I never truly wanted to attend the academy. But something about it fascinated me ,the thought that there might be others like me, others who could see the strange flows of aura weaving around the world.
We sat quietly in the car. She had already bought clothes for me: a white turtleneck shirt and a pair of black trousers. The fabric felt stiff, unfamiliar.
Normally, parent vehicles weren't allowed to drive into school grounds, but our car passed through the gates without delay. I peeked through the window blinds and noticed students turning their heads. Some were walking to class, others chatting idly—until they were silenced by the sight of the car gliding past. Vehicles like these were reserved only for the children of the most powerful families.
She caught me staring outside. "Are you nervous?" she asked.
I shook my head. "No…?"
We stepped out of the car, and the first thing I noticed was the sheer scale of the academy. It was massive. I couldn't help but wonder: how did anyone get to class with such distances?
An elderly man approached us. His face was pale, aged, his hair and beard a refined gray. Yet his presence was… insurmountable. He greeted her with warmth.
"Elina, how are you? How's your health?"
"Thank you for your concern, Headmaster," she replied. "But I'm here on other matters."
His gaze turned to me. "And who might this child be?"
She placed a hand on my shoulder. "He's my son."
The headmaster looked stunned at first, then offered a soft, knowing smile. I stood there, bewildered.
Soon, we proceeded to the student evaluation. They examined my body, checking for signs of potential. During the test, I noticed something strange everything in this school was powered by an enormous, pulsing energy. Lost in thought, I was suddenly instructed to place my hand into a box connected to that very energy source.
I slid my hand inside.
The numbers flickered to life. 0… 320… 940… and then, it stopped at 1,567.
"A little above average," someone murmured.
I stared at the number in confusion. I had always thought I was different. I could see those strange threads… yet this result felt underwhelming. Maybe I wasn't special after all.
We returned to the reception area. Elina smiled gently. "That was a good evaluation," she said. "You're only eight, and your energy rating matches that of a twelve-year-old. It's impressive."
Still, I wasn't starting school just yet. Students were only admitted at age fifteen. Children from high-ranking families could register early, ensuring a smooth transition when the time came.
We returned home.
That was the first time I noticed something was off about Elina.
---
Six Years Later
Her condition had worsened. Elina had grown so frail she could barely get out of bed. And that's when I finally understood what I hadn't, six years ago.
I found her documents, tucked neatly away. Every asset, every property—transferred to my name. She had created a bank account and deposited all her wealth into it for me. She had foreseen her death and planned for everything.
The realization broke me.
Every day, she faded more. I searched for answers, desperate to understand the cause of her illness. We saw countless healers, renowned doctors, specialists. They all said the same thing: "There's nothing wrong with her."
But something was wrong. She was only thirty-eight, yet she looked as if a single gust of wind might carry her away. Eventually, she could no longer speak.
The silence between us was agonizing.
Then one rainy night, I returned from the convenience store. I was just weeks away from my fifteenth birthday—the age of admission into the academy.
But none of that mattered.
What mattered was Elina.
I came home in a soaked black coat, folding the umbrella and hanging it on the stand. That's when I heard it—coughing. Weak, dry.
I rushed to her room.
For the first time in months, she spoke.
"You've grown into a fine boy," she whispered.
"Don't talk too much," I told her quickly. "You'll strain yourself."
She smiled. "My time is almost up… cough… ugh."
"Please," I begged, panicking. "Slowly."
"I wish… I could've seen you grow up. I wish we had talked more. Maybe lived more. Fought over your stubbornness to get a girlfriend… maybe even seen you married."
"Stop saying things like that," I said, trembling. "You're not going to die."
"You still can't call me 'Mom,' can you?" she said softly. "Remember when I asked you to?"
"I remember," I replied.
"You said you weren't used to it… that you'd say it someday."
Her heart rate dropped. I could feel it.
"You always tried so hard to hide your emotions…"
I had never cried. Not once.
But then, in that moment, I looked at her—my mother—and whispered:
"Mom…"
The tears came. I buried my face in her arms and wept. And in that moment, she smiled.
Then… she took her last breath.
That night, I truly understood sorrow. She had taught me everything—how to write, how to eat properly, how to feel joy even if I never showed it.
I tucked her into bed one final time.
"Thank you… for taking care of me," I whispered. "I hope you can have one last peaceful night."
I sat beside her and closed my eyes.
"Sorrow," I murmured. "What a horrible, confusing feeling. I don't ever want to feel it again…"
Such emptiness. Such guilt.
Such pain.
It was truly… unimaginable.