Rain slithered down city windows, casting watery veins through neon and shadow. The world, Kellan Vey decided, always looked better when blurred.
He closed his umbrella with a snap, the spindles echoing hollow in the foyer's gloom. Water dribbled from his coat as he hung it up—rhythmic, almost soothing. Another ordinary Tuesday smudged with the same tired stains: commuters shoving past, news reports about Aspirants, laughter from lunch tables where he was never invited. At twenty-two, Kellan's existence felt like a long hallway with the lights out.
His phone buzzed—dull reminders: bills due, discount sushi, weather alerts. He thumbed it to silent.
The apartment was as quiet as ever, save for the slow drip of rain tapping off the grimy windowsill. In the kitchen, faded linoleum curled at the edges. An old oat container caught a faint drip under the sink. He ignored it.
Kellan exhaled, low and steady. He'd spent eight hours stocking boxes in a warehouse where no one noticed if he smiled, frowned, or screamed. At lunch, people had talked about some local Aspirant—Kristen Níle, apparently hit floor thirty-two of the Midtown Spire and posted photos with a minor god. He didn't listen. He never did. Aspirants were everywhere. Faces shining on adverts, living gods moving through the city's veins. Untouchable. Unattainable. Not for people like him.
He closed the blinds, shutting out the neon. He flexed his shoulder, feeling each stiff muscle knot. That mundane ache, the one ordinary men carried from birth to grave.
Upstairs, his shoes barely made a sound on the sagging steps. The house didn't creak for him much anymore—like it knew he was harmless.
Waiting at the door, as he always was, sat Bastion. The cat.
"Hey, furhead," Kellan murmured. No emotion, just habit. The cat—a sleek, marble-grey thing with perpetually annoyed eyes—wound around his ankles, tail flicking, mouth opening in amicable complaint.
Food. Right. That was why he bought Bastion. To have something else ask for his attention, even if it was only hunger.
He dumped a scoop into the cat's dish. Bastion paused, sniffing. Kellan stared at the back of the cat's head, eyes blank.
"You know, sometimes I envy you," he said quietly. "All you care about is your next meal."
The cat's ear twitched—then suddenly pinned back, hackles rising. Bastion let out a sharp, low growl, eyes wide and fixated on the hallway behind him.
Kellan blinked. "What's your—"
The air thrummed. Light bent, silent yet screaming. Something floated in the center of his living room—sleek and ethereal, flickering on the edge of visibility, like a notification projected into reality itself.
\[SYSTEM NOTICE\]
Kellan Vey
You have been chosen to enter the Ever Spires.
Will you Accept Entry?
[Y/N]
He recoiled. His hand shot out, hitting the wall. Bastion darted for the corner, tail fluffed to cartoonish proportions.
"No," Kellan whispered, pulse thudding painfully. "No. This is—this isn't real." He stared hard. His brain flashed with news stories: hackers, AR pranks, viral deepfakes. But none of those made the air feel heavy, none made his skin crawl or his vision shimmer at the edges.
The message persisted, cold and impossibly waiting.
Was this a joke? He'd never been chosen. Kids tested on their fifth birthday—he remembered the day, the clinic, the nurse gently explaining he wasn't marked. His mother had hugged him; his father had left the next year.
Another flash.
\[SYSTEM NOTICE\]
Would you like to accept entry to the Ever Spires?
[Y/N]
It pulsed now, the letters throwing ghost-shadows over the walls. Kellan's tongue felt thick. He stepped slowly backwards, the cat hissing behind the couch. Calm. He needed to stay calm. This had to be a trick. He worked all day, barely ate, barely slept… hallucinations? Not even Aspirants got asked twice. You were chosen, or you weren't. No one got a redo.
But… what did it matter? What would he lose?
He thought of Mondays bleeding into Fridays. Of Aspirants parading on billboards. Of how each day ends with the same quiet, the same endless emptiness. No power. No purpose. Not even fear, really. Just… nothing.
He drew a slow, shuddering breath.
"Fine," he said aloud, as if to the universe itself, and reached out. The floating Yes pulsed. He touched it, fingertip trembling—and the world exploded into white.
Light consumed him, searing and cold and absolute. There was no pain—just erasure. For a heartbeat, he felt himself dissolve: worries, boredom, hunger, need—all stripped like old paint.
Then, just as suddenly, he stood.
Or floated. There were no walls anymore.
A vast, bleached space expanded around him, infinite and silent. In front of him, nine spheres hovered in a gentle arc. Each orb was dull grey at its core, but color simmered beneath: reds swirling with anger, blues with clarity, golds with something almost holy. Words flickered under each, unreadable, replaced by—
CHOOSE AN AWAKENING.
60 Seconds Remaining.
A digital clock appeared. 0:59. 0:58.
Kellan's heart pounded—only for a new screen to ripple into existence.
\[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...\]
\[HOST HAS BEEN GRANTED: THE IDEA FORGE SYSTEM\]
\[WELCOME, KELLAN VEY. SYSTEM SYNCHRONIZING.\]
The air vibrated with meaning. This was no ordinary power.
This was something the world had never seen.l