The days after his birthday settled into a warm, unhurried rhythm—a rhythm Tyler had never experienced in his first life. Everything moved at a gentle pace: the way sunlight crept through curtains each morning, the way the smell of Melissa's cooking filled the house before noon, the way Silas worked quietly at the dining table when he wasn't at the bank.
But beneath that calm, something inside Tyler was sharpening.
His power, once faint and unstable, now stirred more often—like an animal waking slowly from sleep.
He couldn't command it, not yet. But it came to him. In small flickers. Soft pulses. Quiet whispers.
He was three years old—physically. But mentally, he was beginning to feel like someone caught between two lifetimes.
Silas had started taking him out more often, especially in the mornings when the air felt clean and cool. Midtown Street wasn't large, but it was busy enough that Tyler could observe dozens of people in just a short walk.
"Hold my hand," Silas would say, even though Tyler's fingers barely wrapped around his father's.
Tyler waddled beside him, trying his best not to trip on uneven pavement. Silas always slowed his pace, pretending not to notice when Tyler stumbled.
"This neighborhood changes every year," Silas remarked softly. "Look around, Tyler. Our country Varosia grows with you."
Tyler did look.
He saw storefronts painted in new colors, vendors with carts selling steaming buns, teenagers in school uniforms laughing loudly, elderly men sitting under the shade of a closed shop, discussing weather and government and "how things used to be."
But today, something else caught his attention.
A polished wooden plaque hanging outside a building.
A symbol of a burning torch.
Silas noticed Tyler staring. "Ah," he said with a small smile. "That's the Ignaros shrine. We follow that faith in our family."
Tyler blinked. Of course he remembered Ignaros—how it became a rallying cry, then a weapon, then a political tool.
But right now, Ignaros was nothing more than a charm above a door.
A harmless, hopeful emblem.
Silas lifted Tyler into his arms and pointed around at different buildings as they walked.
"That shop over there," Silas said, nodding toward a spotless bakery with bright golden décor, "belongs to a Solaris family. They love keeping everything clean and orderly. You can always tell by how shiny the windows are."
Tyler remembered Solaris too how politicians weaponized their teachings to promote "order" while quietly enforcing oppressive policies. But right now, Solaris simply meant:
Warm bread. Clean counters. Friendly greetings.
Nothing more.
"And over there," Silas continued, pointing at a small community hall with a flame-shaped banner, "that's where some Veyra groups hold meetings."
Tyler saw a few men in uniform-like outfits entering. Their posture was rigid, disciplined.
Silas chuckled lightly. "Don't worry. They're harmless. They just like rules."
Harmless now, Tyler thought. But not harmless forever.
Veyra would one day become the backbone of a powerful political block fueled by nationalism and fear.
"And the house with the lanterns see it?" Silas pointed again. "A Lunara family lives there. They believe in balance, harmony, all that poetic stuff. They host beautiful moonlit gatherings."
Tyler remembered Lunara as well how their peaceful ideals were mocked during the rise of extremist thought. How Lunara followers slowly vanished from public roles. How their temple was burned during a riot.
But here, now, Lunara meant soft music and candlelight.
Silas patted Tyler's back, adjusting his grip so Tyler could see the entire street at once.
"All these beliefs, all these people," Silas said warmly, "and we all live together. That's how it's supposed to be."
Tyler looked at his father, expression unreadable.
Supposed to be.
But he remembered what came instead.
A memory cut through him like a sudden blade.
Elijah—older, tired, sitting in a noisy club across from Tyler. Music rattled the glasses on the table. Elijah leaned forward, voice hoarse.
"Do you know what religion is now, Tyler?" he asked. "It's not belief. It's ammunition."
Tyler remembered staring at him, horrified by how much he had changed.
Elijah laughed bitterly. "I used to think Ignaros meant strength. You remember? Back in school, I wanted to fix things. But now? Nobody cares about fixing anything. They just want someone to blame."
Screens around the club flashed with logos—Ignaros vs Veyra, Solaris vs Lunara—each logo now a political slogan, not a belief.
Tyler remembered saying quietly, "This isn't you, Elijah."
And Elijah replied:
"It is now."
Tyler had walked away from that club knowing he had lost his friend
Not to death.
Not to anger.
But to the system.
Silas shifted him on his shoulder, humming softly. Tyler blinked away the memory, focusing on the world around him.
A Solaris baker waved. A Lunara couple arranged lanterns. A Veyra instructor barked orders at no one in particular.An Ignaros grandmother swept the sidewalk.
Harmony.
For now.
Silas squeezed Tyler's small hand. "Someday you'll understand all this better."
I already do, Tyler thought.
Better than Silas could ever imagine.
They turned the corner and began the walk home.
When they arrived at their building, Elijah was outside practicing with a stick, pretending it was a sword. Daniel sat beside him eating a bun twice the size of his fist.
Katherine peered from behind her mother's leg again, clutching her stuffed elephant.
Elijah noticed Tyler and ran over. "Tyler! Come here! Look—I'm a hero!"
He swung the stick dramatically.
Mrs. Nowak shouted from the balcony, "Don't hit anyone with that, Elijah!"
"I won't!" Elijah yelled back—then nearly hit Daniel anyway.
Daniel simply said, "Food," and kept chewing, unfazed.
Katherine waddled toward Tyler timidly.
"…Tyler…" she whispered. Or thought. Tyler wasn't sure which.
Silas set Tyler down and the children clustered around him.
This street…These faces…This soft, imperfect life…
He didn't have this in his previous life.
Not really.
And as laughter echoed from the children, Tyler felt something unusual:
Motivation.
He wasn't changing the world yet.
But it was watching him.
Growing with him.
Waiting for him.
Later that evening, while Tyler sat drawing crooked circles with a dull crayon, he heard voices in the kitchen.
Silas and Melissa.
Quiet.
Concerned.
"…the bank might reduce staff next month…"Silas's voice trembled.
"…we'll manage somehow…"Melissa forced optimism she didn't feel.
"…Richard still hasn't gotten a response from any company… I don't want him worrying…"
"…we'll need to cut expenses soon…"
Tyler froze. The crayon slipped from his hand.
These were the first quiet fractures. but Silas will eventually will come out from this.
He watched his parents from the living room their faces tired, their smiles forced, their voices soft but trembling.
In his previous life, these fractures widened until the whole family split apart.
This time…He wouldn't let everything crumble.
But not yet. Not too early.
For now, he listened to their fears. He memorized their vulnerabilities. He watched the world unfold one quiet ripple at a time.
Because understanding people—their beliefs, their fears, their cracks
was the first step to reshaping the world.
One afternoon, Grandma decided Tyler needed "fresh air and sunlight."Which meant:
"Bring the child's shoes! And Melissa—give him a hat! This one burns easily!"
Tyler silently accepted his fate as Grandma Viola buckled him into his stroller. The metal frame squeaked softly as she pushed him down the stairs.
"Almost four years old," she muttered. "Still looks fragile. The air these days is too dirty."
The street was moderately busy—vendors calling out offers, children running between legs, and adults bargaining like survival depended on saving two coins.
Tyler's eyes wandered.
His ability flickered.
A man standing by a fruit stall radiated frustration.
"…prices rising again… government useless… can't run a stall like this…"
A teenager rolling a basketball mumbled inwardly:
"…skip school tomorrow… don't want to hear Ignaros lessons again…"
An elderly woman buying vegetables fretted:
"…granddaughter wants to follow Solaris now… what happened to Ignaros tradition…?"
Tyler blinked.
This—This was the world beneath the world.
Everyone smiling.Everyone polite.Everyone quietly falling apart inside.
Grandma continued pushing the stroller, humming an old Ignaros lullaby.Tyler listened to her thoughts too.
"…hope Silas doesn't overwork… hope Melissa isn't hiding her worries again… hope this family stays strong…"
His chest tightened.
He wanted to reassure her.Tell her this future would not end the way the first one did.
But all he could do was hold her hand.
Grandma smiled when she felt his tiny fingers grip hers.
Near the busy central crossing of Midtown Street, a commotion broke out.
A man cut into a line outside the bakery.A woman behind him grabbed his sleeve.
"Excuse me! There is a line!"
The man rolled his eyes. "It's one bread."
Someone muttered, "Typical Solaris arrogance."Another muttered, "Veyra people have no manners."
A third person chimed in, "Ignaros folks think patience is weakness."
Tyler's mind filled instantly with overlapping thoughts—sharp, loud, angry.
"…always doing this…""…he thinks he's special…""…I don't have time for this today…""…why does nobody follow rules…""…just want bread, why is this a fight…"
The woman's frustration escalated.
The man scoffed louder.
The crowd shifted.
Grandma muttered, "Idiots."
Tyler felt the tension vibrating in the air—How quickly small annoyances ballooned into hostility.
In his previous life, disputes like this had turned violent.Social divides had grown razor-sharp.People had fought over religion, culture, identity—Not because they hated each other…But because they were exhausted by everything else.
Here, now, it was still manageable.Still small.
The bakery owner stepped out and clapped his hands sharply."Enough! One line. Or no one gets bread."
Silence fell.
The crowd re-formed.Order restored.
But Tyler couldn't forget the spike of tension—the barely controlled anger beneath their skin.
His little hands tightened around the stroller bar.
This was the world he would one day rule.And this was the world he needed to reshape.
Not with force.Not with fear.But with understanding.
Later that week, Tyler played in the courtyard while adults chatted around the benches.
Elijah arrived wearing his miniature school backpack, puffing out his chest proudly.
"I learned alphabet today," Elijah announced. "A, B, C, D ... "He paused. "…after that, I forgot."
Daniel waddled around holding a cookie twice his size, repeating "Food" every few minutes.
Katherine sat beside Tyler quietly, poking a stick into dirt and drawing wobbly circles.Her mind whispered softly:
"…want elephant toy… want elephant toy…"
Tyler glanced at her and made a small squeaking sound.Katherine held up the stick to offer him.
Exchange completed.
Elijah frowned. "Tyler doesn't need sticks. He needs to train! One day we will defeat bad people."
Tyler almost choked.Elijah's childhood version of justice was… ambitious.
In his past life, Elijah had gone on to fight bad peopleBut not in a noble way.He had been swallowed by politics and religion, becoming another pawn.
Tyler watched this smaller, purer version of him running around the courtyard.
As the days passed, Tyler's exposure to public thoughts increased naturally.
A bus driver thought about quitting.A woman worried her husband was cheating.A teenager rehearsed apologies for a failing grade.A merchant cursed silently about taxes.A group of young men joked about how stupid Ignaros festivals were becoming.
And Tyler absorbed everything.
Human nature.Human fear.Human desire.
He wanted to shape a world where people didn't have to bury so much emotion under polite smilesWhere cracks weren't ignored until they collapsed into chaos.
But he was three.Three.
He couldn't even tie his shoes.
Yet the future felt closer than ever.
One evening, Tyler stood near the courtyard fence, gripping it with tiny fingers.Children played behind him.Adults talked nearby.The city hummed faintly ahead.
His father's voice drifted through the window.Melissa laughed softly in the kitchen.Grandma scolded Daniel for stealing cake.Richard interviewed for jobs online.Steven came home smelling of store perfume samples.
Tyler breathed in.
The world was still small.But the cracks in it were real.
Not dangerous yet.Not catastrophic.But present.
And he knew—just as the priest warned—this gift inside him would grow.
These whispers would sharpen.These thoughts would become tools.And one day, he would stand above nations.
But for now?
He let the sounds of Midtown Street fill his ears.Let the thoughts of strangers brush lightly across his mind.
Let the world speak to him in its quietest voice.
Because listeningtruly listening
was the first step to controlling it.