Finding those sparkles during meditation made me feel something I'd never felt before. Happiness, maybe. Or something close to it. It was the first time I'd ever felt like I'd accomplished something. In my past life, I never had goals—never cared enough to learn anything truly complicated. But now, finally knowing I could actually use mana, that I was one of the few who could, made my heart flutter with joy. Even my parents noticed I smiled more often. I even started talking more.
By now, if I wanted to, I could speak perfectly—like any other adult. I could hold full conversations without stuttering or sounding young. But that would be strange. They wouldn't just brush it off as "our son's really smart." No, they'd be freaked out. So I hid it. I faked it. When I was younger, I said things like "dada," "mama," and as time went on, I moved up to two-word phrases—"outside," "food"—enough to keep them from thinking anything was wrong.
Now that I could actually tell them what I wanted, I wasn't bored all the time anymore. But even then, I still spent most of my free moments meditating. I hadn't fully developed my mana yet—it was such a meticulous, exhausting process that even I struggled to understand it. The only way to advance was through meditation.
At first, I thought it would be simple: gather the sparkles. But those "sparkles" were thousands of tiny, glowing specks moving at inhuman speeds, darting in every direction like stars refusing to be caught. Two months ago, I first saw them—around two thousand in total. Now, there were still about seventeen hundred left. I'd only managed to capture three hundred in all that time.
It was slow. Agonizingly slow. So slow it made my blood boil sometimes.
But finally, at the ripe age of two, I had only a hundred sparkles left. You might wonder how. With the pace I was going, it should've taken at least another year—maybe more if I took breaks. But I didn't stop. I refused to.
Describing the sparkles was hard. When I closed my eyes and slowed my heartbeat, everything around me faded. The world disappeared, leaving only silence. The blackness most people see behind their eyelids turned into something else for me. It was like standing in an endless void—an infinite space that felt both empty and alive.
Sometimes, I got so deep into it that I forgot I was meditating at all. The sparkles surrounded me, floating and twisting in every direction, glowing like stars that never stayed still. They lit up the darkness. But with every one I touched, they vanished—one less spark, one less light. And now, with only a hundred left, the space had grown dimmer. Harder to see. Harder to breathe.
What really helped me catch them, though, wasn't skill. At first, I tried tracking a single sparkle, timing my reach perfectly, but they moved too fast—faster than thought. Most of the ones I caught were accidents, brushing against my hands as if they chose me instead.
I stopped fighting for control after that. I just reached out, let instinct take over… and somehow, that's when I started catching more.
Each time my fingers brushed against a sparkle, a faint warmth passed through me. Tiny flickers of light faded into my body, into the center of my chest. I didn't know what that meant, not really—but I could feel it. A gentle pull, like the sparkles weren't disappearing at all. Like they were becoming a part of me.
Day after day, I repeated the same thing. Breathing slow. Letting the world vanish. Reaching out into that vast, dark space. And every time I opened my eyes again, my chest burned faintly with that same warmth—proof that I was closer.
Until one night, it happened.
I had only one sparkle left. Just one. The infinite blackness around me was darker than it had ever been. So dark I almost couldn't see it. But it was there. Faint, trembling, alone. The last one.
For the first time, I hesitated. My hand hovered in the air, shaking slightly. I didn't know why I felt nervous. Maybe because I'd been chasing these sparkles for so long that I didn't know what came after. What if I caught it—and nothing happened?
I took a breath. My heart slowed. And I reached out.
The instant my fingertip brushed it, the entire space erupted in light.
It wasn't gentle like before. It was blinding—waves of color exploding from where the last sparkle vanished. Every part of me felt like it was being pulled inward, crushed, rebuilt. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
Then, everything went silent.
⸻
It had been quiet for hours outside Rain's room. Too quiet. But Caelum was used to it.
Lately, Rain always sat on his little bed, legs crossed, arms tucked against his chest. It almost looked like meditation. Of course, that was ridiculous—no child could know such a thing. Caelum brushed it off each time.
He and Ysara were setting up a campfire just outside the house when Caelum first felt it—a heavy pressure pressing against him, like the world itself was holding its breath. He froze, glancing at Ysara.
He had never felt anything like it. For a moment, dizziness threatened, maybe a fever, but then he saw Ysara's face. Her eyes were wide, pupils trembling, body shivering as if she'd just woken from a nightmare.
"…Honey, do you feel that?" Caelum asked.
Ysara didn't answer. She just stared ahead, pale and silent. That was when Caelum knew she felt it too.
He wrapped his arms around her. "Hey, are you—"
Bang.
The sound came from inside the house.
Both froze. Then, as one, they spoke the same word.
"Rain."
They ran. The campfire flickered behind them as they sprinted to the front door. The moment Caelum grabbed the handle, every window in the house burst outward. Glass shattered with a deafening scream, stabbing the air. Caelum clutched Ysara's head, shielding her ears, but the sound drilled straight through.
The pressure deepened—heavier now, crushing, suffocating. Caelum's instincts screamed to stay back, but he didn't care. If anything happened to his son, he would never forgive himself.
He forced the door open.
Inside, nothing made sense.
Rain wasn't sitting on his bed. He floated, small body hovering five feet above the mattress, head tilted back, eyes shut. Light poured from his skin—faint at first, then brighter, until it stung to look at him.
The whole house seemed alive. The couch shifted violently. Cups flew from shelves, shattering against walls. Drawers slammed open, knives slicing through the air. Caelum ducked, pushing Ysara down as one whizzed past her face. Objects hit everywhere—floor, walls, ceiling—but never him.
Then the ground rumbled. Floorboards groaned and split. The house shook like the earth itself roared beneath them.
And then—water.
Jets burst from cracks in the floor, shooting straight up from the soil, soaking the walls. The pressure was unreal, spray sharp enough to sting. Caelum realized, with stunned clarity, that his son—his two-year-old son—was doing this.
Before he could move, fire erupted along the beams. Flames crawled across the ceiling, dancing over furniture, devouring everything they touched. Yet none of it approached Rain.
Caelum stared at him—helpless, terrified, amazed.
Rain's eyes opened.
They glowed white. Not bright, not blinding—just pure. His hair shone, strands floating weightless in the air.
And then Caelum realized:
Rain wasn't dying.
He was awakening.
Without thinking, Caelum ran through the chaos. Knives, fire, shaking ground—none of it mattered. He reached for Rain. The moment his hands touched his small body, the energy vanished. The wind stopped. The fire dimmed. The water fell.
Rain went limp in Caelum's arms, unconscious.
He carried him out of the burning house, Ysara meeting him halfway. Together, they stumbled toward the fire pit, holding Rain close as the house behind them burned and groaned.
Caelum looked down at his son—peaceful, asleep, safe—and for a moment, he forgot to breathe.
Because Caelum knew.
This wasn't just awakening.
This was the start of something the world wasn't ready for.
As I woke up cradled in my mother's arms, an overwhelming tiredness sank into my body. One moment, I'd been meditating—grabbing the last sparkle—and the next, I was outside. What happened?
My parents were staring at me like they'd just found treasure. The same look they'd given me when I was first born.
A strange smell hit my nose. Burning. Smoke. Destruction. I turned my head and saw the campfire nearby. "Oh… that explains it," I thought—until I looked further.
Our house.
The front door was hanging off its hinges. Windows shattered. Floodwater pooled inside, mixing with scorched wood. The whole structure leaned, barely standing. It looked like a monster had torn through it.
My chest tightened. What happened…?
Then I looked back at my parents—still smiling. Their faces glowed with pride, not panic. Who smiles when their home is destroyed?
My mother's voice trembled with emotion. "We're so proud of you… you little genius."
My father barked out a laugh. "Hah! My son's going to be one of the best mages alive! Well, after I train his swordsmanship, of course—"
My mother smacked his shoulder playfully. "No! That's too dangerous. He'll be a mage like his mother!"
They started bickering, lighthearted and teasing. And that's when I finally understood.
When I took the last sparkle… I must've passed out. The house, the flames, the water—it was all me.
The thought didn't feel real. It didn't feel possible. But seeing their faces, hearing their laughter, I knew it was true.
I was happy—truly happy—but also disappointed. I'd worked so long for this moment, and yet I hadn't even seen my own awakening. My body ached everywhere, like I'd been training nonstop for hours. Every limb heavy, every breath slow.
I guess even miracles come with pain.
Suddenly, a large gust of wind hit me. Outside, it was usually sunny most of the time, but even this world had seasons—winter, fall, summer, spring. I could feel winter approaching.
I looked back at our home, still smoldering and broken, and wondered where we would live now. It was damaged beyond repair, and it would take months to fix. We started walking, and it felt like we were moving forever. Eventually, we reached a caravan. Walking there had already taken hours, and I could see it was wearing my parents out. Even though they were overjoyed at my awakening, the sadness about the house lingered in their eyes. Before we left, they had gathered everything that hadn't burned—anything salvageable.
As we neared the place my parents were aiming for, I saw hundreds of people. It wasn't quite a town—it felt more like a rest stop. Animals everywhere: cows, goats, horses—but the horses were what we were after.
We approached a desk, and my father spoke to the attendant. He was so much taller than me that I could barely understand his words, and the noise of hundreds of people around us didn't help. When he finished, we walked toward the horses. There were six in total, ours included, and soon the caravan was moving. Our destination: Thyrris.
I had ridden a horse before, when I was very young and barely able to crawl. It wasn't far, and I barely remembered it. Now, we were riding again. I expected a short ride, maybe an hour or two—but it turned into five hours. My legs ached, my back burned, and when I noticed that other travelers on the caravan were asleep, I knew just how long we had been on the road.
The scenery changed slowly as we rode. The dense woods gave way to open fields dotted with small farms and grazing animals. Birds called overhead, the wind rustling through leaves. Tiny villages appeared, each with little stores and cobblestone paths, some with crosswalks that reminded me vaguely of streets from stories of another world I barely remembered. Life was spreading out, stretching toward something bigger.
After hours, Thyrris finally appeared. My breath caught. It wasn't just a city—it was a colossus. Compared to it, every town I'd seen before looked like a toy village. Massive gray brick walls stretched endlessly in both directions, towering at least a thousand feet. Guards stood along the ramparts, scanning the horizon. The sheer size of the wall made my chest tighten; the city inside felt like it could hold a kingdom, maybe more. I wondered why they needed walls so high. What were they afraid of—or was it just for show?
We approached the gates. Horses clopped on the stone path, the sound echoing against the walls. People bustled everywhere, voices blending into a low roar. Merchants shouted, wagons creaked, and dogs barked. The smell of cooked food drifted from somewhere inside, mingling with the faint tang of animals and smoke from nearby chimneys.
A guard stopped us at the gate, speaking to my father in a clipped, gruff tone. My father replied, tall and commanding, and I barely caught the words over the crowd noise. Then, everyone had to dismount. They searched us thoroughly—every pouch, every strap—but my father's sword wasn't taken. I blinked, realizing the rules here were different.
Finally, we were allowed back on the horses. The massive gates swung open with a metallic groan, and we passed through. Thyrris swallowed us whole. Inside, the city pulsed with life—market stalls crowded with people, street performers juggling or singing, carts loaded with goods weaving between them. The stone streets were wide and clean, lined with trees and glowing lanterns. I could feel the hum of energy here, subtle but unmistakable, as if the city itself was alive.
I pressed close to my parents in the caravan, still dazed from the ride and everything that had happened, and I realized: this city—Thyrris—was nothing like anywhere I had ever been. And somehow, I knew my awakening had brought us here for a reason.