A sharp pulse of pain blossomed behind his eyes.
Then, darkness.
Then, voices. Footsteps. Steam hissing. Metal clanking. The air tasted like rust.
Ash blinked, dazed, as memories not his own flashed through his vision like a broken projector. Images cut in and out-faces, alleys, tunnels wreathed in smoke, a boy growing up, a life in poverty until it all coalesced into one cold-water truth:
Where am I?
The question echoed in his mind, trembling, and the answer came immediately, like a movie reel jamming itself into place.
He wasn't in a city he knew. Not Earth. Not anywhere close.
He was in a slum, an underground slum made from stitched-together metal sheets and scrounged pipes; home to the poorest of survivors from a world laid to waste by something called the Siphon.
Who am I?
Another surge, painful, dizzying, and the answer rose again.
Ash. A seventeen-year-old slum kid, born deep in the underground city's layers. One of the third generation to live after the Siphon Apocalypse.
But beneath that identity, another urge stirred.
Kyle.
Kyle from Earth. Kyle, living a normal life until… something. He tried to remember, but the memory blurred like static.
Kyle was dead. Or missing. Or slipped away.
Now, his soul sat inside this boy called Ash.
The merge settled, as if two liquids swirled together and settled until there was no longer a definable separation of one from the other. The pain dissipated, and Ash/Kyle exhaled a long, slow breath.
So I transmigrated.
Great. Just great.
He rubbed his forehead and sat up, feeling dirt crumble off his clothes. He was literally sitting inside a trash site. There were piles of old pipes, gears, half-broken furniture, and rust-covered metal scraps forming mountains around him. Half-buried under a broken grate was an object in his hand.
A dumbphone.
An old brick phone with a keypad.
Dead. Useless. Ancient.
"Why the hell are you here?" He wondered.
Then Ash's inherited memories supplied an answer. The original Ash had been scrounging for anything of value. He saw the phone, and some strange instinct attracted him to it; he reached for it and collapsed.
Which was, of course, the exact moment Kyle's soul slipped into the body.
Ash stared at the phone once more. It was cold and heavy, its edges charred as if something had burned inside of it long ago.
"That's weird," he muttered. "You don't even power on."
His stomach growled, reminding him there were more practical concerns than existential panic. He stood up and brushed off the dust.
"First things first. Let's get out of here and go home."
He threaded his way through the narrow, twisting alleys of the slum. Pipes thick as tree trunks ran along the walls. Steam burst from old valves. Rusted gears turned slowly on the roofs of makeshift houses. Even the air vibrated with mechanical noise, like the heartbeat of something ancient and alive.
People were shouting. Machinery clanged noisily. Somewhere overhead, a steam tram rattled across its rails.
As Ash walked, pieces of the newly combined memories began to resurface.
This was Hollow Hearth, one of the underground cities created after the world above became unlivable.
The Siphon: a sort of mysterious energy that had flooded the earth, twisting everything on its surface. Human beings, animals, plants. Even objects. Some were mutated beyond reason. Some became monstrous. Others, strange beasts that roamed the ground, the sea, and the sky.
Survivors fled underground and built whole civilizations inside caverns.
But Siphon didn't stop at the surface.
Over generations, humans born underground adapted to it, naming themselves Awakeners, humans who could naturally resonate with Siphon.
Generation 1
First survivors: many died early, many mutated. Few awoke to unstable, weak powers.
Generation 2
Their children. Their bodies adapted better, forming stable Siphon patterns. The Awakenings became more common and more controllable.
Generation 3
Thus, the true awakeners include those born with innate Siphon resonance and who can evolve certain abilities to bond things influenced by Siphon, called Source Objects.
Ash touched the brick phone again.
"Could you be a Source Object?" he whispered.
He did not feel anything from it, no pulse, no energy, and no change.
Still, he felt in his gut that something about the device mattered.
He stopped midway on the walkway and decided that he would test something.
"I should have abilities too."
He cast his awareness inward. Something was tingling at the back of his mind, like a curtain waiting for him to pull it open. He reached for it.
"Let me see what I can do."
A faint crackle
A twist of air
Then
Swish.
A murky purple mist coalesced above his palm. It shimmered and warped, expanding out in a small wave. Ash stepped back, startled.
"This… this is an illusion?
His memories confirmed it-illusion affinity, rare, tricky, but powerful.
He tried to shape the mist.
"Mirror."
The purple haze congealed into glass. A mirror appeared in front of him, but the reflection wasn't there. Only a flat, silver surface showed.
"No reflection? Let me try adding it manually."
He focused again.
Swish.
A reflection appeared but did not move. It just stood there like a photograph frozen in time.
Ash sighed. "Alright, that's a restriction. Simple illusions won't mimic anything other than appearance, not behavior. Good to know.
He dispelled the mirror, and the purple mist dissolved.
More and more concrete, he resumed his walk homeward, patched-up shack against a steam pipe.
Something odd caught his eye before he reached the door.
An envelope lay on the rusted metal doorstep.
Perfectly clean and free of dust.
Stamped with an emblem, a rising gear surrounded by a halo of steam.
Ash knew it outright.
Rising Gear Academy is the most prestigious school in all of Hollow Hearth.
"What the… why would they send something to someone like me?"
He picked up the envelope, and before opening it, a flicker of unease made him glance around. No one was watching.
He went inside.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Meanwhile…
Standing at the very heart of Hollow Hearth was the highest structure in the city: the Steamspire, an enormous tower manufactured from obsidian-steel and glowing pipes. On its peak floor stood a lone man, staring out over the sprawling underground metropolis.
City Lord Isen Ward, ruler of Hollow Hearth.
"Did you deliver it?" he asked.
His assistant, Creed, inclined his head slightly. "Yes, City Lord. The envelope was placed at Ash's home as ordered."
Isen exhaled, his expression unreadable. The warm glow of the Steamspire's lights cast long shadows across his face, underlining the tiredness carved into every line.
After a while, Creed spoke. "Forgive my curiosity, but… why not adopt him? If he's really your nephew, wouldn't he be safer under your direct protection?"
Isen didn't turn around. His gaze stayed fixed upon the huge underground city, its mist-shrouded streets, its steam-powered rails, its pipes weaving like veins across the metal landscape. "Creed," he said in a hushed tone, "if the other factions learn Ash is my nephew, what do you think they'll do?
Creed swallowed. "They may try to curry favor. Or… eliminate him."
"Exactly." The voice of Isen dropped to a whisper. "My brother died protecting this city. Before he did, he entrusted his son to me. I swore I would watch over him, even if I must do so from afar." He finally turned toward his aide. "You'll be entering the same academy this year, right?
"Yes, City Lord."
"Good. Watch him. Protect him from behind the scenes. Intervene only when his life is in danger. Let him develop on his own path."
Creed nodded solemnly. "Understood."
The metal door swung shut behind the exiting aide. The room fell silent. City Lord Isen stood alone before the vast window, his hands behind his back, his eyes filled with unspoken sorrow. "I hope… Ash," he muttered, "that you can find your own future in this accursed world."