The rhythmic thud of Johan's fists against the worn training dummy echoed through their backyard, a steady cadence of discipline and determination. The wooden figure bore the scars of his relentless practice, each dent and groove a testament to the hours spent perfecting his strikes. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the yard, its golden light catching the sweat on Johan's brow as he adjusted his stance, inhaled deeply, and launched another precise combination of blows.
For days, this had been his routine. Sometimes, he trained alone, his only company the whispering wind and the ever-present ache in his muscles. Other times, his father, Adam Hart, guided him with quiet precision, his voice a steady anchor of experience and wisdom. Each session was another step forward, another attempt to grasp the enigmatic force that was mana. Johan understood its presence, but true control remained elusive—a puzzle he had yet to solve.
His dedication had not gone unnoticed. His friends had begun to drift away, no longer seeing him at the usual gathering spots. At first, they called, then visited, but Johan's answers had grown increasingly brief, his mind consumed by training and the lingering questions that gnawed at him. Why did the people of Roth town carry a strange unease in their eyes? Why did whispers of the past seem to ripple beneath the surface of daily life, never quite breaking through? Johan had learned to trust his instincts, and they told him something was amiss.
Though he was still young, his progress was undeniable. Compared to the heavenly geniuses on his home planet of Umara, his advancements were modest. Within the vast expanse of the universe, he was but a flicker of light in the night sky. But on Earth, he was to be considered a prodigy. Each strike, each block, each maneuver spoke of potential beyond the ordinary. Yet, it was not just his physical prowess that set him apart—it was his mind, sharp as a blade, honed by an uncanny ability to observe and interpret. A natural intuition guided him, allowing him to perceive anomalies others overlooked. And lately, he had begun to see patterns in the behaviours of the adults in Roth town, especially his father.
Adam Hart, a researcher at the nearby military base, had always been a man of steady habits. His life was defined by precision, by routine. But ever since he had entrusted Johan with the history book, his schedule had begun to slip. His once-predictable comings and goings had grown erratic. He arrived home at late and irregular hours, his shoulders weighted with a burden he refused to share. He spoke less, his mind seemingly preoccupied with matters beyond the reach of ordinary conversation.
These changes did not go unnoticed by Alicia Hart. Johan's mother was a woman of formidable presence, her mastery of mana and spells far exceeding that of most. Her power was not just in her abilities but in the way she carried herself—with an air of quiet control, an unwavering sense of purpose. She knew Adam better than anyone, and the inconsistencies in his explanations did not escape her keen gaze.
When she first questioned him, he had offered work-related excuses. She recognized them for what they were: half-truths, fabrications designed to placate her. But Alicia was not so easily deceived. Her patience, vast though it was, had limits. The history book had become a wedge between them, an unspoken presence that widened the gap with each passing day. She had the power to uncover the truth—mana and spells capable of piercing through deception—but she held back.
There was a reason for this restraint. A promise, solemn and unyielding, bound them both. It had been forged in a time of hardship, a vow never to wield their abilities against one another. No matter the secrets, no matter the doubts, they had agreed that their powers would not be used to force the truth from the other. And so, Alicia waited. She watched. She measured the changes in Adam's demeanor with the precision of a seasoned strategist. As long as his actions did not endanger Johan, she would honor their vow. But if ever the shadows creeping into their home reached her son, she would not hesitate to act.
Johan, though unaware of the full extent of the tension between his parents, could feel the shift. The air in their home had changed. Words were chosen more carefully. Conversations had become laced with an unspoken undercurrent, as though every sentence was a step around an invisible fault line, a crack that threatened to widen. His mother's eyes lingered on his father longer than before, searching for something she had yet to find. His father, in turn, avoided her gaze, his own burden growing heavier with each passing day.
Despite this, Johan did not press. He had his own mission, his own path to walk. The history book sat on his desk, its pages filled with knowledge that teased at his understanding. There were things within it that he did not yet fully grasp, but he would. He had to. Because whatever was happening in Roth town, whatever secret his father was keeping, he knew that in some way, it was all connected.
The sun had nearly dipped below the horizon by the time Johan finally stopped training. He stood still, catching his breath, his body thrumming with exhaustion and satisfaction. He wiped his forehead, then turned toward the house. Through the window, he could see the silhouettes of his parents in the kitchen—his mother standing at the counter, his father leaning against the wall. A conversation was unfolding, though he could not hear the words.
Johan exhaled slowly. His fists clenched at his sides. He would find the answers, in time. But for now, he needed rest.
Lying on his bed, his muscles aching from training, Johan reached for the history book. As his fingers brushed against its worn cover, an almost imperceptible tremor ran through its spine. Ignoring the unease prickling at the back of his mind, he flipped through the pages, rereading sections he had barely understood before. Each word seemed heavier, infused with an unsettling resonance. Then, without warning, the book convulsed.
The air thickened, turning viscous, as if the very fabric of space had grown dense. A low hum, more felt than heard, pulsed through the room. The pages fluttered wildly, though no wind stirred. The letters upon them writhed, shifting, rearranging themselves into symbols Johan had never seen before—glyphs that pulsed with an eerie luminescence, shifting in fractals beyond mortal comprehension.
Then, as if seized by an unseen force, the book wrenched itself from the desk, twisting in mid-air as if resisting invisible chains. The air crackled with an electric charge, the scent of ozone thickening. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, spiralling across the walls like living ink. The room itself contorted—walls stretched into infinity, corners warped into impossible angles, and colours bled together in a cascading tide of brilliance and darkness. A silent storm of cosmic fire erupted around Johan, runes scrawling themselves in the void, each Sigel burning with the weight of an ancient force beyond comprehension.
And then, it happened. The book became a singularity of knowledge, its pages folding in on themselves like an endless cascade of reality collapsing into an unseen abyss. The very fabric of space trembled, bending in ways no mortal mind could fathom. Light and darkness intertwined, birthing colours that defied comprehension, hues that should not exist. The air itself became a living entity, vibrating with an inaudible melody that resonated through Johan's very being. A vastness beyond existence itself stirred—an overwhelming, infinite force that did not belong in this world, its mere presence capable of unravelling creation. The book pulsed, not with hunger, but with inevitability, as if Johan had already stepped beyond the point of no return.
A sudden pulse of brilliance erupted from the book, an unbearable radiance surging forth. Johan barely had time to cry out before the light struck him square in the chest. His body convulsed as a torrent of energy flooded through him. Echoes of voices whispered in forgotten tongues, images of celestial landscapes and incomprehensible entities flashing before his eyes. His vision splintered—time lost meaning.
And then, silence.
Johan's body convulsed one final time before he collapsed onto his bed, unconscious. The surge of energy dissipated, leaving a lingering warmth in his chest, like embers fading after a great fire. The book plummeted onto the desk with a resounding thud, its pages fluttering one last time before falling eerily still. The room, which had been a maelstrom of cosmic forces moments ago, snapped back into place as if reality itself had rewound. The walls no longer pulsed with shifting hues, the air no longer hummed with unseen power. It was as though nothing had ever happened. And yet, an imperceptible change lingered in the silence, something profound and irreversible now embedded within Johan's very being.
Alicia pushed the door open, balancing a plate of food in her hands. She hesitated, her eyes sweeping the room with the quiet vigilance of a mother who knew when something was off. Johan lay still on his bed, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths. He looked peaceful—too peaceful.
Her gaze flickered to the desk. The history book sat there, motionless, but something about it gnawed at her senses. The air felt… different. Not wrong, exactly, but not right either—like the silence that lingers after a storm, when the world hasn't quite decided if it's truly over.
She frowned. The room smelled faintly of ozone, as if lightning had struck too close. The shadows in the corners seemed a shade darker than they should be. A trick of the light, maybe. Or maybe not.
For a brief moment, she considered reaching out with her mana, peeling back the layers of reality to see what lay beneath. But she stopped herself. A promise was a promise. She had vowed never to use her abilities to pry into Adam's secrets—or Johan's.
And yet…
She set the plate down on his bedside table, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. His skin was warm, but not feverish. His breath, steady. Safe. Normal. And still, something deep in her gut whispered that normal was an illusion.
She exhaled. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Maybe it was the stress, the sleepless nights, the way Adam's strange behaviour had put her on edge. Maybe it was nothing at all.
But as she turned to leave, the book gave off the faintest pulse—so faint it might have been imagined. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.
She didn't look back.
She closed the door behind her, but long after she was gone, the silence in the room remained. Heavy. Waiting.
Yet, unknown to her, the changes set into motion within Johan had only just begun. As she walked away, somewhere deep within his being, the remnants of the cosmic energy stirred—silent, dormant, waiting. His body lay still, but something imperceptible had shifted, an invisible ripple spreading outward, touching the unseen fabric of reality itself. The book, though motionless on the desk, seemed to pulse ever so faintly, as if it was not merely an object, but a gateway—one that had already been opened.