Inthe year 2012, the world held its breath. Countless gurus and doomsday prophets had
warned us, and Hollywood had even made a movie about it: (2012). The date was circled on
every calendar, whispered on every street corner. But when the day arrived, the world did not
end. Instead, from that moment on, the Earth was fundamentally changed. A phenomenon we
came to call the Convergence swept across the globe, bestowing supernatural gifts upon every
human being. Everyone was given a power everyone except me—some minor, others godlike.
It was a day of miracles, but it was also the day chaos was born. And now, 18 years later, we
are still living in its shadow.
The rhythmic clang of the morning train was my alarm clock, a more reliable sound than the
glowing orbs some of my neighbors used. I looked out the window of my cramped
apartment, and the world was already humming with powers. On the street below, a
delivery guy with enhanced vision, a D-Tier ability, sped past, weaving through the chaos
like a ghost. Just another Tuesday in a world that had moved on without me.
My parents, the so-called "heroes,
" were the last people I wanted to think about, but their
faces were plastered on every news feed and billboard. S-Tier heroes, the nation's
guardians. They were fighting some colossal beast on a news screen in the convenience
store across the street. My father, a Power-Type S-Tier, a man who could hit with the force
of a meteor and take a building collapsing on him without a scratch, was punching the
beast's armor into dust. My mother, with her S-Tier Reality Manipulation, was bending the
space around the creature to deflect its attacks, a master of defense.
They were a perfect team. The best of the best. And me? I was the secret they couldn't afford
to have.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips. I reached for the cup of water on my desk and a fleeting,
desperate thought crossed my mind. What if I tried? I closed my eyes, picturing the cup,
willing it to float. Just a little. A single millimeter. Nothing. The cup sat there, mocking my
silent desperation. Just like it always had.
I was born a freak in a family of gods. A ghost in a world of vibrant, powerful people. My
parents, the nation's darlings, couldn't risk their perfect image with a son who was a one-ina-billion anomaly. They had told the world I died in the womb during one of my mother's
missions. A heavy blow, a tragic loss. The perfect lie. It was easier to mourn a dead son than
to explain a powerless one.
My grandmother's house was a world away from the city's neon glow. The air smelled of old
paper and the calming scent of green tea. When I walked in, she was sitting at a low table,
arranging flowers. She looked up and her face immediately softened. "Neicul,
" she said, her voice a warm blanket. "You look tired, my boy. Did you sleep well?" "I'm
fine, Grandma,
" I mumbled, dropping my backpack by the door. "Just the usual." She placed the
flowers down and gave me a knowing look. "Ah, the 'usual.' You mean being
the only person in the world who doesn't have to worry about accidentally setting
something on fire?" she said with a gentle laugh, pointing to a small burn mark on the
wooden floor. She had a low-level pyrokinesis, a C-Tier ability, that she only ever used to
heat up her tea. "You know, your parents would say that's a gift."
I scoffed. "My parents would say anything to make themselves feel better about having a son
who's a blank space. A freak."
She paused and looked at me, her gaze steady and full of love. "They're wrong, Neicul. You
are not a blank space. They were what the Convergence made them. They were given
powers and a purpose. But you, my dear boy, were given a choice. You are what you make
yourself. And that, I've always believed, is the greatest power of all."
I didn't say anything. I just stared at the worn-out floorboards. I knew she was just trying to
make me feel better, but her words always hit me differently. She was the only one who
didn't look at me with pity or disappointment. She saw me for who I was, not for what I
wasn't. All I wanted was to protect her, to repay her for loving me when my own parents
couldn't.
"Now,
" she said, patting the floor next to her. "Come sit. I made some rice balls. You must be
hungry."
Later that night, back in my room, I was immersed in the glow of my old computer monitor.
A half-eaten box of pocky sticks lay beside my keyboard as I played a new fantasy RPG. My
school life was a joke; my classmates, all with their flashy powers, saw me as an outcast, a
loser. My only real world was in anime and video games, where I could be the hero, where I
mattered. I'd rather be a nobody in a fantasy world than a freak in this one. A news alert
popped up on my screen, interrupting my game. The words were grim:
"THE
DEITY STRIKES AGAIN." I minimized my game window.
The broadcast showed a crime scene. A body, dismembered and pinned to a wall. The
camera zoomed in on a small, folded piece of paper left at the scene. The news anchor's
voice was low and serious, reading the verse left behind. "And the Lord said,
'For the wages
of sin is death...'"
This wasn't a hero's job. This was a low-level police matter. A serial killer. The heroes, who
dealt with national threats and flashy disasters, wanted nothing to do with it. Catching a
serial killer wouldn't help them climb the hero rankings. It wouldn't get them
coverage they craved. They left these jobs to the cops. Most police officers had some kind of power, but they were weak, E or D-Tier abilities at best.
Anyone with a truly useful power went to a hero academy, chasing fame and glory. So the
cops were mostly useless.
I leaned back in my chair, my stomach churning. Another life gone. Another victim for "The
Deity,
" who claimed to be a god and left biblical verses at every scene. The news anchor
went on to report that the heroes were focused on a potential S-Tier threat in the
neighboring prefecture. My father, the Power-Type, was even doing a live interview, talking
about his strategy for the coming conflict.
I looked at the image of the pinned body on my screen and then at the live interview of my
father smiling, waving to the camera. Two different worlds, but the same apathetic system.
The powerless were dying, and the powerful didn't care.
I closed my laptop and just sat there in the dark. The noise from the city outside was a
constant reminder of a world that didn't want me. A world that was perfectly okay with a
powerless boy being dead, and a serial killer being free, as long as the heroes were climbing
the hero rankings.