The spark haunted Ethan's thoughts all night. He barely slept in the ruined house, turning on the hard wooden floor with the faint glow of moonlight filtering through the broken shutters. Every time he shut his eyes, he saw it again—the faint blue-white flicker that had leapt from his fingertip to the dry splinter of wood. It had lasted only a heartbeat, but it was real. He hadn't imagined it.
And that was exactly what terrified him.
Magic. That word belonged to fiction, to the novels he used to read on the bus ride home, to the games he'd sunk weekends into. Not to reality. But here…here in this silent, abandoned village swallowed by vines and time, it had happened.
When dawn came, Ethan sat outside the ruined house, elbows on his knees, staring at his hands. They looked ordinary. No glowing lines, no heat, no mark that anything had changed. Just hands that had typed numbers into spreadsheets hours before he was pulled into this nightmare world.
He flexed his fingers. If that really was magic, what now?
The reckless part of him wanted to try again immediately. If he could master this, maybe survival would be easier—fire for warmth, light in the dark, maybe even protection against whatever else lurked in this world. But the cautious, rational side of him screamed louder: You don't know what you're doing. For all you know, that spark could have burned down the house around you. Or worse.
He thought back to the earth-shaking creature he'd seen before. That wasn't some parlor trick—it had reshaped the ground itself with frightening ease. If everything alive here could use magic, then experimenting without knowledge was like a child playing with gasoline and matches.
Still, curiosity itched at him. He wanted to understand.
So he made rules for himself.
Rule one: Never try magic near anything flammable.
Rule two: Only test in the open, away from buildings or the well.
Rule three: Stop immediately if it felt wrong, painful, or overwhelming.
With those rules in mind, he carried a small stick out beyond the village wall, into a patch of overgrown field. The morning air was cool, the grass wet with dew, and every step stirred the scent of damp earth.
He crouched down, stick in hand, and stared at it for a long moment. His chest tightened. What if I can't do it again? What if it was just some random accident?
His heart pounded as he focused. He pictured the spark, the way it had leapt from him. He tried to recall the strange, buzzing tension he'd felt in his fingertips just before it happened. He concentrated, his breath shallow.
Nothing.
He frowned, shifted his grip, and tried again.
Minutes passed. The dew on the grass began to evaporate under the rising sun. Still nothing.
Frustration built in his chest. "Come on," he muttered under his breath. "If it worked once—"
And then, a faint pop. A spark the size of a pinhead snapped at his fingertip, vanishing as quickly as it came. Ethan flinched back, dropping the stick like it was red hot.
His pulse hammered. His skin prickled with goosebumps. It had worked again—proof it wasn't a fluke.
But just as quickly, dread filled him. His finger tingled faintly, almost numb. What if this did damage he couldn't see? What if his hands gave out, or worse, his heart stopped from whatever this "energy" was?
Ethan shook out his hand nervously, breathing hard. He crouched there for a long time, the broken stick at his feet, while his thoughts raced.
This is real. But it's not safe. Not until I understand it better.
With that, he forced himself to stop. He picked up the stick, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the bushes. The temptation to keep testing gnawed at him, but he knew himself too well. If he let excitement override caution, he'd make mistakes. Mistakes in this world could kill him.
So he walked back into the ruined village, determined to shift his focus. Food, water, shelter—those still mattered more than anything. If magic could help later, then fine. But for now, it was a tool too sharp and unfamiliar to wield.
---
The rest of the day, Ethan busied himself with practical work to distract his mind. He checked the leather bag he had found, rearranged his supplies neatly: the half-empty water bottle, the lighter, the notebook and pen, the last few scraps of food. He forced himself to eat slowly, chewing each bite like it mattered—because it did. Every calorie could mean another hour of strength.
He also took the time to explore more of the village in daylight. The collapsed roofs and vine-covered walls told a story he couldn't yet piece together. Whoever had lived here must have abandoned it long ago. He found broken tools, shattered pottery, and strange marks carved into some of the stones. They looked like writing, but the script was alien, looping and curling in ways he couldn't even begin to decode.
At one point, he stood in front of a doorway with those carvings above it, tracing the grooves with his fingers. "Did you people know magic too?" he whispered to the empty house. "Or is that why you're gone?"
The silence offered no answers.