The sun hovered above the Awakening Grounds, casting long shadows from the temple pillars that surrounded the circular stone altar. Faint wind stirred the tall grass, rustling the banners of Helon's crest—a golden flame over silver wings.
Today was the Awakening Ceremony.
And like every year, the entire village had gathered, their gazes bright with hope or heavy with resignation.
The altar was ancient, made of white stone older than the kingdom itself, said to be carved by the First Awakened who once spoke to the gods directly. Though the world had changed, the ceremony remained the same—because it had to. It was tradition, yes, but more than that, it was necessity.
In the Kingdom of Helon, strength was not inherited by birthright. It was earned through divine acknowledgment. Children, upon turning fifteen, stood beneath the eyes of the gods to be chosen—granted a mark, a blessing, and a path.
The mark could be anything—a blazing tattoo across the spine, a glowing crest on the palm, or an ethereal sigil hovering behind the eyes. It came with power, status, direction. Nobles were made from nothing if their god was strong. Soldiers, mages, priests, tamers—everything began here.
But Kain… Kain was the exception.
No one expected him to receive anything.
Even he didn't.
He had lived fifteen quiet years on the edge of the village. His father was long gone. His mother—distant, hardened by years of knowing her son would likely be left behind. Kain wasn't particularly smart, strong, or skilled. His body was frail. He didn't have the passion of a warrior, the cunning of a rogue, or the resolve of a priest.
In a world defined by divine affinity… Kain was undefined.
"Next!" the elder called, and another boy stepped forward, trembling with anticipation.
A brilliant green light enveloped him as a wind god answered his prayer. The crowd erupted in cheers.
Kain barely reacted.
He was third from the end.
He clenched his fists behind his back. Not in hope. Not in fear. Just to feel something.
Then—
A sudden stillness.
Like a breath held by the world itself.
A strange warmth coiled around his neck and down his spine. It wasn't a physical sensation—it was thought. Intent. Presence.
"You can call me Inventor."
The voice spoke directly into his mind. Smooth. Deep. Amused.
Kain stiffened. His body reacted before his thoughts caught up.
W-What… what is this?
His thoughts spiraled.
Was this his god?
No—impossible. No mark. No glow. No sign.
And yet… he wasn't alone in his mind.
"I am many things. But to you, I will be… a companion. A guide. Perhaps, in time, something more."
There was no holiness in that voice. No distant majesty or divine thunder.
It felt realer than that. Closer.
"Why?" Kain thought. "Why me?"
There was a pause.
"Because you are—"
But the answer never came.
A sharp, incomprehensible noise stabbed into Kain's mind—like a thousand voices clashing into one, followed by complete silence. A message appeared in his thoughts like carved stone.
[ACCESS DENIED. CENSORED BY SYSTEM.]
"...—####—"
His knees buckled slightly.
No one noticed.
Because no one was watching.
The elder called his name with the same bored tone used to announce cloudy weather.
"Kain of Helon, step forward."
He walked slowly. Each step felt carved out of gravity itself. His stomach twisted, but not from fear. From awareness. Something was happening. Something big—and no one could see it but him.
He stepped onto the altar.
The elder placed both hands gently on Kain's head, as was tradition.
"May the gods look upon this child and grant him their light."
Silence.
No wind. No pulse of energy. Not even a flicker.
The elder didn't look surprised. His hands withdrew almost casually.
"No god has answered."
Kain stood.
No one gasped. No one whispered. No one cared.
It was exactly what they had expected.
Parents turned to their own children, talking about dinner and blessings. The elder moved on to the next name. And Kain stood in the center of the altar, alone among a crowd.
Again.
But this time…
He wasn't completely alone.
"We don't need their approval, Kain."
The voice returned, warmer now, like a flame curling beneath frost.
"Let them look away. Let them forget you."
Kain didn't move.
"Because when we begin…"
A strange sensation bloomed behind his eyes—like a thought too large for his skull, too bright for the mind.
"...they'll have no choice but to remember."
---
The voice faded, and with it, the last spark of warmth from the altar. Kain stepped down, feeling the uneven grooves of the stone beneath his worn sandals. The cheers from earlier had already died down—replaced with the low hum of conversation as villagers prepared to leave.
He didn't look for his mother in the crowd. He knew what he'd see: arms crossed, lips tight, eyes distant. Disappointment wasn't something she voiced. It was something she wore.
And besides, he'd long since stopped expecting anything different.
Kain slipped away from the square.
No one stopped him.
The dirt path back home curved along the village's edge. Stone houses lined the road, simple and square, with ivy creeping up the walls and wooden fences creaking in the wind. He passed a group of boys laughing—one of them had awakened with a strength blessing, already flexing his muscles like a hero from a bard's tale.
None of them acknowledged Kain.
The wind was colder in the shade.
Helon was a small kingdom—just one of dozens scattered across the fractured continent of Orilyon. Its gods were minor ones: spirits of wind, of harvest, of old roads and forgotten forests. Most of the major deities—those who had once shaped the world—had long retreated from mortal affairs. Some claimed they were sleeping. Others whispered they were dead.
But the Divine System remained.
Each god that answered a mortal did so through the System—an ancient, invisible lattice that connected minds, wills, and power. It regulated the balance. Chose who could ascend. Who could awaken. Who could be remembered.
Kain had never received even a whisper of it.
Until today.
He reached the outskirts of the village and ducked beneath the low archway of his home. It was small—just two rooms, built from weathered stone and thick timber. He dropped onto the wooden bench by the window and exhaled for the first time in what felt like hours.
Silence.
He waited for the emptiness to settle in.
But it didn't.
"You held up well," said the voice again. Inventor. "I expected you to break. Cry, maybe. Run. But you didn't."
Kain didn't reply aloud. He wasn't sure if the voice wanted conversation or was just filling the quiet. But then again, hadn't he always talked to himself before? This was… strangely normal.
"You're not like the others," Inventor said softly. "And I don't just mean that in a kind way. You're not part of this world's design. You don't belong in its code."
"What do you mean?" Kain finally whispered.
Inventor laughed. "Ah, now you're curious. Good. Curiosity is the first step toward defiance."
Kain frowned. "You said I don't belong. Then… who am I?"
"You are Kain."
"That's not an answer."
"No," the voice said, gentler now, "but it's all the answer you're allowed. For now."
Kain stood and paced the room, restless. The ceremony hadn't left him hollow like he expected. It had left him wired, uncertain. Like a taut string ready to snap.
"What now?" he asked.
"Now?" the voice replied. "You train. You fail. You repeat. Again and again. Until the System notices you—or until we find a way around it."
"Is that even possible?"
A pause.
"Not for others. But you're not 'others,' are you, Kain?"
Kain looked down at his hand, still unmarked.
It looked like a failure's hand.
But somewhere deep beneath the skin, something stirred.
---
That night, Kain lay awake, staring at the ceiling beams. His mother hadn't spoken a word. She'd returned home later than him, set a bowl of broth on the table, and went to bed without even looking his way.
A familiar routine.
But unfamiliar thoughts buzzed in his mind.
Who was Inventor?
Why had no mark appeared?
Why had the System censored his identity?
"Hey," Kain thought, unsure if the voice was still listening, "why can't I remember what you tried to say?"
There was a long silence.
Then—
"I'll say this right now... but they are watching."
Kain sat up sharply.
"Sleep, Kain," the voice whispered again. "Your story hasn't even started yet."
And with that, silence returned.
But this time, it wasn't empty.
It was waiting.
---