One year later, the spark had grown.
Dante no longer stumbled in the dark. What began as awkward experiments in belief and self-hypnosis had become something structured. His understanding had refined into a system, not of spells or rituals, but of principles. A magic system born not from arcane languages or elemental forces, but from the mind itself.
Mental energy served as fuel—raw cognitive effort. Visualization was the catalyst—the sharper the mental image, the stronger the pull on reality. And belief, deep and unshakable, remained the foundation—the metaphysical glue binding intent to outcome. Dante had given it shape. He had given it rules.
He called it "Mental Thaumaturgy." Naming it helped reinforce it, made it more tangible to his subconscious. It made the system feel ancient, like something discovered rather than invented.
But even as his abilities grew, Dante didn't become flamboyant. No cloaks. No staffs. No rings etched with runes. If anything, he refined his appearance into something strikingly ordinary—too ordinary. That was intentional.
He dressed like a man from nowhere in particular: clean, dark slacks, a muted button-up, and a coat of soft charcoal gray, the kind that might be mistaken for black in poor light. It wasn't eccentric—but it was deliberate. When he walked down the street, people's eyes lingered for just a moment. Something about him didn't quite register as forgettable.
No gloves. No trinkets. The only accessory he wore was a plain silver ring on his right hand, smooth and unadorned. It served no purpose but focus. A psychological anchor. A ritual object. The mind responds to symbols, after all.
He kept the leather-bound book, of course—his grimoire, though he would never call it that aloud. It hung from a loop on his belt, secured with a simple tie. It looked like a sketchbook, or maybe a planner. Nothing that would scream magic. That was the point.
And then, there were the birds.
They were not familiars. Not servants. But they responded to him.
It had started as another experiment. A test of control—not overt, but suggestive. He had believed, deeply and repeatedly, that he could influence birds. That if he focused enough, visualized with precision, he could nudge their behavior.
He picked crows, magpies and ravens—intelligent, social, observant. Over months, he fed them regularly, walked the same routes, held specific postures, and reinforced specific mental images. And eventually, they came.
Not in flocks. Not circling dramatically. But in subtle ways. One would land on a fencepost when he approached. Another would mirror his turn at a crosswalk. A few began to follow at a distance, hopping along rooftops or gliding behind him like shadows.
It wasn't a Disney fairytale. There was no singing. But there was a presence—small eyes watching, trailing, responding. Whether it was true command or something softer didn't matter. The effect was real enough that it made people glance twice. It made him believe more deeply.
Because it was never about actual power. It was about what people believed they saw.
And the more people believed it, the stronger the effect became.
Subtle at first—more birds following his path, turning their heads as he passed, appearing at his windows at key moments. Then it began to spread.
A dog stared at him from across the street and didn't look away until he did.
A stray cat, unapproachable for weeks, trotted after him one evening, tail upright like a question mark.
He didn't command them—not exactly. But his thoughts, projected clearly and with confidence, shaped their responses. He would focus on an intent—follow, turn, stay—and it would ripple outward. They responded more and more often now, especially when others were around to see.
Awareness shaped reality. But now, he was ready to move beyond internal experiments.
A phantom echo. He concentrated his mental energy into a new construct: a repeated auditory phrase. He layered it with intention, imagining it as a whisper caught in the wind. He didn't shout it nor spoken it aloud. But in his mind, it looped—"Help me... please help me..."—in the voice of a frightened little girl.
Dante traveled around the city, visualized it bleeding into the environment. Echoing faintly through alleyways, down tunnels, beneath bridges. At first, it remained subtle, like all his earlier efforts. A trick of the ear. Something you'd hear only once and never question.
But then the reports began.
Posts online: "Anyone hear that weird voice near 5th Street?"
A local podcast episode titled The Whisper Phenomenon.
Conversations on public transit. Murmurs. People swore they'd heard it more than once. Some said it moved. Some said it followed them. Some claimed they tried to find the source and couldn't.
Dante hadn't placed it outside a few city blocks.
But now it was cropping up across the city.
He hadn't created it physically. He hadn't recorded anything or rigged speakers. And yet, the phenomenon spread. The more people heard of it, the more it appeared. Like a cognitive virus. A self-propagating hallucination born from belief.
He felt it, this strange echo is connected to him. He could dampen it with effort or focus it tighter in one direction. It wasn't full control, but it was influence. Not only that, but he also even noticed, during moments where the phenomenon flared, that he felt ever so slightly refreshed. Like the tiniest thread of mental energy flowed back into him.
It wasn't much, barely noticeable, but it was there.
He wondered if the belief of others, those touched by the phantom echo, was feeding him.
He was curious how long it would last, how far it would spread. It moved independently now, drifting through minds and alleys like smoke.
Dante decided to use that momentum. It was time for something more ambitious.
He packed his bag, brought his grimoire, and boarded a train.
There was a place two hours outside the city. An old estate once rumored to be haunted, long since forgotten expect by ghost tour hobbyists. It online presence was minimal, but it had history, old legends, strange stories, and enough ambient myth to build from.
It was the perfect site.
There, he would plant something deeper. Not just a phrase or an echo, but a living concept—a self-sustaining story. A presence whispered about in forgotten blog posts and dinner conversations. A mimic that borrowed voices. A shape that moved when you looked away. A presence that fed on attention and changed those who lingered too long.
It wouldn't scream for belief. It would earn it through whispers.
A ripple, not a wave. A rumor, not a revelation.
And when it rooted—if it rooted—Dante would be there to feel it. To guide it. To see what happened when the world believed in something that wasn't there… until it was.