In the vast multiverse, countless universes thrived, each overseen by the Itarim—enigmatic beings who governed their realms with absolute authority. These celestial overseers, shrouded in mystery, were said to weave the threads of existence itself, their will shaping the rise and fall of worlds.
Among these universes, one housed a planet known as Earth, a blue and green orb slowly but surely being filled with mana. This infusion of energy was no accident; it was a deliberate process, orchestrated by forces beyond human comprehension, preparing Earth for a transformation that would reshape its very fabric. The mana flowed like an invisible tide, seeping into the soil, the air, the oceans—a silent promise of power and peril yet to come.
As mana seeped into the planet's core, the world grew more resistant, more powerful—ready to become a battlefield. The once-normal Earth was on the cusp of awakening, its crust humming faintly with the energy that would soon birth wonders and nightmares alike. Its inhabitants would soon discover abilities they could scarcely imagine, their bodies and souls adapting to the mana's touch. These awakened individuals, known as hunters, would wield mana to protect humanity from the denizens of chaos that lurked beyond the veil—creatures born of shadow and hunger, waiting to spill forth.
Dimension rifts, known as gates, began to appear, connecting Earth to realms filled with monsters. These gates were not mere portals; they were conduits for mana, glowing with an otherworldly light that pulsed in rhythm with the planet's growing power, accelerating its saturation and hastening the arrival of more gates. Unfortunately for humans, the monsters within these gates were driven by a singular purpose: to exterminate all life on Earth. Their roars echoed through the rifts, a chilling prelude to the chaos they would unleash if left unchecked.
To save themselves, humans would send hunters into the gates to fight off the invasion. Though they had no clues about the origins of mana or the gates—whether they were a gift from the Itarim or a curse from some unknown force—they understood one grim truth: if they didn't fight back, it would be the end. And so, in this world where gates opened daily, and hunters risked their lives to prevent dungeon breaks, people persevered. They learned to live with the constant threat, adapting to a new normal where the weather broadcast included gate alerts alongside storm warnings, and the opening of a gate was more of an inconvenience—a minor natural disaster—than a death sentence. Children grew up playing "hunter and monster," their laughter a fragile shield against the encroaching dark.
However, this was before that, ten years before the gates would tear the world asunder, when Earth was still a place of mundane routines and quiet dreams. It was a time when the air carried only the scent of rain or city smog, not the metallic tang of mana, and the stars above held no hint of the multiverse watching in silence. It was in this fragile peace, in the continent of Asia, in the country named South Korea, that a baby boy was born—a child whose destiny would one day ripple across the cosmos.
Nitrian came into this world in a small hospital room, surrounded by nurses and the weary but radiant smile of his mother, Norma. She was a dark-skinned woman with curly black hair that spilled over her shoulders like a cascade of midnight, her face softened by exhaustion and love as she cradled her newborn son. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and fresh linens, the soft beep of a monitor punctuating the quiet. Sweat still clung to her brow from the labor, but her eyes shone with a fierce tenderness as she traced a finger along Nitrian's tiny cheek.
"Welcome, my little Nitrian," she whispered, hugging him tightly. "Mom loves you so much already." Her voice was a melody of relief and joy, though it trembled slightly with the weight of the moment.
Beside her, her husband—a Korean man with sharp features softened by fatigue and a tired smile—gazed at their child with a mixture of pride and unease. His dark eyes, framed by faint lines of sleeplessness, flickered between his wife and son. "He has my eyes, your nose, your smile, and my hair," he said, his voice thick with emotion, roughened by hours of anxious waiting in the sterile hospital corridor. "Norma, he's our baby! I'm so happy… I can't…" He paused, swallowing hard, then continued, "But I'll have to leave soon, so I hope you can hang in there for a while."
Norma's smile faltered, her joy dimming as she looked up at him, the warmth in her chest cooling like a fire doused with water. "…Again? But you're always working… Can't you stay with us for just one week? I made sacrifices to be here too… I decided to stay in Korea for us… So, stay here for me and Nitrian, for us." Her words carried a quiet desperation, her grip on Nitrian tightening as if anchoring herself to him.
Her plea hung in the air, heavy with the weight of unspoken frustrations—the late nights she'd spent alone in their small apartment, the letters from her family in America she'd left unanswered, the dreams she'd set aside to build a life here. The nurses, sensing the tension, quietly exited the room, their soft-soled shoes whispering against the linoleum. A few lingered near the door, however, their curiosity piqued by the unfolding drama, their murmured Korean too rapid for Norma to catch.
The man sighed, his expression torn, a shadow crossing his face as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Norma, I understand that you've helped me a lot, and it means the world to me that you stayed here with me instead of going back to America, where you have a whole life and family." His voice softened, tinged with guilt. "But we're building our own family here, and if I want to give you and this kid the life you both deserve, I have to do this right now. It's another necessary sacrifice for our future." He reached for her hand, his fingers calloused from work she knew little about—work that kept him away more often than not.
His words were meant to reassure, but they only deepened the crease in Norma's brow. She pulled her hand back from his, hugging Nitrian closer, the warmth of his small body a shield against the ache in her heart. "I know… It's just, you've been doing this for months now. How much longer before we can be a family? Before it was 'when we have a house,' then 'when we have stable jobs,' then 'when we have children,' and now it's 'when we have a secured future.' It's never time for us." Her voice trembled, the warmth of the moment lost to the chill of reality—a reality where she often ate dinner alone, staring at his empty chair. Even the faint hum of the hospital's fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder in the silence that followed, buzzing like a chorus of unspoken doubts.
Her husband leaned in, kissing her forehead gently, his lips warm against her cool skin. "It will be this time, I promise. I just wasn't ready for the pressure to do good our child would bring. I feel I won't be happy until we have all of the best. So please, be just a little more patient, okay?" His breath smelled faintly of coffee, a reminder of the long hours he'd already put in before arriving at the hospital.
Norma forced a smile, though her eyes betrayed her doubt, glistening with unshed tears she refused to let fall. "You're right. We have to provide the best for Nitrian, always. Just… find some time for us in between all that work, please." She adjusted Nitrian in her arms, his soft weight grounding her.
"I will," he assured her, his smile returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Today, I'll try to be home by midnight. I'll have someone come get you and take you home once you're discharged." He squeezed her shoulder, then stood, adjusting his jacket. A crumpled note slipped from his pocket as he did—a scribbled line reading "Project Mana secured"—but he quickly scooped it up, tucking it away before Norma could ask.
With that, he turned and left the room, his footsteps echoing down the hallway, sharp and final. The door clicked shut, leaving Norma alone with her newborn, the silence settling over her like a heavy fog.
She sighed, her gaze falling to Nitrian, who was already nuzzling against her chest, seeking comfort with tiny, instinctive movements. As she began breastfeeding him, the rhythmic sucking and the warmth of his tiny body against hers melted away her worries, if only for a moment. His small hands curled against her skin, and she felt a surge of strength she hadn't known she possessed.
"We're getting through this together," she murmured, kissing his forehead, her lips brushing against his soft, warm skin. "You're the heart of the family now, little Nitrian." Her voice was a whisper, a vow to the child who had already become her world.
Later, the nurses took Nitrian for his examination, leaving Norma to rest against the hospital pillows, their starchy fabric cool against her back. The room was too quiet now, the absence of her husband's presence a palpable void that echoed in the stillness. She glanced at her phone, hoping for a message—an apology, a reassurance, anything—but the screen remained blank, its glow harsh against her tired eyes. Just as she was about to set it down, a notification pinged—her mother in America, asking for photos of her grandson. Norma's heart ached with a sudden pang of homesickness, memories of her childhood home flashing through her mind: the smell of her mother's cooking, the sound of laughter around the dinner table. She pushed it aside, focusing on the joy of her son, and snapped a quick photo to send back.
When the nurses returned with Nitrian, bundled in a soft blue blanket, his tiny face peaceful in sleep, one of them smiled at Norma. "Your son is perfectly healthy," she said in halting English, her accent thick but kind. "Very strong baby." She mimed a flexing motion with her arm, drawing a small laugh from Norma.
Norma smiled back, her gratitude genuine despite the exhaustion tugging at her bones. "Thank you. Kamsahamnida." She stumbled slightly over the Korean word, but the nurse's nod told her it was enough.
As night fell, she was moved to the recovery ward—a room shared with three other new mothers, all Korean. The space was cramped but warm, filled with the soft murmurs of their voices and the rustle of blankets. They smiled politely at Norma, their eyes lingering on her dark skin and curly hair, but the language barrier hung between them like an invisible wall. While the other women had family members coming and going, bringing steaming containers of food and brightly wrapped gifts, Norma had only Nitrian. The isolation settled over her like a heavy blanket, the chatter around her a reminder of her outsider status, but she refused to let it smother her. She straightened her shoulders, meeting their curious glances with a quiet dignity.
She sent her husband a photo of their sleeping son, his tiny lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He looks just like you when he's asleep, she texted, her fingers lingering over the screen, hoping the words might draw him back to her. The message was read, a small "seen" timestamp appearing, but no reply came, leaving her staring at the screen until it dimmed.
The first night was a blur of exhaustion and tenderness. Nitrian woke every two hours, hungry and crying, his tiny wails piercing the quiet ward like a siren. Each time, Norma fumbled in the dim light, her hands clumsy with fatigue as she tried not to disturb the other mothers. She winced as her sore nipples adjusted to his eager feeding, whispering soft reassurances—"Shh, I've got you, little one"—until he quieted, his breathing evening out against her chest.
A nurse on night duty noticed her struggling and quietly approached, her silhouette soft in the moonlight filtering through the window. She showed Norma how to hold Nitrian more comfortably, adjusting her arms with gentle hands. "First baby?" she asked, her voice low.
Norma nodded, grateful for the help, the small act of kindness piercing through her weariness.
"You learn quick," the nurse assured her with a kind smile, patting her shoulder before slipping away.
By morning, Norma's body ached, her muscles protesting every movement, but the hospital breakfast arrived—a traditional Korean postpartum meal with miyeokguk, a seaweed soup said to aid recovery and milk production. The rich, briny aroma filled the room, unfamiliar yet comforting. One of the other mothers noticed Norma's hesitation and demonstrated how to eat it, pointing to her own chest and then to her baby with a knowing smile, indicating its benefits. Norma smiled back, appreciating the gesture even if words failed them, and took a tentative sip, the warmth spreading through her like a balm.
Throughout the second day, Norma watched the door whenever it opened, her heart lifting with each creak, half-expecting her husband to surprise her with a visit—a bouquet of flowers, a sheepish grin, anything. Instead, a young doctor came to check on her and Nitrian, speaking in careful English, his clipboard clutched tightly.
"Your body is recovering well," he said, his tone professional but warm. "The baby too. Very healthy. You can go home tomorrow."
"Thank you," Norma replied, relief washing over her like a wave. Soon, they'd be home, and perhaps her husband would find time for them there, away from the demands of his mysterious work.
That afternoon, while Nitrian slept, his small chest rising and falling in the crib beside her, an elderly cleaning woman entered the room. Her back was stooped from years of labor, her hands gnarled but steady as she pushed her cart. Seeing Norma alone, without the usual circle of family members that surrounded the other new mothers, she paused by her bed, her eyes crinkling with curiosity.
"American?" she asked in heavily accented English, her voice raspy but kind.
"Yes," Norma replied, surprised, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
The woman nodded sagely, as if confirming a suspicion. "I clean hospital thirty years. See many babies." She gestured to Nitrian with a weathered hand. "Strong boy. Like Korean father, yes? But beautiful like mother." She smiled, showing missing teeth, then continued her work, humming a tune Norma didn't recognize.
Norma's heart warmed at the compliment, a small kindness in an otherwise lonely day, like a ray of sunlight breaking through clouds.
That night, she dreamed of home—not her apartment in Seoul, but her childhood home in America. She saw her mother's garden, vibrant with flowers, and heard her father's deep laugh as he grilled in the backyard. She woke disoriented, the ache of homesickness sharp in her chest, but it was softened by the sight of Nitrian sleeping beside her, his tiny hand curled into a fist.
On the third morning, the discharge paperwork arrived, a crisp stack of forms that signaled freedom. Norma packed her few belongings—her phone, a change of clothes, a small stuffed bear for Nitrian—and dressed him in the outfit she'd brought for his homecoming: a tiny blue onesie with a matching hat that made him look like a little prince. She tried calling her husband to confirm when someone would arrive to pick them up, but his phone went straight to voicemail, a robotic voice cutting through her hope.
He's probably in a meeting, she thought, trying to quell the doubt creeping into her mind, the same doubt that had whispered to her during countless unanswered calls. He'll call back soon.
The hours ticked by, marked by the slow sweep of the clock on the wall. The other mothers in her room were discharged one by one, leaving with their families amid smiles, flowers, and the clatter of rolling suitcases. Norma sat on the edge of her bed, fully dressed and ready to go, Nitrian sleeping peacefully in her arms, his warmth a quiet comfort against the growing unease in her chest.
By early afternoon, a nurse came to check on her, her brows furrowing slightly. "Your family not come yet?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.
"They're coming," Norma assured her, though her confidence wavered, her smile tight. She tried her husband again. No answer.
She sent another text: We're ready to be picked up. Nitrian is excited to see his home. She attached a photo of their son, eyes open now and looking straight at the camera with a curious gaze, as if pleading for his father's attention.
As the afternoon wore on, the hospital staff began giving her sympathetic looks, their eyes soft with pity she didn't want. One nurse brought her a cup of tea—jasmine, fragrant and steaming—and a small portion of rice and vegetables when dinner time came and she was still waiting, her stomach growling faintly.
"Maybe traffic very bad today," the nurse offered kindly, her hands clasped in front of her.
Norma smiled weakly, clutching the warm cup. "Maybe."
But as the evening shift began and the hospital quieted for the night, the corridors emptying save for the occasional shuffle of footsteps, she knew. No one was coming. Her husband had forgotten them, lost in his work once again—work he never fully explained, work that left cryptic notes and hollow promises in its wake.
She looked down at Nitrian, who gazed back at her with dark, trusting eyes, oblivious to the sting of abandonment. A tear slipped down her cheek, hot against her skin, but she quickly wiped it away with the back of her hand.
"It's just you and me for now, little one," she whispered, her voice trembling but resolute, a steel thread running through it. "But we'll be okay. Mom's got you."
With trembling fingers, she called for a taxi, her decision final.
The taxi ride home was quiet, the Seoul skyline blurring past in a wash of neon and shadow as dusk settled over the city, painting the sky in hues of purple and gold. Norma cradled Nitrian against her chest, his tiny breaths steady and calming, a rhythm she clung to. The driver, a middle-aged man with a gruff but gentle demeanor, glanced at her in the rearview mirror but said nothing, respecting her silence. She paid him with the last of her cash and stepped out in front of their modest apartment building, the cool evening air brushing against her skin as she hoisted the diaper bag higher on her shoulder.
Inside, the apartment was silent, the air stale from days of absence, carrying the faint scent of dust and unwashed dishes. Norma flicked on the lights, revealing a space that felt both familiar and foreign—furniture they'd chosen together, walls bare of the family photos she'd once imagined hanging. She set Nitrian in his crib, a simple wooden frame tucked into the corner of the living room, and watched him for a moment as he stirred, his tiny face scrunching before settling back into sleep.
"This is our start, little one," she whispered, her voice echoing in the empty room, a quiet vow to herself as much as to him. "We'll build something strong."
Exhausted but determined, she began unpacking, her movements slow but purposeful—diapers stacked neatly, her clothes folded into a drawer, the stuffed bear placed beside Nitrian's crib. She was alone for now, but she wasn't defeated. Norma glanced at her phone one last time—no messages, no missed calls, the screen a blank slate of disappointment. With a sigh, she set it aside and turned her attention back to Nitrian, her anchor in the storm.
As she tucked a blanket around him, a faint shimmer caught her eye. For a brief moment, Nitrian's tiny hand seemed to glow, a soft, ethereal light that danced across his skin, his grip on her finger unusually strong for a newborn. Norma blinked, dismissing it as a trick of the light or her own fatigue, but deep within Nitrian's soul, memories of another life stirred faintly—fragments of contracts signed in blood, of power wielded in a world long lost, of a destiny yet to unfold. For now, he let them fade, content in his mother's warmth, knowing instinctively that his time would come, though he couldn't yet grasp why.
And so, in a world poised on the edge of chaos, a child was born—a boy named Nitrian, whose life would one day intertwine with the fate of the universe itself, a thread in the Itarim's vast tapestry, waiting to be pulled.