The sky wept electricity.
Bolts of lightning tore jagged scars through a canvas of blackened clouds, veins of raw power dancing like furious spirits in the heavens. The air crackled beneath the weight of the storm, the wind howling with an almost animalistic hunger as if the very atmosphere strained to contain the violence building above. The world below lay in ruin — a wasteland of twisted steel, broken structures, and ash swirling like snow caught in the maelstrom.
And amid it all stood a lone figure.
A man, tall and unmoving, stood defiant against nature's rage. His long, black coat billowed and snapped like a banner of defiance, the thick material resisting the wind's attempts to claim it. His skin was coffee-brown, smooth yet weathered. His sharp, arctic white hair contrasted starkly against the ominous sky, though whether its color came from age or personal style was impossible to know at a glance. Every inch of him radiated an unnatural calm, an eerie composure that made him feel not like a man, but a force of nature given form.
And around him surged an endless tide of enemies.
Dozens? Hundreds? Thousands? It was impossible to count as they flooded the ruined landscape—men and women, beasts and monsters, wielders of strange powers and alien weapons. A chaotic sea of opponents charged at him like an unstoppable flood, but none dared draw too near. They hesitated. They feared.
With a casual movement, the man raised his right hand—fingers snapping together with a sharp crack that somehow cut through the roar of the storm. His voice, barely above a whisper, carried nonetheless.
"Collapse."
The word struck the world like a divine command.
The very air screamed.
The laws of nature unraveled before him. Electrons were ripped violently from their orbits, the bonds holding matter together torn apart on a molecular level. Atoms disintegrated into dust. Bodies evaporated into glowing particles, erased before they could even understand their fate. In seconds, what had been a battlefield became a wide, empty crater of glowing, superheated earth.
A raw burst of electromagnetic radiation exploded outward from the epicenter. A sphere of white-hot light swallowed everything, a miniature sun birthing and dying in an instant.
Yet the man stood untouched.
With a lazy flick of his hand, the radiation dispersed harmlessly, swept aside like smoke before a breeze. The storm's howl returned, but the battlefield was silent — save for the distant groans of bending metal and crackling embers carried on the wind.
The man exhaled, voice touched by mild amusement.
"To think they believed they stood a chance." His voice was smooth, rich, and sharp — like silk wrapped around a blade. "I would call it suicide, but frankly, even that would give them too much credit."
His lips curled into a faint grin. Not out of joy — but out of boredom.
"But enough of this farce—"
Suddenly, his head snapped sharply to the side. The casual arrogance in his expression wavered for the first time. His piercing eyes seemed to lock onto something unseen. Or rather — someone.
Someone watching.
The grin faded slightly. His eyes narrowed with a mix of irritation and curiosity.
"Ah," he muttered, almost conversationally. "You shouldn't be seeing this yet."
A tiny spark flickered within his pupil — pure lightning trapped in his iris, glowing like a miniature storm barely contained.
"Back you go," he whispered. "Before you spoil all the good parts."
Snap.
A single bolt of lightning crashed from the heavens.
Elijah bolted upright, his chest heaving as he sucked in desperate gasps of air. Cold sweat clung to his skin, his t-shirt plastered against his back like damp cloth. His heart thundered in his chest, and it took him several moments before he even registered the world around him again.
"What the hell was that…?" he whispered to himself, voice shaky. "A dream? A nightmare?"
The faint glow of his bedroom's LED strip lighting cast a dull hue across the small space. Posters of old-world tech and schematics decorated his walls, blending with rough sketches of personal designs. A few half-finished gadget prototypes littered his desk and shelves: cracked circuits, loose wires, mana-conducting rods he'd salvaged from scrap dealers. Most would call his room a disaster zone. To him, it was controlled chaos.
He ran a hand through his messy dark brown hair, slick with sweat. His fingers trembled slightly. No matter how many times he tried to calm himself, the lingering weight of the vision remained. It hadn't felt like any dream he'd ever experienced. It was too vivid. Too real.
His eyes flicked to the digital clock flashing on his nightstand.
7:58 AM.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh no— I'm gonna be late!"
Without another word, Elijah leapt from his bed in a panicked whirlwind of motion. His uniform was half-crumpled on the chair—he yanked it on without hesitation, buttons uneven, tie half-askew. His beat-up backpack sat slumped near his desk; he snatched it up, hurriedly stuffing in crumpled papers, scribbled notes, and several half-broken tools that still needed fixing.
On his way out the door, he paused for a split-second, grabbed a protein bar from the countertop, and sprinted outside—devouring breakfast in two frantic bites as his feet hit the pavement.
The city of New Haven roared to life around him.
Hover-buses zipped between towering skyscrapers whose shimmering surfaces reflected both neon light and the faint glimmer of mana streams pulsing through reinforced alloy frames. Massive digital billboards hovered high above, their ads shifting between consumer tech, private ability tutors, government recruitment drives, and flashy demonstrations of elite awakened abilities.
The air smelled faintly of ozone—always faintly charged from the mana channels integrated into the infrastructure itself.
New Haven wasn't just a city. It was a testament to Hyuman survival.
Their species — once weak, nearly wiped out by stronger races — had clawed its way back from the brink through the one thing that finally allowed them to compete: awakening.
In this world, power was everything.
And Elijah had none.
Dodging through the crowd of morning commuters, he weaved between business people in tailored mana-weave suits, armored agents from government security divisions, and clusters of elite students practicing flashy micro-displays of their abilities before classes began.
Everywhere he turned, the constant reminder gnawed at him.
I'm 14 and still unawakened.
Most kids awakened between 11 and 13. Girls usually matured a bit earlier; boys followed shortly after. By 14, almost everyone had their abilities. Not having one by now? It was a ticking clock. If you hit 15 still powerless… society didn't even try to sugarcoat your label: defective.
Some found menial work. Some were restricted to genetic labor roles. Some never found work at all.
Elijah pushed the thought aside, forcing himself to focus on running faster instead.
He slipped into the towering school building just as the bell's sharp chime rang out overhead. The main lobby bustled with students already streaming into class, all dressed in their division uniforms — the colored stripes on their sleeves marking their tracks: Enhancers, Emitters, and the rare handful of government-track Specialists.
Elijah? He wore none.
Instead, his simple standard uniform branded him as what he was: Undeclared.
The classroom buzzed as students settled into their seats. Projected displays hovered over each desk, synced directly to the school's central learning grid. Lines of mana-infused code scrolled across the instructor's display, diagrams flickering to life with a soft hum as today's lessons queued up.
At the front of the room stood Mr. Glosac, as dry and immovable as ever. His graying beard twitched as he tapped a long digital stylus against the board, summoning a rotating holographic model of a mana core's internal structure.
"—and so, the stability of a core's phase alignment determines how efficiently one can channel their abilities. Misalignment causes either underperformance or dangerous overclocking, which is why—" he paused, glancing up, "—it is critical to understand one's genetic alignment early."
Elijah slid into his seat near the back, trying to keep his breathing steady. His heart was still hammering from the run.
"Cutting it close again, huh?" came a voice beside him.
He turned to see Tim already grinning that mischievous grin of his. The redhead had his usual wild bedhead that never seemed to obey gravity, and the faint shimmer of mana pulsed subtly under his freckled skin — barely noticeable unless you knew what to look for.
"Alarm clock's faulty," Elijah whispered back, forcing a smirk. "You know. Third time this week."
Tim chuckled. "More like your brain's faulty."
Elijah rolled his eyes, but the brief exchange helped settle his nerves a little. Tim had always been the one person who didn't look at him like a defective time-bomb waiting to fail society.
Unfortunately, not everyone in class shared that generosity.
From the back corner came a familiar voice dripping with venom. "Late and still powerless. Impressive, even for you."
Claro Nova.
Of course.
The son of a wealthy noble house. Already fully awakened at twelve with an advanced Emitter ability specializing in crystalline control. His uniform's gold trim practically screamed privilege, as did his perfect posture and artificially white smile.
Elijah ignored him. That was the only safe play.
Mr. Glosac's voice cut through the tension before Claro could continue.
"Settle down, all of you." His eyes briefly flicked toward Elijah but showed no emotion. "Now — as I was saying. Awakening typically occurs between ages eleven and thirteen for most of your generation. Earlier awakenings, while rare, usually correlate with higher-tiered abilities—though that is not an absolute rule."
The projection shifted to a bar graph comparing average awakening ages and ability classifications.
"Those who awaken late, however…" he hesitated briefly, scanning the room as if gauging who his words might wound, "…often demonstrate limited or unstable capacity. Genetic markers simply aren't as favorable."
Elijah felt his stomach twist but kept his face neutral. This wasn't news. Every class drove the same knife deeper.
"Which is why," Mr. Glosac continued, "your Awakening Exams next semester will be critical. Your formal classification will determine your future assignments, career eligibility, and societal contribution ratings."
The word contribution stung more than any insult Claro could have thrown.
Tim leaned in again and whispered, "Ignore him. You've got this. Something'll click soon."
Elijah managed a small smile. "Yeah. If not, I'll just start selling bootleg gadgets."
"Hey," Tim grinned wider, "I'd buy one."
Their quiet exchange earned them a sharp glare from Mr. Glosac.
"Mr. Ward. Mr. Thomas. Do you care to enlighten the class on your private conversation?"
Elijah's brain raced. He couldn't afford more demerits.
Before he could speak, Tim casually raised his hand. "Just reviewing the relationship between core instability and age of awakening, sir. Trying to make sure we're fully prepared for the exams."
A few students snickered. Even Mr. Glosac seemed momentarily surprised by the audacity but nodded.
"Good. Then perhaps you'll volunteer to answer the next question."
Tim's grin faltered.
The rest of the lesson dragged on, the weight in Elijah's chest growing heavier with every passing minute. He copied the notes mechanically, but his mind kept drifting back to that dream.
No — that vision.
That man. The storm. The raw, terrifying power that seemed to bend the very fabric of reality.
And most haunting of all: those piercing eyes locking directly onto him before snapping him back to consciousness.
You shouldn't be seeing this yet.
He shivered.
Was it just some weird subconscious delusion? A premonition? Some bizarre mental fluke born from his obsession with awakening?
"—Elijah."
His head jerked up.
Mr. Glosac was staring at him. The entire class had gone quiet.
"Would you care to answer?" the teacher asked.
Elijah's mouth opened, but nothing came out.
"Remind the class of the six dominant racial factions that led to the formation of the World Accord."
Thank the ancestors. This one he actually knew.
"The Hyuman Coalition. The Veyrith Hive. The Drakhal Swarms. The Sylari Concord. The Goliath Tribesd, the Cybrainian Nexus. And the Unspoken..."
"Correct," Glosac nodded. "And which of them initially refused to recognize Hyuman mana stabilization as valid?"
"The Sylari," Elijah said automatically. "They claimed artificially stimulated cores would collapse after a few generations, but the theory was disproven after three centuries of sustained development."
The teacher raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed.
Before he could continue, Claro's voice cut in from the back again. "Assuming he can even awaken to begin with. Otherwise, what's the point of learning history if you're never going to contribute?"
Laughter rippled through a few of Claro's followers.
Mr. Glosac sighed but didn't scold him this time.
Elijah clenched his fists beneath the desk but kept his face still. Getting angry only fed them.
Tim shot Claro a nasty glance. "Careful, Nova. With a mouth like that, your ability might manifest as something useful for once — like sucking."
A few scattered chuckles broke out, earning Tim a glare from Claro and a warning glance from the teacher.
"Enough."
When the final bell finally rang, Elijah exhaled in relief as the room emptied.
He stuffed his notes into his backpack — and froze.
The top paper stuck to his fingertips as though magnetized. He tried to shake it off, but it clung for a second longer than it should have, almost… resisting.
Static? No — not static. Something else.
His breath caught.
Am I…?
A faint pulse tingled beneath his skin. It vanished as quickly as it came, but the moment sent his pulse racing.
"Hey, you alright?" Tim asked, noticing his pause.
Elijah hesitated. "Yeah. Just— tired, I guess."
He wasn't ready to say it out loud.
Not yet.
Outside, the skies had cleared slightly, though faint streaks of lightning still danced between distant cloudbanks like celestial veins — almost like echoes of the storm from his dream.
As Elijah and Tim walked toward the hover transit station, the weight of everything pressed down on him. The dream. The class. Claro. His unawakened core. The flicker of energy that might have been nothing—or everything.
And yet…
For the first time in a long while, a tiny spark of hope smoldered in his chest.