In a crumbling orphanage on the outskirts of Altera, a cluster of small children huddle around one of their own. Their eyes are sunken, their bodies frail from hunger; yet the smiles on their faces cling like candlelight: small, flickering, and really stubborn.
"Show us again, Loki!"
One of the smaller children leans into the boy in the middle with stars in her eyes. At the heart of their circle is Loki as he waves his hands again to flicker pure sparks of shifting hues of mana. The children scream in delight as they dance around like fireflies, a blur of laughter and little feet running around the flickering mana.
One of the larger children grins as he pats Loki on the shoulder, as he huffs, "Look at you, Loki, not even old enough to be in the system yet here you are playing with one of the Three Core Energies like a toy."
The System
It's what brings the worlds together in the first place.
Yet the system is merely a tool. What really matters to Altera's inhabitants are the energies; specifically, the ones tethered to the three main realms.
When a child turns seven, the System reveals itself, unveiling their latent potential. A blessing, they call it. But to the children, it is just another gate they haven't passed through.
The Three Core Energies
Mana: Oldest. Wildest. It flows through nature and spellcraft, born of imagination or precision. It belongs to Altera.
Qi: The energy of balance. Cultivated through harmony and will. Without a spiritual root, it is nothing. But with it? Mountains fall. Skies bend.
Eon Energy: Rarest. Most dangerous. It shapes reality itself. The children don't know much—only that it is forbidden.
Loki hears the stories. The System, the energies, the way the world bends around power. But none of that matters when your friends are starving. Nevertheless, it hints at the boy's potential to make a mark on these realms. Even as he lies unclaimed by the system, he bends rules he shouldn't.
"Loki, can you get us something to eat? I'm hungry."
The same little girl tugs on Loki's arm, her voice barely a whisper. The light in her eyes has dimmed, shrivelling into hollow hunger.
He frowns. No matter how many scraps he works, it's never enough to feed the others. Not really. Not the way they deserve. The mana flickers a blood red hue before returning to its changing hues.
He gives them one last smile before slipping away to find food.
Loki wanders farther than usual. The village is restless. Food is scarce. He needs space, something to quiet the gnawing stress in his gut. Yet as he wanders farther out, he snaps away from the façade only to realise he's out of the village.
He finds it at the edge of the grove.
There, beneath a crooked tree that bleeds sap like tears, sits an old man wrapped in robes stitched with runes unlike anything he has seen. His eyes are closed, but he speaks as Loki approaches.
"You come seeking something beyond your power," the old man murmurs. "May this be the beginnings that haven't yet bled?"
Loki frowns. "I'm not here for riddles."
"No," the old man says, opening one pale eye. "You're here because the forest calls you. It always calls the ones who've lost something they haven't yet named."
Loki hesitates. "What's in the forest?"
The old man smiles, slow and cracked. "A choice. A fight. A hunger. And something that grows only where sorrow sleeps."
He reaches into his satchel and pulls out a brittle leaf—violet-veined, pulsing faintly. "This is Vireleaf. It heals. It remembers. It only grows where the moon has wept, and something has died without being mourned."
Loki stares at it. "Why are you showing me this?"
"Because you'll need it," the old man whispers. "And because the forest will not give it freely."
He leans closer, breath like frost. "There is a guardian. A silver wolf. Not born of flesh, but of broken Qi and a dark sorcery. If you face it, you will save your friends."
Loki's chest tightens. "I don't understand."
"You will," the old man says. "When the fire goes out. The leaves will dance. But maybe something darker will take hold."
And then he is gone.
No footsteps. No sound.
Just the brittle leaf, left behind on the stone.
He stares back at the village, his heart pounding. Deep down he hopes the man isn't lying.
"Maybe a little look wouldn't hurt," he murmurs to convince himself.
He trails further until the trees swallow the last of his footprints, unaware that the branches above him bend, the old, twisted whispers cling to the bark.
"Ah… how I adore the weeping for the forest's gifts," whispers something above stitched with rot and greed, and a familiar undertone as if the old man's words are more of a promise than a warning.