A Levi-bus hissed as it docked beneath a floating district terminal, its metallic frame bobbing like a whale beneath the weight of anti-gravity pads. The doors hissed open, and out stepped a man in a worn black hoodie, hood drawn tight against his head like a socially anxious turtle.
Mark took one look at himself and winced.
For the first time in seven years, he wasn't in his Academy uniform. No blazer, no crest, no ceremonial bullshit stitched into every hem. Just a hoodie two washes from threadbare, and jeans that might qualify as a war crime.
He tried flexing his thighs to loosen the denim. Bad move. The jeans screamed betrayal and tore somewhere near the back pocket.
"Okay," he muttered. "Let's not go full Moon on the neighbors."
With a sigh, he stepped onto the levi-platform, which buzzed quietly and carried him upward into the 25th District's airspace, toward a hovering cluster of residential islands linked together like puzzle pieces.
The greenery here was aggressively artificial—some biotech designer's fever dream. Neon-green grass, crimson trees, electric blue rose bushes, and yellow cacti lined the edges of his family's floating terrace. Either someone had spray-painted the ecosystem or nature had been genetically bullied into becoming art.
He spotted her immediately. Blonde hair. Detachable balcony. Tiny lunatic waving her arms like she was trying to flag down a passing airship. Sarah.
She spun, fumbled with something offscreen, and vanished inside.
A second later, the docking pad whirred and locked into place. Just as expected.
And just as expected, the door burst open.
"Marrrk—!"
A missile disguised as a thirteen-year-old girl launched into him, wrapping her arms around his midsection like a python on a protein shake.
"Oof—"
She backed off and knocked on his abs like testing wood density. "Is this a statue? Did they replace you with a mannequin? Blink twice if you're real."
Mark rolled his eyes, pulled back his hood, and grinned. "Nice to see you too, gremlin."
She narrowed her eyes at his empty hands. "Did you bring me anything?"
"My radiant presence isn't enough?"
She sniffed. "Disappointing."
So he ruffled her hair until she screamed for mercy, then hoisted her up into the air.
"Okay, okay, down, down!" she shrieked, swatting at him like a housecat.
Still laughing, Mark set her down. "Let's go see Mom and Dad before you give me a concussion."
"Sure! Mom's cooking dinner. Dad's back in an hour, probably."
They rode the in-home elevator up, and Mark remembered what space felt like again.
Even after seven years at the Academy, he always forgot how stupidly massive his childhood home was. The first living room was practically a track field. He half-expected Sarah to sprint laps around the levitating couches like some kind of house-trained velociraptor.
He passed through a second lounge and a short hallway before finding the kitchen—and his mother.
She looked up from the sink and froze. "Mark!" she squealed, wiping her hands furiously on a towel before rushing over.
Short, blonde, eternally youthful in that 'I drink green smoothies and stress age doesn't exist' way.
She kissed his cheek, eyes sparkling. "You're back already! Sit! We'll wait for your dad. Unless you're starving—want a bite first?"
"I'll wait," Mark chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't wanna ruin the big dinner surprise."
They chatted for the next hour. Pointedly not about graduation. Or the future.
Eventually, the front door hissed open and his dad strode in—a tall, broad-shouldered man built like a boulder with hair the color of worn leather and a stare that could make tectonic plates reconsider their position.
Dinner was served: roast hagel-duck with qurum root glaze. Surprisingly edible for something with a name like a sneeze.
His dad told work stories. His mom regaled them with tales of Sarah's latest adventures. Sarah protested every story with the desperation of a hostage whose secrets were being auctioned live.
It was warm. It was chaotic. It was everything he'd missed.
And then he did it.
Mark reached into his hoodie and placed the certificate on the table. Just like that.
Silence fell like a guillotine.
Aeroon Arch Academy Graduation CertificateYear 7.Mark Afronte.
Seven years. That was supposed to be a triumph.
But the course went on for ten.
Only 6% ever made it to Grade 7. An elite percentile—on paper. In his gut, it felt like a door slamming shut.
His father rose silently and knelt beside him, one hand firm on his shoulder.
"Son," he said, "you've got every damn reason to be proud. I'm not gonna list how far ahead you are of others. But think about this—we've come so far, we're upset by this kind of news."
Mark chuckled, a dry, choked laugh.
"No, really," his dad insisted. "Ten years ago, if someone told me I'd have two kids at the Academy—hell, if they told me you would graduate year seven? I would've passed out."
Wait. Hold up. "Two?"
His head snapped toward Sarah.
She smiled.
More accurately: she smirked.
"I guess I'll just have to go all ten," she said with mock elegance.
"You little gremlin!" He rushed around the table and hugged her until she wheezed.
She batted at him half-heartedly but didn't let go either.
Dinner became something else after that. Less tension, more laughter.
Eventually, Mark retreated to his old room—big, cold, and unnervingly pristine. The kind of space that felt more like a museum than a bedroom.
He got ready for bed and lay down.
And didn't sleep.
The ceiling spun. His heart raced like it was training for a sprinting event. He closed his eyes, opened them again. Repeat. Over and over.
Eventually, he stumbled to the bathroom.
The man in the mirror didn't look familiar. He was hunched, unshaven, eyes red-rimmed. Not the boy who'd left home, not the man he thought he'd become. Just someone stuck between.
He splashed cold water on his face. It didn't help.
Then came the tears.
Not graceful, cinematic ones. These were ugly. Violent. Exhausting.
They didn't stop.
A knock came at the door.
"Mark?" his mother called softly. "Sweetheart, are you okay?"
"G-Go away, Mom."
Another voice—his dad. "What's happening?"
More whispering. Then: "I'm going in."
The door opened. Then the blankets were off.
Mark curled up like a child, trembling.
His dad pulled him close.
"I'm—I'm a failure," he stammered.
"No."
"I was so close… I messed it all up. Everything. My friends… I won't see them again. They're strangers now."
His parents said nothing. Just sat with him. One on either side.
"You worked too hard for ten years," his dad eventually whispered. "Harder than a kid ever should. Take a year. Rest. Make friends. Live. It'll all be there when you're ready."
Shame swelled in his chest. Relief, too.
"Okay," he whispered. "Thank you. I love you both."
Elsewhere
John sat on a grimy balcony, cradling his thirteenth cup of tea, pipe clenched between yellow teeth. Greasy hair. Black beard. Permanent shadow of stubble and criminal intent.
He hadn't looked away from the second-floor apartment across the way for nine days.
Target: Eryk Stern.Age: 22.Status: Freshly ascended. Unemployed. No surviving family.Mission: Hospitalize target. Retrieve all vestiges. No direct contact. Minimal mess.
Should've been easy.
Should've been.
The kid hadn't left his building in over a week. Still, the Netherecho didn't lie—there were wisps trapped inside that place. Eryk was still breathing.
Barely.
John was many things: assassin, weirdo, collector of mug chips. But he wasn't patient. This stakeout was slowly mutating into psychological warfare.
And then the carriage showed up.
All black. Floating. Tinted windows. Not street-legal, not subtle.
A woman stepped out—blue pompadour, watermelon-pink hat, gold dress loud enough to blind a psychic.
Three bodyguards followed.
They entered Eryk's building.
The pipe fell from John's mouth. Tea almost followed.
"...Welp," he said, pulling the underwear out of his ass like a soldier steeling for war. "Guess I'm giving the advance payment back."
Back inside
Eryk curled up under his blanket, Basics of Gathering open in his hands, reading it for what felt like the hundredth time.
There is no need to rush.
The words had turned into a kind of prayer. Every time he muttered them, the relentless anxiety clawing at his chest eased just a little. He repeated the phrase over and over until, slowly, he began to believe it.
It had been over a week since he'd last stepped outside his apartment. Well… except for the bathroom, which was less about convenience and more about survival.
At first, he convinced himself he simply had no reason to leave. That excuse crumbled fast when he realized he hadn't eaten in two days. Yeah, okay, that was complete bullshit.
Technically, he didn't have any pressing reasons to leave—aside from the ones he deliberately ignored—but naturally, it was starting to wear on him.
Maybe he could find somewhere to socialize, a proper place to gather, or try looking for work now that he was officially an arch. Maybe a trainer, or a discipleship, or even a mercenary group to explore some passages. But no.
Every time he considered it, the mantra came to him:
There is no need to rush.
And just like that, all those plans were shoved firmly back into indefinite storage.
So he opened the guide again. He'd read it so many times he could probably recite the boring parts in his sleep. Eventually, he accepted that reading it again was pointless, closed it, and tossed it onto the bed.
Focusing, he slipped into his ethercosm. The central star glimmered a little brighter, four blue specks orbiting it. He fixed his attention on one, and it materialized before him.
Up close, it looked like a spherical cage of runes, completely empty inside—a stage-zero ability core.
He stepped out of the ethercosm, raised a finger, and with a little concentration, water sprang to life in front of him, squirting out and splashing onto the fridge.
Squirt spell.
The effort left him feeling hollow, like a cold wind had swept through his chest and stomach. Materializing water was harsh on his essence. Moments later, the liquid vanished—not evaporated, just… gone, returning to the ether and disappearing.
Next, he swung his hand down in a precise karate chop. Nothing obvious happened, because outwardly, there was nothing to see.
Flowing Strike.
A technique that added extra momentum to his attacks by manipulating the water within his body, part of the Flowing Rain martial arts style.
Then came a move he didn't have room to practice:
Frog Leap:
which used hydraulic pressure to launch him into a jump.
Finally, the fourth spell.
He lay back, letting the water in his body circulate freely, from his cells to his bloodstream. It lasted only seconds, but for those few moments, he felt… smooth. Relaxed. Almost like he'd slept well. Spa-level good.
The abilities seemed boring, almost painfully weak—and that was accurate. He was out of essence for the day. Until it recovered, nothing more could be done.
In time, as he grew stronger, it would matter less. But that was a long way off, especially in a place this poor. Gone were the days of freely harvesting ripe ether fruits. Now he was lucky to get five an hour.
He'd have to buy food soon. The fasting excuse was wearing thin.
He was scared. Creepy shadows in the Netherecho, random passage breaks, scumbags abusing power to harm others. The world was full of terrible things.
Rationally, he knew nothing catastrophic would hit the instant he stepped outside, but paranoia had its claws deep.
Then came the knocking.
"Hmm?"
Who could possibly be at his door this early?
Oh. Crap. The landlord.
That bastard was probably checking if he was still alive. Eryk considered ignoring him, taking his sweet time getting dressed. But the knocking continued. Oddly… polite. Almost fancy. Three perfectly timed knocks, repeated identically.
Nobody he knew knocked like that. Anxiety crept in. Ignore it? Or face the intruder? His landlord had cheaped out on spyholes, so if he wanted to see who it was, he'd have to answer.
Sighing, he decided to see who it was. There was no thug in the world who knocked with such ceremony.
Dressed now, he walked over and opened the door.