By the time Kael turned four, the visions had grown sharper.
They weren't dreams. Dreams slipped away with the morning sun. These clung to him, branded into his bones. Training drills in muddy fields, the sensation of a rifle's recoil, the thunder of armored mechs advancing through smoke.
They belonged to another life. A soldier's life.
Kael did not know it, but another child had been reborn before him—a soul carrying battlefield memories. That infant had died within months of birth, its body too weak to bear the burden. And when it passed, fragments of its existence had seeped into Kael.
As a newborn, the weight nearly crushed him. His mind locked the memories away, sealing most of them deep. But echoes remained—instincts he could not explain, flashes of thought that belonged to someone much older, and a strange sense of caution far beyond his years.
At age five, the Awakening Test came.
It wasn't a public festival, not for someone of his potential. Kael was escorted with his mother to a gray military compound at the city's edge. No cheering crowds, no neighbors watching. Just armed guards, a sterile chamber, and the presence of three uniformed officers behind glass.
His mother held his hand tightly, whispering reassurances.
The device waited at the center of the room: a crystalline sphere embedded in a black pedestal, humming with restrained power. Kael placed his palm upon it.
For a moment, nothing. Then—
Light. Blinding, violent light. The crystal flared, filling the chamber with a sharp hum. Readouts spiked across the officers' consoles. The lead examiner's eyes narrowed.
Result: A-Rank.
But the device whispered something more, information sealed instantly by the officials. Talent: Neurotek. A rare and dangerous gift—the power to commune with machines, to bend them to his will.
The officers exchanged looks. Orders were given. The talent was marked classified.
His mother was informed of only what she was permitted to know: that her son was an A-rank talent, and would receive government funding, training priority, and protection. His exact ability, however, was locked away in military records. To speak of it outside sanctioned circles was treason.
Still, the change was immediate. They were relocated to a secure residential district. Their home was warm, food plentiful, medical care assured. His mother wept with relief—after years of grief and poverty, the government's stipend gave them stability. For the first time since her husband's death, Kael's mother wept tears of relief.
Kael said nothing. He only sat quietly, staring at the hum of the ceiling fan. And as he focused, for just a second, it faltered—its blades slowing against his will, until he blinked and the moment was gone.
The fan stuttered. Its blades slowed, groaned, then steadied again.
His heart pounded.
He did not speak of it. Not to his mother. Not to anyone. But in that quiet moment, Kael understood what the officials had feared.
Machines were beginning to listen to him.
And somewhere in the shadows of the city, a broken veteran was waiting—someone who would recognize that spark and teach him what it meant to survive.