Two years passed.
..
LUMENHAROR, Iron Ring Fighting Club.
The gym hall echoed with sharp breaths and the dull thud of feet striking the mat. Two figures moved at incredible speed, their silhouettes blurring as they exchanged blows. A straight punch, a hook, followed by an uppercut. They kept changing positions and roles, one attacking while the other defended. Their speed increased as the sparring continued, until it no longer felt like sparring, but a real fight.
Sweat drenched the mats of the hall, heavy breaths colliding as they suddenly stopped, a clear tacit understanding passing between them.
One of them was Varen Locke.
The other was his coach for the last two years.
At eighteen, Varen Locke stood tall at 1.83 meters, with broad shoulders and defined muscles. His black hair was cut short in a clean, military style, neat and controlled. His face carried a steady sharpness; the childishness and playfulness of before were long gone. But his eyes stood out the most, dark and intense, holding a weight that did not belong to someone so young.
..
After his parents' death, the government had handled everything efficiently. Compensation, housing support, education funding. Cases like his were managed carefully to prevent unrest. Civilians dying in the crossfire of awakened conflicts was, tragically, nothing new.
Financially, Varen was stable. He could have lived a normal life if he wanted to. The legacy his parents left behind was enough to carry him quietly into adulthood.
But the fact that he stood here, fighting day after day, proved he wanted none of that.
For two years, Varen tried everything. Meditation meant to sharpen the mind. Cognitive exercises designed to stimulate neural activity. Muscle conditioning beyond safe limits. Breath control. Sensory deprivation. Martial training. He tested his body again and again, chasing the faint hope that something would respond.
..
The coach raised his guard again and smiled faintly.
"That's enough warming up," he said. "Let's end this."
They moved.
The coach lunged forward, faster than before. Earlier, he had gone with the flow, matching Varen for training's sake. Now, he attacked in earnest. His steel-like muscles moved with incredible flexibility. A straight to the left was followed by a gut punch. Varen took the straight with his shoulder and intercepted the strike to his stomach with his right knee. But the moment he lifted his foot, the coach seized the opening. A low sweep caught Varen's remaining leg, sending him crashing to the ground.
The coach went for the finish, but Varen rolled away with incredible swiftness, escaping his range and springing back to his feet.
"Heh, not bad for a rookie," the coach said, clearly satisfied. "Looks like you can fight a little."
"Nothing spectacular," Varen replied. "I'm just grasping at straws."
With a hollow laugh, Varen jumped forward, resuming the match. He went for the legs, striking the coach's thigh at a specific nerve point, aiming to send a burst of pain for a quick finish. But the coach wasn't fooled. Tightening his muscles, he endured the blow. Varen felt as though he had struck a steel plate and backed away.
The pressure mounted. The coach unleashed a relentless flurry of punches, kicks, and takedowns. Varen blocked what he could, dodged when possible, and endured the rest.
"If you keep enduring like this," the coach taunted, "you're not going anywhere."
The words struck deep. The moment hesitation flickered in Varen's gaze, the coach pressed forward, spinning into a back kick aimed straight at his chest.
As Varen weathered the storm, something changed. Enduring became easier. A whisper seemed to guide him, telling him where to move. He listened.
Before the kick even landed, Varen felt an illusory impact against his chest. He knew exactly where it would strike. Before the motion finished, he stepped aside and countered.
At that moment, everything changed.
The world felt different. He sensed the displacement of wind slicing through space, felt pressure ripple before contact. The coach's intentions were laid bare. Before the attack even formed, Varen was already there, cutting it short. His body moved on instinct, faster than thought.
The space around him felt alive.
A five-meter radius fed him endless information. Wind speed. Air resistance. Distance between his fist and the coach's nose. The slick puddle of sweat behind the coach's feet.
And more than that.
He felt two distinct energies. One rapidly gathered within his body, filling him from head to toe. Varen felt he could punch straight through the coach, split him in two if he wished.
The thought terrified him.
He forced himself to focus, reining the power down to the bare minimum.
And in just a few moves, he countered.
Once.
Twice.
Three clean strikes.
The coach stumbled and fell to the mat.
Silence filled the gym.
Varen reached out to help him up, his heart pounding.
The coach froze.
His eyes widened as he stared at Varen's face.
"Your eyes," he said slowly. "They changed."
Varen blinked.
Reflected in a fogged mirror nearby, his eyes were no longer ordinary. The black of his irises had deepened, swallowing light, sharply ringed by white. Faint silver streaks twisted within the darkness, shifting like distant constellations caught in motion.
The coach laughed softly, disbelief mixing with awe.
"You awakened," he said. "That's a clear sign."
Joy surged through Varen.
Then pain followed.
If this had happened earlier…
If only.
His parents' faces surfaced in his mind, twisting painfully in his chest. He forced himself back to the present. The past could not be changed.
After the session, they spoke briefly. The coach congratulated him, his tone filled with envy, respect, and a faint trace of fear. Varen felt the shift clearly. No more casual words. Each sentence was carefully spelled, as though spoken to a superior rather than a student.
Varen excused himself, no longer in the mood for conversation. He showered at the club, went straight home, and barely restrained himself from focusing on his ability. He prepared dinner, ate, changed into comfortable clothes, and finally sat on his bed.
Only then did he allow himself to focus.
The moment his ability awakened, he knew it was passive. That sense of control, the constant stream of detail, the ever-present energy had followed him from the club all the way home.
"This energy…" he murmured. "It was mentioned that awakened gain access to power the moment they awaken. This must be the source."
Yet there was another energy. Subtler. Stranger. Something not mentioned in any book he had read.
But Varen knew where to find answers.
"Finally," he thought with a self-mocking smile. "I can go to the place of my dreams."
That evening, he stood before the AURELION AWAKENED COUNCIL branch in LUMENHAROR.
The building stood at the city's center, its importance unmistakable. A towering white structure, nearly a hundred meters tall, it resembled a blade piercing the clouds. Inside, staff moved efficiently through wide halls, yet visitors were few. Awakened were rare.
Varen approached the reception desk.
"I want to register," he said calmly. "I awakened today."
A young man with light stubble, framed glasses, and an intelligent air looked up with a bright smile.
"Please state your name."
"Varen Locke."
The man nodded, typing rapidly.
"Welcome to the world of the gifted, Mr. Varen Locke."