Chapter Four: The Start of a new story
The world had changed.
In the month since the Mana Convergence, the atmosphere itself had felt different—thicker with potential, yet heavier with dread. What began as a cosmic event believed to only affect children already born was now proven false.
On a warm, windy afternoon in New York City, the world watched in disbelief as a child, born mere minutes earlier in the Bronx-Lebanon Hospital, exploded into a radiant display of raw power. The infant, still connected to its mother, released a pulse of glowing blue energy that surged through every camera, every monitor, shorting them out in a burst of blinding static. Witnesses described the light as divine. Terrifying. Uncontainable.
The news spread like wildfire.
"Unborn Children Awakening Powers—The Convergence Is Not Over!"
"Baby in NYC Born with Aura Surge; Experts Warn of Global Spike."
"Nevers Now Outnumbered? Parents Demand Answers."
Within hours, global markets wobbled, governments panicked, and entire scientific communities clashed over the implications. If even the unborn could now inherit the mana-gift, the future was no longer speculative—it was unstable.
Amidst this chaos, in a quieter corner of Queens, fourteen-year-old Michael sat on a chipped concrete bench outside his school, head low, shoulders heavy.
It had been a month.
A month since the skies had split open with colored storms. A month since millions of children had felt something awaken inside them—a rush, a warmth, a spark. But not Michael.
The world had come up with a word for those like him.
Nevers.
As in, never will. Never going to awaken. Never going to manifest. Never going to matter.
He hated the word. Hated the way the other kids tossed it around like a joke.
A sneaker skidded on pavement behind him.
"Still no spark, Never-boy?" sneered Donovan, a tall kid with flame tattoos that sometimes glowed when he was angry. "Maybe next time lightning strikes, you'll get lucky."
Michael clenched his fists, jaw tight. He said nothing. Speaking only made things worse.
Another kid chimed in. "Or maybe he's immune. The world said 'everyone'—guess it lied."
They laughed and walked off, their voices disappearing into the afternoon hum of school buses and mana-aura buzz.
Michael exhaled slowly. He'd learned to count to five. Then to ten. Then backwards from thirty.
Still nothing. No warmth. No glow. No trembling in his hands. Just silence in his body.
He walked home, each footstep echoing the weight in his chest. News reports continued to play on storefront TVs—more newborns awakening at birth. Some floated. Some glowed. One even reportedly vanished for ten seconds before reappearing mid-air.
The world was moving on without him.
At home, things weren't easier.
His mother, nine months pregnant, moved with both grace and gravity. Her belly had dropped low, and every step made her wince just a bit more. Yet she still smiled. Always smiled when he came home.
"How's my quiet storm?" she'd ask, pressing his hand against her belly. "You feel that? He kicks whenever you come near. I think he knows you."
Michael would nod, swallowing the lump in his throat. "He better not be born glowing."
She'd just laugh. "Then you'll have to be the big brother who teaches him not to show off."
He'd smile at that.
But that evening, the air felt off.
At exactly 6:03 PM, as golden hour light spilled into their apartment, all electricity in the building died. The TV blinked black. The refrigerator hummed, then stuttered. Outside, the sky turned a strange bluish-gray, and the clouds coiled like something waiting to strike.
Michael's mother clutched her belly and let out a sharp gasp.
"Michael… it's happening…"
His father burst into action, already dialing a midwife—but the phones were dead. Michael's heart pounded as he rushed to boil water, grabbing towels, remembering the old shows that talked about home births as if they were heroic.
But nothing could have prepared them for what followed.
A low vibration began in the floor. The walls trembled faintly, not from tectonic plates—but from something… internal. A pressure building. A resonance.
His mother cried out as lightning cracked across the ceiling—not from outside, but within. The lightbulbs exploded. The apartment filled with static and energy. The baby was coming, and the world felt it.
"Michael!" his father shouted. "Hold her hand!"
He did. Her skin was hot and cold at once, flickering like a live wire. Her eyes glowed faint blue. Her body shimmered with an aura.
And then came the birth.
A scream. A surge. A blinding flash.
The baby cried—and with it, a burst of crackling light erupted from his tiny chest, shattering glass, burning symbols into the walls, and knocking the power out for four entire city blocks.
Michael shielded his eyes, ears ringing. When he looked again, his mother lay still, breathing shallowly. But her eyes… her eyes were proud.
She whispered, "Michael…"
He knelt, tears already streaming.
Her breathing was shallow, each gasp a struggle. But through the haze of pain and the fading light in her eyes, she turned her head slowly—toward Michael.
He was already there, kneeling beside her, his hands trembling as they gripped hers. His eyes were wild with fear, swimming with tears that refused to fall. Blood stained her gown. The air around them was heavy with ozone, the lights still flickering from the aftershock of the newborn's mana surge. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance outside the powerless city.
With great effort, she raised her trembling hand and cupped his cheek. Her fingers were cold, but the touch still felt like home.
"Michael…" she whispered, her voice so soft it could've been mistaken for the wind. "My beautiful boy… I'm so proud of you…"
He choked back a sob, lips quivering as he leaned into her palm, memorizing every second of her warmth.
"You're going to change this world," she continued, her eyes barely open. "Not just survive in it… but shape it. With kindness."
Her bloodied fingers brushed a tear from his cheek. Then, with the last of her strength, she brought her other hand up and held his face in both palms. Her thumbs traced gently across his cheeks as if etching the memory of him into her soul.
"Promise me," she said, more urgently now, though her voice was still thin, "Promise me… you'll protect him."
Michael blinked. "Mom…?"
"No matter what happens…" Her voice cracked. "No matter what he becomes… no matter what anyone says… he's your brother. You protect him. Always."
His throat tightened like a noose. He nodded, voice broken. "I promise. I swear it."
A soft, wet smile crossed her lips. Her eyes were already beginning to glaze over, but she kept them on him, the faintest breath escaping her lungs like the final whisper of wind before stillness.
"I love you…" she mouthed.
Then—nothing.
Her hands slipped from his cheeks.
And the light in her eyes vanished.