Ch 1 – The Day
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 quiet hum of the city beyond our walls. I scratched behind the cat's ears, wondering why conversations with my parents always left me feeling like there were words we weren't saying, truths we weren't sharing.
In the distance, the Monument of Seals glowed with its eternal light, a reminder of heroes I could never hope to become.
Phantom rubbed against my legs, green eyes locked on me like laser sights.
"I'm studying."
She meowed. Louder.
"Hector will take you—"
Her paw hit my holopad. Claws out. That Look.
"...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 the scream shattered everything.
At the intersection's far end, an elderly woman stumbled backward, reaching for a purse that wasn't there anymore. A hoverbike shot past her, illegal mods painting neon streaks across the street.
"Stay," I told Phantom. Too sharp, but she froze.
My body moved before my brain caught up.
I ran.
The bike banked hard into merchant alleys—narrow passages stacked with centuries of chaotic architecture. Bad for hoverbikes. Good for idiots like me.
Mana burned through my legs. Raw. Uncontrolled. Like forcing open a door welded shut. Not smooth. Not trained. But fast.
My stride jolted forward in uneven surges. The rider glanced back—not annoyed anymore. Alarmed.
He angled upward, shooting toward the second-level walkway.
I hit the maintenance stairs. Three steps at a time. Boots slamming metal. Each impact rattled through my bones but I didn't slow—couldn't slow.
Vaulted a vendor's counter. Grabbed the awning frame. Hauled myself up, hands burning from the metal's bite.
The bike was still ahead. Still moving.
Another mana surge. Rough. Desperate. Enough.
The narrow path forced him to weave between crates and hanging signs. I ducked. Vaulted. Cut the angle. Kept him in sight.
He dropped into a drainage ramp—steep, slick, built for runoff not chases.
I followed anyway.
Air rushed past. Legs screamed. Ground blurred beneath my feet.
I knew these alleys. Hector made me memorize every shortcut, every dead end, every gap in the old architecture.
There—a split in the wall.
I squeezed through, concrete scraping my shoulders, and burst out just as the rider streaked past.
For the first time in the chase, he didn't look annoyed.
He looked scared.
The path opened to a transit strip—long, smooth metal flooring. He gunned the engine. The bike shot forward with speed I couldn't match 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. World narrowed to that flashing red taillight.
He swerved around a structural column.
I didn't.
I used it.
Planted my foot against concrete. Pushed off with everything left in me. Launched.
My fingers brushed the purse strap.
Close.
Closer.
I lunged—
My hand locked around it.
The strap went taut instantly. My shoulder wrenched backward violently. The bike's momentum dragged me forward. Metal floor scraped beneath me. Sparks flew. But I held on.
For one heartbeat, I thought I'd done something impossible.
Then my mana ran dry.
The shock hit like falling through reality itself. Fingers went numb. Muscles hollow. Vision swimming in dark spots.
The bike tore forward.
My body followed, dragging across metal until the strap finally snapped.
Momentum hurled me sideways. I tumbled off the walkway's edge, crashed into the alley below. Concrete punched every molecule of air from my lungs.
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 once. Collapsed.
Mana exhaustion wasn't regular tired—it was emptiness. A cold ache spreading from my chest outward, like someone scooped out my strength and left only the shell.
The first rider stepped off his bike. Boots scraped concrete. Cheap augmentation plates glowed beneath his jacket. "You've gotta be kidding me." Cybernetic knuckles clicked as he flexed his hand. "You actually tried to drag my bike down?"
The second—taller, hydraulics whirring under his sleeves—laughed. "Kid doesn't even have implants. He's a normie. Running on pure flesh."
The third tilted his head, metallic leg plates humming. "Then why's my sensor showing a mana spike? He's empty now, but that 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. Vision doubled them into six advancing shadows.
This was it. Beaten to death in an alley for trying to help someone.
A shadow blurred across the rooftops above.
Too fast for a drone. Too controlled for a fall.
Then it dropped.
The impact cracked the alley floor like a meteor strike. Windows three stories up rattled in their frames.
The first biker didn't even see it coming.
One second he was advancing, augmentations glowing. The next, something hit him from above so hard he cratered into the wall. Dust exploded outward. His body crumpled like paper.
The second biker spun, enhanced reflexes finally catching up. 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 mid-flight and yanked him down with casual brutality that defied physics. He hit the ground face-first, skidded, didn't get back up.
Through my concussed haze, I watched him step into the light.
Tall. Built like training was his religion. Guardian trainee uniform marked with dust from rooftop runs. Eyes burning with barely controlled fury.
He stared at the groaning bikers with pure disgust.
"Three-on-one." His voice carried authority that made grown men flinch. "Against someone mana-exhausted. You're really setting the bar low tonight."
The first biker tried to stand. Got halfway up before a boot planted on his chest, slamming him back down.
"Stay."
The word carried the weight of a threat and a promise.
The second biker, still tangled in trash, whimpered. "We didn't know he was—"
"Didn't know he was what?" The trainee's voice cut like razors. "Helpless? Alone? Is that when you grow spines? When the fight's already won?"
He turned to the third biker trying to crawl away. Stepped on his hand. Not hard enough to break. Hard enough to stop.
"You're enhanced. Neural interfaces. Synthetic muscle. Hydraulic assistance. Sensor arrays." Each word dripped contempt. "And you still needed three-on-one against an unmodified kid."
The leader spat blood. "He chased us—"
"He chased you because you robbed an old woman, you waste of augmentation." The trainee crouched, grabbed the biker's collar. "You know what you are? Proof that enhancements can't fix coward."
He dropped him, disgusted. Then turned to me.
Up close, his presence felt sharper. Controlled fury in every movement. Not calm—intentional. 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? No algorithmic assistance?"
I nodded. Barely.
"Idiot." Almost fond. "You burned through your reserves like a fusion reactor with no dampeners. You're supposed to pace yourself. Feel the difference between ninety percent capacity and running at a hundred and ten until you explode."
"Thanks," I rasped. "For the save."
"Yeah, well." He stood, brushing dust off his uniform. "Couldn't let them kill someone with that kind of mana signature. It'd be a waste." He turned to leave. "Get proper training. Find a mentor. Invest in protective gear that doesn't involve face-planting into concrete."
He was almost to the rooftop access when I spoke.
"I can't."
He stopped. Didn't turn around. "Can't what?"
"Get proper training. Enhance myself. Any of it." The words tasted like ash. "I'm incompatible. Neural bonding doesn't work on me. Can't register for guardian programs. Can't even get basic augmentation without my nervous system rejecting it."
The silence stretched like wire pulled too tight, humming with tension.
When he turned around, his expression wasn't sympathetic.
It was furious.
"So fucking what?"
"You heard me. So what?" He stalked back toward me, each step heavy with contempt. "You can't get cybernetic enhancements, therefore what? Therefore you give up? Therefore you roll over and accept that you're useless? Is that the pathetic little story you've been telling yourself?" "It's not a story, it's—" "It's an excuse!"
He was shouting now, and I flinched despite myself. "It's the most convenient, self-pitying excuse I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot of them. 'Oh, poor me, I can't plug myself into the machine like everyone else, guess I'll just give up on everything I ever wanted.'" "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly!" He grabbed my shirt, hauling me up to eye level despite my injuries. "I understand that you're a coward hiding behind a medical condition like it's some kind of shield. You know what I heard in that little confession? I heard someone begging me to feel sorry for them. Someone who wants the world to pat their head and say 'there, there, it's not your fault you're worthless.'" The words hit harder than any physical blow.
"That's not—" "Shut up. I'm not done." He dropped me back against the wall. "You just chased down a hoverbike using nothing but raw mana. You kept up with an enhanced rider through three vertical districts. You did that with no implants, no optimization algorithms, no synthetic muscle tissue. You did something ninety-nine percent of the population couldn't do even WITH enhancements. And you know what your first instinct is afterward?" I didn't answer. My throat had closed up. "To make excuses. To explain why you can't possibly succeed. To tell me—a complete stranger—all about your limitations like they're some kind of badge of honor. 'Look at me, I'm so tragically flawed, please sympathize with how hard my life is.'" His voice dripped with disdain. "You want to know what your real problem is? It's not your nervous system. It's not your compatibility. It's that you've decided to be a victim, and victims don't have to try." "I do try—" "No, you don't!"
The shout echoed off the alley walls. "Trying means pushing past your excuses. Trying means finding another way when the easy path is blocked. What you do? That's not trying. That's going through the motions so you can tell yourself you made an effort before you inevitably fail." Tears were burning at the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "You have no idea what it's like—" "What it's like to be told you're not good enough? What it's like to have doors slammed in your face? What it's like to watch everyone around you succeed while you're stuck in place?" He laughed, harsh and bitter. "Join the fucking club, kid. The difference is, I didn't let it stop me."
"But you're compatible!" The words burst out of me. "You can enhance yourself if you wanted to! You have options I don't!"
"And I choose not to use them!" He spread his arms wide. "I'm compatible, yeah. Tested off the charts. The academy practically begged me to accept their enhancement packages. You know what I told them? I told them to shove their synthetic garbage up in their own asses. Because I don't need their crutches. I don't need their shortcuts. And neither do you."
"That's different—" "How? How is it different?" He was in my face now, close enough that I could see the intensity burning in his eyes. "Because you don't have the choice? Because the universe made the decision for you, so now you get to pretend like your hands are tied? That's bullshit, and deep down, you know it's bullshit." "I'm not pretending—" "Yes, you are! You're pretending that cybernetic enhancement is the only path to strength. You're pretending that because you can't do things the 'normal' way, you can't do them at all. You're pretending to be helpless so you don't have to face the terrifying possibility that you might actually succeed if you stopped making excuses and started working."
My hands were shaking. From exhaustion, from pain, from the brutal accuracy of his words cutting through every defense I'd built. "You think your incompatibility makes you special?" He continued, relentless. "You think it makes you some kind of tragic hero? It doesn't. It makes you exactly like every other loser who gives up the moment the path gets difficult. The only difference is you have a better excuse than most."
"Stop—" "Why? Because the truth hurts? Because you don't like hearing that you've been lying to yourself?" He grabbed my face, forcing me to look at him. "You want to be a guardian? You want to protect people? Then stop acting like the world owes you an easy path. Stop waiting for someone to hand you permission to be strong. And for the love of all the seals, stop using your incompatibility as a reason to quit before you even start." "I haven't quit—" "Really? Then why did you immediately bring it up? Why was your first response to my advice 'oh, but I can't because of my condition'? That's not determination, kid. That's resignation wearing a very thin disguise." The tears were falling now, hot and bitter against my scraped cheeks. "What am I supposed to do then? How am I supposed to compete with people who have every advantage I don't?" "By being better." The words were simple, brutal. "By working harder than they do. By refusing to accept that their advantages make you worthless. For four thousand years, before anyone invented cybernetic enhancements, warriors defended this world with nothing but mana and will. Your ancestors survived the Age of Darkness without a single synthetic implant. You think you're weaker than them?"
"I—" "You're not. You're just more comfortable with excuses than they were. They didn't have the luxury of blaming their failures on incompatibility. They had to actually try, actually push themselves beyond what they thought possible. And you know what? They succeeded. They saved the world. Without any of the advantages you're so convinced you need." He let go of my face, stepping back. "You've got raw talent. That mana signature I felt? That's not something that can be taught. That's innate ability, the kind that makes instructors drool. But talent means nothing if you waste it feeling sorry for yourself." "I don't—" "Yes, you do. You absolutely do. That's why you brought up your incompatibility like it was some kind of trump card. Like it was proof that you're exempt from having to actually work for what you want. Like it gives you permission to fail and still feel noble about it." His voice softened slightly, but the contempt remained. "You know what's really sad? You convinced yourself that wanting people's sympathy is the same as wanting to improve. It's not. Sympathy is cheap. Strength costs everything." I couldn't speak. My throat was too tight, my mind too overwhelmed by the systematic dismantling of every excuse I'd clung to. "You want to know why I stopped to save you?" He asked. "It wasn't because I felt sorry for you. It wasn't because I thought you were some poor, disadvantaged kid who needed rescuing. I stopped because that mana burn you did? That was the kind of power that shouldn't be wasted on someone who's given up on themselves
"You're limiting yourself far more than your incompatibility ever could. That you're choosing to be weak because being weak means you don't have to risk failing. That you'd rather live as someone who could have been something than face the possibility that you might try your hardest and still fall short." He started walking away. "That's what makes you a loser, kid. Not your nervous system. Your choice."
I watched him disappear into the city's vertical maze, my mind reeling, my carefully constructed worldview crumbling around me with an elderly woman's purse in my hands.