Jack's Home
Bedlam Neighborhood
Periun city, Kettlia Region
Ashtarium nation
North American continent
September 25th 2019
Jack decided to take the stairs this time. He could have jumped directly into his room with a flick of his Zone—but he didn't. Not tonight. His legs moved slowly, methodically, carrying him up each flight of stairs with a weight that had nothing to do with fatigue. He wanted to see his mother. And there was no point pretending he'd been home all day. She always knew.
By the time he reached the sixth floor, the dim hallway light flickering above him, Jack turned instinctively toward the old elevator.
He checked it out of habit—his gaze sweeping across the indicator lights, listening for the gentle hum of its mechanics. It seemed operational, at least for now. But he made a mental note to speak with the building's maintenance guy again. The elevator was essential—the only way his mother could reach the outside world. Too often, it broke down. And too often, no one cared enough to fix it quickly.
Satisfied, Jack moved to their apartment door, keys ready in hand—when he felt it.
A shift in pressure. A disturbance in the quiet stillness of home.
There was someone else inside.
He paused, fingers on the doorknob, listening.
Voices.
His mother's, soft and clear… and a deeper voice—familiar.
Jack opened the door and stepped inside.
"Hello, Mom. I'm home," he called out casually, masking the edge in his voice as he slipped into the narrow hallway that led to the living room.
The space opened before him, a shared area where their modest kitchen blended into the living space. The furniture was humble but well-kept, a patchwork of thrifted warmth and care. The afternoon light filtered through the curtains, slanting gold across the floor.
At the dining table, positioned between the kitchen and the couch, sat his mother in her wheelchair—smiling. And beside her, leaning back with arms folded, was a broad-shouldered man with warm brown skin and a heavy presence that made the room feel just a bit smaller.
"Uncle Jacien?" Jack blinked, surprised. "What are you doing here?"
Jacien turned, expression unreadable beneath the calm lines of his face. He barely looked a day older than when Jack had first met him. A mountain of a man, with tired eyes and a butcher's stillness.
He'd been a fixture in Jack's life since the Incident nine years ago. He had lost someone that day, too. But for reasons Jack never quite understood, he struck up a friendship with Lucy Ryan while she was still in the hospital. Ever since, he'd shown up in their lives—never too often, never intrusively—just enough to matter.
Over time, he'd offered Jack a job at his butchery not far from their neighborhood. It was a lifeline, especially when allowances weren't an option and the bills were barely covered by government welfare.
Jack's eyes flicked to the table.
A pair of teacups.
The steam rising from one had already thinned to a faint haze, the other still gently curling. Jack estimated Jacien had been there at least fifteen to twenty minutes.
"Jack," his mother said, turning her wheelchair toward him. "Where've you been?"
Jack reached for a third cup, trying to look casual. "I was at Eli's," he said smoothly, setting the kettle on the stovetop. "We were studying for the PSAT. It's coming up this fall, remember?"
He poured water and stirred without looking back.
Then, with practiced ease, he turned, bent low, and kissed his mother on the cheek.
Jacien watched all of it in silence.
"Glad to see you're taking school seriously," Jacien said, his tone friendly—but his gaze held weight. He could smell the lie. Feel it.
Jack had been somewhere else. He carried the scent of smoke, adrenaline, tension. There were too many micro-signals in his posture, too many flecks of emotion clinging to his aura. But Jacien said nothing. He just sipped his tea and watched—taking stock. Not just of Jack's awakening. But of the deeper shift. The tension beneath the surface. The way Jack held himself now—less like a boy… and more like something becoming other.
"You're still planning on med school, right, Jack?" Jacien asked, his voice casual but laced with intent.
"That's the plan," Jack replied, sipping from his cup.
A beat passed before he added, "Hey, Uncle Jacien... since you're here—I was planning to swing by the shop soon. Thought I'd see if you had any shifts available."
Jacien offered him a knowing look. "You know you're always welcome there, Jack. Any day, any time."
Jack smiled faintly. "Well... the smell and the sight of raw meat never really grew on me."
It was true. As a vegetarian, working in a butcher shop made little sense. But necessity had a way of silencing discomfort. Jack needed the money, and Jacien had given him a lifeline when no one else could. Still, there were times—too many—when the scent of blood and the glassy eyes of slaughtered animals made Jack nauseous. Sometimes he'd vomit after a shift. Other times, he'd stare at the cleaver too long, wondering what it meant to be strong in a world full of carcasses.
But Jacien had never judged. He let Jack come and go as needed, without question.
Now, something had changed.
"I think I can handle it better this time," Jack said quietly. "I feel... stronger."
He stood up, finishing the last of his tea. Setting the cup down gently, he leaned in and kissed his mother's cheek once more.
"Love you, Mom."
She smiled, her hand brushing his.
Then he turned and left them to their conversation.
In his room, Jack shut the door softly behind him.
The familiar stillness washed over him—the slight hum of the old fan, the faded posters on the wall, the comforting clutter of someone trying to live two lives: student and something else entirely.
He pulled off his jacket, exhaling, and turned to the mirror.
His fingers lifted his shirt.
The bruise on his back bloomed a dark red across his brown skin, edged with faint purple. Angry. Sore. But not open. No blood. No entry wound.
Just impact.
He stared at it for a long moment, brows furrowed.
"Damn," he muttered.
That shotgun should have killed him. There should have been a crater where his back used to be. Instead—just a bruise. Painful, but survivable.
The Zone protected me. Somehow, his ability had caught the blast. Transformed it. Absorbed it.
"Ascendant should recover after a night's rest," the Codex whispered in his mind, its tone as calm and clinical as always. "A night's rest will allow the mana within your system to accelerate regenerative processes."
"Mana..." Jack said slowly. "What even is that?"
"Mana is the harmonized, structured expression of Spirit Energy—the primordial force that binds the material and spiritual realms. It is the universal medium of spellcraft, cultivation, and mystical articulation across existence."
"So... magical fuel," Jack summarized, dry.
"It is not merely a fuel," the Codex corrected. "Mana is a refined evolution of Odic Energy—the metaphysical current that flows through all things. It is the foundational power behind spellcraft, enchantments, and mana-infused phenomena."
"Magic," Jack repeated under his breath.
"Do not concern yourself with the subject of Magic," the Codex replied, tone sharpened by authority. "Due to the nature of your mana core's development, your path has diverged from the standard arcane continuum."
Jack blinked. "The standard path?"
"You are not the only Ascendant in the world," the Codex said. "But your progression does not follow the traditional avenues of mystical study. Your growth is tied to your Ability Factor—Zone Drive."
Jack frowned, curiosity rising again. "Still... I want to know more about—"
"Ascendant Ryan must focus on mastering his Ability Factor," the Codex interrupted, more forcefully now. "The deeper your resonance with Zone Drive, the more your mana core will expand. Growth in power must be rooted in refinement."
Jack let out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. There was so much he didn't know. So much he wanted to understand—magic, Odic energy, cultivation systems—but he barely had time to keep up with school, let alone unravel the secrets of the universe. Still... the Codex seemed to know when to reveal things. It would speak when the time was right. For now, all he could do was train, survive, and study. Zone Drive was his path. The rest... could wait.
****
Roland premier Meat shop
Periun city, Kettlia Region
Ashtarium nation
North American continent
September 26th 2019
The street had been slick with blood.
Sirens howled in the distance. Smoke blackened the sky, curling upward like a warning etched into the heavens. Screams echoed through shattered windows. Jack, barely more than a child, had stumbled through the rubble of a collapsed building, his knees scraped, his breath caught somewhere between panic and dust.
Bodies were everywhere—strewn like broken toys. Limbs bent at angles that defied nature. Faces frozen mid-scream. Eyes open, glassy, seeing nothing.
A child's shoe.A crushed hand.His mother's voice, raw with fear, crying his name into the ruins.
The smell had been the worst: copper, charred hair, and something else… something wrong. He remembered a man—chest torn open, ribs snapped inward, as if something had erupted from within.
That image never left him. Not really.
And now—
Jack's eyes snapped open.
He blinked slowly, the room around him coming into focus in pieces. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, whispering against the early morning silence. Light leaked through the curtains, drawing faint patterns across his bedsheets. His breath was steady, his body still. But something cold lingered beneath his skin. A dream. He was certain of it. But like fog under sunlight, it evaporated too quickly to grasp.
Jack sat up, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. Whatever it was, it was already slipping from memory. No time to dwell on dreams. He rose from the bed, shoulders tight with a tension he didn't question. It was time to check on his mom, see if she needed anything, and get ready for his shift at Jacien's shop.
Later that morning, Jack was back in familiar territory—Jacien's shop. He moved through the back entrance, clocking in for another round of dishwashing. The steam, the clang of plates, the hum of orders being shouted—each sound a tether to the present. He didn't complain. The rhythm of it all helped him forget about his dream. Even if only for a little while.
The place hadn't changed. The scent of smoked meats and black tea lingered in the air, mingling with the warmth of grilled bread and the hum of casual conversation. Jacien's establishment wasn't just a butcher shop—it doubled as a cozy sandwich café, offering everything from roast brisket and pastrami melts to exotic tea blends that seemed to soothe both body and soul.
As Jack stepped through the back entrance, he gave a polite nod to the familiar staff, exchanging short greetings with the cooks and servers prepping for the midday rush. They greeted him with warmth, easy smiles, and the kind of quiet acknowledgment that made him feel, if not at home, then at least welcome. None of them seemed to mind the way Jacien handled Jack a little differently.
Though to be fair, it wasn't really Jacien who coddled him.
That was Yomen's domain.
The towering, broad-shouldered co-owner of the shop ran the butchery floor with the authority of a general and the precision of a surgeon. She moved like a woman who had learned long ago that pain didn't ask for permission—and so neither did she. It was Yomen who made sure Jack got longer breaks when needed, who assigned him less time around the carcasses, and who occasionally slipped him extra tips at the end of a shift.
Like Jack, she had lost someone in the Incident nine years ago. That grief carved an unspoken bond between them. And maybe, just maybe, she saw something of her own pain reflected in Jack's eyes.
He never complained about her kindness.
He just accepted it, grateful and quiet.
As Jack tied his apron and checked into the shift log near the back, he heard the soft creak of the door open behind him. He turned—
And blinked in surprise.
"Sarah?" he said, arching a brow. "What are you doing here?"
She grinned, setting down a tray of empty dishes she'd been carrying in from the café floor. Her chestnut-brown hair was tied back in a ponytail, a few loose strands clinging to her cheeks from the heat of the kitchen.
"Aren't you the one who introduced me to this place?" she said, brushing her hands off on her apron.
It took Jack a second to remember—but then it clicked. A few months back, Sarah had been desperate for a job. He'd told her about the shop, introduced her to Yomen, and—unsurprisingly—she'd charmed her way into a position within a week.
"Yeah," he said, chuckling as they headed toward the dishwashing room in the back. "But I thought you were just working summer shifts."
"I was." She gave him a sly look. "But I sort of... stuck with it. Unlike someone who kept disappearing without notice."
Jack rolled his eyes as he grabbed a pair of gloves and switched on the industrial sink.
"What can I say? Life got complicated."
Sarah nudged him with her elbow. "So, what brings you back now?"
He didn't answer immediately. He let the question hang in the steam between them, the sound of running water filling the space.
"I need the money," Jack said simply.
She looked at him a moment longer, her expression unreadable. Then she gave a small nod and picked up a stack of plates.
"Well," she said. "Welcome back."