Thorne heard murmurs all around him—indistinct voices that swirled in the fog of his mind, too far away to understand. He thought he could hear his mother’s voice, soft and soothing, but no matter how hard he tried, his eyes wouldn’t open. He willed them to move, to lift, but it was as if his body no longer belonged to him.
The murmurs faded, and he became more aware of the dull ache that permeated every inch of his body. It wasn’t sharp pain, just a constant, throbbing weakness that drained him. His limbs felt heavy, like they were made of lead. When sleep crept up on him, he welcomed it, letting the fog pull him back under.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, the sensation of floating somewhere between waking and dreaming. Three more times, he stirred, only to be dragged back into the depths of sleep before he could fully grasp the world around him. The fourth time, however, he stayed awake just long enough to hear voices—closer now, clear but muffled, like he was hearing them through a thick wall.
He could hear Bea’s voice, trembling with frustration and fear, though she sounded like she was sitting right next to him. “How much longer? It’s been two weeks!” Her words wavered, the fear barely hidden beneath her tone. Was she talking about me?
His heart skipped a beat. Two weeks? I’ve been asleep for two weeks? How was that even possible? His mind raced, questions swirling in a sea of confusion. Why have I been asleep so long? What happened?
“I told you, Bea,” his mother’s calm voice came, reassuring and steady. “Your brother’s situation is a little different. He just needs more time to adjust.”
Hearing his mother’s voice slowed Thorne’s racing heart. There was confidence in her words, a certainty that eased some of his anxiety. But the confusion still lingered, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. What was so different about me? What had happened?
As their conversation continued, his attention drifted. An unpleasant sensation crawled along his bare arms, the prickling discomfort pulling him from the conversation. He shifted slightly, trying to ease the feeling, and as he did, his eyelids fluttered open. Blinking against the sudden brightness, his vision swam, and the world around him seemed to blur.
His breath caught as colorful motes danced in the air. They shimmered and swirled like fireflies, illuminating the room with a strange, ethereal light. The motes... Memories rushed back, flashing before his eyes. The garden, his mother, the plants growing impossibly fast—the raw magic that had poured into him, overwhelming his senses. The magic... it had done this to me.
Before he could fully gather his thoughts, words appeared before his eyes. Floating, suspended in his vision.
YOUR CORE HAS BEEN FORMED
His eyes widened in shock, his mind struggling to process what was happening. My core? He barely had time to think before more words began to appear, flashing in rapid succession.
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
The notifications kept coming, faster and faster.
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
It felt like his brain was being overloaded. Each word seemed to hit him like a hammer, loud and intrusive, as if the very sound of the notifications echoed inside his skull.
“Moooooom!” His own voice sounded unbearably loud to him, a shout that reverberated through his head. He instinctively wanted to cover his ears, but his hands refused to cooperate. Everything felt too much—too loud, too bright, too overwhelming.
He heard the sudden clatter of utensils from the other room, followed by the sound of chairs scraping against wood. His mother and sister rushed to his side, their faces filled with a mix of worry and relief. But Thorne barely noticed them, his focus drawn entirely to the words still flashing in front of him.
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
YOU HAVE LEVELED UP!
His mother’s hands cupped his face, warm and familiar, but they startled him all the same. He jolted, trying to focus on her, but the constant stream of notifications made it nearly impossible.
“Mom...” he mumbled, his voice weak and hoarse. His breath was coming faster now, each inhale a struggle as panic crept into his chest. “What... what’s happening?”
Through the flashing words, he caught a glimpse of his mother’s calm expression. She was speaking, but the flood of notifications drowned out her words. He strained to hear her, to focus on her voice amidst the chaos.
Name: Thorne
Level: 10
Race: Human
Age: 8
Special Trait: Elder Race
Strength: 7
Agility: 9
Dexterity: 8
Endurance: 11
Vitality: 6
Spirit: 20
Wisdom: 9
Intelligence: 10
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she said softly, brushing a hand through his damp hair. “Your core has been formed, and the notifications have been awakened. Remember? We talked about this before.”
Her voice was soothing, grounding him as he struggled to recall the many lectures she had given him. The notifications. The system that unlocked a person’s potential, allowing them to grow stronger, faster—to learn skills that would shape their future. It was what made people like his father into powerful warriors, hunters, or even mages.
More words appeared in his vision, layering over the previous notifications.
YOU HAVE UNLOCKED THE SKILL:
Foraging!
YOU HAVE UNLOCKED THE SKILL:
Tracking!
YOU HAVE UNLOCKED THE SKILL:
Archery!
The skills kept coming, one after another, a never-ending stream of information.
Running!
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Stealth!
Reading!
Arithmetic!
Herbalism!
His mind spun, overwhelmed by the flood of knowledge. “Too much... this is too much,” he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, hoping to escape the relentless barrage of notifications. But even with his eyes closed, the words burned into his mind, as if he were reading them from the inside.
“It will pass, baby,” his mother whispered, her voice still soft and steady. She continued to stroke his hair, offering comfort as the flood of words slowly began to taper off.
When the notifications finally stopped, Thorne let out a shaky breath, relief washing over him. He opened his eyes cautiously, expecting more messages, but none came. He could finally breathe again. But before he could fully settle, something deep inside him stirred.
A new message appeared, different from the others. The words were more formal, more ornate, and they carried with them a sense of power—an ancient, primal force.
PRIMAL AETHER MANIPULATION UNLOCKED
His heart skipped a beat, and he immediately turned to his mother. “What... what is primal aether manipulation?” His voice was hoarse, and he suddenly realized how dry his throat was. His mother’s face froze for just a moment, her eyes betraying a flicker of fear. But then she smiled, as if nothing had changed, as if the fear had never been there.
“We have a lot to talk about, Thorne,” she said gently, her smile never wavering. “But for now, I want you to rest.”
Thorne opened his mouth to protest, but the look his mother gave him silenced any objections. Her eyes, though soft, held an authority that made him feel like a child again. He nodded reluctantly, his body too weak to argue. The adrenaline that had surged through him moments before was quickly fading, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion.
“Bea, fetch me the potion,” his mother said, her voice steady but firm.
Thorne heard the soft rustle of footsteps as Bea moved into the other room. To his surprise, he could tell exactly where she was, almost as if he could see her through the walls. He could hear the creak of the floorboards as she walked, followed by the slight whine of the cupboard door opening and the gentle clink of glass. His senses seemed unnaturally sharp, picking up even the smallest sounds.
Then, he heard something slithering just outside the door—like the soft rustle of scales on wood. His heart skipped a beat. His ears picked up the buzzing of a nearby cricket, followed by another, further away. He heard the hoot of an owl perched on the willow tree outside their fence.
His eyes widened in both wonder and distress. The world around him had become a cacophony of sound, each noise sharper and louder than the last, until it was all too much. The sounds collided in his head, swirling into a chaotic assault on his mind.
His mother’s soft voice broke through the chaos. “Just a while longer, baby. Hold on.”
Thorne clenched his fists, trying to fight off the onslaught of noise. The constant buzz made it hard to think. At some point, he felt his mother’s gentle hands opening his mouth, pouring a cool liquid between his lips. Almost immediately, a wave of relief washed over him, as though cobwebs were gently weaving around his mind, muffling the overwhelming flood of sensations. Slowly, the noise faded, and sleep claimed him once more.
*
He didn’t know how long he had slept, but when he awoke again, for the first time since the incident, he felt refreshed. The world around him came into focus, a myriad of sounds filtering into his awareness. But this time, they were muted, softer—no longer an assault on his senses.
Even without opening his eyes, he instinctively knew it was night. The soft hoots of owls and the light steps of creatures moving through the grass told him that the forest was alive under the cover of darkness. Despite the calm, he hesitated to open his eyes, afraid the kaleidoscope of motes would overwhelm him again.
“M-Mom?” he called, his voice a soft whisper in the quiet room. Almost instantly, he heard the rustle of covers being thrown back, his mother bolting upright in response. His ears picked up the deep rumble of his father’s breathing beside her, and the slow, rhythmic breaths of Bea in the next room.
“Thorne, are you awake?” His mother’s voice was hushed, but urgent.
He nodded, his eyes still squeezed shut. He didn’t want to face the overwhelming brightness again. “Open your eyes, Thorne,” she said gently, but he shook his head, fear gripping his chest.
“I can see them too,” his mother whispered, her voice soothing. “I can help you deal with them.”
Thorne hesitated. She can see them too? Slowly, reluctantly, he opened his eyes.
Immediately, his vision swam with color. The motes, vibrant and alive, swirled all around him, even in the darkness. He shut his eyes again, wincing as the brightness seemed to cling to him, overwhelming his senses once more. His mother’s hand touched his face, her thumb stroking his cheek in reassurance.
“Everything is too bright... too loud...” he muttered, his voice trembling with the weight of the sensations. The colors, the sounds—it was all too much.
“I know, sweetheart,” his mother said softly. “At first, it feels like too much. But soon, you’ll get used to it. Once you can control what you see, hear, and feel, you’ll realize what a gift it is.”
Thorne wasn’t sure how any of this could be a gift. He could hear the croak of a frog outside, happily munching on one of his mother’s plants. He could hear the faint scraping of a rat, scurrying around the outhouse. What good is that? The noise wasn’t useful—it was maddening.
“Open your eyes,” his mother instructed, her voice firmer this time. Thorne opened them again, more out of habit than anything else. “Now,” she continued, “focus on a single point, just out of the corner of your eye. Not something in front of you, but something you can barely see.”
Thorne did as she said, turning his gaze to the left, searching for a point in the tapestry of swirling light. To his surprise, the colors seemed to settle, becoming static, like a cloth draped over his vision. He blinked, realizing that the motes had a boundary, a point where they stopped.
In his surprise, he moved his head, and instantly, the motes burst back into life, swirling and flickering wildly. He gasped, but his mother’s calm voice guided him back.
“The first step is to find a spot in your vision that is safe from the aether’s brightness,” she said patiently. “With time, it’ll become second nature. The moment you open your eyes, you’ll automatically find that safe spot. The aether will still be there, but it’ll be your choice whether to see it or not.”
Her words were confusing, but the analogy helped him make sense of it. He imagined the aether like a tablecloth covering a table—the table was still there underneath, but the cloth hid it from view. All he had to do was peel back the cloth to see the world beneath.
Thorne nodded, determined. He tried again, focusing on the edge of his vision. The motes became static once more, forming an unmoving sheet of light. He blinked in surprise, then tried moving his eyes without disturbing them.
But each time he moved, the motes sprang back into motion, swirling in agitation. Frustration built in his chest, but his mother’s encouragement kept him going. “You’re doing great, Thorne,” she whispered every time he succeeded, urging him to keep trying. “Don’t give up.”
They spent hours like that. Thorne tried again and again, and each time the motes seemed to taunt him, bursting back to life with even the smallest movement. His mother remained by his side, her voice a constant source of support. At some point, his father entered the room, but his mother waved him away. Thorne didn’t even look up, his focus too deep to be distracted.
By the time the sun had risen, he had made progress. He managed to keep the motes static, even when he moved his eyes. There was still a thin sheet of glowing light in the corner of his vision, but it didn’t move anymore—it felt like a solid object, one that could be pushed aside if he needed to.
His stomach growled loudly, making his mother laugh. “You must be starving,” she said with a chuckle. Thorne nodded eagerly, his body suddenly reminding him how hungry he was. He stood on wobbly legs, his mother helping to steady him as they made their way to the kitchen.
Sitting at the table, Thorne realized with some surprise that the constant noise he had heard earlier had faded to a dull hum. He hadn’t even noticed it while practicing with the aether. But the moment he thought about it, the buzzing returned in full force. It rushed back like a flood, crashing over him in a wave of overwhelming sound. He clapped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the noise.
His mother rushed to his side, abandoning her vegetables. She gently pried his hands away from his ears, her voice calm and steady. “Focus on my voice, sweetheart. If you could isolate your vision, then you can control your other senses too. It’s easy with sound. Just focus on one thing, and the rest will quiet down. Soon, you’ll only hear what you want to hear.”
Her words were soothing, and Thorne tried to concentrate on her voice. Slowly, the cacophony around him dulled, fading into the background. He blinked up at her in wonder, amazed at how easily it had worked.
His mother smiled brightly, patting his head. “That’s my smart boy,” she said proudly, before turning back to her cooking. “Now, while I make lunch, why don’t you practice listening? There’s a rabbit outside, nibbling on my elderberries. See if you can track it.”
Thorne frowned, confused. How am I supposed to—? But then he heard it—a soft munching sound just outside the house, followed by the faint rustle of leaves. His eyes widened in awe. He could hear the rabbit! He giggled, listening as it padded softly through the grass, nibbling on the plants.
He didn’t know how long he listened, tracking the rabbit as it moved further into the forest. But by the time the creature had disappeared into the woods, his mother had finished cooking a fragrant vegetable stew that made his mouth water.
Just as they were about to eat, he heard two sets of footsteps coming down the dirt road. Without seeing them, he knew it was Bea and his father. He could tell by the weight and rhythm of their steps, and excitement bubbled up inside him. I can’t wait to show them!
He hopped off his chair and rushed outside, ignoring his mother’s warning to be careful. The moment he saw them, walking side by side from the village, talking softly to each other, he waved his arms frantically to get their attention.
“Dad! Bea!” he shouted, jumping up and down in excitement.
They both looked up, and as soon as they saw him, the smiles on their faces froze. Shock washed over them, their expressions turning from joy to something darker—something that made Thorne feel like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head.
Their faces were filled with fear.