Nemo jolted awake as the door creaked open, a low screech dragging him from unconsciousness. Pain throbbed behind his eyes, a pounding rhythm that made him wince. He groaned, pushing himself upright.
"Bit odd to sleep on the floor when there's a bed right there," came a voice, light with amusement. "But then again, we Awakened can be a stubborn bunch."
Nemo blinked blearily up at the tall figure in the doorway. Arbil, smiling faintly.
"They didn't want to disturb you, so I brought food. It's on the plane. Up you get."
Nemo sat on the edge of the bed, hands pressed to his temples. A sharper wave of pain surged through him.
"Wait..." he croaked. His voice was hoarse. "The letters. The words you made me see. They're still there. I can't get rid of them."
The moment he'd opened his eyes, those glowing symbols had burned in his vision—glorious, chaotic, and colorful.
Arbil's expression sharpened. "Still there?"
Nemo nodded.
"Hmm. They usually fade in seconds, but... not always. Occasionally the essence solidifies mid-drift. Rare, but not unheard of. You blacked out yesterday, didn't you?"
Another nod.
Arbil scratched his beard, then leaned closer. "Focus on your eyes—where the essence gathers. Try to perceive the flow. There's a stream of energy moving in and out, but some of it might be stagnant. Like a pool untouched by the current. Find that, and nudge it into motion."
Nemo dropped cross-legged to the ground. He closed his eyes, breathing slowly. At first, nothing. Then—there. A sluggish reservoir, unmoved and unnatural. He nudged at it with the essence in his will. It took effort, but it finally stirred. Flow returned. The headache lessened.
And the letters vanished.
He exhaled in relief.
"See? Not all bad," Arbil said, turning toward the door. "Come on. I'll explain while we walk."
Nemo didn't hesitate. He grabbed the tattered book from the nightstand and followed.
As they walked through the winding corridors, Arbil spoke.
"Essence is all about motion. Every technique, every power—it's flow. That's the default for most. But your situation is different. Your essence can anchor itself. For people like me, who need constant shifts to support others, that'd be a nightmare. But for you—"
"Metal root," Nemo murmured.
Arbil grinned. "Exactly. For those with metal roots, essence becomes substance. A blade, armor, tools—all extensions of will. Normally, these constructs need continuous projection. Constant effort. But yours? Once summoned, they persist until you choose otherwise—or until the essence runs dry."
They passed into a long hall lined with labs. This time, it wasn't empty. White coats bustled between terminals, glowing tanks, and floating drones. Scientists. What they were studying, Nemo couldn't guess.
"Yesterday, your pool dried up," Arbil continued. "When that happens, your body starts drawing essence from the rest of you. First your reserves, then—your mental focus. That's what knocked you out."
Nemo furrowed his brow.
"Ironically, that flaw saves most Awakened. Once your mind shuts down, the essence flow resets. If not... the technique could tap your life energy next. And that would've killed you."
He looked at Nemo, eyes gleaming.
"The human body is astonishing. It adapts. Millennia of evolution, and then—bam! Just a few hundred years of exposure to foreign essence, and it's already defending against it in ways we barely understand. You'll learn more at the academy, but most of it won't even scratch the surface."
They reached an elevator. As it rose, Arbil glanced at the book Nemo still carried.
"Where'd you get that?"
"From the waiting room before my first trip."
"That exact one? You're sure it wasn't swapped out?"
Nemo frowned. "No, I think it's the same. But... after my third trip, it had more in it. Like it added itself."
Arbil's face gave nothing away.
"Did you ask to take it with you?"
Nemo paused. "No. Should I leave it? I could drop it in the elevator."
His fingers tightened around it.
"No need. They've got plenty," Arbil said with a sigh. The doors opened, sunlight spilling in. "But next time? Ask. You never know where these things have been—or what's attached to them. Stealing's a dangerous habit."
They stepped out onto a wind-swept rooftop runway. A group of about a dozen stood nearby, clustered but quiet. Ages varied—some barely older than Nemo, others close to thirty.
Everyone looked tired. Thin. Worn.
Nemo took his place beside a youth with dark bags under his eyes and skin the color of burnt caramel. A mirror, almost. Did he look the same?
Arbil stepped forward and raised his voice.
"Welcome, Awakened. As of now, you're no longer bound to mundane duties. You have a year at the academy—non-negotiable. After that, your paths diverge. We'll cover all of that in time."
He pointed beyond the rooftop, toward a sleek white aircraft gleaming under the sun.
"The academy isn't here in Atlantis. It's far. We fly. For many of you, this is your first time leaving the city. Don't worry—it's safe. Special."
He paced slowly.
"Now, two rules. First: if a superior gives you a command—no matter how weird, how idiotic—follow it. Some might mess with you. Most won't. More often than not, the dumbest orders are the ones that save lives."
He let that sink in.
"Second: the world is mostly quiet. Peaceful. But never forget—it isn't empty. Monsters, anomalies, things we barely comprehend—they're out there. Behind clouds. In the shadows of mountains. Don't let the stillness fool you."
Six figures emerged from the side hangar, dressed in black uniforms. They chatted casually, laughing.
"That's why we fly with guards," Arbil added. "Now, listen up. These are the flight rules."
He pointed toward the plane.
"Inside, the cabin light is white. That's normal. If it turns red—no noise. No whispers, no laughs. Silence. If it turns green, then white—it's safe again."
He paused. "If it turns purple—jump. Open the back hatch and get out."
Silence.
One man, older than the rest, raised a hand. "Is that... a joke, or one of the weird rules you mentioned?"
Arbil nodded approvingly. "Good question—for a rookie. As a veteran, asking would get you pulled from missions. Yes, it's real. We have contingencies. Jump, and you'll be retrieved."
His tone turned sharp.
"Obedience is currency. Trust is everything. If your captain gives you a command, and your first thought is doubt—you're already dead."
The group digested that in silence.
The six uniformed men reached them. One, tall and thin, gave a lazy wave.
"Big group this time," he said with a grin.
"And only two didn't make it," Arbil replied. "Both elderly."
The tall man whistled. "Nice. The plane's fueled and ready. Stay too long, and the city watch will bury us in reports. Let the lab rats handle it."
Arbil glanced back toward the looming spire in the distance. He smirked. "Yeah. Let them deal with it. They've got more data anyway."
With a wave, he signaled them forward. The group moved. The plane rumbled to life.
As they ascended into the sky, the first sudden drop sent screams through the cabin. A few younger kids cried. Even Nemo clenched his seat. But Arbil sat calm, eyes closed.
That calm spread, like an anchor in a storm.
And so, the newest Awakened left Atlantis behind.
As the plane left the city, a woman with violet hair sat by her window, eyes tracing the trail of the ascending aircraft. She said nothing, but her gaze lingered, unblinking, as if watching more than just a plane.
Far above, in the spire at the city's heart, a tall, muscular man stood in a quiet chamber, seaweed strewn at his feet, and the salt-laced air thick around him. He rarely noticed such things—but something inside him stirred.
Through the window, he watched the aircraft rise into the distance. Then, a long, resonant hum escaped his throat—deep, low, and impossible. It trembled through the room, touching every corner. Yet nothing escaped its bounds.