The road did not lead where Kael hoped it would.
At first, it was stone—old, cracked, but unmistakably once-maintained. Broken markers lay toppled along its sides, their inscriptions eroded by time. Kael followed them instinctively, scanning for patterns, ambush points, anything familiar enough to anchor himself.
Lyra walked beside him, quiet now. Not fearful—focused.
As the sun climbed higher, the road narrowed. Stone gave way to packed dirt. Grass thinned, replaced by mud trampled flat by countless feet. The air changed too. It grew heavier, sourer, tinged with smoke and rot.
Kael stopped.
"Smell that?" he asked.
Lyra nodded. "Too many people. Not enough space."
They crested a shallow rise—and saw it.
The city squatted below like a wounded beast.
Its outer walls were half-collapsed, stones blackened by old fires. Makeshift shacks clung to the ruins like parasites, layered atop one another in chaotic stacks of wood, cloth, and rusted metal. Narrow alleys twisted between them, choked with refuse and stagnant water.
Smoke rose in thin, lazy spirals.
No banners flew.
No guards patrolled.
"This isn't a district," Lyra said slowly. "It's a dumping ground."
Kael's jaw tightened. "The slums."
They both knew what that meant.
In Eternal Aether, the slums were mentioned often—usually in passing. A backdrop for suffering. A place characters came from or escaped, rarely lingered in.
A place where people without magic went.
Kael scanned the streets below. He could see people moving—thin figures wrapped in patched clothing, children darting between stalls, men hunched over crates and barrels.
No one laughed.
No one lingered.
"This city," Lyra murmured, "this is early-book territory."
Kael nodded. "Before the academy arc. Before the war buildup."
Before everything went wrong.
They descended carefully.
The moment they crossed into the slums, eyes found them.
Kael felt it immediately—not pressure, not mana, not aura.
Attention.
Hungry. Measuring. Predatory.
Lyra moved closer to him without thinking. Not clinging—aligning.
They passed a group of boys about their age clustered near a fire barrel. One of them spat on the ground.
"Fresh," another muttered.
Kael kept his gaze forward. His body remembered how to walk through hostile space—shoulders loose, steps unhurried, balance centered. Even without strength, posture mattered.
They reached what passed for a main street: a stretch of uneven ground lined with stalls made from scavenged wood and cloth. Food—if it could be called that—was laid out in crude piles. Roots. Dried scraps of meat. Things Kael couldn't identify.
His stomach twisted painfully.
Lyra swallowed. "We need food. Water. Somewhere to sleep."
"And information," Kael added.
They stopped at a stall run by an elderly woman with clouded eyes and trembling hands. She watched them approach with suspicion.
"Coin?" she croaked.
Kael hesitated. "We don't have any."
Her lips thinned. "Then don't waste my time."
Lyra bowed slightly. Not submissive—respectful. "We'll work."
The woman snorted. "You're children."
"We're useful," Lyra said evenly.
The woman studied them for a long moment, gaze sharp despite her age. Then she jerked her chin toward a pile of crates.
"Unload. Don't steal."
Kael nodded once. "Understood."
They worked in silence.
The crates were heavier than they looked, packed with root vegetables and sacks of grain. Kael's arms burned quickly—this body lacked endurance. Sweat soaked his shirt within minutes.
Lyra struggled too, but she didn't complain. She adjusted her grip, shifted her stance, compensated.
When they finished, the woman tossed them each a small flatbread and pointed toward a barrel.
"Water," she said. "That's all."
Lyra caught the bread. "Thank you."
The woman waved them off.
They sat on a low wall nearby, tearing the bread in half and eating slowly. It was dry, tasteless, but it eased the gnawing pain in Kael's stomach.
Lyra drank first, then handed him the cup.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Reality check."
Kael nodded. "No mana."
She frowned. "I tried. I really tried. There's nothing."
He had felt it too—or rather, the absence of it. No warmth. No flow. No sensation beneath the skin.
Just flesh.
Just bone.
Just weakness.
"We're unawakened," Kael said. "Normal."
Lyra grimaced. "In a world where normal gets crushed."
They watched the street.
A man stumbled past, coughing violently. Another figure lay unmoving in an alley, half-covered by cloth. No one stopped.
Kael's hands curled into fists.
"This is where people end up when they can't awaken," Lyra said softly.
"And where we are," Kael replied.
A shout rang out nearby.
Two men argued over a crate—voices rising, faces red. One shoved the other. A knife flashed.
Kael stood instantly, body reacting before thought.
Lyra grabbed his sleeve. "No."
He froze.
The knife wielder lunged. The other man screamed as the blade bit into his arm. Blood splashed onto the dirt.
People scattered.
No guards came.
Kael's breathing was slow, controlled—but his heart hammered.
"We can't," Lyra said, her voice tight. "Not yet."
He nodded stiffly. "I know."
But the helplessness burned.
They found shelter that night in the remains of an old shrine—its roof collapsed, walls cracked, but dry enough. They shared a threadbare blanket scavenged from a refuse pile.
Kael lay awake, staring at the broken ceiling.
His body felt wrong. Weak. Slow. Heavy.
"I hate this," Lyra whispered.
He turned his head slightly. "Me too."
She shifted closer. "We know how to fight. We know how to survive. But none of it matters if someone throws a fireball."
"Yet," Kael said.
Silence stretched.
"Do you think the system will help us?" she asked.
Kael closed his eyes. "It hasn't so far."
As if mocking him, a translucent window flickered into existence above his vision.
SYSTEM NOTICE
AWAKENING CONDITIONS NOT MET
MANA DETECTION: FAILED
AURA DETECTION: FAILED
Lyra saw it too.
She groaned. "It's insulting."
Kael exhaled a quiet laugh. "At least it's honest."
The next days blurred together.
Work. Hunger. Observation.
They carried crates, cleaned stalls, hauled refuse. Sometimes they were paid in scraps. Sometimes not at all.
They learned quickly.
Which alleys to avoid. Which stalls didn't cheat. Which groups preyed on newcomers.
Lyra learned where clean water could be found. Kael mapped the slums in his head—paths, choke points, escape routes.
They avoided fights when they could.
When they couldn't, they ran.
Until one evening, they didn't have that option.
It happened near dusk.
They were returning to the shrine when three older boys blocked the alley. All slum-born, lean and hard-eyed. One held a short club. Another cracked his knuckles.
"Food," the tallest said. "And the blanket."
Lyra stepped forward. "We don't want trouble."
The boy smirked. "Too bad."
Kael felt the familiar tightening in his chest.
No mana. No aura.
But distance still mattered.
Timing still mattered.
Intent still mattered.
The boy with the club lunged.
Kael moved.
Not fast—not strong—but precise.
He stepped inside the swing, shoulder turning, forearm smashing into the boy's elbow. Bone cracked. The club fell.
Pain exploded up Kael's arm—but he didn't stop.
He pivoted, swept the boy's legs, and drove him into the wall.
Lyra was already moving.
She ducked under a wild punch, struck the attacker's throat with the edge of her hand—not crushing, just enough to steal breath. She followed with a knee to the ribs.
The third boy hesitated.
Kael met his eyes.
For a split second, something passed between them.
Intent.
The boy ran.
Kael staggered back, chest heaving. His arm throbbed violently.
Lyra grabbed him. "Are you okay?"
He nodded shakily. "I think so."
The injured boy groaned on the ground.
Kael looked down at him.
"This is just the beginning," he murmured.
That night, as Kael drifted into uneasy sleep, he felt something for the first time since arriving.
Not mana.
Not aura.
A faint, distant pressure—like a door that had not yet opened.
Somewhere deep within him, something stirred.
But for now—
They were still normal.
And the world did not forgive that.