Ronan woke with a jolt, his chest heaving as he sucked in a desperate breath. The cold air bit at his lungs, sharp and unforgiving, the bite of frost clinging to each inhale. His vision swam, the world around him spinning in an endless whirlpool of black and grey before settling into the familiar gloom of his shack. It was a sight he had seen a thousand times before, but it never seemed any more depressing that it felt at that moment.

For a moment, he just lay there, staring up at the ceiling, the cracked wood shifting in and out of focus as his chest rose and fell with rapid, uneven breaths. His mind scrambled, disoriented by the fact that he was still breathing, still feeling, still... alive.

Alive.

He had been so sure—so certain—that last night would be his end. He had collapsed, broken and empty, the weight of everything too much to bear. The exhaustion, the hunger, the pain—it had all been too much. His mother and sister, the only things he’d ever loved, were gone, ripped away from him by the cruel hand of fate. What reason did he have left to keep fighting? Why keep waking up, day after day, in this miserable existence that was barely worth calling life?

But instead, here I am, he thought bitterly, his lips curling into a scowl. He pushed his tangled hair back from his face, his fingers trembling—not just from the cold, but from something deeper. Something that gnawed at his bones.

He could still feel it. The light. The faint shimmer that had appeared before him, so real, so tangible, as if it had come to take him away, to free him from this endless, hollow struggle. His mother and sister had been there, in the light. He had felt them. He had thought, finally, that maybe he could join them.

But no. The universe, it seemed, had other plans. He was still here, in the same broken-down shack, the same biting cold seeping into his bones. The ache in his chest felt sharper than ever. He was still here, still trapped.

"Guess the gods don’t want me either," he muttered, his voice hoarse and cracking through the silence. The sound echoed faintly in the empty room, only the faint rustling of the wind outside offering any response. He let out a hollow laugh, bitter and dry, and tried to move.

His body resisted. Every muscle felt like it had been weighed down with lead, his limbs sluggish and unresponsive. His breath came in shallow, ragged bursts, his lungs burning with the effort. For a long moment, he didn’t try again. He just sat there, slumped against the wall, staring up at the cracked ceiling, the edges of his vision darkening with fatigue.

The stillness pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. The weight of the silence seemed to grow heavier with each passing second, wrapping around him like a vice. His mind raced back to that moment—the light, the warmth, the peace he had almost felt. The release he had longed for. But now, that peace was gone, snatched away from him, and all that was left was the cold, gnawing ache of survival.

Why am I still here?

The question gnawed at him, burrowing into the deepest corners of his mind, but there was no answer. No reason for him to still be breathing, still fighting. The world had already taken everything from him. Why not his life too?

He shook his head, forcing the thought away. Dwelling on it wouldn’t change anything.

With a groan, Ronan forced his body to move, every muscle protesting as he slowly stood up. His head swam, a wave of dizziness washing over him as he braced himself against the wall, his fingers gripping the rough surface. For a moment, he thought he might collapse again, but the feeling passed, leaving only a dull throb in its wake.

As the fog in his mind began to clear, he became aware of something else. Something that hadn’t been there before. An odd heaviness in the air, like the room itself had grown thicker, denser. He frowned, blinking against the disorientation, but the sensation wouldn’t leave. It clung to him, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

The room felt... strange. As if the very air was alive, shifting and twisting in ways he couldn’t understand.

Ronan glanced around, his eyes scanning the cramped space. Everything looked the same—just as broken, just as hopeless. But then, something caught his eye. A rusted tin cup, lying on the floor near the corner. For a brief moment, he could have sworn it moved—just a slight twitch, barely perceptible, but enough to make his heart skip a beat.

He narrowed his eyes, staring at the cup as if willing it to stay still. He waited, breath held, for another sign of movement. But nothing happened.

"Great. Now I’m seeing things again," he muttered under his breath, rubbing his temples. But even as he dismissed it, the unease lingered.

The sensation clung to him like a shroud, thick and suffocating. The room felt too small, the walls too close, the air too thick. He could almost feel it pressing against his skin, making his heart race in his chest. He tried to shake it off, to convince himself that it was just exhaustion, just hunger, but the feeling wouldn’t leave.

Then the whispers started.

Faint at first, distant, barely audible. Like a conversation happening just beyond the edge of hearing, the words too soft to make out. Ronan froze, his blood turning cold as the whispers grew louder, closer. His heart pounded in his chest, and his eyes darted around the room, searching for the source.

But there was nothing. No one. The shack was as empty as it had always been.

Okay, this is definitely not right.

The whispers faded as quickly as they had come, leaving behind only an eerie silence. Ronan’s breath came in shallow gasps, his body tense, every muscle on edge. He stood there, staring at the empty room, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

But there was only silence.

Ronan let out a long breath, running a hand through his hair. Losing it, he thought. I’m losing it.

He shook his head and made his way to the door, eager to escape the confines of the shack. The cold air outside, harsh as it was, would be better than this... this feeling. Whatever it was. He needed to clear his head.

Ronan made his way to the door, eager to escape the thick air of the shack. Whatever this was, he wasn’t going to find answers sitting in this decaying ruin. He stepped outside, the cold air hitting him like a slap, sharp and bitter. He sucked in a deep breath, the chill cutting through his lungs like glass. At least the cold was real, something tangible, something he could grasp.

But as he walked through the empty streets of the slums, the feeling followed him. The whispers, the strange pressure in the air. The world around him seemed distant, blurred at the edges, like he was moving through a dream that wasn’t his. He saw the familiar faces of the few people left in this place, their hollow eyes staring past him, too consumed by their own despair to notice his.

It was in that moment, as Ronan walked through the slums, that another strange feeling came with a force. His body tensed, a knot forming in his chest as he passed a frail, hunched figure picking through the remains of a trash pile—a woman, old and weary, her clothes little more than rags. He didn’t pay her any mind at first. Just another lost soul like the rest.

But then it hit him.

A flash of something—insight. The air seemed to shift around her, shimmering briefly before his eyes, or maybe it was his delusions again. Ronan blinked, the world around him dimming as something else came into focus. The woman. He could see her—not just her, but something deeper. Her essence, her core. Desperation clung to her like a second skin, her hunger and sorrow like a weight around her neck.

His breath caught in his throat as the sensation washed over him. He could feel her pain, her emptiness. It was overwhelming, almost too much to bear. His heart raced, and he stumbled back, his hand gripping the edge of a nearby wall for support.

The world snapped back into place, the shimmer fading. The woman was still there, oblivious, continuing her search through the garbage. But Ronan was shaken. He pressed a hand to his chest, trying to steady his breathing. What had just happened? What had he seen?

His mind raced, trying to make sense of anything. He had felt her emotions, her struggle. It had been so real, so visceral. But it wasn’t normal. Nothing about this was normal.

"What the hell," he muttered, his voice shaky.

He glanced back at the woman, still crouched by the trash, completely unaware of what had just happened. Ronan turned and walked away, his thoughts spinning out of control. He needed to understand what was happening, but he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

As he hurried away from the woman, his heart was still racing, and every step felt heavy. He didn't care to understand it. Whatever it was—this strange vision, this ability to see deeper into people—it wasn’t a gift. It wasn’t some magical awakening that would change his life for the better. No, it was just another problem. Another weight added to the endless load he already carried.

His feet dragged through the narrow, muddy streets, the sights of the slums passing by in a blur. The cold wind whipped against his face, but he barely felt it. His mind was consumed by the gnawing frustration, the unsettling reality that something had changed, and not for the better.

Magic. He’d heard of it before, whispered about in the corners of shelters or spoken of in hushed tones by the few who had seen such things in their lifetime. But he’d never cared. Magic, power, destiny—it was all for people who had something to live for. People who had a future, who weren’t just scraping by in the gutter, waiting for the world to finish grinding them into dust, or grind itself to dust.

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Now, here it was, uninvited, pushing its way into his life. And he didn’t want it.

What am I supposed to do with this? Ronan thought bitterly, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. I don’t need to see the misery in people. I already know it’s there.

He stopped in front of an old, crumbling wall, leaning his forehead against the cold stone. His breath fogged the air as he closed his eyes, trying to force the strange sensation out of his mind. But it lingered, that feeling of having looked too deep into someone’s soul, of having touched something he wasn’t meant to see.

A moment later, he felt the whisper of it again. The tingling sensation in the back of his mind, like fingers brushing against his thoughts. It wasn’t strong—just a faint awareness, a tug that made his skin crawl. He gritted his teeth and pushed it away, refusing to let it in.

I don’t need this. I don’t want this.

But the whispers... they were growing louder.

Turning away from the wall, Ronan kept moving, his steps faster now, more erratic. He needed to keep moving, to get away from whatever was happening. He wasn’t going to let himself get pulled into it. Magic, abilities, seeing into people’s hearts—none of it mattered. It wouldn’t fill his stomach or warm his bones. It wouldn’t bring back his mother or sister.

It was nothing. And he had no time for it.

***

As the day wore on, the slums seemed more suffocating than usual. The air felt thicker, heavier, and every corner seemed darker, the shadows longer. Ronan’s mind raced, replaying the strange moments over and over, but every time he tried to think about what it all meant, his frustration only grew.

People passed him by, their eyes hollow and empty, their faces etched with the same struggle he had lived his entire life. And now, with this new... curse hanging over him, Ronan felt more disconnected than ever.

A low growl from his stomach reminded him of the more pressing issue—he hadn’t eaten since yesterday, if that tiny loaf of bread could even be called food. He hadn’t found much then, and today seemed even more hopeless.

He spotted a small alley up ahead, its mouth opening into a pile of debris. The kind of place where someone might have thrown something useful away. Ronan made his way toward it, but as he approached, the tingling sensation came back—stronger this time. It pulsed in the back of his mind, like a warning, like a whisper he couldn’t quite hear.

No. He forced himself to ignore it, shaking his head. I don’t care. I don’t want this.

He knelt down by the debris, rummaging through the piles of broken wood and discarded scraps. The dampness clung to his hands, the cold biting at his fingers, but he pushed through it. He needed to focus on surviving. Not this... whatever this was.

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw someone. A figure, hunched and silent, standing just at the edge of the alley. Ronan tensed, his instincts kicking in, his hand reaching for the small and completely useless knife he kept hidden under his coat.

But as he looked up, he felt it again. The pull. The flash of insight. It hit him like a wave, unbidden and unwanted. The figure’s aura flickered before his eyes, and for a moment, he saw it clearly—fear. Deep, raw fear. The kind that paralyzes you, the kind that seeps into your bones and keeps you from moving.

Ronan clenched his fists, cursing under his breath. He didn’t want to know this. He didn’t care what this person was afraid of. He just wanted to be left alone, to dig through the trash and maybe find something to eat.

But the feeling wouldn’t leave him. The fear hung in the air, heavy and suffocating, wrapping around him like a chain.

“Hey,” a voice said, low and shaking.

Ronan looked up, his eyes narrowing at the man standing at the mouth of the alley. The man was thin, gaunt, his clothes hanging off him like rags. His eyes darted nervously, but he didn’t move any closer.

“You got food?” the man asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Ronan’s stomach twisted in response to the question, but his face remained hard. He shook his head slowly, standing up from the pile of debris. He had nothing to give, and even if he did, he wasn’t about to share it.

The man lingered for a moment, his eyes pleading, but Ronan didn’t budge. After a few seconds, the man turned and slinked back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as he’d come.

Ronan let out a slow breath, the tension in his body easing as the man left. But the sensation—the weight of the man’s fear—remained, clinging to him like a shadow.

He didn’t want to care. He didn’t want to feel it. But he couldn’t stop it.

This is going to get worse, isn’t it?

***

By the time the sun began to set, Ronan’s legs were aching, and his hunger gnawed at him like a persistent beast. The slums were growing quieter, the shadows deepening as night crept in. But even as the darkness closed in, the strange pressure he had felt all day only grew stronger. He could feel it pressing against him, weighing him down.

It wasn’t just the slums anymore. It was inside him.

I don’t want this.

Ronan’s steps faltered as he neared his shack. He glanced around, his eyes scanning the empty streets, the faint glow of distant fires casting eerie shadows on the walls. Everything felt off, like the world around him had shifted, tilted just slightly.

The whispers returned, faint and distant, but persistent. He squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists, trying to force them away. But they wouldn’t leave. They wouldn’t stop.

I don’t care about magic. I don’t care about powers. I just want this to go away.

But deep down, Ronan knew it wouldn’t. Whatever had awakened inside him wasn’t going to leave him alone.

Ronan stepped inside his shack, the familiar, cold stillness greeting him like an old adversary. He shut the door behind him with a dull thud, leaning his back against it as he let out a long, exhausted breath. His mind was still racing with the strange sensations, the flashes of people’s emotions, and the oppressive feeling that had followed him all day.

As he moved toward the corner of the room, something strange happened.

A flicker of light, no bigger than a spark, appeared in front of him. Ronan stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening. The light hovered in the air for just a moment, shimmering like a small, delicate flame, casting faint shadows on the walls.

His breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t just light. There was something there—a shape, tiny, barely visible, but unmistakably real. A figure. A small spirit. It floated for a brief second, translucent and delicate, with eyes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim room.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone.

Ronan stood frozen, his heart pounding in his chest. The air seemed to thicken around him, and his body refused to move. His breath quickened, panic rising like a wave, crashing over him with sudden and violent force.

What... what the hell was that?

His thoughts scrambled, trying and failing to make sense of what had just appeared before him. A tiny, glowing figure—alive, real, and right there in front of him. Ronan’s heart thudded in his chest from the sheer disbelief of what he’d witnessed. He didn’t understand it, didn’t want to understand it.

Why is this happening to me?

His hands gripped his knees as he sat, staring at the empty space where the spirit had been. It wasn’t dangerous, it hadn’t attacked him—it was just... there. But mixed with what had been happening since he woke up, everything felt wrong.

I don’t want this.

The thought echoed in his mind, louder and louder with each passing second. This wasn’t supposed to happen. It couldn’t be happening. Ronan had enough to deal with—scraping by, surviving another day in the slums. Magic, spirits—these things belonged in stories or someone who wanted these, not in his life. He wasn’t meant for this.

I don’t want this, he repeated to himself, a tightening in his chest building with frustration. He wasn’t meant for power, for strange abilities. Whatever that thing had been, whatever it meant, it wasn’t for him.

Why is this happening to me?

The words played over and over in his mind as he stood, pacing the small space. He could still feel the faint memory of the spirit, lingering like a weight pressing against him, something just out of reach but still close enough to disturb him.

I don’t want this.

And then, slowly, the weight began to lift. Something inside him, deep and heavy, seemed to shift. The memory of the spirit—its faint glow, the otherworldly presence—started to blur, to fade, as if pushed down by his sheer rejection.

I don’t want this.

With every denial, with every refusal, that strange part of him that had glimpsed the spirit locked away. It felt as though a door had closed, shutting it off, sealing it away somewhere where it couldn’t reach him anymore. He didn’t know why, but with each insistent repetition, the unfamiliar presence dimmed until it was almost gone.

Ronan sank to the floor, his body trembling slightly. His head throbbed as he pressed his back against the wall, his hands still shaking. But the relief, that strange sense of quiet, settled over him.

Good, he thought. I don’t want this. I don’t need this.

Whatever that spirit had been—whatever it meant—he didn’t care. It wasn’t his problem. Not now. Not ever.

I don’t want this.

And with that, the weight was gone.

Ronan closed his eyes, letting the calm wash over him, letting the silence of the shack settle in. He could finally breathe again. Whatever that spirit had been, it wasn’t coming back. Not ever, if he had his way.

I’m done with this, he thought, his mind drifting toward the comfort of denial. I’ll forget it. Just another problem I don’t need.

But before he could even begin to relax, something else caught his attention.

A soft, whispering sound filled the room—a faint rustling, like paper unfolding. Ronan’s eyes snapped open, and he looked up, his breath catching in his throat again.

In the middle of the room, suspended in midair, a scroll materialized. It hovered there, shimmering faintly, the parchment glowing with an ethereal light.

What now?

Ronan stared at the scroll, his heart still racing. Slowly, the scroll began to unfurl, the parchment smoothing out as it floated toward him. He watched, his body frozen, unsure whether to move closer or stay put. But before he could make a decision, the scroll unfolded completely, revealing ornate lettering etched in gold across the top.

As his eyes lingered on the shimmering words, a soft, resonant voice filled the room, coming from the scroll itself. The parchment hovered just above the ground, and the words began to speak aloud, the tone both authoritative and unnervingly calm, as if it had been waiting for him.

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To the Esteemed Ronan Grey,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the Lumenbourg University of Mystical, Combat, and General Studies. This prestigious institution has a long and storied history of guiding those with unique gifts, talents, and abilities toward greatness. Your recent awakening has signaled your readiness to embark on this journey, and it is our honor to extend this invitation to you.

At Lumenbourg University, we offer a comprehensive education designed to enhance your mystical, martial, and intellectual abilities. Whether your talents lie in the arcane arts, combat mastery, or a variety of general studies, our esteemed faculty will ensure that you are given the tools and knowledge to hone your skills to their full potential.

As a prospective student, you are required to attend the entrance ceremony at the university, where your abilities will be assessed, and your academic and practical path will be determined. Transportation to the university will be arranged at your convenience.

Please note, attendance is not optional. Your abilities place you under the jurisdiction of the Mystical Accord, and as such, your presence is mandatory for your continued development of the Ravencia Empire.

We eagerly await your arrival.

Sincerely,

Headmaster Aelric Starfall

Lumenbourg University of Mystical, Combat, and General Studies

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