It began with hunger.
Not the dull ache of a missed meal, nor the discomfort of an empty stomach—but a deep, gnawing hunger, like her soul itself had been hollowed out.
Then came silence. Cold, absolute silence.
Mei Tanaka opened her eyes to a sky she didn't recognize, its hue a dusky rose that bled into shades of gold. Above her, the clouds drifted slowly like silk scarves on a windless current. The air was warm, touched with the scent of jasmine and honeyed bread, enough to make her stomach twist in confusion.
She was lying in a field of pale blue wheat, each stalk humming with faint mana, vibrating softly beneath her fingertips. Her body felt light—stronger, freer. She pushed herself upright and gasped softly.
This was not the body that had withered away on the protest floor, surrounded by chanting voices and candles.
Her limbs were toned, her posture balanced like that of a dancer. Her skin held a soft glow, and her jet-black hair spilled down her back in braided coils, adorned with slivers of crystal and glass beads. Her robes were ash-gray and wine-red, stitched in an ancient script that pulsed with restrained magic.
Her eyes caught a glimpse of her reflection in a shallow pond nearby—eyes no longer dark brown, but shimmering with iridescent hues, shifting subtly between violet and amber.
She was still Mei. And yet, she wasn't.
In Auron, she had been reborn as a Sylphan—a race known for their meditative focus, their intense connection to elemental balance, and their ability to channel inner discipline into outer magic.
A voice from nearby startled her.
"You're awake," said a calm-faced woman dressed in green robes, a basket of roots and herbs hanging from one arm. "Rest easy. The gods bring those who pass through the bloom alive and whole."
Mei's lips parted to ask about the proxy game, the divine board, the voice that had split reality itself—but the moment the thought neared the surface, it evaporated. Her throat shimmered with divine silk. A seal. No words could pass through it.
She said nothing of the truth, only nodded and offered her thanks.
The woman helped her to her feet and guided her toward a nearby trail that led into a mist-covered valley. Mei followed, quiet, calculating, eyes watching every movement around her.
As they walked, a deep tremor stirred in her chest.
Her gift.
It wasn't like a sudden explosion of power, but a steady pulse—measured, deliberate, anchored in duality.
Equilibrium.
The ability to store excess energy—whether physical nourishment, magical force, or raw emotion—and redistribute it at will. With it, Mei could feast and fast without harm, hoard and release energy in waves of explosive power or calming serenity. She could endure long periods of restraint, and when necessary, unleash everything she had saved in an instant.
She had known extremes all her life. Craving in silence. Starving for justice. Overindulging in the secrecy of shame.
Now that struggle was her power.
Balance was her weapon.
She tested the gift silently as they reached the village edge. A burst of warmth spread through her fingertips—a soft, steady warmth she had absorbed from the field behind them. She held her palm over a wilting flower, and as energy passed from her to it, the petals perked up, blooming as if time had reversed itself.
The woman beside her gasped softly. "You're... blessed," she murmured.
Mei smiled gently, bowing her head in humble acknowledgment.
Blessed? No. Chosen. But not for any god's glory.
She had died for her cause, not out of despair, but defiance. Her last hunger was not weakness, but a statement to the world that she would rather perish than accept injustice.
In this new world, her restraint could move mountains. Her gluttony could burn them down.
Now, she would walk the fine line again—but this time, not as a quiet activist fading in the crowd. This time, she would tip the scales of Auron itself.
One choice at a time. One bite, one breath, one sacrifice at a time.
And she would never go hungry again.