The question remained between us.
“Who exactly are you?”
Adrian’s question remained between us through the phone.
I leaned back in my chair and looked at the figures displayed on my laptop.
The investment we had made three weeks ago had finally reached the point I had been waiting for.
“I’m someone who knows where to put his money,” I said.
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It’s the only answer you’re getting for now.”
There was a brief silence on the other end.
Adrian had always been persistent.
That was one of the reasons I had trusted him in my previous life.
He didn’t accept numbers simply because someone told him they were correct.
He questioned them, checked them, and made sure he understood where the money was going.
That habit was going to serve him well.
“So you’re really certain about this company?” he asked.
“I was certain three weeks ago.
I’m even more certain now.”
He exhaled quietly.
“You really don’t sound like you’re guessing.”
“I’m not.”
I turned my laptop slightly.
The original ₱900,000 investment had grown to ₱2.7 million.
A threefold return in only three weeks.
The gross profit was ₱1.8 million.
According to our agreement, Adrian would receive twenty percent of that profit, which came to ₱360,000.
That left me with ₱1.44 million in profit, on top of my original capital.
Not bad for the first move.
“You know what bothers me?” Adrian finally said.
“What?”
“You were right.”
I smiled.
“I know.”
“That should make you happy.”
“It does.”
“But now I’m wondering what you’re going to do next.”
That was the question I had been waiting for.
“I already know.”
Adrian became quiet.
“There’s another company,” I said.
“Different sector.
It isn’t going to move immediately, so don’t expect another three-week miracle.
But I want to put part of the money into it.”
“How much?”
“₱1.5 million.”
“That much?”
“Yes.”
“You’re putting more money into the second investment than the first?”
“Because I don’t need to gamble everything on one opportunity.”
I opened another file on my laptop.
I had already organized the figures, projected growth, and the amount I wanted to keep untouched for emergencies and future projects.
The first investment had proven something important.
I could turn my knowledge into capital.
But eventually, I would need more than isolated investments.
I needed a system—multiple sources of income, carefully managed assets, and eventually people capable of handling the financial side without requiring my constant attention.
Adrian was part of that plan.
“I’ll transfer the money once the account is ready,” I said.
“You handle the transaction and keep track of everything.”
“And my share?”
“Same arrangement.
Twenty percent of the profit.”
Adrian laughed softly.
“You’re serious about making me rich.”
“I’m serious about making sure we’re both useful to each other.”
There was another pause.
Then his voice became more serious.
“You know, kid, most people your age don’t talk like this.”
I glanced at the laptop screen.
“I have different priorities.”
“That much is obvious.”
He didn’t press the subject any further.
For now, that was enough.
We agreed on the details and ended the call.
The next three weeks settled into a rhythm.
School occupied my mornings.
Afternoons were usually spent tutoring Clara at the Villareal estate, while evenings became a mixture of study, financial monitoring, and Kali training.
The investment continued to move according to my expectations, but I didn’t spend every waking hour watching the market.
I had already set the numbers I wanted and the points where I would act.
The rest of my attention went toward training.
By the third week, the soreness that had followed me after every early session had become manageable.
My stance was more natural now.
My footwork no longer required conscious thought, and the basic strikes and defensive movements were beginning to connect into something resembling a fighting system rather than a collection of separate techniques.
That was when our instructor decided it was time for sparring.
He didn’t put me against an experienced fighter.
Instead, he paired me with another student around my age who had been training for roughly the same amount of time.
“Controlled sparring,” the instructor reminded us.
“Don’t try to prove anything.”
My opponent nodded and raised his hands.
I did the same.
The moment we began, he moved forward.
Not recklessly.
His lead foot shifted first.
My attention locked onto it.
As the sparring began, my HEMS seemed to sharpen my perception on its own.
Every movement became easier to read.
Details that would normally blur together stood out clearly, allowing me to react to movements almost as soon as they began.
The slight turn of his front foot.
The tightening of his shoulder.
The way his weight settled onto his rear leg before he moved again.
My brain recorded each detail almost automatically.
He stepped in with a straight punch.
I moved my head away from the line of attack and brought my hand across to redirect it.
His glove brushed past my cheek instead of connecting.
He recovered quickly.
Then he came forward again.
This time, I noticed something different.
His right shoulder lifted slightly before every straight punch.
It was subtle.
For most people, it would probably disappear beneath the movement of the rest of his body.
To me, it stood out.
He threw another punch.
I slipped outside.
His fist passed beside my face.
Before he could fully retract his arm, I stepped to the side and tapped his body with a controlled counter.
“Point,” the instructor called.
My opponent reset.
This time, he didn’t attack immediately.
He changed his rhythm.
Smart.
I watched his breathing, his feet, the distance between us.
He feinted with his shoulder.
I didn’t react.
He stepped in from a different angle.
I moved with him.
The exchange became faster.
A jab came toward my face.
I parried it.
Another followed almost immediately, and I leaned away just enough to let it pass.
His foot shifted forward, and I recognized the setup before the next strike had even begun.
I stepped off the line.
His punch cut through empty air.
For a brief moment, I could see the entire sequence as though it had already happened: his planted foot, the rotation of his hip, the movement of his shoulder, the opening created when his weight shifted too far forward.
My body reacted before I consciously finished the thought.
I pivoted and delivered another controlled strike to his torso.
He staggered back half a step.
We separated.
Neither of us spoke.
Then he smiled.
“Okay,” he said, breathing harder now.
“You’re annoying.”
I laughed.
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
He came at me again.
This time, he stopped trying to repeat the same combinations.
That made things more difficult.
He changed his timing, sometimes moving quickly and sometimes hesitating just long enough to make me question what was coming.
That was where HEMS became most useful.
I wasn’t simply remembering his previous attacks.
I was comparing them.
His feints.
His pauses.
His preferred distance.
The position of his hands when he prepared to move.
The tiny differences between a genuine attack and a fake.
My mind began building a pattern from all of it.
He stepped in.
I shifted back.
He followed.
I angled away.
His next punch came faster than the previous ones, but I had already noticed his weight shifting forward.
I slipped outside the strike and caught his arm, guiding it past me instead of trying to overpower it.
For a moment, we were almost side by side.
I tapped his shoulder and stepped away.
The instructor called the round.
My opponent lowered his hands, breathing heavily.
“You’ve improved,” the instructor said.
I nodded.
“You’re seeing things earlier now,” he continued.
“That’s good.
But don’t get comfortable.
Keep working on the basics.”
“I will.”
The sparring had been controlled, but my heart was still beating hard.
Not because I had dominated the fight.
I hadn’t.
My opponent had forced me to think, adjust, and react to something that wasn’t cooperating with me.
That was exactly what training was supposed to do.
As I left the training area, I flexed my fingers and felt the familiar weight of Aetheris around my wrist.
It had helped.
But what had made the difference today was everything I had spent the last three weeks learning—and the way HEMS allowed me to absorb those lessons faster than I normally could.
For once, the movements weren’t just things I remembered.
Rosalie POV
I stared at my phone and tried not to smile.
I failed.
The message from Rafael was nothing particularly romantic, but somehow that made it worse.
Even the simplest things he said could leave me smiling at the screen like an idiot.
I was still typing when I heard my mother’s voice behind me.
“Who are you talking to?”
I nearly dropped the phone.
I turned around.
My mother stood in the doorway with her arms folded, watching me with the kind of expression that immediately made me nervous.
“No one.”
Her eyebrows rose.
“No one?”
I shook my head too quickly.
She held out her hand.
“Give me the phone.”
“Mom…”
“Rosalie.”
I slowly handed it over.
She didn’t immediately look through my messages.
Instead, she looked at the phone itself.
“Where did you get this?”
I hesitated.
“I saved money.”
My mother looked at me.
I couldn’t hold her gaze for more than a few seconds.
“Rosalie.”
I sighed.
“Rafael helped me get it.”
Her expression changed.
“Rafael?”
I nodded.
“The boy you’ve been spending so much time with?”
My face became warm.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
I looked down at my hands.
“A few weeks.”
“And you’re dating him?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
My mother was quiet for several seconds.
Then she pulled a chair closer and sat down.
“Tell me about him.”
I looked at her in surprise.
“What?”
“If you’re going to date someone, I want to know who he is.”
I slowly sat across from her.
“He’s kind,” I said.
“He’s hardworking.
He helps his family, and he treats me well.”
“Where did you meet him?”
I smiled despite myself.
“At school.”
“And what does he do?”
“He studies.
He tutors someone after school too.”
My mother listened carefully.
“And his family?”
“They’re nice.”
“You’ve been to their house?”
I nodded.
“Several times.”
She studied my expression.
“And you’re happy with him?”
That question made me pause.
Then I smiled.
“Yes.”
My mother sighed.
“I want to meet him.”
My eyes widened.
“Mom…”
“I said I want to meet him.
That doesn’t mean I’m approving everything yet.”
I couldn’t help smiling.
After she left the room, I immediately picked up my phone.
I opened Rafael’s conversation and typed.
Rosalie: My mom knows about us.
His reply came quickly.
Rafael: Oh.
I stared at the screen.
Rosalie: “That’s all?”
I typed again.
Rosalie: She wants to meet you.
The typing indicator appeared almost immediately.
Then disappeared.
Appeared again.
I waited.
And waited.
For some reason, watching those three little dots made me even more nervous than telling my mother about him.