adjustments. Letting instinct take over where brute force had once ruled.
He now hovered above the final circle, lowering himself down in a slow, silent drift.
The soles of his feet touched down.
The flour didn't move.
A quiet ping sounded in his mind.
[Trial of Flight I Complete]
[+100XP]
[TRAIT GAINED: 'Flying Mastery I']
With great effort you have just begun to learn how to control your flight. +10% stability when flying.
Kal exhaled, relieved.
Tad clapped—slow, theatrical, and smug.
"Well done, Kal," he said, appearing beside him again, this time holding a golden measuring spoon and magnifying glass. "You may have the aerial grace of a concrete brick, but it's a very determined brick."
Kal rolled his eyes. "Thanks, Tad."
"Now, off you go. The skies—and flour fields—await."
Kal opened his eyes.
He was back in his bed.
The morning had advanced slightly, now completely bright. Light poured through the window now in full force, casting a golden glow on the wooden floors. He sat up slowly, stretching just because it felt good, and padded down the stairs to freshen up.
On the way to the kitchen, something caught his eye.
A cream-colored envelope on the floor by the door—slid through the letterbox, lying in wait.
He picked it up, brow furrowing.
It bore the letterhead of Forks High School.
Kal turned the envelope over in his hand, brow furrowed.
No postage stamp.
Just a name typed neatly across the front:
Kal Kent
And, below, his address.
He cracked the seal and pulled the paper free. It was a single sheet of thick, official-grade stock, embossed with the seal of Forks High School at the top. The text was typed, save for a signature at the bottom—handwritten in blue ink, neat and controlled.
FORKS HIGH SCHOOL
Principal's Office
121 Spartan Avenue
Forks, WA 98331
Saturday, January 8th, 2005
To: Kal Kent
Dear Mr. Kent,
I hope this letter finds you well.
Our records indicate that you have not attended any classes during the first week of the new semester, which began on Monday, January 3rd, 2005.
In light of what I understand to be a recent personal loss, we want to first extend our condolences. We at Forks High School believe in supporting our students through difficult times.
That said, we are also committed to ensuring that all students maintain an acceptable level of academic attendance and participation. As such, I would like to invite you to attend a brief meeting to discuss your enrollment and academic plans moving forward.
This is not a disciplinary action—merely an opportunity to understand your situation and make sure you have the support you need.
Please come to the Main Office at Forks High School on Monday, January 10th at 9:00 AM.
If you are unable to attend this meeting, please contact the office to arrange another time.
Sincerely,
Principal Thomas D Neumann
Forks High School
Kal stared at the letter for a long moment.
Then blinked.
"...Oh, right," he said, voice flat. "I'm sixteen."
His gaze drifted toward the window, as if expecting the trees to offer him sympathy. None did.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, annoyed breath.
Kal stood in the quiet of the cabin's living room, letter still in hand, sunlight spilling in from the forest-dappled windows.
"God," he muttered, running a hand through his damp hair. "I forgot I'm still in high school."
A beat of silence.
Then:
"…Why am I still in high school?"
He turned the letter over again, like maybe it would change. It didn't. The neat, empathetic tone of Principal Neumann's words only made it worse. Like getting a pat on the back before being handed detention.
"Great," he muttered, flopping onto the arm of the couch. "Flying across mountains one minute, and now I'm being grounded by the system. Literally."
And then — the system chimed.
[QUEST ASSIGNED: "A Most Academic Concern"
Objective:Attend the scheduled meeting with Principal Thomas D. Neumann at Forks High School on Monday, January 10th at 9:00 AM.
Failure Condition: Miss the meeting without rescheduling.
Reward: +100 XP, Possible Unlock: Forks High Social Web
Note: You are still technically enrolled in high school.]
Kal closed his eyes.
"Thanks," he said aloud, tone dry. "That last part? Real helpful."
He wondered whether Tad was in there somewhere writing up these quests.
He glanced at a calendar on the wall. Saturday, 8th of January.
He leaned back, head thunking against the wood paneling behind him. A crow cawed somewhere in the forest.
"Well. Can't exactly skip it." He rubbed at his jaw. "Last thing I need is the Principal pestering me legally."
A pause.
"And it's worth 100XP," he muttered, "That's as much as I get in a trial.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The letter from Principal Neumann sat folded neatly on the counter, its contents still mildly offending Kal's pride. But he didn't dwell on it.
Not for long.
He had bigger things to focus on now — quite literally. Skyscraper-sized things. Mountains. High-altitude wind currents. Gravity.
Flight.
Kal stood on the balcony just as the morning mist began to burn away, letting the sun's warmth seep into his skin. His body thrummed with renewed energy. He was getting better at this — faster, more controlled. But he wasn't where he wanted to be.
Not yet.
He moved back downstairs, making himself comfortable on the sofa.
'Start Trial,' he thought.
The world dissolved in white light.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He materialized mid-air once more, but this time he caught himself.
Before him stretched a brutal aerial gauntlet — tunnels of rock, metallic rings, even suspended wreckage shifting and falling in timed intervals. It twisted like a dragon's spine across the sky, sharp and narrow, unwelcoming.
Tad's voice echoed from somewhere behind him, light and casual:
"Welcome to The Needle's Thread. Don't touch anything. If you do—start over."
Kal squinted at the course.
"…Of course."
"Oh, and you have to go fast. That's part of the fun."
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
37 Trial Hours Later
Kal dropped out of the final ring, sweatless but mentally exhausted, and landed in a hover just above a glowing blue sigil. The moment his boots touched down, the entire mindscape shimmered and rang like a bell.
[Trial of Flight II: The Needle's Thread — Complete]
[+100XP]
Kal exhaled slowly, floating down to sit cross-legged in the empty air.
The world dematerialised.
His breath steadied. And then…
"Again."
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A new world formed—with it came music. Laughter. Color.
A city street stretched before him, alive with people.
Lanterns floated above stalls. Performers danced. Thousands of simulated civilians packed the street, flowing like a river. A street fair. Loud, joyful, chaotic.
Kal hovered just above the ground, feet an inch off the cobblestones.
Tad popped into view beside him, sunglasses on and a balloon in one hand. In his other hand he held a glass bottle of Coke, straw poking into the screen that was his face.
"You're welcome. Thought you could use some culture."
Kal narrowed his eyes. "What's the challenge?"
"Crowd-weaving," Tad said, chomping on popcorn that hadn't existed until now. "Fly low. Stay under ten feet. No bumps, no broken umbrellas, no ruined hot dogs. Capiche?"
He vanished with a pop.
Kal sighed.
And launched forward.
—--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
72 Trial Hours Later
He was close. So close. Each attempt sharpened his control, his instincts. He could now dip, twirl, accelerate, and stop on a dime — without mussing a single passerby's hair.
But still, not quite perfect.
He hovered on the edge of the course, frustration just beginning to bubble.
"Okay," he said, hands on hips. "Can I take a break or something?"
Tad reappeared, lounging in a hammock strung between two paper lanterns.
"Of course you can. You're not trapped in here, you know."
Kal blinked. "Wait. What?"
"You can leave any Trial at any time. Except Endurance ones."
Kal frowned. "What—why?"
"Because," Tad said, lifting his shades. "It's an endurance trial. The whole point is to, you know… endure."
He paused dramatically, then added with a smirk:
"But don't worry. The next endurance trial's way easier."
Kal gave him a flat look. "I don't believe you."
"And that's the right instinct!"
—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
19 More Trial Hours Later
The final lantern drifted past. Kal slid sideways through an impossibly narrow gap between a flailing dancer and a juggler, then glided silently to a halt.
His boots touched down on the glowing sigil.
Everything stilled.
[Trial of Flight III: Crowd Weaving — Complete]
[+100XP]
[TRAIT GAINED: "Flight Mastery II"]
You soar through the sky like you were born to do so. You were. +30% stability, +10% speed and maneuverability when flying.
Kal smiled faintly, chest rising with satisfaction.
He was finally, truly, learning to fly.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Back in the real world, Kal sat down at the kitchen table, a plate of eggs in front of him. He stared at them.
"...Why are these so yellow?" he muttered, poking one with his fork like it had offended him.
After a beat of silence, he added under his breath, "Is this what peak chicken looks like?"
The moment of quiet absurdity made him snort. He needed that.
He finished breakfast quickly, then stood and moved back to the couch.
"Tad," he said, "I'm doing it. The second Endurance Trial." he wanted to get it out of the way.
No response. Right, Tad was only around in Trials. Kal rolled his eyes as the world dissolved around him.
The world faded. That strange, weightless shift happened again—where time seemed to pause, and even thought lagged behind light.
Then light returned.
Kal found himself standing in a warm, pleasant room. Golden sunlight filtered in through gauzy curtains. Bookshelves climbed the walls, filled with everything from encyclopedias to ancient scrolls. A low fire crackled in the hearth nearby, its warmth almost cozy. At the center of the room was a polished oak table. A chessboard rested atop it.
One of the chairs was already occupied.
Kal tilted his head, eyebrows drawn together. The man across the table had short-cropped hair, dark eyes, and a faintly amused expression as he tapped his fingers on the table's edge.
Kal didn't recognize the face.
Then all of a sudden Tad materialised beside him.
"Bold," Tad's voice echoed. "Stupid. But bold."
"You'll start by beating him." Tad said, gesturing to the man who sat at the table.
Kal approached slowly and took the seat opposite him.
"Who is he?"
"Garry Kasparov."
Kal froze.
"…Wait. Kasparov? Like—the Kasparov? World champion, chess grandmaster, beat computers before anyone else could?"
"That's the one," Tad confirmed, grinning. "He's been waiting."
Kal turned slowly toward the man across the table, who gave him a mild, expectant nod.
"…You're kidding."
"Nope."
"I can barely play chess."
Tad cut him off.
"You're a Kryptonian. Your brain's adapting to the yellow sun, if you're not the most intelligent being on the planet already, then you're not far off. Honestly, you should be able to beat him. Eventually."
Kal exhaled sharply and slumped into the empty chair, muttering, "This is gonna suck."
Tad began to walk away. Then, as if remembering something at the last second, he turned back.
"Oh. Right."
Kal looked up warily.
"…What?"
Tad looked down at his wrist, glancing at a non-existent watch.
"You'll be in constant, excruciating pain for the entire trial. Starting…"
And without warning—Kal's world exploded.
Not literally. But it might as well have.
A scream tore from Kal's throat as fire licked down his spine. His chest compressed as though invisible iron bands had tightened around his lungs. Then came the shifting—something like broken glass under his skin one second, deep muscle cramps the next, then sudden bursts of sharp, blinding agony that ricocheted from his temples to his toes.
His hands clenched the sides of the table so hard the wood creaked.
It was relentless. There was no pattern to it. No rhythm. No part of it he could predict, prepare for, or even try to ignore. Every time he began to adapt—shift, compartmentalize, compensate—the pain changed.
Sometimes it was a dull throb in every joint, like slow acid dripping into his bones. Other times it was pure, sharp heat in one isolated spot—his ear, his stomach, the tip of a finger—so intense it felt like he was on fire from the inside out.
Then it would vanish, only to return like a mallet behind his eyes or a white-hot lance through his legs.
His vision swam. His breathing staggered.
"Begin," Tad said simply, before fading away.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At first, Kal could barely see the board.
He made basic, clumsy moves. The pain distracted him so thoroughly he couldn't hold strategies in his mind for more than a few seconds.
Kasparov beat him again and again. And again.
And again.
Every defeat felt longer. He wanted to scream, to quit. But every time he looked at the board, he saw it differently. Patterns started to form. Traps he'd walked into began to make sense. Moves Kasparov made five turns ago suddenly clicked in hindsight.
Something shifted in his brain.
Adapt. Learn. Endure.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Then came Go.
Then logic puzzles—geometric sequences, number chains, illusions, memory games that spiraled in complexity.
Kal's teeth clenched against the screaming fire in his bones, the invisible claws digging into his brain.
—----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Then came the music.
He found himself sitting at a grand piano, keys gleaming like ice. Across from him, another man waited.
Elegant. Graceful. The posture of a master.
"Who—" Kal started, then stopped. His mind supplied the answer, dragged from some half-remembered documentary or musical history file.
Chopin. Frédéric f***ing Chopin.
The composer gave a small bow and placed his fingers on the keys.
What followed was transcendent. Notes spilled like water over silk, filling the air with beauty so perfect Kal could almost forget the pain.
Almost.
Then it was his turn.
He sat down, staring at the keys like they were foreign objects.
"…I don't even know how to play the piano," he groaned.
Tad's voice drifted in from somewhere.
"Two hours of instruction. That's all you get."
Somehow, Kal made it through.
He failed. A lot. His fingers moved like stone at first, stiff and clumsy. But the brain behind them? That was learning. Memorizing. Analyzing patterns. Adjusting muscle memory in real time. Matching rhythm, then harmony.
Eventually… eventually, he could play. Not just decently. Not well.
Better.
He played Chopin against Chopin himself. And he won.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
247 hours.
That's how long it took.
Two hundred and forty-seven hours of unrelenting torment, of the worst pain he had felt since the first Trial of Endurance—the furnace that tried to break his very soul.
And through it all, he endured.
[Trial of Endurance II - The Longest Game Complete]
[+100XP]
[TRAIT GAINED: "Strategic Mind"]
"Victory is forged in foresight." Your mind excels at pattern recognition, long-term planning, and adaptive tactics. Increased efficiency when planning, faster puzzle solving, and improved decision-making in complex scenarios.
[Combat Trials Unlocked]
[LEVEL UP: Level 4 → Level 5 (25/500XP)]
A flurry of notifications arrived as he re-emerged into the real world like a diver gasping for air.
His body—his real body—felt fine. No pain. No fatigue. Not even a scratch.
But Kal dropped onto the couch, wide-eyed, hands trembling faintly.
"What the hell," he gasped, "was that?"
The System chimed.
[ORIGIN QUEST ASSIGNED: "Echoes of the Crash
Your pod has been found. Not by a human.
Objective: Investigate the anomaly. Retrieve the pod.
Time Limit: None—delays may have consequences.
Reward: +500XP, Kryptonian Escape Pod]
Kal stared at the notification.
"What the f—"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
It's important to note that vampires in this world are no joke. On the wiki Emmett is described as having force in one hand as about equivalent to a cement truck at 70mph. If we use try and calculate the force of a punch, using that momentum and a stopping time of 1 second—which is a massive overestimation since they have superspeed—then we can calculate force in Newtons, which converted to tonne-force is about 94 tonne-force. That means that every punch carries the force of roughly 94 tons.
And before any maths geniuses come at me, I'm aware this is a huge simplification of the actual maths. But I'm not doing pages of equations to calculate how strong a punch from Edward Cullen would be.