In the morning, I checked my phone and wasn't too surprised to see a missed call from another unfamiliar number. After searching the first few digits, I determined it was a number from the Moscow region. Yesterday it was from the Zabaikalsky Krai.

I went into settings and blocked calls from unknown numbers. I don't know how much this will help or if it will help at all, but I couldn't think of a better option.

I checked the class group messages. Finally, the scores for the Unified State Exam (EGE) have arrived! I followed the link and checked my results. Quite average in all subjects, except for Russian: I scored a record 86. I wouldn't be surprised if this result is one of the highest in the class. We usually didn't reach for the stars.

What to do on my day off, which also fell on a Saturday?

I could have gone to the stadium or to the pull-up bars, but despite the fact that I had been practicing body conditioning and meditation in another world, my body felt unpleasantly sore here. My lower back, spine, sides, even my legs and arms, which I hardly strained, were aching.

I could visit my stepmother and father, and before my room turned into a storeroom or something else unpleasant, I could take the things that didn't fit into my backpack yesterday. Like my laptop, for example, or the old chess set made of compressed amber that I inherited from my grandfather. But I had another idea.

— Hey, Mom... Are you busy today? I want to swing by if you'll be home. I can come right now.

After talking to Mom, I jumped into my jeans and left the apartment. I locked it with the keys I received yesterday and was surprised that the feeling of novelty hadn't worn off — I was still happy that I had moved out, and I smiled at the thought that I have my own place. Checking the 2GIS app, I found the nearest bus stop and rushed to Mom's on the bus.

Mom lives in a central district, and it's much nicer than where I lived before. Even the place where I rented an apartment slightly pales in comparison to the center. It's clean, tidy, with new tiles. The grass by the sidewalks is trimmed, the trash bins are empty, and the buildings are either new or have been thoroughly renovated.

I rang the intercom. It beeped three times and then asked in my sister's voice:

— Who's there?

— Karina, it's me, Arthur.

When I took the elevator to the floor, my sister was already there — looking at me through the door crack. A fourteen-year-old blonde angel with green eyes. She didn't even reach my chest — I was the only one in the family who grew taller. "Genes played their part," Dad once said, but I’ve since forgotten whose genes exactly.

— Hello! — Karina stretched out to me. I awkwardly hugged her for a second and stepped back.

I felt awkward in front of my sister, like a giant in a storage full of crystal. I had never really interacted with children and didn’t know how it was properly done. The age difference between us was only four years, but I felt it as a chasm, a bridge that rare visits wouldn’t connect.

— Mom is cooking.

— It’s all ready! — Mom called back. — Come eat.

I wondered if they had a late breakfast or an early lunch? The clock showed eleven.

I didn't ask because my stomach nearly growled, demanding food.

I hugged Mom, a thin blonde woman in an apron and pajamas.

Mom and Karina looked incredibly cozy. And I, in a wrinkled t-shirt and battered, slightly faded jeans that I had been wearing for three years, with a pile of unpleasant work behind me, looked like a vagabond who mistakenly ended up in the wrong apartment. For some reason, I felt at home in my father's smoke-filled and worn-out gray apartment, but here I felt like an outsider.

Maybe that's why I didn’t visit often.

While we ate, Mom asked about my plans and whether I had chosen a university. Even my little sister became curious, staring at me with her bright green eyes.

— I haven't chosen a university yet. I'm thinking about working in a car workshop for now — they always need hands, and I understand a bit about it.

— It’s good that you have plans, — Mom nodded. — But I want to warn you about something. Do you know what a "dead-end profession" is?

— Umm... No.

— Then I'll tell you. Imagine a young guy, eighteen or twenty years old, looking for a job. He sees a bunch of offers, but the salary doesn't satisfy him. Then he comes across a job listing like "Security guards needed" with a salary of fifty thousand, which, in twenty-four, is quite decent if you’re not in Moscow. The schedule works for him, two days on, two days off. And he thinks, "Oh! I’ll do this as a side job, and then I’ll find something better!" And here he steps into a dead-end profession, a potential pitfall.

Mom took a sip of tea and continued:

— Look. The salary is higher than his peers. The work is simple and not hard at all — just sit and check passes, or whatever security guards usually do. But even though the work is easy, there’s no time to learn or acquire new skills during work hours — he’s constantly distracted by people showing their passes. Some time passes, maybe even a couple of years, and that potential pit grows deeper. The salary might increase by five thousand, but his peers are catching up: their skills in programming, cooking, construction, or even some form of embroidery — are growing. That simple, easy job that consumes all his working time has made the guy somewhat... dull, shall we say. Finding new work becomes harder because he’ll have to start from the same level he was at a couple of years ago. And the salary there hasn’t changed from what he found unsatisfactory back then. He’s already gotten used to a certain level of income. Debts start piling up, God forbid — mortgages at ten percent. And the girlfriend he used to take to cafes on weekends might misunderstand him. But for now, it’s not too bad. And when he starts thinking, he tells himself, "It’s nonsense! I can go start over at any moment!"

Another five years pass, and it’s a struggle: to get out of that pit requires superhuman effort. The salary is lower than his peers, old friends have distanced themselves, and not because they are rich and he is poor, no. Some have moved to Turkey, Egypt, France; some have changed interests. Some he can’t talk to simply because they are successful, and he is not. And although he still tells himself, "I can anytime!", he understands that while being eighteen-twenty and earning low wages and running errands is generally acceptable, being twenty-eight-thirty feels a bit embarrassing. The little he knew and could do is spent, and there hasn’t been any increase in mental agility. And bosses might even be younger than him. And there he is, sitting at the bottom of that potential pit, dug by his own hands, blaming the circumstances. And you can make your own list of dead-end professions; I think.

When I was heading to Mom’s, I didn’t expect the conversation about exam scores and summer jobs to lead to such moralizing.

— Are we talking about mechanics?

— You decide, — Mom shrugged, pretending she didn’t mean my choice. — Waiter, bartender, photo studio employee, courier, hairdresser… The list can be long.

… drug courier, pickpocket, carjacker, — I continued the list of potential DEAD-END professions for MYSELF, where the "potential pit" also hides the prison from where there's no escape.

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— Mom, I’ll only take that job for the summer, — I raised my hands and smiled innocently. — Would it be better for you if I sat at home all summer or roamed the stairs, stuffing advertising leaflets into mailboxes?

— I care about you, Arthur, — Mom said, looking deeply into my eyes. — My concern is not just to feed you, but I wanted to warn you about mistakes to avoid.

I wanted to ask why she hadn't called or asked about my exams if she cared about me, but I held back. It isn't worth raising topics that shouldn't be raised.

I carefully asked Mom if she had any strange dreams, if someone in her circle had passed away, and if she was planning to leave the city. Everything was fine with Mom: she told me not to worry, and she wasn’t even thinking about moving, nor about being affected by the strange illness.

We talked a bit about how things were with each other, and when the topics began to run out, I said goodbye.

After visiting, I returned to my rented apartment. I spread a washed blanket on the floor in the middle of the room and sat cross-legged.

As I understood when I first meditated beside a stone-carved engraving, I underwent some initiation, a rite. My ghostly teacher had told me about it. That means now I must manage without the energy that flowed from the figure, right?

I closed my eyes, focused, and the image of a human body slowly emerged in my mind. It was as empty as it had been yesterday before meditation, but it was there!

I began to imagine how it slowly filled with energy.

The process was slow, but it was underway — I felt my skin tingling like it was being pricked by needles. After ten minutes, light had gathered around the feet of the figure.

As I recalled from yesterday’s lectures and my observations, cultivation involves a continuous process of condensing spiritual power during meditation and then using that energy for strengthening. I didn't ask whether I would have to continue accumulating energy through meditation after "building the foundation" to apply it to those super-powerful strikes, one of which my coach demonstrated to me yesterday, or if that would need to be learned separately. I would need to ask him next time.

The main thing was that meditation works in this world too. Awkwardly, haltingly, through some not-so-pleasant sensations, but it's effective. And the most important thing — I can track my progress!

After four hours of such meditation, I couldn't stand it anymore. Sweat soaked my clothes and the blanket. After hanging the blanket on the open balcony (there's a balcony here! A real one, not cluttered with junk, not stuffed with unnecessary things, absolutely empty!) I took a shower, then made myself scrambled eggs with big chunks of sausage sprinkled with chopped green onions and dill. I salted and peppered it. I sliced some bread, spread melted cheese on it, and chopped some lard on the plate. Wonderful scents filled the apartment, and even the light draft coming from the open window and going into the exhaust didn’t carry them away completely.

My mouth filled with saliva, and within five minutes, I devoured the simple meal.

After that — I sat down to meditate again.

The teacher said that I was not developed enough? Lacking talent? Well, I would achieve results through perseverance!

As I continued this meditative torture, the energy within me grew: after the first two hours, the light reached my knees, after another two — it reached my thighs. Half the job was done.

After eight hours of mental straining with rare breaks for "drinking" and "washing up," I slowly opened my eyes. I wanted to sleep, eat, and never meditate again, but now that I had completely filled my body with energy, there was satisfaction as well. Once the figure filled with light, it spread all over my body and absorbed into every bone, every organ, and muscle. Contrary to expectations, I didn’t feel stronger. This energy was like a drop of water falling on the desert sand. But today I took another step toward changing that desert.

This time, energy didn’t accumulate as quickly as on the islands, and I’d like to know why: is it due to the different world, or because I don't have the engraving beside me?

Then I began to do body-strengthening exercises, and this was indeed painful.

Even the poses that I managed to perform, albeit awkwardly, I filled so clearly as if I had watched their correct execution for hours. Alas, watching doesn't mean "executing"; my body was too stiff for such gymnastics. I tried to stretch, bend, and twist as required, but I progressed no better than the first time.

While exercising, I felt a weak flow of vital energy within my body for the first time. It was as if the drop I gathered today, obeying the exercises, circulated through my muscles, veins, and bones. Wherever it passed, it subtly fortified my body. Even if it was just a fraction of a percent, I was becoming stronger.

Unfortunately, the eleventh pose remained painfully uncomfortable for me, and I wouldn’t have attempted the twelfth, even if I remembered it. My physique was still too weak: my arms and legs trembled. The thought of going through the poses from first to eleventh again was out of the question.

I was very interested in developing my skills. The teacher's demonstration is undeniably motivating: I understand that I can indeed reach extraordinary strength, really become a superhuman, not just fly around on an island in dreams. And I can’t find the words to express how I feel about that. It doesn't matter if I have talent or if it will take years to develop. Weaklings with glasses use the strength gifted by islands to bench press two hundred-kilogram weights in the real world. If I can meditate, then I can apply various techniques here as well. The speed of development at first doesn’t matter if such a reward awaits me for my efforts.

If practicing didn’t consume a ton of physical and mental energy, I would improve twenty-four hours a day.

Once the tremors subsided, I took a deep breath, drank some tea, rinsed off again, and then stepped outside into the cool evening breeze. I needed to explore the neighborhood. So to speak, to familiarize myself.

The sun was hiding behind the buildings, lighting only the upper floors of the high-rises, and it was for the best — in the morning, my eyes stung from the light and nearly burnt in their sockets. I should go to the optometrist and find out what’s wrong with me. And just in case, I should grab my black glasses from home.

The neighborhood pleased me. Not too beautiful and, as a result, not too expensive, but definitely better than the high-rise with a cracked facade where I lived with my father and stepmother.

I found a not-too-expensive 24-hour grocery store. I passed by a small playground where kids were joyfully riding scooters. I found a park.

I liked the paths in the park: although the tiles were broken and there were some small holes, there were no roots, and the tiles didn’t bulge — you could run sleepy on a morning jog without the fear of tripping over them. It would even be safe to chase someone without risking falling on that very tile and scraping your palms.

On the backrest of a wooden bench that I passed by, two solidly built bodies with short hair sat with beers in hand. A guy and a girl passed by without any questions, not saying anything at all.

Seeing this picture, I recalled someone’s story that guys only began to mess with a girl’s escort after the 2000s. In the past, you could calmly escort a girl home at night, passing by yard thugs, only to receive trouble on the way back. A kind of chivalry.

— Hey! — a voice called out from behind as I walked by.

I turned around. Apparently, in this neighborhood, people were true to old traditions.

— What?

— Come here, let’s talk.

— Just talk from there; I’ll hear you.

The guys slowly hopped off the bench and approached me. One left his beer on the wooden seat, while the other gripped it by the neck in a way that would be quite convenient to strike someone with this very bottle.

Thank goodness it had been at least fifteen minutes since I exercised. The walk had cleared my head, and my limbs were no longer suffering.

— What’s up, dude.

Just for that greeting in my neighborhood, I could’ve punched the guy. But I chose to wait and see where this strange acquaintance might lead.

— What’s up, guys.

— Just hanging out here?

— Now I live here.

— Got your number?

— I do, guys.

— Good one? — the second jumped in.

— I have an excellent phone, guys. New and expensive.

— What if we take it?

I anticipated the canonical "let me call," and for a moment, I was taken aback by such directness.

— You can try, — I smiled. I might not yet be able to throw air strikes or break walls from afar, but I somehow managed without that before.

The guys looked me over. I was taller, older, broader. I wasn’t holding a beer, while they had drunk just enough to be slightly tipsy but not completely out of it.

Apparently, their inspection brought them back to reality, as the guys exchanged glances, shrugged:

— Well, take care of yourself.

And they hurried back to the bench.

As if someone would keep them.

— Stop, — I commanded. — Who the hell are you?

— What?

— I said, who are you? How long have you been doing this phone stuff, who's the boss?

The guys exchanged glances. They scanned me again and assessed my large hands with toughened knuckles.

— Look, we just wanted to joke around. It didn’t go well; I apologize. There’s no boss; we’re just ourselves.

— And how long have you been living here?

— I’ve lived here my whole life.

— I moved here last year. Why?

— If I hear that my girlfriend's phone has gone missing or she’s getting any unpleasant questions, I’ll find you. Understood?

The guys sobered up. They didn’t nod, but they definitely heard me.

I didn’t have a girlfriend, but that didn’t matter. The main thing was to see people and show myself.

As a final touch to our engaging dialogue, I wanted to ask if they have any phones and mirror the conversation, but I decided not to escalate. I passed through garages where two burly men were peacefully grilling meat on a flimsy barbecue and hurried home to bed.

To sleep.