The mechanika rattled along the dirt road, its steam engine chugging as compressed Origin Energy powered the wheels. The two moons hung in the sky, one casting reddish light and the other silvery, bathing the landscape in familiar but mystical illumination.
Aryan pressed his face against the window, watching the countryside lit in moonlight roll past. His reflection stared back at him from the glass—wide eyes, slightly disheveled hair, an expression caught between disbelief and wonder. Every few seconds, his mind replayed the moment his hand had touched that purple crystal. The rush of power that flooded into him. The feeling of something fundamental clicking into place.
He flexed his fingers absently, as if he could still feel the Lightning essence crackling through them.
His mother sat beside him, quiet but watchful. She'd glance at him occasionally, a small smile playing at her lips, but she didn't interrupt his thoughts. The comfortable silence between them was broken only by the rhythmic clatter of the mechanika's wheels and the hiss of steam from its vents.
Other passengers dozed or chatted softly amongst themselves. An elderly couple discussed their grandson's awakening—Earth element, they said with resigned acceptance. A middle-aged merchant counted coins, muttering about transport costs. Life continued around them, ordinary and familiar, while Aryan's entire world had shifted on its axis.
The journey from Redien City to Marlow town usually felt long—twenty kilometers of winding roads through farmland and small villages. Tonight it seemed to pass both too quickly and too slowly. Aryan wanted time to process everything, but he also couldn't wait to get home, to rest, to let the reality of what had happened truly sink in.
When the mechanika finally pulled into Marlow town station with a final hiss, Aryan felt his exhaustion hit him all at once. The adrenaline that had carried him through the day was fading, leaving his limbs heavy and his mind foggy.
"Come on," his mother said gently, gathering her bag. "Let's get you home."
They walked through familiar streets as evening settled into full night. Smoke drifted from chimneys. Luminous crystals glowed softly in windows, casting warm patches of light onto the dirt roads. A few neighbors called out greetings as they passed, but his mother kept their responses brief. Aryan barely registered the words, his feet moving on autopilot toward home.
Their house appeared ahead—a modest two-story building with a small garden his mother tended carefully. Aryan fumbled with the door key, his hands still slightly unsteady. The lock clicked. He pushed the door open, expecting the quiet darkness of an empty house.
He stepped inside.
Suddenly, every luminous crystal in the house blazed to life at once, flooding the rooms with brilliant light.
"HAPPY AWAKENING, ARYAN!"
The chorus of voices exploded from everywhere. Aryan's heart leaped into his throat. He yelped—an undignified sound he'd deny making later—and stumbled backward. His feet tangled and he went down, landing hard on his rear with a thump that rattled his teeth.
Laughter erupted from every corner of the room—loud, genuine, and thoroughly amused at his expense.
"I didn't know our 'mama's boy' was also chicken-hearted!" Carl's voice rang out above the others, thick with mischief and barely contained laughter. "We almost scared you to death!"
Aryan's face burned hot. He scrambled to his feet, brushing off his pants with more force than necessary. His mouth opened to deliver some scathing retort—Carl was absolutely going to pay for that comment. But then his eyes discovered someone else in the crowded room.
A man stood near the back, arms crossed, grinning ear to ear.
Everything else vanished.
"Dad?" The word came out quieter than Aryan intended, almost hesitant, as if speaking too loudly might make the vision disappear.
But before he could move, his mother was already crossing the room. Not running—nothing so dramatic—but her pace quickened, purposeful. The careful composure she'd maintained all day cracked, just slightly.
"Abrar."
She said his name softly, but it carried everything—relief, exhaustion, reproach, love, all tangled together. Her hand came up to touch his face, fingers trembling slightly as they brushed his cheek. "You didn't tell me you were coming."
Abrar's grin softened into something tender as he caught her hand, holding it against his face. "And ruin the surprise?" His other arm came around her waist, pulling her close. "I wanted to see your face when I walked in."
"You're impossible." But she leaned into him, her forehead resting briefly against his shoulder. When she pulled back, her eyes were bright. "You look thinner. Have you been eating properly?"
"Zerin," he said, his voice carrying quiet affection and mild exasperation. "I'm fine. Stop fussing."
"Someone has to fuss over you." Her hand moved to his collar, straightening it with practiced familiarity even though it didn't need straightening. "Two years, Abrar. Two years without a word except those short letters."
"I'm sorry." His hand came up to cover hers, stilling her fidgeting. "I'm here now. That counts for something, doesn't it?"
She looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. Her fingers squeezed his briefly before she stepped back, composure sliding back into place. But her hand found his and held it, as if she still needed the physical confirmation that he was real.
Aryan watched the exchange, something tight in his chest loosening. His parents had always been like this—quiet affection expressed through small gestures rather than grand declarations. The way his mother straightened his father's collar. The way his father's thumb traced small circles on the back of her hand.
Abrar's eyes found Aryan over his wife's shoulder, and his arms opened wide, the grin returning. "Welcome home, son."
Aryan didn't remember deciding to move. One moment he was standing by the door, the next he was across the room, throwing his arms around his father and hugging him with all his strength. Abrar returned the embrace just as tightly, and for a long moment neither of them spoke. Aryan's eyes stung, and he pressed his face against his father's shoulder to hide it.
"I missed you," Aryan managed, his voice muffled by fabric and emotion.
"I missed you too." Abrar's hand came up to his head, fingers ruffling through his hair in that familiar gesture Aryan had known since childhood. "It's been too long, hasn't it? But no matter how busy I am, I couldn't miss such an important day for my son."
Aryan didn't trust himself to speak. The relief of seeing his father here, healthy and whole instead of struggling somewhere far away—it threatened to overwhelm him completely. He just held on, and his father held back, and that was enough.
When they finally separated, Aryan had to wipe quickly at his eyes. He looked around properly for the first time, taking in the gathered crowd. Carl stood nearby, still wearing that insufferable grin. His parents were there, along with several neighbors Aryan had known for years. The small house felt packed, warm with bodies and conversation and the smell of food.
"Thank you all for coming," Aryan said, his voice still a bit unsteady but growing stronger. "It really means a lot."
Carl slung an arm around Aryan's shoulders in that casually aggressive way close friends had. He was a year older than Aryan—an Air user currently studying at Savant Academy. His easy, honest nature made him popular wherever he went. They'd been friends since the week Aryan's family had moved to Marlow town.
"So, which element did you get?" Carl asked, his eyes sparkling with genuine curiosity. "Fire? Water?" He paused dramatically. "Or maybe Earth like half the other poor souls?"
Everyone else in the room leaned in slightly, equally curious. The question hung in the air, expectant and eager.
Aryan kept his expression carefully neutral, fighting the urge to grin. "Lightning."
Carl's smile widened into something incredulous. "Right. And I'm secretly a Metal user who can bend spoons with my mind." He waited for Aryan to laugh at the joke, but when Aryan's expression didn't change, his smile faltered. "Come on, seriously—what did you actually awaken?"
"He's not joking." Zerin spoke from where she stood beside her husband, her tone matter-of-fact and brooking no argument.
The room went completely silent for a heartbeat. Everyone froze mid-motion—drinks halfway to lips, conversations dying mid-word.
Carl's mouth fell open. He stared at Aryan, then swiveled to look at Zerin, then back to Aryan. His eyes went comically wide. "You're... you're serious? Lightning? Actual Lightning?"
"That's what the announcer said," Aryan confirmed, unable to hold back his grin any longer.
The room exploded into noise. Everyone started talking at once, voices overlapping in a chaotic symphony of congratulations, questions, and exclamations. Neighbors who'd seemed merely polite moments before now looked genuinely excited. Carl's parents rushed forward to congratulate Zerin and Abrar, clasping hands and beaming.
This was what Richard had meant by "rarity value." A rare element didn't just belong to the individual who awakened it—it elevated everyone connected to them.
The celebration that followed was loud, chaotic, and exactly what Aryan needed. Food appeared as if by magic—though Aryan knew his mother must have spent days preparing it all. Plates of fried snacks, bowls of seasoned rice, vegetables cooked in fragrant spices. Someone produced bottles of fruit wine that the adults passed around. Music started playing from somewhere—a stringed instrument being plucked inexpertly but enthusiastically.
People laughed and talked and shared stories. The neighbors recounted other rare awakenings they'd heard about over the years. Carl's father told an exaggerated tale about the one Lightning user he'd met decades ago, who could supposedly call down bolts from clear skies. Aryan suspected half of it was embellishment, but no one seemed to care.
Across the room, Aryan caught sight of his parents. Zerin had her hand on Abrar's arm, speaking to a neighbor, but every few moments her gaze would drift back to her husband—checking, confirming he was still there. And Abrar, while engaged in conversation with Carl's father, kept his hand at the small of Zerin's back, that constant point of contact that said more than words.
Eventually, Abrar pulled Aryan aside into a quieter corner of the house, away from the main celebration. He held a wooden box, medium-sized, its surface carved with intricate geometric patterns that seemed to shift and flow in the lamplight.
"I brought you something," Abrar said, offering the box with both hands.
Aryan's eyes widened as he took it, feeling its weight—not heavy, but substantial. "What is it?"
"Check tomorrow." Abrar's hand reached up to ruffle Aryan's hair again, that gesture somehow containing more affection than words could express. "Not tonight. Tonight is for celebrating. But I think you'll like it. It should help with your training."
Aryan wanted to protest, wanted to tear the box open immediately. But the exhaustion of the day was finally catching up with him, and his father's logic made sense. Tomorrow would be soon enough.
"Okay. Tomorrow then." He hesitated, then looked up at his father, really looked at him. The lines around his eyes seemed deeper than Aryan remembered. "Thank you. For coming back. Even if it's just for today."
Abrar's expression softened, something vulnerable flickering across his face before the usual confidence returned. "Always, son. No matter what else is happening in my life, I'll always come back for the important moments. I promise you that."
They rejoined the celebration, and Aryan let himself sink into the warmth of being surrounded by people who cared about him. Carl challenged him to an arm-wrestling match that drew a small crowd of spectators. They cleared space on the dining table, and people gathered around, placing mock bets and offering unsolicited advice.
Aryan won easily—the Vajrasana Body training had compressed his muscles into incredibly dense fibers that made him far stronger than his lean frame suggested. Carl demanded a rematch, then another, losing all three times with increasingly theatrical displays of disbelief.
More food appeared. More stories were shared. Neighbors who'd started the evening as relative strangers now chatted like old friends, united by their shared connection to Aryan's rare awakening.
Eventually, guests began to leave, offering final congratulations and well-wishes as they filtered out into the night. Carl was one of the last to go, clasping Aryan's hand firmly and pulling him into a brief, rough hug.
"Lightning user, huh?" Carl said, his voice carrying both pride and challenge. "Don't get too cocky when you come to the academy. I'll still kick your ass in training."
"You can try," Aryan shot back, grinning.
After everyone had gone and the house had been cleaned up, Aryan lingered at the base of the stairs, not quite ready to leave his parents yet. Through the kitchen doorway, he could see them working together in comfortable silenceZerin washing dishes while Abrar dried them and put them away, their movements synchronized from years of practice.
"You're leaving again soon, aren't you?" Zerin's voice was quiet, matter-of-fact, but Aryan heard the weight beneath it.
Abrar's hands stilled on the plate he was drying. "Day after tomorrow. I managed to extend the trip by a day, but—"
"But you have responsibilities. I know." She handed him another dish, her movements careful, controlled. "Just... come back in one piece this time, Abrar."
"I will." He set the plate down and turned her to face him, hands on her shoulders. "And I'll write more. Proper letters, not just those short notes."
"You'd better." But she smiled, reaching up to touch his face again, as if memorizing the feel of him. "Go on, get upstairs. Our son's been standing in the hallway pretending he's not eavesdropping for the past five minutes."
Aryan jerked back from the doorway, his face burning. Had he been that obvious?
His father's laugh followed him up the stairs, warm and knowing.
Aryan finally made his way to his room. He placed the wooden box on his desk, running his fingers over the carved patterns one more time. Tomorrow. He'd open it tomorrow.
He changed into sleeping clothes and collapsed onto his bed. The mattress felt impossibly soft, welcoming, perfect.
The events of the day played through his mind in disconnected fragments—standing before those crystals, the terrible fear when nothing responded, the overwhelming rush when Lightning finally answered. The announcement. The journey home. The surprise party. His father's return. His parents' quiet reunion—the way his mother had said his father's name, the way his father's hand had found hers and held on.
Somewhere in his drowsy thoughts, he remembered the strange dream from that morning—the woman's voice speaking words of encouragement, the promise he'd made without fully understanding. It seemed important somehow, connected to everything that had happened, but his exhausted mind couldn't quite grasp how the pieces fit together.
His eyelids grew heavier with each blink. The thoughts became hazier, drifting like smoke.
Within moments, Aryan sank into deep, dreamless sleep, a slight smile still on his face.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new training, new discoveries about what it meant to be a Lightning user.
But tonight, he was simply a boy who'd achieved his dream, surrounded by people who loved him, with a future full of infinite possibility stretching ahead.