2026-08-12 17:09:47Chapter 9: The Final Test
The white light receded, replaced by the sterile, fluorescent hum of the exam hall. Bagas blinked, his vision swimming. The kiss, the static, the shared mind—it all felt like a fever dream that had left his brain feeling scrambled, like a hard drive wiped and hastily reinstalled.
Siska was already at her desk, looking dangerously composed. Her fingers were drumming a frantic rhythm on the mahogany table.
"Siska? Are you okay?" Bagas whispered, his voice trembling as he slid into his seat.
"I’m vibrating at a frequency that suggests we shouldn't be here," Siska muttered, not looking at him. "How is your head?"
"It feels like I’ve got a blender running in my frontal lobe. And why do I suddenly know the exact molecular density of a soufflé?"
"A soufflé? Don't tell me."
Bagas felt his hands spasm, his palms tingling. A holographic prompt materialized: [SYSTEM ALERT: SKILL SWAP ACTIVATED. EXTREME COOKING: 100%.]
"No," Bagas choked out. "Not this. Not today. I need Advanced Calculus, not a culinary degree!"
"Bagas, keep your voice down," Siska hissed, leaning in. "Pak Hadi is looking at you like he’s ready to bury you in the courtyard."
Pak Hadi marched down the aisle, slapping the exam papers onto desks with a sound like a guillotine blade. He stopped at Bagas’s desk, his eyes narrowing. "Bagas. You look like you’ve been through a hurricane. Try not to ruin this paper with your... erratic energy."
"Sir, I’m feeling surprisingly... seasoned today," Bagas replied, his mouth twitching into a grin he didn't intend.
"Seasoned? It’s a math test, not a stew," Hadi grumbled, moving on.
"I can smell the paper," Bagas whispered, leaning toward Siska. "It smells like... aged parchment and, God, is that a hint of truffle oil?"
Siska rolled her eyes. "Focus. You have ninety minutes to solve twenty pages of hell. Ignore the culinary instincts."
"I can't. My right hand wants to whisk the ink. I think I’m hallucinating a garnish on your ponytail."
"If you garnish my hair, I will end you," Siska said, though she couldn't suppress a smirk. "Just write, Bagas. Or cook. Whatever you do, just fill the pages."
Bagas stared at the first problem. Calculate the volume of the solid generated by revolving the region...
"It’s a dome," Bagas muttered. "A chocolate ganache dome with a reduction of balsamic glaze."
"Bagas, stop," Siska warned, her hand reaching out to squeeze his. "Deep breath. Think of the math as a recipe."
"That’s actually... kind of helping," Bagas said, his pen moving with the precision of a master chef plating a dish. "Yes. The integral is the heat. We’re caramelizing the variables."
"That’s the spirit. Keep going."
The hall was silent, save for the scratching of pens and the rhythmic thump-thump of Bagas’s heart, which was currently beating in time with a sauté pan's sizzle.
"I’m getting hungry," Siska whispered, her own concentration wavering. "Is it just me, or does this room suddenly smell like a five-star bistro?"
Bagas didn't answer. He was in the zone. His pen darted across the paper, creating elaborate, beautiful, and entirely edible-looking diagrams.
"Bagas, you’re not answering the questions," Siska hissed. "You’re drawing a diagram of a duck confit."
"It’s a vector analysis of a duck confit, Siska! Look at the trajectory of the fat render!"
"It’s beautiful, but it’s going to get us a zero," she said, grabbing his wrist. "Bribe him. That’s what we discussed, right? Use the skill."
"How do I bribe a man who hates joy?"
"The nose, Bagas. The way to a man’s heart—and his grading rubric—is through the nose."
Bagas looked at the rows of stressed students, then at Pak Hadi, who was slumped at his desk, nibbling on a stale, flavorless cracker. Bagas felt the system pulse. He reached into his bag—a bag that, by some miracle of the system, now contained a portable induction plate and a small vial of saffron.
"What are you doing?" Siska whispered, her eyes wide.
"I’m turning up the heat," Bagas murmured, his hands moving with surgical speed.
"In the middle of the final? Are you insane?"
"I’m hungry, Siska. And so is he."
He flicked the induction plate on beneath his desk. It made no noise, but the air immediately began to change. He sprinkled a pinch of saffron into a small, concealed container, the scent drifting out like a concentrated sensory bomb.
Within seconds, Pak Hadi’s head snapped up.
"What is that?" Hadi sniffed the air. "Is that... saffron? Freshly toasted?"
The entire room went quiet. Students stopped writing, their nostrils flaring.
"It’s intoxicating," someone whispered.
"Bagas, you’re creating a localized olfactory event," Siska said, her own voice breathless. "He’s going to find us."
"Exactly," Bagas said, his eyes glowing that faint, impossible violet. "And when he finds me, I’ll be finished with this page, and he’ll be too satisfied to check the next one."
Hadi walked toward them, his face unreadable. He stopped at Bagas’s desk. "Bagas. Did you bring food into my exam hall?"
"It’s a sensory aid, sir," Bagas said, his voice smooth as silk. "A little something to help with the... concentration."
Hadi looked at the paper, then at the induction plate, then at Bagas. He leaned in, taking a deep, involuntary breath of the saffron-infused air. "This is highly irregular. It’s... it’s delicious."
"It’s a secret family recipe, sir. Would you like a taste?"
Siska kicked Bagas under the desk. "You’re pushing it," she hissed.
Hadi hesitated, his stern facade cracking. "I... I really shouldn't."
"The exam is long, sir. A man needs his strength," Bagas said, pulling a tiny, perfectly formed pastry out of his bag—he didn't know where it came from, but it was there, shimmering under the lights.
Hadi took the pastry. He didn't even argue. He took a bite, his eyes fluttering shut. "My God. Where did you get this?"
"I baked it while you were reading the syllabus," Bagas said, his face a mask of practiced innocence.
Hadi chuckled, a rare, human sound. "Well. Your math may be unorthodox, but your taste is impeccable. Carry on, Bagas. Just... keep the smell contained."
As Hadi walked away, Siska grabbed Bagas by the collar. "You just turned a calculus final into a food review. How do you do that?"
"I have no idea," Bagas whispered, his own hunger hitting him like a freight train. "I think I’m turning into a walking restaurant."
"If we get through this without a disciplinary hearing, I’m never eating in a public place with you again."
"Deal."
They went back to the test. Bagas finished the paper in a blur of culinary-themed mathematical genius, his mind creating equations that somehow mapped out the flavor profiles of his next imagined dish. He was a machine, a genius, a chef, and a total disaster all at once.
Then, he heard it.
The low, distant wail of the school’s fire alarm.
"Is that...?" Siska’s eyes went wide.
"I think I left the induction plate on too long," Bagas whispered, his face draining of color.
"The sprinkler system!" Siska yelled as a heavy, mechanical hum began to vibrate through the ceiling.
"Run," Bagas commanded, his hands grabbing his paper and hers.
As the first drop of water hit the paper, Bagas felt the system scream. [SYSTEM ALERT: EMERGENCY EVACUATION SUB-ROUTINE INITIATED. SKILL SWAP: ???]
"What’s the next skill?" Siska shouted over the rising alarm.
Bagas looked at his shaking hands, which were now glowing with a strange, shimmering silver light. "I have no idea, but I think I’m about to find out!"
"Bagas, move!"
They bolted for the doors, the water starting to pour from the ceiling like a tropical storm, turning their carefully crafted exam papers into a soggy, ink-stained mess.
As they reached the threshold of the door, Bagas felt the world shift again, his body snapping into a stance that wasn't a dancer’s, or a conman’s, or a chef’s. It was something else. Something heavy. Something fast.
He turned to Siska, his eyes locked on hers, the fire alarm screaming like a dying banshee. "Siska, if we don't make it out, I need you to know—"
"Save it!" she screamed, her hand pulling him into the hallway. "Just tell me we’re still going to be a team!"
"Team? We’re going to be legends!"
The roof groaned above them, and as Bagas reached out to pull the fire door open, the silver light in his palms turned into a blinding, white-hot explosion of energy.
He didn't just pull the door. He ripped it off the hinges.
"Oh no," Siska whispered, staring at the shredded metal in his hands.
Bagas looked at the door, then at the chaos behind him, the system in his vision flashing a final, cryptic message: [SKILL ACQUIRED: DESTRUCTION ARCHITECT. GOOD LUCK.]
"Siska," Bagas said, his voice cold, calm, and terrifyingly powerful. "I think we’re going to need a bigger exit."
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