The next morning, the boy woke up with the strange certainty that something had changed.
Not the room.
Not the world.
Him.
He sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his hands. They looked normal—thin fingers, faint scars from old cuts—but when he focused, he could feel something beneath his skin. A quiet warmth, steady and patient, like it was waiting.
The golden stone.
The thought alone made his chest tighten.
He didn't know what it was, or why it had chosen him, but one thing was clear—ever since touching it, the world had started behaving… oddly.
School confirmed it.
As he walked through the gates, conversations slowed. Some students glanced at him, then quickly looked away.
Others stared openly, expressions unreadable.
One boy whispered, "That's him."
Another replied, "He's different today."
Different how? he wondered.
In class, he felt it again—a faint pressure, like invisible threads stretching from his chest toward the people around him. Not pulling. Not forcing.
Just… connecting.
He shook his head, trying to ignore it.
Then he noticed him.
The boy who'd been bullied yesterday was standing straighter.
Calmer.
When a loud student shoved past him, expecting resistance, the bully stumbled instead—eyes wide, as if he'd hit a wall.
The classroom went quiet.
The bullied boy looked down at his own hands, confusion slowly turning into disbelief.
His breath caught.
No way…
At lunch, things got worse.
A group of seniors cornered the same boy behind the cafeteria. He saw it happen from across the courtyard.
His instincts screamed stay away.
His feet moved anyway.
"Stop," he said, his voice steady despite the pounding in his chest.
The seniors turned.
"Oh?" one of them sneered. "You again?"
The golden warmth flared.
His chest burned like a sunrise inside his ribs.
Not outward.
Inward.
The bullied boy stepped forward before he could react.
"I said stop."
The air felt heavy.
One of the seniors swung.
He never landed the hit.
The bullied boy caught his wrist effortlessly and slammed him into the ground with a force that cracked concrete.
Screams erupted.
Students ran.
Teachers shouted.
He stood frozen.
I didn't touch him, he thought. I didn't do anything.
And yet…
The bullied boy turned to look at him.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, he saw something terrifying in them—gratitude mixed with power.
News spread fast.
By the end of the day, rumors were everywhere.
"People get stronger around him."
"He's a catalyst."
"He's cursed."
"Stay away."
No one sat near him anymore.
No one talked to him.
The warmth in his chest dimmed, as if disappointed.
Is this what I'm doing? he wondered.
Turning people into weapons?
That night, as he walked home alone, a voice stopped him.
"You feel it too, don't you?"
He turned sharply.
A boy with blue hair and glasses stood under a streetlight, holding a faintly glowing blue stone.
"You don't know what you are," the boy continued calmly, "but reality around you is… bending."
The boy swallowed.
"What are you talking about?"
The blue-haired boy adjusted his glasses.
"I see patterns. Syste.ms. Errors."
His eyes sharpened.
"And you… are an error that shouldn't exist."
A sudden headache struck the boy.
Images flashed—timelines folding, numbers shattering, his own face reflected in dying stars.
He staggered.
The blue-haired boy caught him.
"Careful," he said quietly. "If you break too early, they'll notice."
"Who?" the boy demanded.
The blue-haired boy looked up at the dark sky.
"…those who shouldn't still remember you."
The boy's heart dropped.
"What did I do?"
The blue-haired boy hesitated.
For the first time, fear flickered across his face.
"…I don't know," he admitted. "But the future refuses to stay still when you're alive."
He pressed the blue stone into his own chest, the glow intensifying.
"If you want answers," he said, stepping back, "don't be kind to everyone."
Then he vanished into the crowd.
The boy stood alone under the streetlight, chest burning.
High above the city, unseen eyes opened.
The golden stone pulsed.
And somewhere far beyond time, something ancient smiled.