Zaylan quickly fell into a grinding rhythm at the docks. His mysterious strength, the constant hum he now felt deep within his bones, allowed him to outwork men twice his size.
Kael, the foreman, still grumbled, a perpetual scowl etched onto his face, but his eyes held a new, calculating glint whenever Zaylan hoisted a particularly heavy crate.
He started giving Zaylan the toughest jobs, the ones no one else wanted – rusted metal beams, colossal fish nets dripping with brine, even barrels of a strange, viscous lubricant.
And Zaylan consistently delivered. The pay, though still modest, became enough for better food than nutrient bars and a less crowded sleeping space in the dormitory. He even managed to save a small amount, a growing tally on his pocket card.
Even amidst the backbreaking labor, his mind raced. He spent his evenings hunched over salvaged infopads, the glowing screens his only window to this new world.
He devoured every piece of news about the spatial cracks and the pervasive mana. The term "Awakening" started appearing more frequently in the digital chatter, a vague, undefined concept that sent shivers down his spine.
It was a desperate hope, a thrilling fear. People reported strange new abilities, minor at first: a sharper sense of smell that allowed a street vendor to perfectly identify spices, an uncanny knack for numbers that turned a quiet accountant into a financial wizard, a sudden artistic talent that made a graffiti artist's work shimmer with impossible colors.
These were often dismissed as coincidences, or psychological effects of the global strangeness, but the sheer volume of such reports was undeniable.
The governments, particularly the Bradonn's Empire that governed this sprawling landmass, were beginning to shift their tone. Initial caution had morphed into a desperate scramble for information.
Public announcements, once reassuring, now hinted at "necessary preparations" and "unforeseen challenges," delivered by solemn-faced officials.
Zaylan overheard snippets of conversations between dockworkers, hushed whispers of military exercises being ramped up, and specialized research divisions being formed.
One sweltering afternoon, as Zaylan wrestled with a particularly stubborn anchor chain, he overheard a conversation that snagged his attention.
"Heard they're calling 'em 'Mana-Sensitives' now," a burly dockworker named Borin, a kind giant with a perpetually worried expression, whispered to his colleague, Gareth.
Borin glanced cautiously at Zaylan, who pretended to be absorbed in untangling a knot. "Kids who feel it, right? Like that new energy… the mana. My niece, little Elara, she suddenly knows when it's gonna rain, days before the forecast! Says she feels a tingle in her fingertips."
His friend, Gareth, a wiry man with a perpetual cynical sneer, snorted, spitting a stream of chew. "Mana-Sensitives? More like government puppets. You think they'll let anyone just walk around with weird powers? Nah, they'll tag 'em, control 'em. Or worse, make 'em fight their wars." Gareth cast a suspicious look at a sleek, black hover-cab gliding past, as if expecting to be arrested for his thoughts. "The scientists, those eggheads, they're probably cooking up ways to weaponize it. Or worse, drain it from folk."
Zaylan listened, absorbing every word.
He knew he was one of those "Mana-Sensitives." The constant strengthening, the subtle surge of power whenever he exerted himself – it had to be the mana.
He wondered how others felt it, what their "Awakenings" would look like. His own felt… unique. Unseen.
He had no flashy abilities, no glowing hands, just an ever-increasing, almost boundless physical power. It was like his body was constantly being refined, pushing beyond human limits.
Each heavy lift, each strained muscle, felt like a small step forward in a cultivation journey he didn't fully understand.
It was exhausting, yes, but beneath the fatigue, a deep satisfaction bloomed. He could feel his very cells changing, adapting, becoming something more.
His thoughts often drifted back to his past life, to the hospital bed, to the endless void. Why here? Why him? Was this reincarnation for a purpose? Was he meant to save this world from some impending doom? Or, a darker thought, was he somehow part of its destruction?
He remembered the webnovels and light novels he'd devoured during his long, tedious recovery on Earth – stories of overpowered protagonists, cultivation, systems.
Would he get one? A system window, a voice in his head, telling him his stats and skills? The thought made a cynical chuckle escape him, a stark contrast to the gritty reality of lifting fish crates. Still, a part of him hoped. It would certainly make things clearer.
He also started noticing the subtle shifts in the environment around Aethelburg. Near the older, more overgrown parts of the city, where ancient ruins mingled with modern structures, the flora seemed to burst with an unnatural vibrancy.
Flowers bloomed in impossible colors, and trees grew taller, their leaves shimmering with an otherworldly glow. These "Mana-Infused Zones," as the unofficial net-streams called them, were quickly becoming tourist attractions for the brave or the foolish, and lucrative spots for black market traders selling "mana-infused herbs" or "lucky mana stones." Ambitious individuals, seeing an opportunity, flooded the public feeds with deliberately false information about these zones, hoping to lure unsuspecting buyers or create chaos they could profit from.
The air in Aethelburg itself felt denser, charged. Small, localized weather anomalies became more common: sudden, brief downpours of strangely iridescent rain, or fleeting moments where the very light of the sun seemed to ripple, causing momentary disorientation. People began to feel it too, beyond just whispers.
A cook at his dormitory, a cheerful woman named Elara, boasted of being able to perfectly season dishes without tasting them, claiming her "mana-enhanced senses" were responsible.
A young street artist, Jaxx, gained a sudden, inexplicable ability to make his vibrant graffiti shimmer with faint, holographic effects that danced in the light.
These small, often whimsical, displays of nascent power only added to the growing sense of wonder and apprehension. Zaylan, however, kept his own increasing strength a secret. There was no glowing, no flashy display. Just raw, unfathomable power building within him.
He felt a pull, a strange magnetic draw towards the larger spatial rifts shown on the news, particularly the "Nine Drifts," those colossal tears that spanned thousands of meters.
He knew, instinctively, that the source of his own unique power was tied to them. He felt a deep, almost primal curiosity to understand what was truly happening, and what it meant for him.
He was no longer just Dylan, the orphan, nor Zayn, the reincarnator. He was Zaylan, and he was part of this Awakening, whether he liked it or not. The world was changing, and he knew, deep down, that his journey had only just begun.