The first time it happened, I didn't realize what it was.
I was sitting on the steps near the school building, waiting for the bell to ring, watching clouds drift lazily across the sky. Kids were scattered across the yard in loose clusters—some shouting, some laughing, some sulking quietly with their arms crossed.
Nothing unusual.
Then something brushed against me.
Not physically. Not like a breeze or a sound.
It was closer to a pressure, faint and distant, like a low hum I hadn't noticed before.
I frowned slightly and shifted where I sat, glancing around.
No one nearby looked upset. No argument. No raised voices. Still, the energy inside me stirred, the quiet weight shifting as if responding to something unseen.
A moment later, shouting erupted near the far end of the yard.
Two kids yelling at each other, faces red, emotions spilling over fast and messy.
I blinked.
They were far.
Farther than usual.
Yet the energy had moved before I saw them.
I didn't dwell on it then. The bell rang, and the day moved on. But once I noticed it, I couldn't unnotice it.
Over the next few days, it happened again.
A heaviness in the air before voices rose down the hallway.
That subtle tug in my chest seconds before someone burst into tears in class.
Each time, the source was farther away than I was used to.
I didn't try to pull it.
Didn't focus.
Didn't do anything at all.
It just… reached me.
That realization sat quietly in the back of my mind as the weeks passed.
The evaluation came soon after.
Skipping a grade wasn't dramatic. No grand announcement, no spotlight. Just a few meetings, some tests, and adults watching me a little more closely than usual.
I sat in a small room with a desk that felt slightly too tall, answering questions I already knew the answers to. Math problems. Reading comprehension. Logic puzzles that were meant to test how I thought rather than what I memorized.
I didn't rush.
Didn't show off.
Just answered.
The teachers exchanged glances. Wrote notes. Asked a few follow-up questions.
One of them smiled at me, soft and approving.
"You've done very well, Ren," she said.
That was that.
A few days later, it was official.
I'd skip the final year of elementary school.
Middle school loomed closer.
The last days before the transition felt strange.
Like standing at the edge of something bigger.
With the orphanage rules loosening now that I was older, I was allowed out more—as long as I stayed within the city and came back before evening. Nothing exciting. Just a quiet kind of freedom.
So I walked.
I wandered through streets I hadn't bothered to explore before. Busy shopping districts. Quieter neighborhoods. Train stations where people rushed past each other with tired eyes and tense shoulders.
And everywhere I went, there it was.
Negative emotion lingered in the air like humidity.
Stress from overworked adults.
Irritation from crowded spaces.
Anxiety simmering beneath polite conversations.
I didn't actively draw it in.
I didn't need to.
It brushed against me all the same, slipping into that familiar space inside me, adding weight without effort.
Once, I heard sirens in the distance.
Hero activity.
I didn't run toward it. I didn't have to.
I just stayed where I was, leaning against a railing near a convenience store, watching people glance nervously in the direction of the noise. Whispers spread. Phones came out. Fear rose, subtle but sharp.
The energy surged.
Not explosively. Not overwhelmingly.
Just… steadily.
I breathed out slowly, grounding myself, letting it settle instead of spike.
This was different from the orphanage.
Different from schoolyard emotions.
This was bigger. Broader.
I walked home afterward with my hands in my pockets, head tilted slightly as I thought.
I had more stored now than ever before.
Not enough to waste.
But enough that it felt… reassuring.
Like having a reserve you don't touch unless you need it.
In my room that night, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.
Middle school was coming.
UA felt closer than it ever had before.
I thought about the energy resting inside me, quiet and dense, and how much of it I'd managed to hold without strain. How it no longer leaked away or pressed uncomfortably against my limits.
It wasn't infinite.
But it was enough.
Enough to train with.
Enough to adapt.
Enough to matter later.
I turned onto my side and closed my eyes.
I didn't know exactly how strong I'd be in the future.
I didn't know how much this power would change things.
But for the first time, I felt certain of one thing.
Whatever came next, I wouldn't face it empty-handed.