The sharp crack! of splintering wood ripped through the air, punching through the quiet of Kaelan's small world.
Guttural shouts followed, closer now, making the floorboards hum beneath him. Kaelan, a boy who'd just celebrated his fifteenth birthday, was squeezed into the cramped, dust-bunny-filled space between his bedroom wardrobe and the cold, damp wall. He swallowed hard, the metallic tang of fear coating his tongue.
Through the narrow gap, he saw them: heavy boots, then a glint of something sharp, followed by the sickening sounds of his home being torn apart. And then, his mom. She lay sprawled on the worn rug, a growing stain of crimson blooming beneath her. Her eyes, wide and fixed on his hiding spot, were pleading. Her hand, already slick with blood, lifted weakly, a silent, desperate signal: stay absolutely still.
"Where is he? Tell us where the boy is!" a rough voice bellowed, the words hitting Kaelan with the force of a physical blow. A cold knot formed in his stomach. Me. They want me.
The first hint of his "something" wasn't even a proper memory. Just a fleeting sensation, a tiny, almost imperceptible spark that tingled at the tip of his pinky finger one lonely night. But by morning, his mom was there, a steaming mug of her special, earthy-smelling tea in her hand. He'd gulped it down, like always, and the strange feeling, if it had ever truly been there, simply vanished.
But those sparks, they always came back. They started small, like static electricity under his skin, a faint, almost musical hum in his ears. They'd prickle and grow whenever his insides twisted with sadness, or when anger made his blood feel hot, or when simple agitation turned his fingers into restless, twitching things. Mom's potions usually kept them in check. Until they didn't.
It was in the schoolyard. A boy, older and much meaner, had pushed Kaelan one too many times, spitting venomous words that stung more than any punch. Something inside Kaelan just… snapped. He shoved back, a raw, desperate push, and a blinding flash erupted from his hand. The boy screamed, collapsing in a heap, his arm twisted at an unnatural angle, the skin around it already scorched.
Kaelan would never forget his mom's face that day – pure, unadulterated terror twisting her features as she cried, clutching him tight, whispering apologies to him, not for him. He was pulled from school that very week, his world shrinking to the size of their small apartment. For over a year, he lived like a ghost, every tremor of emotion a potential disaster, every day a tightrope walk.
Then came the fight. He couldn't even remember what set it off, just the white-hot surge of helpless rage that consumed him. He screamed, a guttural, desperate sound, and the sparks didn't just appear. They exploded, a searing, inverted lightning bolt that tore through the ceiling, ripping into the night sky with a terrifying, silent roar.
"Kaelan! Get dressed! Now!" His mom's voice, usually so calm, was raw with panic. She was a whirlwind of frantic motion, snatching bags, stuffing clothes, her hands trembling as she tried to soothe him with empty, whispered words. "It's okay, baby. Everything's going to be fine."
Six minutes. That's all it took before the front door shuddered, then splintered inwards. Four hulking figures filled the doorway, shadows against the streetlights. They were fast, brutally efficient. But his mom? She was faster. A shimmering wall of ice materialized from her outstretched hands, crystallizing into sharp, deadly shards that flew through the air, forcing the intruders to stumble back. She fought with a desperate, elegant fury, a graceful storm of frozen power. But four against one was never a fair fight. The ice shattered. She fell, a sickening thud that echoed in Kaelan's ears.
"The boy. Where is he?" a gruff voice demanded, looming over his mom's still form. She coughed, a ragged, wet sound. "Gone... I sent him away... long ago." Her eyes, even as life drained from them, held Kaelan's, a final, fierce command.
The men searched, their heavy footsteps rumbling the floorboards, but they didn't find him. Slowly, agonizingly, the sounds of destruction faded, replaced by an unbearable silence.
Kaelan crawled out from his cramped hideaway, his limbs stiff, and stumbled to her side. Her breathing was shallow, hitched. "Kaelan... the cabinet..." she whispered, her voice barely a thread. "Take the book... and the money... Run." Tears streamed down his face, hot and stinging. "No, Mom! I won't leave you!"
"You have to," she rasped, her hand finding his cheek, surprisingly warm. "I can't protect you anymore. Read the book. Understand. Please." Her eyes, usually so full of love, now held a fierce, dying light. "This is your path."
He ran. Through the unfamiliar, dizzying streets, clutching the worn leather-bound book to his chest like a lifeline. Its weight was the only thing keeping him grounded. He found a secluded bench in a deserted park, the city lights blurring through his tear-filled vision. He opened the book.
The first page glowed with symbols he didn't recognize, but the words beneath were stark, chillingly clear. It spoke of the Awakened: people whose hidden attributes had burst forth, giving them an unbelievable edge over ordinary humans. Their very existence was a deep secret, known only to the powerful elite. They were everywhere – pulling strings in business empires, whispering in political halls, dazzling on entertainment stages.
They were meant to be the protectors, the unseen guardians of humanity, but ambition had twisted them. They warred amongst themselves, hungry for dominance, for absolute power.
And Kaelan, the book painstakingly revealed, was the last, sole living descendant of the Geom Clan, the legendary keepers of the Electric attribute. He, the terrified boy hiding in a park, held the power to stand at the very peak of this hidden world. His father, the youngest son of the previous Geom leader, had been tragically unaware of Kaelan's conception. His mother, the second-born daughter of a distant relative from the Bing Clan—an Ice clan whose lineage had dwindled so much that her own attribute was barely a spark—had been just as clueless. They were secret lovers, their bond blossoming against the backdrop of their disparate worlds. A week before Kaelan's father was to reveal their relationship, the unimaginable struck. The Geom Clan, a force of nature, was utterly obliterated in their sleep by a notorious, rapidly rising criminal enterprise – the Heukma Gang.
The Geom clan lamp, a sacred artifact symbolizing the clan's continuous bloodline, should have flickered out that night. But it didn't. A small, stubborn flame remained, a defiant spark in the suffocating darkness. That flicker, the book explained, was Kaelan. And that's how his mother knew. That's how she became his fierce, quiet guardian.
For the next thirty years, Kaelan lived like a scared mouse. The memory of his mother's blood, the terror in her eyes, the secret burden of the book – it all chained him down. He was terrified. Too scared to move, too scared to even think about the immense power that hummed beneath his skin. Every step was cautious, every emotion locked away. It was an exhausting, hollow existence, a life lived as a shadow of what he truly was.
Then, he slipped up. A wrong turn down a darkened alley, a moment of fleeting arrogance, or maybe just a whisper carried on the wind. The Heukma Gang found him. Their numbers were overwhelming, their faces twisted with a familiar, predatory hunger.
He tried to fight, a pathetic, desperate surge of will, but the lightning, his power, barely gave a static pop. It was a dying gasp, a weak spark against a tidal wave of darkness. They closed in, their blades glinting wickedly in the faint light.
He felt the cold steel, the sharp, agonizing burn. His life, a wasted landscape of fear and regret, began to drain away. No true bonds formed, no victories won, just the crushing weight of watching loved ones die while he possessed the very power to save them.
A surge of desperate fury, of regret so profound it tore at his very soul, ripped through him. He wouldn't go down like this.
Not entirely.
With the last, ragged breath, he pushed. Every fiber of his being, every ounce of untapped potential, every suppressed emotion ignited and erupted in one final, cataclysmic burst. The air didn't just crackle; it screamed with the roar of a thousand suns, a blinding, all-consuming storm of pure, raw, unbridled lightning.
It wasn't inverted anymore; it was an unleashing, a torrent of furious, beautiful energy that ripped through the alley. The hundred-strong Heukma Gang, powerful members who had hunted him for decades, didn't just die. They vaporized on the spot, utterly annihilated by the untamed, maddening force.
He saw it, that impossible power, in the fleeting moment before his vision went black. It was magnificent, terrifying, and utterly, tragically wasted. A single tear, born of crushing regret, slid down his temple.
.
.
.
Kaelan's eyes snapped open.
A pristine white ceiling stared back, stark and blinding. No blood, no torn furniture, no acrid smell of ozone. Just the steady hum of fluorescent lights. He was alive? He blinked, utterly disoriented.
Then, a familiar voice, warm and laced with relief, drifted into his ears. "...thank goodness, he's stable now."
"He's very lucky, Mrs. Han," another voice, deeper and authoritative, replied. "That was quite the fall."
Mrs. Han? That was... his mom. And she was talking to a doctor. Kaelan's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drum. He hadn't died. This wasn't some afterlife. This was... he knew this room. This was the hospital, right after the schoolyard incident. The one that had led to everything.
A second chance.