Three months.
That was the rule.
Jared Alonzo stared at his reflection in the mirror.
"…why three?"
His voice was quiet.
Analytical.
The clinic never explained it clearly. Just a standard safety guideline.
A human body needs time to recover lost blood.
Logical.
Medical.
Safe.
"…but what if I don't care about safe?"
Jared splashed water on his face.
Drops slid down, cold and sharp.
His mind was already running simulations.
Average blood donation: 450 milliliters.
Recovery time: approximately 8–12 weeks.
Side effects if repeated too early: dizziness, fatigue… potential collapse.
He paused.
But the last time… I felt stronger.
Not weaker.
Stronger.
"Which means…"
He dried his face slowly.
"…the effect might compensate for the loss."
Or even override it.
Jared grabbed his phone and searched.
"How often can you donate blood?"
Results flooded the screen.
Every 3 months (male)
Every 4 months (recommended in some cases)
Must meet hemoglobin levels
Must pass screening
Jared's eyes narrowed.
So the real limit… isn't time.
A small smile formed.
It's condition.
"Then I just need to pass."
The next day, Jared stood outside another blood donation center.
Different location.
Different staff.
Same process.
His heart wasn't racing.
No fear.
No hesitation.
Only calculation.
"First time donating?" the nurse asked.
Jared shook his head.
"No."
"When was your last donation?"
A pause.
Jared didn't blink.
"…three months ago."
The lie came out smoothly.
Naturally.
Without effort.
The nurse studied him for a moment.
Then nodded.
"Alright. Fill this out."
As Jared sat down, pen in hand, his thoughts remained steady.
No visible symptoms.
Pulse stable.
No signs of fatigue.
He filled out the form perfectly.
No hesitation.
No mistakes.
Minutes later—
He was back in the chair.
Another needle.
Another bag.
Another drop.
Prick.
This time—
He didn't flinch.
The blood flowed again.
Dark red.
Steady.
Hypnotic.
Then—
It happened.
Faster than before.
Stronger.
Sharper.
Jared's pupils shrank slightly.
His grip tightened on the chair.
There it is.
The clarity returned.
But not the same.
This time—
It surged.
Thoughts collided.
Expanded.
Multiplied.
Faster.
Connections formed at terrifying speed.
Ideas layered on top of each other.
Systems within systems.
Too fast.
For a brief moment—
Jared felt it.
Pain.
A sharp pressure inside his head.
"…ngh."
"Are you okay?" the nurse asked.
Jared forced a nod.
"Yes."
But his voice was tighter now.
Controlled.
This is different.
The growth wasn't smooth anymore.
It was violent.
Second exposure without recovery…
His mind adjusted.
Adapted.
Stabilized.
Then—
Silence.
The pressure faded.
Replaced by something else.
Something deeper.
Understanding.
Jared slowly exhaled.
"…it worked."
But not without cost.
When he stood up—
His legs felt slightly weak.
Not enough to collapse.
But enough to notice.
So there is a price.
Outside the clinic, Jared leaned against a wall.
His breathing steady.
His mind—
Unstoppable.
The increase… is larger than the first.
He replayed memories.
Faster.
Clearer.
More detailed.
He looked at a passing car—
And instantly calculated not just speed—
But engine type.
Fuel efficiency.
Wear on the tires.
"…this is insane."
But then—
Another thought appeared.
If one early donation increases the effect…
His eyes sharpened.
What happens if I keep doing this?
A slow smile formed.
"…I accelerate."
Meanwhile—
Across campus—
Mark slammed his locker shut.
"That guy… Jared…"
His jaw tightened.
"He thinks he's better than me now?"
His friend leaned against the wall.
"You got embarrassed, bro."
"Shut up."
Mark's eyes darkened.
"I'll deal with him."
Back outside—
Jared pushed himself off the wall.
Still slightly weak.
But smiling.
"Three months…"
He shook his head.
"…that's too slow."
His gaze lifted toward the city.
"I'll set my own pace."
And nothing…
His eyes gleamed coldly.
…will stop my ascension.