The dim lamp in the room had long since gone out, leaving only the lights of the twin northern towers outside the window.

  They pierced through the thin mist like two cold, distant stars, quietly spilling into the room. From next door came Ian’s steady breathing—calm, deep, proof that he had finally fallen asleep.

  Lorne, however, felt no drowsiness.

  He sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed, his back against the cool wall, hands resting naturally on his knees.

  The eight-pointed star on his chest emitted a faint warmth in the darkness.

  It wasn’t burning; it was more like a slowly spinning star, quietly and insistently reminding him: it was still there. It had always been there.

  Lorne closed his eyes.

  He didn’t deliberately summon any power, nor did he mutter any incantations.

  He simply… “listened.”

  Just as Ryan had once said in the underground training ground—

  “It’s not about using it. It’s about hearing it.”

  Araki had always been inside him.

  He was just not yet accustomed to its presence, like a vein that had never been touched suddenly beginning to pulse.

  At first, there was nothing.

  Only his heartbeat and the boundless darkness.

  Then, an almost imperceptible sensation appeared.

  Like a barely visible silver thread, stretching slowly outward from his chest while simultaneously drawing inward. It did not move because he pulled it—it moved on its own.

  Lorne opened his eyes.

  He “saw.”

  Not with his physical eyes, but with some deeper awareness.

  The darkness in the room was no longer mere emptiness.

  It was sliced, pierced, and traced by countless fine silver-blue arcs of electricity.

  These arcs weren’t static; they flowed like living things through the air, connecting, breaking, and recombining, forming an invisible, perpetually breathing web.

  Lorne’s breath caught slightly.

  Suddenly, he understood—this was the “knowledge” Vali had given him.

  Not knowledge stacked in words in a book.

  Not knowledge that could be fully conveyed by speech.

  But a “way of understanding.”

  It was like never having touched a steering wheel, then suddenly being handed a driver’s license, and the car just starts and smoothly carries you forward.

  You don’t understand the engine, the fuel system, or the transmission—but you “know” where to go.

  The car drives itself.

  Lorne felt the same now.

  He hadn’t “learned” how to manipulate Araki.

  He had simply suddenly “known” how to make it manifest.

  He lifted his right hand gently.

  No deliberate motion. No concentration.

  He just… lightly thought in his mind:

  “Light up.”

  The silver-blue arcs surged from his palm in an instant.

  Not an explosive release.

  But like water naturally spilling from a gap, gentle yet inevitable.

  The arcs coalesced in midair into a fist-sized sphere, hovering above his palm.

  Its surface rippled with fine lightning, and within it countless tiny points of light slowly rotated, like an entire night sky compressed into a glass orb.

  It made no sound.

  Yet the air in the room instantly felt heavy, viscous.

  Lorne stared at it.

  He felt a strange “autonomy.”

  As if, whenever he “wanted to be somewhere,” the star would carry him there.

  His gaze shifted to the window.

  The streets, towers, and lights in the mist.

  Suddenly, he “knew” the structure of the city.

  Not a memorized map.

  But like living veins, like the arrangement of bones, like the flow of the wind.

  Which street would be pierced by the damp northern wind at three a.m.

  Which alley corner would form a dead air vortex.

  Which eaves offered perfect blind spots.

  These details were not learned afterward.

  They had always been there.

  He was merely—allowed to see them.

  A vague thought surfaced in his mind.

  “What if… I stood under that streetlight?”

  The thought had barely formed.

  The eight-pointed star on his chest flared.

  No burning pain.

  Only absolute “alignment.”

  In an instant—

  The world folded.

  Like a sheet of paper lightly folded along a diagonal.

  The twin towers, streets, mist outside—all suddenly pressed near.

  The concept of distance erased.

  The air became thin, transparent.

  The mist condensed into a glowing thread before his eyes.

  Then—

  He was standing on the cobblestones.

  The cold under his feet was utterly real.

  The night mist brushed his cheeks, carrying the salty tang of the sea.

  The distant tide became clear, like it was striking directly against his eardrums.

  Lorne froze.

  He hadn’t “walked” that path.

  The path had been erased.

  Not far away, under a dim streetlight, an old man was slowly closing up his stall.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  A worn gray cloak, slightly hunched back, movements slow but steady.

  The man looked up and saw him.

  No surprise, no questioning in his eyes.

  Just a calm glance, then a gentle shake of the head.

  “Why is a child still wandering outside so late?”

  The voice was aged and ordinary, like any elder who had lived in this city for decades.

  Lorne opened his mouth but hadn’t yet answered.

  The man casually raised a hand, gesturing slightly.

  The motion was natural.

  But in that instant—

  Lorne felt a force so familiar it bordered on intimate.

  Cleaner, more precise, more effortless than anything he had just experienced.

  As if someone had carefully, delicately flattened the folded sheet of paper for him.

  His vision flickered.

  The cobblestones vanished.

  The mist dispersed.

  The window frame reappeared in his peripheral vision.

  He was back in his original spot.

  His right hand still rested on the windowsill, fingertips retaining the chill of the stones.

  The eight-pointed star on his chest dimmed like a receding tide.

  The entire process was as short as a blink.

  Lorne stood frozen.

  Outside, the twin towers remained distant.

  Streetlights flickered in the fog.

  Everything seemed normal, as if he had never left.

  He looked down at his hands.

  His palm felt only a faint dizziness, like the aftershock of a light fall.

  Then he slowly realized something more important—

  Earlier, he hadn’t “specified a method.”

  He had only wondered:

  “What would it feel like if I stood there?”

  And distance had simply ceased to exist.

  And that old man—

  He had not asked how Lorne had suddenly appeared.

  Nor did he inquire who he was.

  He simply returned him.

  Cleanly, efficiently, without leaving a trace.

  Like an elder gently taking a child home who had wandered where he shouldn’t.

  Lorne exhaled slowly.

  The mark on his chest had completely calmed.

  But he knew something had changed.

  From now on,

  As long as he was willing to “hear,”

  Vali would respond.

  And this city,

  It was no longer just where he lived.

  It had become a map to fold, unfold, and traverse.

  The night was very deep.

  The attic’s wooden stairs had long fallen into disrepair, each step groaning in protest at being disturbed.

  So Ian didn’t climb directly. He moved carefully, like a cautious kitten, palms pressed against the steps to distribute his weight, inching his feet forward so the sound was nearly inaudible.

  He thought Lorne was asleep.

  He should have been asleep too; his eyelids were heavy as lead, lashes nearly sticking together. Yet he couldn’t close them.

  Because Ryan’s words from the training ground stuck like a thorn in his mind, impossible to remove.

  “They are a part of you.”

  Ian needed to try again.

  Really, truly needed to.

  Because he was afraid.

  Afraid he would never be strong enough, afraid that one day Lorne would suddenly vanish like last time, afraid he would just stand there, helpless, watching.

  That was why he waited until everyone else was asleep before sneaking up to the attic.

  The space was cluttered with old boxes, moldy fabrics, discarded wooden mannequins, and broken planks.

  One roof tile had long ago been blown away by the wind, leaving an irregular gap through which moonlight spilled onto the dusty floor, forming a small, blurry silver circle.

  Ian knelt in the center of that moonlight.

  He pressed both hands firmly to his chest, knuckles white, as if trying to press his racing heart back into place.

  Then, he began to speak softly.

  Not to anyone, just… to himself, and perhaps to someone listening, whoever that might be.

  “I… I’m not trying to become amazing.”

  His voice trembled, like a candle in the wind.

  “I just… don’t want to be afraid anymore.”

  He closed his eyes.

  Unlike Lorne, he didn’t try to “hear” anything, nor force himself to see.

  He simply replayed the simplest, most fundamental movement Ryan had taught him, over and over in his mind.

  Slowly, his hands opened, palms up, as if holding something heavy yet precious.

  Then he began to imagine—

  The ground beneath his feet like a mother’s hands, warm and thick, supporting him steadily from below.

  Roots extending from his feet, like the old tree roots in the backyard of Green Valley Holy City, thick and winding, curling around his calves, then continuing deep into the earth, beyond his reach.

  He didn’t intend to summon anything enormous.

  He just wanted to make himself… heavier.

  Heavy enough not to be blown away by the wind.

  Heavy enough not to be pulled apart by anyone.

  His chest warmed suddenly.

  Not burning pain, but like a warm, damp towel gently laid over his heart.

  Then—

  The floor moved.

  Not violently.

  A very subtle, gentle rise and fall.

  As if the earth itself were slowly breathing.

  Ian opened his eyes.

  His shadow stretched long in the moonlight, dragged into the dust pile.

  At the edge of the shadow, fine green threads appeared, like tiny sprouts breaking through the soil—one, two, then a small cluster, quietly creeping outward.

  The threads didn’t fly or attack anything.

  They simply… gently wrapped around Ian’s ankles.

  Lightly.

  Like the gentle, certain touch of a mother tying a child’s shoelaces.

  Tears streamed down Ian’s face.

  Not from pain, nor fear.

  But because that touch felt exactly like being held.

  He quickly wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, sniffling heavily, whispering:

  “Thank you…”

  He didn’t know what to call it.

  Mokai? A god? Or… nothing, just thank you.

  The green threads didn’t respond.

  But they didn’t vanish either.

  They simply remained quietly, as if saying:

  I’m here.

  You don’t have to stand alone.

  Ian sniffled.

  Slowly, he lowered his hands, pressing palms to the floor.

  The floor was still cold, with the attic’s damp and dusty smell.

  But beneath the cold, something warm flowed slowly in the deep.

  Like a hidden river underground, never running dry.

  He suddenly felt very small.

  Eight years old.

  Really, just eight.

  But somehow… he felt it was okay to be eight for the first time.

  Because something below was holding him up.

  Not Lorne, not Ryan, not anyone.

  The earth itself.

  Something that never leaves, never speaks, yet is always there.

  Ian buried his face in his knees.

  Quietly, in broken sobs, he cried.

  Not a cry of sorrow.

  A sigh-of-relief cry.

  A cry admitting that he was truly afraid, but no longer had to carry it alone.

  Moonlight continued to shine on him in the attic.

  The tiny green threads stayed wrapped around his ankles.

  Not glaringly bright.

  Not powerful enough to be frightening.

  Just quietly accompanying him.

  Like an old tree saying to a seed:

  Take your time.

  I can wait.

  After a while, Ian lifted his head.

  He wiped his face with his sleeve; his nose and eyes were still red.

  Then, very softly, very earnestly, he said:

  “I will grow up properly.”

  He paused, then added:

  “When I grow up… I will protect you too.”

  The floor seemed to understand.

  Rising gently again.

  Like a nod.

  Ian finally smiled.

  Though his eyes were still wet, the corners of his mouth curved genuinely.

  He stood up carefully.

  The green threads slowly retracted into his shadow, disappearing.

  But Ian knew they hadn’t gone far.

  They had only returned to where they belonged.

  Next time, when he truly needed them,

  They would reach out again.

  Ian tiptoed toward the wooden stairs.

  Before leaving, he glanced back at the patch of moonlight.

  Quietly said:

  “Good night.”

  Then he climbed down.

  This time, he no longer tried to avoid the creaks.

  Because he knew, even if he made a sound, no one would really be angry.

  At least,

  Not tonight.