Kael woke to pain.
It wasn't sharp—no, it was dull, deep, and everywhere. The kind that settled into bone and refused to leave. His right arm throbbed in time with his heartbeat, swollen and stiff from elbow to wrist.
He hissed softly and sat up.
The ruined shrine greeted him in shades of gray. Morning light filtered through the collapsed roof, dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Lyra was already awake, crouched near the entrance, carefully tearing strips from an old cloth.
"You shouldn't move," she said without looking back.
Kael flexed his fingers experimentally. Pain flared—but the hand obeyed.
"Is it broken?" he asked.
"No," Lyra replied. "Bruised. Maybe a hairline crack if you're unlucky."
She turned, silver eyes sharp with concern. "You were reckless."
He grimaced. "They would've taken everything."
"I know." She tied the cloth snugly around his arm, firm but careful. "That doesn't mean I liked it."
Kael exhaled slowly, forcing his muscles to relax. This body didn't recover like his old one. Every mistake cost more.
They sat in silence for a moment.
Outside, the slums were already awake.
Shouting. Coughing. Metal clanging against stone. The low murmur of desperation that never truly faded.
Lyra broke the quiet. "People saw."
Kael looked up. "The fight?"
She nodded. "Word travels fast here. Especially when newcomers don't fold."
"That's bad," he said immediately.
"And good," she countered. "Depends who hears it first."
They left the shrine cautiously.
Kael adjusted his posture to hide the stiffness in his arm. Weakness was an invitation here. Lyra stayed half a step behind him—not submissive, but positioned to watch their flanks.
Eyes followed them as they walked.
Some curious. Some resentful. Some calculating.
A man leaning against a wall spat near Kael's feet as they passed. "Thinkin' you're tough, kid?"
Kael didn't respond.
Further down the street, a woman selling scraps nodded at them with faint approval.
Information.
Reputation.
Currency without coin.
They stopped near a communal water pump. Lyra filled a cracked flask while Kael scanned the area.
"Two groups," he murmured. "Left alley. Rooftop."
Lyra didn't look. "Watching or waiting?"
"Watching," Kael said after a second. "For now."
They moved on.
By midday, Kael's arm had stiffened further. He could still work, but every lift sent dull shocks through his nerves. They took smaller jobs—sorting, carrying light bundles, cleaning.
At one stall, a broad-shouldered man with burn scars along his neck studied them carefully.
"You fought last night," he said.
Lyra met his gaze. "We defended ourselves."
He snorted. "In the slums, that's the same thing."
He tossed them a small pouch—inside, a few copper coins.
"Name's Brann," he said. "I need runners. Not fighters. You interested?"
Kael bowed his head slightly. "Depends where."
Brann smiled thinly. "Smart answer."
They ran messages across the slums that afternoon. Nothing glamorous. Notes wrapped in oilcloth. Directions whispered and memorized, then burned.
Kael learned the city's veins quickly—how it breathed, where it tightened, where it bled.
Lyra noticed something else.
"Kael," she said quietly as they rested behind a stack of crates. "You're… slower."
He didn't deny it. "This body hasn't caught up yet."
"That's not what I mean." She hesitated. "You're hesitating."
He frowned. "I'm injured."
"That's part of it," she said. "But before… back home… you'd already moved."
He thought about it.
She was right.
Back on Earth, his body obeyed instinct honed over years. Distance, timing, intent—his mind and muscles had been one.
Here, there was a delay.
A fraction of a second.
Enough to get killed.
"I feel heavy," he admitted. "Like I'm wrapped in something I can't shed."
Lyra stared at her hands. "Me too."
That night, they returned to the shrine with a small bundle of food and a little water. Not enough—but better than nothing.
Kael lay on his back, arm resting across his chest.
"Lyra," he said quietly.
"Mm?"
"What if we never awaken?"
She didn't answer right away.
In the novel, awakening was everything. Affinity determined worth. Power determined survival.
Unawakened adults filled the slums. Broken. Forgotten.
"If that happens," she said finally, "we adapt."
Kael turned his head toward her. "How?"
She met his gaze steadily. "The same way we always have. By doing what others won't."
He closed his eyes.
Sleep came fitfully.
Dreams followed.
He stood in a vast black expanse, groundless and endless. No stars. No light.
He lifted his hand—and felt resistance.
Not mana.
Something denser.
He pushed.
The darkness pushed back.
Kael woke gasping.
Sweat soaked his clothes. His heart raced.
Lyra sat up instantly. "What happened?"
"I don't know," he said, breath unsteady. "A dream."
But the sensation lingered.
Pressure.
Weight.
As if the world were pressing inward—and something inside him was learning how to press back.
The next day, the slums changed.
Not visibly. Not dramatically.
But Kael felt it.
People watched more openly now. Whispers followed them. A group of boys from the night before stood at a distance, fear replacing arrogance.
That afternoon, Brann pulled them aside.
"You two caused trouble," he said bluntly.
Kael tensed. "We defended ourselves."
"I know," Brann said. "And that's the problem."
Lyra frowned. "Explain."
"There's a local gang," Brann said. "Call themselves the Ash Dogs. They control this stretch. They don't like disruptions."
Kael exchanged a glance with Lyra. "So what happens now?"
Brann studied them for a long moment. "They'll test you."
"When?"
"Soon."
As if summoned by the words, a shadow fell across the alley mouth.
Four figures stood there.
Older. Bigger. Better fed.
One of them rolled his neck lazily. Another cracked a knuckle. The leader smiled, revealing a chipped tooth.
"So," he said. "You're the kids who forgot their place."
Kael felt it again.
That pressure.
Still no mana.
Still no aura.
Still ordinary.
Lyra stepped beside him.
"Stay behind me," Kael murmured.
She snorted. "Not a chance."
The leader laughed. "Cute."
He raised his hand.
And Kael understood something, with sudden, brutal clarity.
This world didn't care if they awakened later.
It didn't care about potential.
It cared about now.
Kael lowered his stance, ignoring the pain in his arm. His breath slowed. His vision narrowed.
No power.
No system.
Just skill.
Just will.
Just the thin line between survival and death.
And as the first man lunged—
Something deep within Kael shifted.
Not opening.
Not awakening.
But listening.
The darkness waited.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Kael smiled.