Within a few seconds of arriving, Jiran and Micah had strung the slab of tier four meat above the fire pit. In a daze, Jiran turned toward the door and his afternoon deliveries. Micah’s heavy hand on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks and startled his mind out of its heavy ruminations.

“I want you to take the rest of the day off. Niya will run your deliveries and bring back your satchel. You’re going to want to prepare yourself for tonight. Focusing on your tiering is the most important thing you could do right now. Especially after what you just said,” Micah’s sigh was a gust of wind that swept through the small room and rustled Jiran’s hair.

Micah took a second to collect his thoughts before he squared his shoulders and pierced Jiran with deadly-serious eyes. “Jiran, your father, and my father, both chose to build a home here. To raise a family and contribute to the village in their own way. There is nothing wrong with that life, they both found fulfillment in it, many do,” Jiran scrunched his nose as uncertainty welled up within him from the unusual turn in conversation.

Micah saw his confusion and pressed on. “I chose another path. I only served three seasons in the army. In that time, I learned my father's path was best for me as well. Today you threw away any chance to change your path. A single season in the army will turn a boy into a man. Four seasons will turn a man into a monster. An entire year—seven long seasons—will kill even a monster.”

The weight of Micah’s words and tone pressed down on Jiran’s body far more than the hand still resting on his shoulder. “Now, for some fool’s thrice-damned reason, you chose to serve fourteen seasons!” Micah turned from him, his hands balled into fists as seething rage built to a boiling point.

“Two years, Jiran. What were you thinking proclaiming that in front of the entire village? There is no way the Voice will let you back out now. I told you just last week that your oaths will bind you, to say only what you planned and no more. Why did you change it?” Jiran couldn’t answer, he looked up at his towering uncle, unable to muster a single word in self-defense. “I swear, talking to you is like squeezing water from a rock!” Micah threw his hands into the air.

Jiran felt the walls pressing in around him and something within him snapped, releasing the chokehold that had constricted his voice since his proclamation. “Then why did you make me take that cut?! It’s too much. I don’t deserve it. I’ve done nothing to contribute to the village.” He ran out of steam almost instantly, immediately feeling terrible for yelling at Micah who had done so much for him.

Micah paused, holding his tongue, as he gradually mastered his fury. After pacing back and forth a few times, he stopped, a new and unfamiliar expression dominating his features. “The tithe has nothing to do with repaying past deeds. It’s always been about uplifting the young so they may return the gift a hundredfold in the future. I made you take that cut because I know you’re worth it. I’m not the only one either. Did anyone mutter a single word of dissent? No, they didn’t, because they all know it too.”

Jiran felt heat rushing to his face. Micah ran his hands through his hair, though his steely gaze never wavered. “What I’m about to tell you will determine if you live or die, Jiran.” Seeing that he had the boy’s full and complete attention, Micah continued. “Don’t waste a single moment. Every chance you have to grow more powerful, grab it and tear into it like a dissipating beast. If you don’t find a way to rise to the top, the threats facing the Imperial Army will kill you within those two years. Learn your body, mana, and weapon. Learn to kill, learn everything you can, or you will not survive,” With those parting words, Micah quietly padded out of Jiran’s home.

Two years, two years, two years. What am I going to do? How am I going to survive? What do they see in me that makes me worth eating food from a beast that should have killed us all? Learn everything? How am I supposed to do that before my sixteenth season? He’s wrong. They’re all wrong. I’m going to die before I finish my service. Then I’ll be wasted meat, just like all the others that took the tithe and failed to live long enough to return the investment.

Jiran looked at the slab of beast meat swinging over the still-warm coals with entirely new eyes.

What a fool I am.

Time swiftly passed as Jiran became lost in his thoughts. He was so despondent, he didn’t notice his cousin dropping off his satchel, or his father returning from his day of work at the pier. Neither spoke a word as his father, with well-practiced motions, prepared and cooked the high-density meat. It wasn’t until the impossibly rich flavors wafted through the air—flooding his senses, that Jiran snapped out of his daze.

Jiran looked up at his father for the first time that day and softly greeted the man. “Father, welcome home,” He bowed respectfully.

“Son, Micah told me what happened today. I can’t say I understand your choice, or that I agree with it, but you still have several seasons to prepare. It’s good to see you taking this seriously, that brings me a small measure of hope. Come, let’s not waste time moping about, the horizon’s mountain is not today’s slope. Your Mother will be home soon, clean your mat and prepare for your tiering.”

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His father did not have Micah’s stature or muscles, but all the same, he exuded a sense of calm strength that Jiran found comforting. With a nod, he hopped to his feet and reverently wiped down the tiering mat he had weaved under his Mother’s tutelage. Afterward, he busied himself cleaning the rest of their home while feeling his father’s gaze on him all the while.

He changed out of his work uniform, restocked the wood for the night's fire, and prepared the table setting for their upcoming meal. Soon, his Mother returned from her work at the prayer hall. One look was all it took to completely shatter what little defenses Jiran had prepared. The child launched across the room and tackled her before bawling into her lap.

She stroked his hair, cooing softly. By the time dinner was ready, Jiran’s emotions were calm enough for him to sit on his mat without tears. He faced his parents, waiting for them to begin the ceremony. Before his Mother could start, Jiran’s father spoke into the deafening silence.

“Tonight, our child becomes an adolescent. He has chosen the path he wishes to tread, and even though it is not our path, we will not stand in his way. Jiran, for the next two seasons, you will continue to work for your uncle. He has agreed to train you in the spear after your duties each day. I know you will give him your best efforts, as you always do. After two seasons, you will join the hunter disciples under Skandor. You will surely need the survival skills only he can teach.”

His Mother began to open her mouth but a hard look from his father stopped her. Dark brown eyes landed back on Jiran, demanding his verbal acceptance. “Yes, Father,” he nodded reluctantly—hating the idea of spending a single day away from Micah, especially with Skandor and his vile apprentices.

He could understand what his father was thinking. Multiple seasons with the hunters would certainly teach him a great deal, and he had much to learn. Seeing the reality of the situation settle on Jiran’s shoulders, his father relaxed his posture. He waved his hand, indicating Jiran’s Mother had the floor to begin the nightly prayer.

“Mother above, we hear your voice and receive your blessing, your gift. Your strong child has weathered the seven seasons, and tonight, this son of yours is a child no more. May he fulfill the destiny set forth by the Fathers.” Her eyes shone with religious fervor at the short ceremony. Fist in palm, she raised her closed eyes to the sky and Jiran quickly followed.

After the prayer, both parents watched Jiran as he took his first bite. As if the beast were still alive, the morsel squirmed inside of his mouth with a will of its own. He quickly swallowed to avoid the uncomfortable feeling.

Swallowing did not help.

The meat truly did have a life of its own. It did not even reach his stomach before dispersing into wild energies that ravaged the inside of his body. With a flicker of thought, he quickly accepted the ascension he had been holding off all day. The density, locked within every cell of his body, exploded into action. His arms and legs spasmed uncontrollably. Unable to sit up, he fell into a fetal position.

As the process began in earnest, Micah’s words echoed in his skull. ‘Learn everything,’ so he did. Jiran stopped fighting and instead directed his consciousness inward, to the feeling of the density rampaging through him. He tracked it carefully as it interacted with his sealed mana. The substance of all skills and techniques—mana—pulled and tugged at the density, tearing away globs and converting it to more mana.

That mana turned on his body. It shredded through him, unwinding the seasons of effort he spent growing his attributes. Unimaginable pain coursed through him as his body was torn asunder. Then, something soft snuggled into his head, diluting the pain and wrapping his mind in darkness.

No! I have to learn, I have to understand. I can’t fall asleep now!

Jiran fought the darkness, pushing it back by accepting the pain. He used it, breathed it in with every ragged breath so he could feel the changes just a little longer. Soon, more mana began reversing the destruction with waves of reinforcing regeneration. They swept through him, regrowing muscles, bones, and organs, making them far stronger than before.

Every centimeter of his body was being broken apart and then reconstructed by the overabundance of mana and density flowing through him. They pulsed within his chest and stomach, building upon one another in a cyclical rhythm that danced in tune with the beating of his heart.

In the middle of that maddeningly agonizing process, something changed. Jiran could feel it in the back of his neck, at the base of his head. A little spot, no bigger than a speck of dirt, became unbearably hot. As the heat increased, his mana abandoned its regenerative functions, fleeing from the nooks and crannies of his body to gather inside his head. He could feel it there, writhing about, altering something important.

Should I be panicking? The stray thought made Jiran realize he had no emotions whatsoever.

A blinding headache bloomed behind his eyes but compared to the backdrop of his body still torn asunder, this new pain was nothing. The mana inside his head and the density within his body shifted again, charging into the burning spot in his neck where it vanished. Within three beats of his heart, it was all gone as if it never existed.

Jiran moaned in agony as his body demanded the tiering ritual continue. But there was no more healing energy left. He quickly discovered the mana had been doing something to shunt the pain of his tiering. With its absence, his inner focus was shattered as unimaginable agony wracked his entire existence.

“Jiran! Jiran!” his Mother yelled as she scrambled to him.

While Jiran was engrossed in pain far too great for any child to bear, his life flashed before his eyes. Except the memories he witnessed were nothing like the ones he knew. He saw an alien world with cities full of more people than likely lived in the entirety of the empire. He saw peace, and a life devoid of the spark of density.

Jiran? Is that my name? This isn’t Earth? This is… a world with magic? I’m not… Who am I?

Then blackness drowned his pain and swallowed him whole.