I look at myself in the mirror, and I wonder: who am I?
The glass is small, slightly warped at the edges, the kind of mirror that has listened to a hundred small confessions and reflected the same handful of features back for years. My face stares back at me in uneven light — a round child's face framed by hair uncombed from the day's play, eyes far older than the rest, and a shadow that seems to live permanently under my chin. I study those eyes as if they might hand me an answer. They do not.
I search for who I am, but without really wanting to.
There's a strange softness to the question because asking it feels both like an excavation and a threat. My fingertips trace the cold edge of the frame; for a second the room spins with the memory of things I don't yet know how to name. The search is there — a small, stubborn probing — yet a part of me resists, as if identity were a wound better left untouched.
It's depressing, isn't it? Maybe I think about it too much, maybe I dream about it too much.
The ceiling above is patterned with the pale stains of years of small leaks; sunlight slips between the cracks of the shutters and throws lines across the floor. I imagine those lines are paths I might take someday, paths that split and cross in ways my four-year-old mind cannot yet follow. The thought pinches. I blink it away.
And yet, it's all in vain.
Whatever meaning I chase seems to gather itself into the same small, stubborn knot. I have felt that knot tug my chest in the quiet hours before sleep, and sometimes during the day, when a bird's cry drops too sharply and everything goes still.
I feel like I'm lost in a cruel world, where the weak are oppressed and the strong roll in fortune.
Outside, beyond the thin wall of our home, the city moves with indifferent rhythm: carts creak, vendors shout names of spices, and a distant bell tolls for reasons I do not yet understand. In a place like this, hunger and luck are strangers who meet suddenly and without warning. I have seen alleyways where the small are shoved aside; I have seen men with coin spill from heavy pockets laugh like kings. Those images linger like soot.
But wouldn't the world be better without the strong? Would the weak be happier? Or does there need to be a balance between the two?
These are large ideas for a small head. I play them over like pebbles in my palm. The wind pushes through the shutters and for a moment the dust in the air forms a small constellation. Maybe there is a balance. Maybe there is not. The questions roll into each other like clouds, and I cannot see which is lightning and which is rain.
I'm weak, a weakling, an oppressed person. But I don't want to be.
I know the weight of smallness — the way other children grab toys and leave me watching; the way words can land like stones. That knowledge stirs a quiet ember inside me, something that will not be soothed by the comfort of excuses.
I want to prove myself, prove that I'm more than that. I want to use my strength, my willpower, to change things.
I press my palm to the glass as if proving I exist will somehow force the world to acknowledge me. My breath fogs the surface briefly; when it clears, the eyes looking back are more alert. There's a promise there, half-formed, fierce enough to make my small fists clench.
Suddenly, I hear a voice behind me.
"Nathaniel! Hey Nathaniel!"
The voice is warm and familiar, a low rumble wrapped in chuckles. It pulls me from my inward orbit like a hand on a rope. I turn, and the whole room seems to rearrange itself around that sound.
I turn around, and I see Eddy, my adoptive father. He's looking at me with a smile, but I sense that there's something more behind his eyes.
Eddy is broad-shouldered, with arms shaped by work and a face scored by laughter lines. He leans in the doorway as if the room itself were his. The smile is easy, practiced; yet his eyes carry a steadier light, the kind people keep for the children they really mean to protect.
"Ah, yeah? I was lost in my thoughts...", I say.
My voice sounds small in the room, but not frightened. Eddy's presence is a warm counterpoint to the chill that sometimes settles over me.
"I noticed," Eddy replies. "You're really too evasive for a 4-year-old kid."
He crosses the floor with soft steps and sits at the edge of the bed. The bed smells faintly of straw and soap, and a battered blanket hangs over the foot like a shield. I feel a twinge of anger, but I hold it back. Anger is sharp and quick; Eddy's laughter softens it almost at once.
"I was just thinking about how cruel the world is...", I say.
The words surprise me as they leave my mouth; they sound older than I feel. Eddy's expression shifts, an actor finding a new cue.
Eddy looks at me with a serious expression. "Kid, you're only 4 years old, and you're already thinking about how to change the world? You didn't drink too much milk when you were little, did you?"
His attempt at teasing lifts some of the heaviness. I want to answer with something bitter, but the humor makes room for something else — the knowledge that Eddy watches me for signs and is choosing, perhaps, to believe.
I feel a twinge of shame, but I hide it.
"No, dad," I say. "I just want to be strong, like you."
Eddy looks at me with a surprised expression, then he smiles. "Okay, kid. We'll work together to make you strong. But for now, let's go eat, it's getting late," Eddy says with a smile. "I think tonight's training was beneficial. I can already sense a bit of aura emanating from your body, which proves that you've reached your limits and are ready to evolve. You've become stronger."
His words hang in the air like something impossible made ordinary. Aura. Evolve. Those are big words that feel like tools, like keys. My heartbeat picks up — a quick, childish drum that seems to echo in my ears. I look down at my small hands, imagining them full of power.
"Really? How do you know all this?" I ask.
My curiosity is sudden and sharp; it pulls me forward. Eddy chuckles, the sound easy as creekwater.
"Tomorrow, I'll explain the basics to you," Eddy says. "I'll tell you everything you need to know about our world, Xenos, magic... everything that will help you on your quest."
"But I'm only 4 years old," I object. "And what if it's too complicated?"
I feel that mixture of eagerness and fear — an appetite to learn and an honest doubt that I can hold such weight.
"At 4 years old, you're ready to learn," Eddy replies. "The academy is about to open, and you'll need to know all this to be the best in class and on missions."
The academy. The word is bright with promise. I picture long halls, shelves taller than houses, teachers who smell of ink and thunder. A place where small boys might find their edges.
"Okay, I'm looking forward to tomorrow," I say with a smile.
"Good, let's go eat then, it's getting cold," Eddy says with a laugh.
The two of us head back to our house to eat. The path is familiar: a narrow lane flanked by stacked crates and drying cloths, the scent of stew weaving from a dozen kitchens. Eddy hums a little tune under his breath, and for a moment the world shrinks to the warmth of his shoulder.
Meanwhile, in an unknown dimension...
Space folds strangely here, like paper creased into impossible shapes. The room smells of ozone and something older, metallic and sweet. Figures sit around a table that does not belong to any place I have seen.
"I think the child is old enough now," one of the participants says.
The voices are layered and unfamiliar, each one holding a different chord. The speaker's tone is measured, patient; his hands — if hands can be imagined here — form a slow, deliberate rhythm.
"He's only 4 years old," another participant objects. "If you ask me, I'd rather wait another 10 years."
Their debate feels clinical, a weighing of possibilities on scales that have no mercy. I can sense impatience like a low current under the words.
"No, a child has a better chance of integrating into our group than an adolescent in the midst of puberty," a third participant replies. "Personally, I'm also in favor of adding him now."
The arguments split like rivers, each one trying to persuade. There is practicality in their voices, and a strange tenderness tangled with strategy.
"No!" Phantasm exclaims.
The suddenness of the cry is like a shutter snapping. A glacial aura erupts, freezing the air and releasing an intense feeling of cold. The room — if room is the right word here — fills with a crystalline sound as if water has turned to glass.
Phantasm kneels down, defeated.
"Hey, calm down," Luminas says with a laugh. "I was just joking!"
Luminas's laugh is thin and bright; it seems designed to cut through tension. In the corner, Requielm — the one who had started the discussion — chuckles quietly, as if enjoying a private amusement.
Suddenly, time seems to freeze, and space loses all meaning. A voice resonates.
"Stop all this noise immediately!"
Silence folds inward like a lid closing. The three participants reply in unison, voices small and deferential.
"Please forgive us, your Lordship," the three participants reply in unison, kneeling down.
The word "Lordship" falls like thunder. It carries an authority that rearranges the facets of the room.
Lord adds, "We'll wait until he becomes a bit stronger and releases his divine energy. We don't have time to teach him how to manipulate his cosmic and divine energy. He'll have to learn the basics in what humans call schools. From here, I've heard their conversations, he'll soon be going to that wretched place. Once he's acquired certain skills, we'll take action!"
"Yes, understood, my Lord," the three participants reply.
The decision ripples outward, a plan set in motion beyond my understanding. I feel nothing where I sit; I cannot know of their designs. All the same, something moves in the distance — a tightness like a string being plucked.
Meanwhile, Nathaniel, who is eating quietly, feels like he's being watched and turns around.
"What's wrong?" Eddy asks.
"Nothing, it's just a weird feeling, like someone's watching me," Nathaniel replies.
The words spill without explanation. I glance at the window; the street beyond glows dusky in late light. For a child so small, the sense is precise — a prickle at the nape, a direction that does not resolve into sight.
"It's nothing, eat, it's getting cold," Eddy says with a laugh.
This kid has exceptional senses... even I only sensed a faint sign, a slight discomfort without really grasping the direction... but he directly targeted a direction... I need to train him... he might become who knows... the Deathburst, savior of our universe.