The walk home was a masterclass in cognitive dissonance. Each shopfront, every hawker's stall, even the cracked paving stones under his worn sneakers, felt simultaneously familiar and profoundly, unsettlingly alien. The scent of roasted street food warred with a faint, almost metallic tang in the air he'd never noticed before – or perhaps, in his old world, it hadn't existed.
Did I actually transmigrate? The thought, a persistent, unwelcome guest, buzzed in his head. Or did I just nod off watching cartoons and this whole insane, vivid nightmare isn't over yet?
Driven by a desperate need for empirical evidence, Kyle pinched his arm. Hard.
"Ouch! Damn it!" The sharp sting was undeniable.
Right. So, not dreaming. The certainty, instead of bringing relief, only ratcheted up his anxiety. His heart began to hammer against his ribs with an insistent, panicked rhythm. It was an old, dreaded sensation, a phantom limb of stress from his previous life – that stomach-dropping fear of being back in school during summer vacation, homework glaringly unfinished, with the first day of class looming and the teacher, ruler in hand, about to conduct an inspection. Those who hadn't completed their assignments would be made a public example, facing the sting of wood on their palms and the burn of shame.
Kyle sucked in a ragged breath, the strange new-world air doing little to calm him, and broke into a run. What should have been a leisurely half-hour stroll, he devoured in a mere fifteen minutes, his lungs burning, a stitch stabbing at his side by the time he stumbled through his front door. He felt like he'd run a marathon, not just a few city blocks.
His mother, Sarah , a woman whose warmth usually filled their small apartment, was in the kitchen, the clatter of pans and the aroma of something savory promising dinner. His father, Simon , was sprawled on the sofa, engrossed in the flickering images on the television screen.
"Oh, Kyle's back," Simon remarked, turning his head, his expression neutral. "How was school today, son? Another day battling the fearsome quadratic equation?"
Kyle dumped his bag by the door, trying to sound nonchalant. "How else could it be? Same old, same old." A blatant lie, but what was he supposed to say? 'Pretty sure I've been yeeted into an alternate dimension, Dad, how was your Tuesday?'
Simon frowned, a familiar crease appearing between his brows. "You know, I just don't get it. Your old man isn't exactly a dimwit. How did your IQ end up… well, taking a scenic detour? Who on earth do you take after, boy?"
Before Kyle could even formulate a witty, if equally dishonest, retort, Sarah bustled out from the kitchen, a spatula in hand, her eyes narrowed. "Simon ! What exactly are you implying by that? Are you saying my IQ is subpar? And so what if his grades aren't topping the charts? As long as he awakens a decent ability tomorrow, he can still be someone! He can still make something of himself!"
Simon immediately raised his hands in a gesture of placation. "Honey, love, that's not what I meant at all. It's just… the probability of awakening a good ability, a truly useful one, is painfully low. Everyone gets an ability, sure, but getting one that counts? That's like winning the lottery. A child's abilities are mostly inherited, a genetic lottery based on their parents, and let's be honest, our own awakened powers are… modest, to put it kindly. Our son's probably won't be setting the world on fire, either." His voice grew serious, the earlier teasing tone gone. "In this day and age, things might look calm on the surface, protected by the city walls. But if you're not useful to society, if you can't contribute, you'll be the first one thrown to the wolves when disaster inevitably strikes. He needs to excel in something – either combat prowess or academic brilliance. That's the only way his future might be a bit brighter, a bit more secure."
The weight of his father's words settled heavily in the room, a stark reminder of the underlying tension that simmered beneath the veneer of normalcy in this strange new world.
At the dinner table, Sarah placed a steaming dish of red-braised pork in the center, its rich aroma a welcome distraction. "Here we are!" she announced with forced cheerfulness. "Your favorite. May your ability awakening tomorrow be as fiery and prosperous as this meal!"
Kyle managed a weak grin. "Well, Dad's power is basically a glorified cigarette lighter, so odds are I'll awaken some kind of fire-type too, huh?" he joked, hoping to lighten the mood.
"What are you talking about, 'a lighter'?" Simon retorted, indignation flaring. "Your old man possesses a perfectly respectable fire-type manifestation! It's… compact, yes, but efficient!"
"Alright then, Dad," Kyle teased, poking a piece of pork with his chopsticks. "Why don't you try to max out your 'compact and efficient' ability for us? Show us its full glory. Maybe you can re-braise this pork with your inner flame."
"Just eat your dinner!" Simon grumbled, though a reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Kyle attacked his food with gusto, grabbing a fluffy steamed bun and alternating bites of savory pork with mouthfuls of the soft bread. For a little while, lost in the simple pleasure of a familiar meal, he could almost forget the bewildering chaos of his reality.
After dinner, he retreated to the family's aging computer terminal. The screen flickered to life, and Kyle began to cram, not for any exam he recognized, but for his very survival in this world. He typed in search queries, devouring information about psionic abilities, the Aura Resurgence, and the history that Lynn Lin had so eloquently, and terrifyingly, outlined. He read until his eyes burned and the characters on the screen began to swim, only stumbling off to bed when the digital clock glowed with an obscenely late hour. Sleep, however, proved elusive. His mind, a relentless slideshow of dire wolves, spatial rifts, and the crushing weight of his parents' anxieties, refused to switch off. As a result, he tossed and turned, suffering a fitful night of insomnia that left him feeling groggy and unrefreshed when dawn finally broke. He woke up very late the next day.
During his frantic late-night research, Kyle learned that psionic abilities were generally divided into two main official categories, though a third, more colloquial and often disparaging, classification also circulated amongst the populace: the dreaded 'Lifestyle-type.'
It all boiled down to aptitude, the raw, inherent potential of one's awakened power.
He'd stumbled upon a forum post that had laid it out with brutal, sarcastic clarity:
"So, you awakened an ability? Congratulations! Now, let's see where you fit in the grand cosmic joke."
The post continued, "While others are out there burning heavens and boiling seas with their pyrokinesis, you, my friend, can barely fire up a boiler for the communal bathhouse. Bravo."
"While others are summoning tsunamis to drown entire invading beast hordes, your hydrokinesis is stuck at 'premium water dispenser' level. Hydration is important, I guess."
"While others use their wood-type abilities for sweeping, all-encompassing battlefield control, creating sentient forests of death, you're… well, you're using yours to coax slightly larger pumpkins out of your backyard patch. Organic is good, right?"
Abilities with such pitifully poor aptitude, those utterly incapable of serving any significant combat purpose or high-level utility, were unceremoniously dubbed 'Lifestyle-type.' To put it bluntly, as another commenter had pithily summarized: this was a world where there were no truly useless abilities, only profoundly useless aptitudes.
And the kicker? Although the spiritual aura had brought about an incredible evolution for humanity, granting them powers beyond their wildest dreams, the disasters it had concurrently unleashed were unparalleled in their horror.
One online article he'd found, buried deep in a discussion thread about the 'dark side of the Resurgence,' had painted a particularly chilling picture. It described a distant, unnamed island nation, located somewhere in the vast, newly expanded oceans. There, a unique type of spirit plant, a psychoactive flora with properties akin to an incredibly potent aphrodisiac, had taken root and proliferated. Anyone who consumed it – and it had apparently contaminated the local food and water supply – was overcome by their most primal, insatiable desires.
The article, written in stark, unembellished prose, claimed that this had led to the island's populace doing little else but procreating, day in and day out, in a mindless, unending cycle. The newly born were raised with minimal care, only to be systematically fed to monstrous beasts that roamed the island's interior once they reached a certain age – treated like livestock, like pigs reared in a human pen. Though their nation hadn't been outright destroyed by external forces, its people were condemned to an eternity of cruel, self-perpetuating torment, a living nightmare.
Reading the grim details of this online post, Kyle felt a cold dread seep into his bones. He couldn't help but absently click the icon to tip the author three units of "love-powered electricity" – the site's quirky virtual currency for appreciating content.
Well written, he thought, a shiver tracing its way down his spine despite the macabre subject matter. Terrifying, but well written.
The stark realities of this new world, with its incredible powers and equally incredible dangers, pressed in on him. Seeing all this, Kyle found himself, against all his fear and confusion, increasingly, desperately, looking forward to his own ability awakening the next day. The dread was still there, a cold knot in his stomach, but now it was intertwined with a fragile, flickering ember of hope.
What kind of ability will I awaken? The question echoed in his mind, no longer just a curious thought, but a prayer. Please, let it be something good. Please, let it be something useful.