My grandmother used to tell me that history bleeds through the cracks of the present, and every time I pass the Monument of Seals in the heart of Neo-Valdris, I feel that blood on my fingertips.
Four thousand years ago—though the exact date shifts depending on which historian's databank you access—our world nearly drowned in shadow. The portal between realms didn't just break; it screamed as it died, a sound that supposedly echoed across dimensions and left every recording device of that era shattered beyond repair. What followed was the Age of Darkness, five centuries where humanity forgot what the sun looked like and children were born with eyes that had never seen natural light.
I've walked through the ruins of that time. Beneath our gleaming cities lie the bones of civilizations that withered in eternal twilight, their quantum reactors cold, their neural networks severed by demonic interference that turned our own technology against us. You can still find the scorch marks where energy weapons failed against creatures that fed on electromagnetic radiation, where our ancestors learned that sometimes the old ways—steel and flame and desperate courage—matter more than all our clever innovations.
Then came Zkyra. Not born in some pristine medical facility, but in the skeletal remains of what we now call the Dead Sectors. The archivists say that when he drew his first breath, every functioning satellite in orbit suddenly realigned toward his location. Coincidence, they claim, but I've seen the astronomical data. Stars don't lie, even when men do.
He wasn't alone in the end. Twelve others stood with him—warriors whose names are etched in both stone monuments and quantum storage drives. Among them walked Vex'thara, a demon whose betrayal of her own kind proves that evolution affects the soul as much as the flesh. Together, they forged thirteen seals that exist in dimensions our current physics barely acknowledge, barriers that hold even as our understanding of reality expands.
For his sacrifice, for binding his very essence into that final and strongest seal, Zkyra earned a title that transcends death: Sealbearer. Not just a name, but a responsibility passed down through the centuries via the Trials of Ascension.
Every four years, I watch the trials broadcast across every screen in the city. Every four years, warriors who've enhanced themselves with cybernetic implants and genetic modifications still kneel before ancient altars and swear oaths in languages that predate our current alphabet. The fusion of old and new, mythic and technological, never fails to send chills down my spine.
For the last twenty-four years, one name has dominated those trials: Iqbal. Five consecutive victories. The youngest champion in recorded history, winning his first title at fourteen with nothing but a neural-linked blade and reflexes that registered off every known scale. Now, at thirty-seven, he moves like liquid lightning wrapped in flesh, his victories so assured that betting pools have started wagering not on if he'll win, but by how much.
The next trials are only months away. I can feel the anticipation thrumming through the city's data streams, pulsing in the neural networks that connect us all. But there's something else in that digital whisper, something the algorithms can't quite categorize.
Fear, maybe. Or hope. Sometimes they feel identical.
Because rumor has it that the seals have been... fluctuating. And in a world where mythology and technology dance together in ways our ancestors couldn't imagine, fluctuating seals mean only one thing.
The old darkness is stirring, and it's learned to speak in our modern tongues.
"No way, they're going completely nuts. Do they want me to pretend that the seals laid down by the Twelve Pillars are going to fluctuate that easily? Nonsense." Uncle Harish shook his head as he handed me my groceries, the holographic news feed still flickering above his counter. "What do you think, Hector?"
"It's just one of those TRP-fetching stories," replied Big Bro Hector, adjusting the guardian trainee insignia on his jacket. His cybernetic arm gleamed under the store's artificial lighting as he reached for his protein supplements. "The media loves stirring panic about the seals every few months."
I stayed quiet, clutching my bag tighter. The conversation felt like watching a play where I knew all the lines but couldn't participate. I'm Vairagya—Vai to everyone who bothers remembering—and I'd moved to this district last year searching for better educational opportunities. What I found instead was a daily reminder of everything I couldn't be.
My body doesn't support neural bonding. It's a rare condition, but not unheard of—maybe one in ten thousand people are born with nervous systems that reject the synthetic-organic interface that makes modern enhancement possible. When I was a kid, I used to dream of standing among the guardians, protecting this world like the legends of old. I'd practice sword forms in my bedroom mirror, imagining myself moving with impossible speed and strength.
But reality is a cruel teacher. Doing guardian work on mana alone is impossible in this age. Even Iqbal—the greatest Sealbearer in generations—relies on cybernetics to enhance his already superhuman abilities. When even the strongest warrior alive needs technological augmentation, what hope did someone like me have?
I can't even register for guardian training programs. The neural compatibility test is mandatory, and I fail it every time. The scanners light up red, the technicians shake their heads sympathetically, and I walk away knowing that my childhood dreams will remain exactly that—dreams.
"Besides," Uncle Harish continued, wiping down his counter, "if the seals were really weakening, wouldn't we feel it? The air itself would taste different. My grandfather lived through the last minor breach in 2847, and he always said you could smell the otherworld bleeding through."
Hector nodded, his enhanced reflexes already tracking the next customer entering the store. "Exactly. Plus, Iqbal's there. As long as he holds the Sealbearer title, those barriers aren't going anywhere."
"Oh, and Vai," Hector turned to me as we prepared to leave, ""Hey, don't cook for me tonight, I've got late training."
"Okay," I replied, adjusting the grocery bag in my arms.
"Thanks for handling all the cooking and cleaning, by the way. You're a lifesaver." He patted my shoulder with his human hand—his cybernetic one was still too strong for casual contact.
After we left the store, I heard Uncle Harish talking to his next customer. "That Vai's a good kid, you know. Always polite, always helps out."
Hector's voice carried from just ahead of me. " Yeah, way too good for this place. Kid's got a guardian's heart, no doubt. But that compatibility mess… it's the only thing holding him back. Wish I could do something about it."
I pretended not to hear, but the words stuck to my ribs like honey.
Back at our small apartment, I found Phantom—Hector's sleek black cat—perched on the windowsill, watching the city's neon pulse through the glass. I pulled out a small container of the expensive protein treats Hector bought for her and shook a few into my palm.
"At least there's someone doesn't make me feel hopeless around here," I murmured as Phantom purred and rubbed against my leg, her whiskers tickling my fingers as she ate. Her warmth was comforting, a small anchor in a world where I often felt like I was floating without direction.
The communication device chimed, displaying my mother's familiar face on the holographic screen. Her smile was tired but genuine, the way it always was after long shifts at the medical facility.
"Vai, beta, how are you eating? You look thinner. Are you getting enough protein? And don't tell me you're living off those instant meal packets again."
"I'm fine, Mom. Hector's been sharing his guardian rations with me, and I've been cooking real meals." I held up one of the vegetables from today's grocery run as proof.
"Good, good. And your studies? The academy isn't giving you trouble about the... the compatibility issue, are they?"
"No trouble, Mom. They're actually pretty understanding about it." A small lie, but one that would let her sleep better.
"That's my brave boy. You know your father and I are so proud of you, right? Guardian or not, you're going to do amazing things."
"Yeah, by the way speaking of Dad, where is he? I haven't heard from him in weeks."
Her expression shifted slightly, the way it always did when she tried to shield me from worry. "Oh, he's dealing with some local gang troubles in the outer districts. Guardian duty, you know how it is. He'll be back soon, and I'll make sure he calls you the moment he's free."
Before I could ask more questions, she added quickly, "I have to go, beta. Another shift starting. Take care of yourself, and remember—we love you."
The call ended, leaving me alone with Phantom and the faint hum of the city pressing against the walls. I stood by the window, gazing out, scratching behind her ears as her purr settled into a steady rhythm. Conversations with my parents always ended like this—complete on the surface, unfinished underneath. Like we were all carefully stepping around something sharp.
Beyond the glass, the Monument of Seals burned with its eternal light. It rose above the city like a promise kept for others—a reminder of people who had known exactly what they were meant to be.
Soon I dumped the groceries onto the counter and went straight to my room.
I dropped the groceries on the counter and went to my room. Once inside, I knelt beside the bed and reached underneath, my fingers closing around familiar leather. The sheath slid free easily, like it remembered me.
The sword whispered when I drew it.
Old steel. Plain. Dangerous in a quiet way. No ports. No conduits. No modern markings to help guide mana. Just a blade that had been fed power for more than two centuries, its structure reshaped by generations of use. It didn't need machines anymore.
It remembered strength.
I steadied my grip and breathed.
Mana rose. Not forced. Not rushed. It gathered on its own, heavy and alert, like it was deciding whether I was worth listening to.
I tried guiding it toward the blade.
But the sword rejected it.
"You're not the problem," I muttered. "I am."
Then suddenly behind me, something thumped softly.
I turned to see Phantom on the table, tail swaying, eyes fixed on me.
"Not now Phantom, I am busy at the moment," I said.
She meowed. Louder.
Her paw landed on my holopad. Claws out. Final.
I closed my eyes, let the remaining mana drain away, and exhaled.
"…Fine. Twenty minutes."
Before I even finished the sentence, she hopped off the table and trotted to the door, tail held high like she'd negotiated a treaty.
I shut off my holopad, grabbed my jacket, and followed her out of the apartment. The hallway lights hummed faintly as we walked, Phantom moving with purpose, like this was her building and I was the guest. We descended the narrow stairwell, my footsteps echoing, hers silent.
By the time I opened the front door, Phantom was practically vibrating with triumph.
Neo-Valdris at night—neon bleeding across wet pavement, mag-rails humming overhead, street vendors closing shop. Phantom weaved through couples and delivery drones like she owned the sidewalk.
Normal walk. Normal night.
Then a scream shattered everything.
An elderly woman stumbled backward at the intersection's far end, reaching for a purse that wasn't there. A hoverbike shot past her, illegal mods painting streaks across the street.
"Stay," I told Phantom.
I ran.
The bike banked hard into merchant alleys—narrow passages stacked with centuries of architecture. Bad for hoverbikes. Good for idiots like me.
Mana burned through my legs. Raw. Uncontrolled. Not smooth. Not trained. But fast.
I hit the maintenance stairs three at a time. Boots slamming metal. Vaulted a vendor's counter. Grabbed the awning frame. The bike angled upward. I hauled myself up, hands burning.
The narrow path forced him to weave. I ducked, vaulted, cut angles. He dropped into a drainage ramp. I followed anyway. Air rushed. Legs screamed. Ground blurred.
I knew these alleys. Hector made me memorize every shortcut.
The path opened to a transit strip. He gunned the engine. I couldn't match that speed on foot.
But that wasn't when you quit.
I forced mana through myself with zero technique—just raw intent. Vision tightened. Legs moved on instinct. The world narrowed to that flashing red taillight.
He swerved around a structural column. I didn't. I used it. Planted my foot. Pushed off with everything left.
Launched.
My fingers brushed the purse strap. Closer. I lunged—
My hand locked around it. The strap went taut. My shoulder wrenched backward. The bike's momentum dragged me forward. Metal floor scraped beneath me. Sparks flew.
I held on.
Then my mana ran dry. The shock hit like falling through reality itself. Fingers went numb. Muscles hollow. Vision swimming. The bike tore forward. My body followed, dragging across metal until the strap snapped.
Momentum hurled me off the walkway's edge. I crashed into the alley below.
Concrete punched the air from my lungs. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Just the distant grind of engines turning back.
All of them. Three hoverbikes descended slow. Deliberate. Like vultures circling something already dead.
I tried to stand. My arms trembled. Collapsed.
Mana exhaustion wasn't regular tired. It was emptiness. A cold ache spreading from my chest outward.
The first rider stepped off his bike. Cheap augmentation plates glowed beneath his jacket.
"You actually tried to drag my bike down?"
The second—taller, hydraulics whirring—laughed. "Kid doesn't even have implants. He's a normie."
The third's sensors hummed. "That mana flare earlier—"
"Doesn't matter," the leader cut in. "He's done."
They closed in.
I pushed against the pavement. My hands shook violently before giving out completely.
This was it. Beaten to death in an alley for trying to help someone.
A shadow blurred across the rooftops.
Then it dropped.
The impact cracked the alley floor like a meteor strike. Windows three stories up rattled. The first biker cratered into the wall. Dust exploded. He didn't get up.
The second spun, augmented reflexes catching on. He raised his hydraulic arms. A fist removed him from the conversation. Sent him ragdolling into a dumpster with a sound like a gong made of meat and regret.
The third tried to jump. Actually got airborne. A hand caught his ankle and yanked him down with casual brutality that defied physics. He hit the ground face-first and didn't get back up.
A guardian trainee stepped into the light. Tall. Built like training was religion. Eyes burning with barely controlled fury.
He stared at the groaning bikers with pure disgust.
"Three-on-one against someone mana-exhausted." His voice carried authority that made me flinch. "You're really setting the bar low tonight."
The first biker tried to stand. A boot planted on his chest, slamming him back down.
"Stay."
He turned to face me. Up close, his presence felt sharper. Controlled fury. Like a blade aware of its own edge.
"Not bad." He crouched to my level. "Monumentally stupid. Recklessly idiotic. But not bad." His eyes scanned me analytically. "That mana burn I felt three districts over—you did that manually? No neural interface?"
I nodded barely.
"Idiot." Almost fond. "You burned through your reserves like a fusion reactor with no dampeners. You're supposed to pace yourself."
"Thanks for the save," I rasped.
"Yeah, well. Couldn't let them kill someone with that kind of mana signature. It'd be a waste."
He stood, brushing dust off his uniform. "Get proper training. Find a mentor. Invest in protective gear."
He turned to leave.
"I can't," I said.
He stopped. Didn't turn around. "Can't what?"
"Get proper training. Enhance myself. Any of it. I'm incompatible. Neural bonding doesn't work on me. Can't register for guardian programs without passing the compatibility test, and I fail it every time."
The silence stretched like wire pulled too tight.
When he turned around, his expression wasn't sympathetic. It was like I had said something unforgivable.
Streetlights buzzed overhead. Somewhere nearby, a siren rose and faded, distant and uninterested. When he finally looked back at me, it wasn't anger that showed on his face—it was mild regret, like realizing he'd picked the wrong door.
"You know what," he said, already stepping away, "I take it back."
"Take what back?"
"Everything." He glanced at me over his shoulder. "Go hide." He made a vague motion with his hand, like brushing dust aside. "Find a shell that fits you and stay there. Let the world get ugly without you while you sip on your mother's milk."
He didn't wait to see how it landed. He took another step, then stopped again, as if something had crossed his mind too late to matter.
"That mana you burned earlier," he said, voice level, eyes briefly sharp. "That wasn't ordinary."
A mag-rail thundered overhead, metal screaming against metal.
"It's a waste," he finished. "Power like that ending up with a coward."
He turned away this time without hesitation.
"When the police show up," he added, already moving, "tell them Daksh from Zenith Academy handled the scene." A pause, just long enough to be annoying. "Might help with my college credits."
His boots echoed once, twice, then disappeared into the noise of the city. Traffic resumed. Neon flickered. The alley went back to pretending nothing important had happened.
The purse was still in my hand.
The ground was still cold.
And the night didn't care one way or the other.
And the worst part was knowing that, even briefly, I believed him.