The rain had started the moment we left the clinic.
Heavy, cold sheets of it fell from the clouds, drenching the streets of Seoul. The sky crackled with lightning, a distant thunder rolling like the ache in our hearts. I held the umbrella tightly over Min-Seo's head, though it did little to hide the sadness in her eyes.
"It's okay," I said, gently, for the fifth time that afternoon.
"It's not," she whispered, clutching the folder of test results to her chest. "They said there's no chance. Not even with treatment."
I wanted to say something. Anything. But I didn't. We walked the rest of the way in silence, our footsteps splashing in puddles.
As we cut through the park — a shortcut we rarely took — the storm intensified. The wind howled, shaking the trees. And then, faintly, we heard it.
A cry.
Both of us stopped.
Another cry — clearer this time, desperate and small.
I tightened my grip on Min-Seo's arm. "Stay behind me."
She nodded, her heart pounding. In this world, where mana existed — even in its weakest form — there were stories of shapeshifters, beasts, and illusion casters. You couldn't be too careful.
We followed the sound through the trees.
And there, beneath a blooming cherry blossom tree — the only one in the park to still hold its petals despite the storm — was a child.
A baby.
Soaked, glowing faintly, swaddled in a dark cloth, a strange necklace dangling around his neck. The ground around him was scorched, steam rising as if lightning had struck.
Min-Seo dropped to her knees, instincts overtaking fear. She wrapped the baby in her coat and held him close.
His skin was warm. Too warm. A strange symbol glowed on his left arm.
The necklace shimmered with a soft, pulsing glow — a spiraling infinity symbol, forged from a strange silvery metal, almost mythril-like, with hints of crystallite embedded in its curves. Etched into the back, though we wouldn't discover it until much later, were the words: In the silence, may you find your voice.
I called emergency services, searched the area, asked everyone in the neighborhood. No one knew anything. No one had seen anyone. No missing child report matched.
Eventually, the authorities gave up.
The boy had no name.
So we named him Min-Jun, after the spring rain.
And raised him as our own.
Min-Jun's childhood wasn't easy.
Not because he was unloved — we adored him, cherished him as a miracle. But because the world saw what we could not hide.
His eyes sometimes glowed in the dark.
Electronic toys short-circuited when he touched them.
Once, during a tantrum, the windows in our apartment shattered outward — all at once.
Neighbors whispered. Kids at daycare avoided him. Teachers didn't know what to make of him.
He was quiet. Unnaturally quiet. And though he didn't understand why, we could see he knew he was different.
By the time he reached grade school, the whispers became isolation.
Freak. Cursed.
"Mana mutation," some said. "Demonic inheritance," said others.
But Min-Jun never lashed out. Never yelled. Never cried where anyone could hear.
Instead, he watched. Listened. And controlled himself.
Everyone in this world had mana to some degree — some more, some less. It was a natural force, tied to the elements. And those who could wield it manifested a glowing symbol somewhere on their body. The larger the symbol, the stronger one's affinity to mana. And the symbol itself determined your elemental alignment — flame for fire-wielders, droplets or waves for water-bearers, leaves or vines for those attuned to nature.
Min-Jun's mark — a glowing, shifting symbol that resembled a swirling vortex — pulsed whenever he lost control of his emotions. Unlike others, it never faded entirely, and no one could identify the element it belonged to.
We shielded him as best we could. I taught him logic puzzles and spatial design, hoping to spark something normal. Min-Seo taught him how to cook, clean, fold laundry, and smile even when it hurt.
Some days, I would take him on long walks, through empty construction zones, pointing out beams and angles, teaching him how buildings stood firm despite the wind. "It's all about structure, Min-Jun," I'd say. "Even when the world's chaotic."
Other days, Min-Seo would pull him into the kitchen and teach him how to mix sauces and fold dumplings. They would dance to old songs on the radio, and for a few moments, laughter filled our apartment.
But there were darker days too. Like the time Min-Jun accidentally melted the living room TV after waking from a nightmare. Or when a teacher requested he be transferred to a different school due to 'disturbances.'
On those nights, Min-Seo would sit at the edge of his bed, stroking his hair until he fell asleep. I would tighten the locks on the door, wondering if the world outside would ever understand our son.
Still, we never stopped loving him.
Even when scared. Even when uncertain.
We chose him.
But our love would be tested in ways we never imagined.
It was a Tuesday morning when everything changed.
Min-Jun was three years old, barely able to reach the kitchen counter even standing on his tiptoes. Min-Seo was preparing breakfast, humming softly as she sliced vegetables for soup. Our apartment was filled with the warm scent of rice cooking and the gentle sounds of a family starting their day.
I had already left for work, kissing them both goodbye with promises to bring home ice cream.
Min-Seo told me later what happened next.
Min-Jun sat at our small table, coloring in a book with crayons that kept breaking in his grip. His symbol — that swirling vortex on his left arm — pulsed faintly, responding to his frustration.
"Eomma," he called, holding up a broken red crayon.
"Just a moment, sweetheart," she replied, not turning from the cutting board.
But Min-Jun's patience, like most three-year-olds, was limited. He climbed down from his chair and toddled toward the kitchen, drawn by the rhythmic sound of chopping.
"Eomma, look!" He tugged at her apron.
"Min-Jun, stay back from the—"
The knife slipped.
Not from her hand, but from reality itself. One moment it was solid steel in her grip, the next it was glowing white-hot, the metal beginning to warp and bend.
Min-Seo gasped, dropping it instinctively. But instead of clattering to the floor, the knife hung suspended in the air, rotating slowly, its blade now molten and dripping.
Min-Jun's eyes were wide, glowing with that same white light. His symbol blazed on his arm like a brand.
"Min-Jun, no—"
The knife shot forward.
Time seemed to slow. Min-Seo saw her death in that molten blade, saw our son's face twisted with power he couldn't understand or control. She threw herself sideways, the superheated metal missing her throat by inches, embedding itself in the wall behind her with a hiss of vaporizing plaster.
The smell of burned hair filled the air. A thin line of blood appeared on Min-Seo's neck where the heat had grazed her.
Min-Jun blinked, and the light faded from his eyes. He looked at his mother — at the blood, at the smoking hole in the wall, at her terrified expression — and began to cry.
Not the wail of a normal child, but something deeper. Something that made the windows rattle and the lights flicker.
Min-Seo scooped him up despite her shaking hands, despite the fear that still coursed through her veins. "It's okay," she whispered, though her voice cracked. "It's okay, my baby. It's okay."
But it wasn't okay.
And we both knew it.
I came home to find my wife sitting in the living room, Min-Jun asleep in her arms, a bandage on her neck.
"What happened?" I asked, though part of me already knew.
Min-Seo told me everything. The knife. The light. The moment she thought she would die.
We sat in silence for a long time, watching our son sleep peacefully, as if he hadn't nearly killed his mother hours before.
"We need help," I finally said.
"From who? The doctors think he's just a late bloomer with mana. The government would take him away if they knew what he could really do."
"Then we find someone else. Someone who understands... this."
We tried everything. Consulted mana specialists who had no answers. Visited temples where monks spoke of balance and control but offered no solutions. Searched online forums where parents of mana-gifted children shared advice that didn't apply to our situation.
Nothing worked.
Min-Jun's episodes became more frequent. More dangerous. A toy that exploded when he touched it. A window that shattered when he laughed too hard. Electronics that died in his presence.
We began to live in constant fear. Not of our son, but for him. For what the world would do if it discovered what he truly was.
The old man appeared on a Thursday.
Min-Seo was hanging laundry on our small balcony when she heard the knock. Soft, polite, but somehow urgent.
She opened the door to find a stranger — elderly, with weathered skin and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of years. He wore simple clothes, the kind a hermit might wear, and carried a small cloth bag.
"Mrs. Lee," he said, though she had never given him her name. "I believe I can help your son."
"I'm sorry, but—"
"The knife incident was three weeks ago," he continued calmly. "Yesterday, he made the bathroom mirror crack just by looking at it. This morning, he nearly set his breakfast on fire with his bare hands."
Min-Seo's blood ran cold. "Who are you?"
"Someone who understands what your boy is going through. May I come in?"
Every instinct told her to slam the door. But desperation made her step aside.
The old man entered and immediately looked toward the bedroom where Min-Jun was napping. "He's stronger than I expected," he murmured. "The suppression won't hold much longer."
"Suppression?"
"His body is trying to contain power it wasn't meant to hold. Not yet. Not at this age." He turned to her with kind but serious eyes. "Without help, the next episode won't be a near miss."
As if summoned by his words, a crash came from the bedroom. They rushed in to find Min-Jun sitting up in bed, tears streaming down his face, surrounded by the smoking remains of his wooden toys.
The old man knelt beside the bed, unafraid of the heat radiating from the child. "Hello, little one."
Min-Jun looked at him with those too-bright eyes and, for the first time in weeks, seemed calm.
"I have something that might help," the old man said, reaching into his bag.
When I came home that evening, I found my wife in the kitchen with a stranger and our son wearing a new bracelet.
"This is..." Min-Seo began, then realized she didn't know the man's name.
"Master Kim," the old man supplied with a slight bow. "I apologize for the intrusion."
My eyes immediately went to Min-Jun, who was sitting quietly at the table, coloring with crayons that weren't breaking in his grip. The oppressive heat that had filled our apartment for weeks was gone.
"What did you do?" I asked, my gaze drawn to the strange device on our son's wrist.
The bracelet was unlike anything I had ever seen. It appeared to be forged from a dark, almost black metal that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Thin veins of deep blue ran through the surface like captured lightning, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic glow that matched Min-Jun's heartbeat. The metal felt warm to the touch but not uncomfortably so, and it seemed to hum with barely contained energy.
Most striking were the intricate symbols etched along its circumference — not Korean, not any language I recognized. They shifted and moved when I wasn't looking directly at them, like words written in flowing water. The bracelet had no visible clasp or seam; it appeared to be a single, seamless band that had somehow been placed around Min-Jun's wrist.
"It's a focusing device," Master Kim explained, noticing my fascination. "Your son's mana levels are... unusual. Dangerously high for someone his age. This will help regulate the flow, prevent the dangerous surges."
"And the cost?"
"There is no cost. Consider it a gift from someone who has seen what uncontrolled power can do to a family."
I studied the old man's weathered face, searching for deception. "Why help us?"
"Because every child deserves a chance to grow up safely. Your son is special, Mr. Lee. This bracelet will give him the time he needs to learn control."
"What kind of focusing device?" Min-Seo asked, unable to take her eyes off the pulsing blue veins in the metal. "We've never seen anything like it."
Master Kim's expression grew carefully neutral. "It's... foreign technology. From researchers who specialize in high-level mana regulation. The bracelet draws excess mana from his system continuously, preventing the dangerous buildups that cause his episodes."
"Is it safe?" Min-Seo's voice was barely a whisper.
"Safer than the alternative." The old man's voice was gentle but firm. "Without it, his next surge could level this building."
We looked at our son, who was now humming softly as he colored, the picture of a normal three-year-old. The bracelet's glow seemed to pulse in harmony with his breathing, and for the first time in weeks, his eyes held no trace of that terrifying light.
"There is one thing," Master Kim continued, his tone growing serious. "He should never remove it. Not until he's much older and has learned proper control. The bracelet has become attuned to his specific mana signature. Removing it suddenly could cause a dangerous rebound effect."
"How dangerous?" I asked, though I wasn't sure I wanted to know the answer.
"Let's just say it's better not to find out."
Min-Seo knelt beside our son, studying the bracelet more closely. The symbols seemed to respond to her presence, glowing slightly brighter. "Min-Jun, how do you feel?"
The boy looked up at her with clear, normal eyes — no glow, no otherworldly intensity. Just the innocent gaze of a child. "Good, Eomma. The angry feeling is gone."
She kissed his forehead, tears of relief threatening to fall. For the first time in months, our son felt like just that — our son. Not some dangerous force wearing our child's face.
"If anyone asks about the bracelet," Master Kim said as he prepared to leave, shouldering his simple cloth bag, "tell them it's a medical device. That Min-Jun has a rare condition where his mana levels are too low, and the bracelet prevents him from fainting. It's... not entirely untrue."
The irony wasn't lost on either of us — our son, who possessed more power than we could comprehend, would be seen by the world as powerless.
"Will we see you again?" Min-Seo asked, something in the old man's manner suggesting this wasn't a casual encounter.
Master Kim paused at the door, his hand on the frame. For just a moment, his carefully neutral expression slipped, and we saw something deeper in his eyes — grief, perhaps, or the weight of old promises.
"Perhaps," he said quietly. "When the time is right."
"How will we contact you if something goes wrong?"
"You won't need to. I'll know."
And then he was gone, leaving behind only the faint scent of mountain air and the sound of our son's peaceful laughter.
I locked the door behind him and turned to find Min-Seo still kneeling beside Min-Jun, watching the bracelet's gentle pulse with wonder and fear in equal measure.
"Do you think we can trust him?" she whispered.
I looked at our son — truly looked at him — and saw not the terrifying force that had nearly killed my wife, but a three-year-old boy coloring pictures of flowers and smiling at his parents.
"I think," I said slowly, "that we don't have a choice."
That night, for the first time in months, Min-Jun slept peacefully. No nightmares, no episodes, no dangerous surges of power that made the walls crack and the air shimmer with heat.
The bracelet pulsed gently on his wrist, its blue veins glowing in the darkness like a guardian's watchful eyes.
And in the mountains outside Seoul, an old hermit sat by a small fire, staring up at the stars and thinking of promises made to a dying friend, of a child who carried the weight of worlds in his blood, and of the long, careful path that lay ahead.
The first phase was complete.
Now came the hardest part — waiting.