The next few days made one thing painfully clear: Dante wasn’t going to stop.
If anything, things were getting worse.
He didn’t confront me directly again after our fight.
At first, I thought that might mean he’d decided to leave me alone.
I was wrong.
Dante had simply changed his approach.
On Tuesday morning, I found Niel waiting for me near the school gate.
He looked annoyed, and the moment I approached, he said, “Those guys came again yesterday.”
I stopped walking.
“Who?”
“You know who.” He rubbed his shoulder before glancing around.
“Dante’s friends.”
“What did they want?”
“They asked where you were.”
“And?”
“I told them I didn’t know.” Niel lowered his voice.
“One of them keep on telling me to stay away from you.”
I clenched my jaw.
This was exactly what I had been afraid of.
Dante couldn’t beat me into submission, so he was trying to make sure nobody stood beside me.
“Did they hurt you again?”
“No.
Just pushed me around a little.”
“That’s what you said the other day.”
Niel shrugged.
“I’m fine.”
I looked at him carefully.
He was trying to act like it wasn’t important, but I could see the discomfort in the way he moved his arm.
I remembered another version of Niel—older, laughing, and eventually gone.
The memory came from decades ago, yet HEMS made it feel as though it had happened yesterday.
I looked away and forced myself back into the present.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Niel frowned.
“You’re the one who should be worried.
Those guys aren’t normal bullies.”
“I know.”
“They’re connected to that fraternity.”
I didn’t answer.
I’d already figured that out.
Dante was older than us by two years, had been held back in school, and had a reputation that made younger students avoid him.
Now I was beginning to understand why he acted so confidently.
He wasn’t alone.
He had people behind him, and if the rumors were true, some of those people were older students who had already graduated but still maintained connections with the younger members.
That explained why Dante was so comfortable threatening people.
He believed nobody would touch him.
I had survived a world war.
I had fought alien creatures that could tear armored vehicles apart, and I’d spent years fighting alongside soldiers who knew they might not come home.
Dante didn’t scare me.
But that wasn’t the problem.
The problem was everyone around me.
Niel.
Edmund.
Joey.
Lucy.
Lecia.
My parents.
And Rosalie.
I couldn’t be everywhere at once.
That afternoon, I saw Dante standing near the school gate.
He was leaning against the wall with two older-looking boys beside him.
The moment our eyes met, he smiled.
It wasn’t a friendly smile.
I kept walking.
Dante pushed away from the wall.
“Quintero.”
I stopped.
Niel looked at me, but I gave him a small shake of my head.
“Go home.”
“What?”
“Just go.”
Niel hesitated.
“Rafael—”
“Go.”
He reluctantly walked away.
Dante watched him leave.
“Smart.”
I turned toward him.
“What do you want?”
“You.”
“I figured.”
He laughed.
“You think you’re tough now?”
“No.” I looked at him calmly.
“I don’t think I’m tough.”
That seemed to irritate him.
“Then why do you keep acting like you don’t understand?”
“Understand what?”
“You stay away from Rosalie.”
I stared at him.
There it was again.
The same demand, delivered with the same sense of entitlement.
“You don’t get to decide who she talks to.”
Dante’s expression hardened.
“You really don’t know when to shut up.”
“I know exactly when to shut up.
I just don’t see a reason to do it now.”
One of the boys beside him stepped forward, but Dante raised his hand.
“Not here.”
He looked directly at me.
“Tomorrow.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“You’ll see.”
Then he walked away.
I watched him disappear around the corner.
Something about the way he’d said it bothered me—not because I was afraid of him, but because I knew what people like Dante did when intimidation stopped working.
They escalated.
And I didn’t have the luxury of pretending otherwise.
That night, I sat at my desk staring at the notebook in front of me.
I’d spent the past several days thinking about money.
The Suertes winnings had already proven something important: my memories were still accurate.
The next major step would be the Lotto, but that’s still two years from now.
What if something changed?
What if my actions had already altered enough of the timeline to make the result unreliable?
I needed another source of income.
Something legitimate.
Something I could control.
I looked around my room.
I needed a diamond.
Not an ordinary diamond, either.
I needed a sufficiently pure and dense crystal capable of storing enough Mana to power my first artifact.
That artifact would be my first attempt to reproduce one of the technologies I’d developed during the war.
It wouldn’t make me invincible, but it could enhance my strength, agility, reaction speed, and mental endurance.
More importantly, it would give me an advantage.
I opened the newspaper I’d bought earlier that day and began scanning the classified advertisements.
There were construction jobs, repair work, delivery positions, and several tutoring positions.
I stopped at one.
PRIVATE TUTOR WANTED.
The family was looking for someone to tutor their thirteen-year-old daughter.
Strong mathematics and science background required.
Previous tutoring experience preferred.
There was an address.
I looked at it twice.
A wealthy neighborhood.
Probably a wealthy family.
I smiled to myself.
The advertisement specifically asked for an experienced tutor.
I had neither experience nor the appearance of one.
But I had something better.
Knowledge.
The next afternoon, I stood outside the family’s house.
It was large—very large.
The kind of house that immediately reminded me how different my family’s life was from theirs.
I checked my clothes.
My school uniform was clean, and thanks to the money Mother had won, my shoes were new.
She had made sure of that.
I took a breath and pressed the doorbell.
A woman in her forties answered.
“Yes?”
“Good afternoon, ma’am.
I’m Rafael Quintero.
I called about the tutoring position.”
Her eyes moved over me.
I could almost see the calculation happening in her expression.
Fourteen years old.
School uniform.
No experience.
Definitely not what they had expected.
“Oh.” She seemed slightly surprised.
“Please come in.”
“Thank you.”
I stepped inside.
The house was exactly what I expected from a wealthy family: expensive furniture, spotless floors, large paintings, and everything carefully arranged.
I didn’t stare. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
I’d seen much more impressive places in my first life.
The woman led me into the living room, where a man was waiting.
He looked to be in his forties, perhaps early fifties, and carried himself like someone accustomed to making decisions.
He stood and extended his hand.
“Rafael?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m Daniel Villareal.”
We shook hands before he gestured toward the chair.
“Please, sit.”
I sat across from him while his wife took the seat beside him.
Mr.
Villareal studied me for several seconds before saying, “I’ll be straightforward with you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re looking for a professional tutor.”
“I understand.”
“We specifically requested someone with experience.”
“I don’t have professional tutoring experience.”
His wife looked surprised.
“But you’re still applying?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I need the money.”
There was a brief silence.
I didn’t try to hide it.
I wasn’t ashamed of needing money.
I’d spent my first life fighting for every resource I could get.
Mr.
Villareal leaned back and glanced at his wife before looking at me again.
“At least you’re honest.”
He folded his hands.
“But honesty isn’t enough.
You’re fourteen.”
“Yes.”
“My daughter is thirteen.”
“I know.”
“You’ve barely started high school.”
“That’s also true.”
“Then why should I hire you?”
I looked directly at him.
“Test me.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Excuse me?”
“Give me something your daughter is having trouble with.
If I can’t explain it to her, don’t hire me.”
That earned a faint smile.
“Very well.”
He reached for a notebook.
“My daughter has been struggling with physics.”
He opened it to a page covered in equations.
I recognized the problem immediately.
I read it once, took the pen, and began working.
Within a few minutes, the solution was complete.
Mr.
Villareal stared at the page.
“That’s correct.”
“Yes.”
“How did you solve it so quickly?”
“I understand the principles behind it.”
He turned the page.
“Try this.”
The next problem was harder, but I solved it too.
Then another.
His wife leaned forward.
“You memorized these formulas?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
I shrugged.
“Once you understand what the equation means, you don’t really need to memorize it.”
A voice came from the hallway.
“Papa?”
We all looked toward the doorway.
A girl stood there with a school notebook held against her chest.
She looked about thirteen.
She glanced at me, then at her father.
“Is this the tutor?”
Her father nodded.
“This is Rafael.”
She looked at me again.
“You?”
I couldn’t help smiling.
“Apparently.”
She frowned.
“You don’t look like a tutor.”
“I don’t think tutors have a uniform.”
She looked down at my school uniform and then back at me.
“You’re a student.”
“So are you.”
She stared at me for a second before smiling.
Her father laughed quietly.
“Come here.”
She walked over and placed her notebook on the table.
“I’m having trouble with this.”
She pointed at a problem.
I pulled the notebook closer.
“What don’t you understand?”
“This.”
She pointed at the equation.
“Why do we have to use this formula?”
“You don’t.”
She blinked.
“I don’t?”
“No.”
I turned the notebook around.
“Forget the formula.”
She looked confused.
“Then how do I solve it?”
“Understand what’s happening first.”
I drew a simple diagram.
“If you push something, it accelerates.
If the object is heavier, you need more force to produce the same acceleration.
The equation is just a mathematical way of describing that relationship.”
She stared at the diagram while I continued explaining.
A minute later, her expression changed.
“Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“So that’s why…”
“Yes.”
She looked at the equation again.
“That’s actually easy.”
“Physics usually is.”
Her father laughed.
“Usually?”
I realized what I’d said.
“Sometimes.”
The girl laughed.
It was a small thing, but I noticed something else.
She was looking at me differently now.
Not like I was some strange kid who had shown up looking for a job.
She looked curious, interested.
I didn’t think much of it.
My mind was already focused on something else.
I needed money, and I needed it quickly.
Mr.
Villareal closed the notebook.
“Rafael.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I’ll admit that you’ve impressed me.”
“Thank you.”
“But I still don’t know whether you’re actually capable of teaching her.”
“I understand.”
He looked at his daughter.
She immediately said, “I understand him.”
Her parents looked at her.
She shrugged.
“I do.”
Mr.
Villareal smiled.
“All right.
You can start tomorrow.”
Relief spread through me.
“Thank you, sir.”
“We’ll pay you weekly.”
“That works.”
His daughter suddenly asked, “How often will you come?”
“Three times a week.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
As I reached for my bag, I remembered the other reason I had wanted to take this job.
I hadn’t chosen the Villareal family randomly.
Before coming here, I’d spent some time researching the name in the advertisement.
It wasn’t difficult.
Even before the internet became as powerful as I remembered it being in my first life, newspapers and business directories contained enough information if you knew what to look for.
Daniel Villareal was the CEO of Villareal Energy Solutions, a local company that manufactured rechargeable batteries for automobiles, backup power systems, and industrial equipment.
That was what had caught my attention.
A battery manufacturer.
The moment I saw that information, I knew I had to meet this man.
I wouldn’t have brought it to a random employer looking for a tutor.
But if Mr.
Villareal really had access to battery manufacturing, engineers, materials, and production equipment, then this might be the first opportunity I’d had to turn something from my previous life into a legitimate business.
I pulled out my notebook.
“There’s something else I’d like to show you.”
Mr.
Villareal looked at me curiously.
“What is it?”
I opened the notebook to several pages filled with diagrams.
Battery cells.
Electrodes.
Thermal management systems.
Charging circuits.
The drawings weren’t particularly impressive at first glance.
They looked like the work of someone who had spent a lot of time studying batteries.
But I knew exactly what was hidden inside those pages.
I’d first thought of the design during the war.
Back then, batteries had become more important than most people realized.
During World War III, we had relied heavily on conventional power systems.
But once the alien technology entered the battlefield, everything changed.
Portable energy became a major limitation.
Our soldiers needed more powerful equipment, our drones needed longer operating times, and our vehicles needed enormous amounts of electrical power.
We were constantly trying to make every kilogram of equipment count.
I remembered sitting inside a temporary laboratory somewhere in North America, surrounded by engineers and researchers who looked as exhausted as I felt.
A battery prototype sat on the table in front of us, its casing scorched from another failed test.
Someone had muttered that we were asking too much from the materials.
I remembered staring at the damaged cell for a long time.
Then I started thinking about why.
Why were we treating the battery as a single problem?
Why couldn’t we separate the problems of energy density, heat, charging speed, and degradation instead of trying to solve everything with one material?
That question had led me down a rabbit hole.
I spent weeks going through old research, experimental materials, electrode structures, charging methods, and thermal management techniques.
Eventually, several ideas began fitting together.
It wasn’t one revolutionary discovery.
It was the combination.
A better electrode arrangement reduced internal resistance.
Improved thermal management allowed the cell to operate more efficiently.
Changes to the charging system reduced stress on the battery.
A different material combination increased usable energy density without making the cell dangerously unstable.
The final design had been one of the many stepping stones toward the energy systems we eventually used during the war.
It wasn’t the most advanced battery I’d ever designed.
But it had been one of the designs that taught me something important.
Sometimes progress didn’t come from discovering something completely new.
Sometimes it came from putting existing ideas together in a way nobody had tried before.
Now I was looking at the same design decades before it had ever been built.
Of course, I couldn’t simply recreate the final wartime version.
The materials didn’t exist yet.
The manufacturing techniques weren’t available.
Some of the components required technologies that wouldn’t be developed for years.
So I had worked backward.
I stripped away everything that depended on future technology and rebuilt the concept using materials and manufacturing methods that already existed in 2018.
What remained was still considerably better than many contemporary commercial designs.
Not revolutionary.
Not yet.
But good enough to make money.
Mr.
Villareal studied the pages.
“What is this?”
“A rechargeable battery design.”
His expression changed slightly.
“For a school project?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I’ve been working on it.”
His wife leaned closer to the notebook.
“What makes it different?”
“Better energy density.
Longer cycle life.
Faster charging, if the materials behave the way I expect.”
“If?”
“I haven’t built a prototype.”
Mr.
Villareal looked at me.
“Why not?”
“I don’t have the equipment.”
That made him pause.
He turned another page.
There were calculations covering almost every available space.
“How do you know this will work?”
“I don’t.”
He looked up.
I continued before he could misunderstand.
“I know the principles work.
What I don’t know is whether the materials available here will perform exactly the way I’ve calculated.
That’s why I need a prototype.”
For the first time since I had entered the house, Mr.
Villareal looked less like a businessman interviewing a teenage tutor and more like someone examining a potential investment.
He looked back at the diagrams.
Then at me.
“Who taught you this?”
I hesitated.
There were many possible answers.
None of them were the truth.
Finally, I gave him the only answer I could.
“I study a lot.”
His daughter laughed.
“That’s an understatement.”
I looked at her.
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
Her mother smiled, but Mr.
Villareal remained focused on the notebook.
He flipped through the pages again.
“You know my company?”
I nodded.
“I looked it up before I applied.”
That made him stop.
“You researched me?”
“I wanted to know what kind of family I was applying to work for.”
That answer seemed to satisfy him.
Then he looked down at the battery design again.
“So that’s why you brought this.”
“Yes.”
I didn’t see any reason to lie.
“I saw that your company manufactures rechargeable batteries.
I thought you might understand what I’m trying to do better than most people.”
Mr.
Villareal leaned back.
“Most fourteen-year-olds looking for a tutoring job don’t research the employer and bring an engineering proposal.”
“I know.”
“And most fourteen-year-olds can’t produce calculations like these.”
“I know that too.”
His daughter looked between us.
“Papa, does that mean you like it?”
Her father ignored the question.
Instead, he asked me, “How much would it cost to build a prototype?”
I had already calculated that before coming here.
“That depends on what materials we can source.
I could make a basic prototype relatively cheaply, but a proper test would require better equipment.”
“How cheap?”
I gave him an estimate.
He remained silent for a moment.
Then he said, “I know an engineer who works with battery technology.”
My attention sharpened immediately.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Could he look at this?”
“I can ask him.”
I tried to keep my expression calm.
Inside, however, I was already thinking about the possibilities.
An engineer.
A manufacturing facility.
Testing equipment.
Materials.
That could save me months, perhaps years.
And if the design worked, I wouldn’t need to depend entirely on the lottery to build my future.
I could make money legitimately.
Money I could use for equipment.
Money I could use for research.
And eventually, money to buy the Mana Crystal.
I closed my notebook.
“Thank you, sir.”
Mr.
Villareal nodded.
“We’ll talk about it after you’ve started tutoring my daughter.”
“Of course.”
As I stood, I glanced at the notebook one last time.
I had come here because I needed a job.
I had expected to earn a little money by tutoring a wealthy family’s daughter.
Instead, I might have just found my first connection to the energy industry.
And if that battery worked, the consequences could be much bigger than I had anticipated.
For the first time since returning to the past, I wasn’t simply using my memories to predict the future.
I was starting to manufacture a new one.