Running his hands across the runes, Damien felt the grooves beneath his fingertips, the soft pulse of energy bouncing off them like a heartbeat. Each rune hummed with power, distinct in sensation. He moved along the six elemental symbols, feeling the subtle pull of each one, until his hand froze on the rune for lightning. The moment his skin made contact, he felt it—not just a pull, but a resonance. It was like his soul recognized it.
"I choose lightning," he said, voice steady with confidence.
Turning around to face his twin, Damien expected to see him lounging around, probably with a book or making some sarcastic remark. Instead, the mirror image of himself stood there, mouth wide open, looking like someone had told him the sky was green.
Damien recoiled in surprise. "Don't look at me like that with my own face, it's weird."
The voice closed his mouth slowly, expression shifting to one of odd sincerity. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding almost apologetic. "I just hadn't expected you to make the correct decision."
Instead of snapping at his twin's backhanded comment, Damien tilted his head, curiosity piqued. "Right decision?"
"Yes, right decision," the voice said, nodding with exaggerated seriousness. "For elemental magic to reach its full strength, there must be a connection. Exposure. Your body and soul must know that magic intimately—otherwise, it won't yield its full potential. That's why I told you shadows weren't for you."
Those words pulled Damien back into memory like a hook behind his ribs. He remembered the sharp smell of ozone, the crack of thunder that split the sky, and the sensation of three hundred volts coursing through his small, eight-year-old frame. He and his mother had been outside near the river, picking flowers for her garden. Daffodils, he recalled—though maybe that scent was just conjured by his soul. Then, with no warning, lightning struck.
He dropped instantly. His heart gave out. He went into cardiac arrest and stayed in a coma for three months. When he finally woke up, the first face he saw wasn't his mother's or a doctor's—it was Mrs. Abby's. She had been the one watching over him during his coma. Maybe that's why he always associated her with a grandmotherly presence, even though they weren't related.
'Ah, pleasant memories,' Damien thought with a grimace. But another thought was creeping into his mind. He narrowed his eyes. "How did you know lightning was the right choice for me?"
The voice was quiet for a beat, as if collecting his thoughts. Then he gave a slight shake of his head and smirked. "I'm disappointed in you, my little goblin. Didn't you figure it out yet? We're the same now. I have access to all your memories."
He winked, and then added, "Also, what's with you gawking at your friend's mom like that, you little pervert?"
Damien's face flushed crimson. He pointed furiously at the man. "Hey! You have no room to talk, Mr. 'I-wish-I-was-in-a-bikini-models-body!'"
The voice laughed, head thrown back, hands shaking in front of him like he couldn't contain the joy. "Like I said—we're the same."
Damien opened his mouth to argue, to deny the comparison with everything he had—but the voice suddenly cut the laughter and fixed him with a focused stare.
"We've gotten sidetracked. Now, I'm going to teach you how to use lightning."
Finally, this was it. 'I'm going to have an ability!'
"I'm glad you're eager," the voice said, smirking. "Hopefully that eagerness will evolve into some IQ."
As much as he hated to admit it, the voice got under Damien's skin more often than not. He always knew just how to twist the knife with his remarks. Still, no amount of mockery could ruin this moment. Damien had waited too long for this—ever since he learned what it meant to be a deviant.
"Just tell me what I need to do."
The voice pointed up at the eighth golden wall labeled "Magic." "Memorize the description of the lightning runes—every curve, every line. Come back when you're done."
Damien didn't waste a second. He walked over to the wall, eyes scanning the runes that glowed with electric arcs. He could read them just fine, but memorizing them? That was different. Reading was passive—writing required precision. Unfortunately, Damien was still functionally illiterate when it came to writing runes.
Knowing this would take longer than he hoped, he dropped to the ground and began tracing each rune with his finger, feeling the grooves run down to eye level. Over and over again, he dragged his finger through each line, every swirl and strike. Hours passed—or at least it felt that way. Time seemed slippery here.
Eventually, he stood up, hands dusted off from the wall's grime. His fingers were numb, but his mind was sharp. He had it. Every line burned into his memory.
"Has the puppy finally done it?" the voice teased, not even bothering to look up from his book. Harry Potter again—another one, actually. Damien noted the title had changed, meaning the jerk had been reading for a while.
Damien considered staying silent, but the anticipation of finally gaining his ability overpowered his pride. "Yes, I have. Now what?"
The voice closed the book with a single hand and smiled. "Now we etch it into your soul."
As he spoke, a massive pillar emerged in front of the walls. They curved around it in a half-circle, as if orbiting the structure. The pillar towered toward a ceiling that didn't exist. Damien couldn't tell if it had an end—it might've stretched into infinity. Its surface was dull gray and lifeless, like untouched stone.
Damien reached out, hand brushing its surface. It hummed, the same way the lightning rune had. A strange connection. It wasn't his soul—that much was clear. 'I'm standing inside my soul. So what the hell is this thing?'
Still debating whether the question was worth the smug response he'd get, he gave in to curiosity. "What is this thing?"
The voice, sensing Damien's hesitation, spared him the gloating. "You're right—it's not your soul. It's your soul's link to your physical body."
He cleared his throat and pointed downward. "You'll need to etch the runes into it using the pencil in that little holder."
Damien looked down and, sure enough, a small, sleek pencil was nestled in a holder at stomach height. He picked it up. It felt thin and unassuming, but solidly crafted with care and power.
He brought the pencil to the center of the pillar but paused, hovering just an inch away. "I feel like I need to ask—how bad will this hurt?"
The voice beamed. "A lot."
Damien sighed, his whole body slumping for a second, then braced himself and began to write.
"Ze…"
The pain was immediate. Agonizing. Every stroke felt like a hot blade carving into his very existence. Worse than Mrs. Abby's healing—far worse. This was someone carving a soul like it was a jack-o'-lantern.
He understood now why he had to memorize the runes. There was no way he could split his focus. Even with the shapes burned into his memory, the pain made his hand tremble and his body quake. Every movement took deliberate effort. Every breath was hard-won.
"Lightning is your frien…"
He kept going. His limbs screamed. His vision blurred. But he didn't stop. He couldn't. Damien thought of his father. His brother. Both gone. And himself? On death's doorstep, too, eventually. He needed power to defy that fate. No pain could stop him from chasing that.
Finally, he carved the last symbols: "not disappoint."
The pain receded like a wave pulling back from the shore. Damien stepped back, panting. His twin watched him with an irritating grin.
Then the bastard spoke. "That was just the warm-up."
Boom.
The pillar trembled, then glowed. A vibrant blue spread across its surface, replacing the dull gray with the pulsing color of lightning. As the light moved, Damien collapsed. Agony returned—amplified. It felt like a thousand lightning bolts were striking every fiber of his being.
He knew what that felt like. He had lived it once. But this was so much worse.
He lay sprawled on the ground, unable to move. The pain wasn't just in his body—it was in his soul. And unlike the first time, he was wide awake for all of it. Conscious. Aware.
Somewhere above the burning, he heard laughter. Loud. Unapologetic.
'You think this is funny, bastard? Just wait until I get up.'
Eventually, the pain began to fade. It didn't leave him sore or weak—it left him alive. Electrified. Like he could do anything.
Damien pushed himself off the ground and, in one swift motion, threw his hand forward like he was tossing a ball.
Instead of a ball, a spark danced at his fingertips. Lightning flickered—raw, untamed. It didn't form a bolt, not yet. But it was there.
'Damn, I thought I'd hit him with a huge lightning bolt or something.'
The voice watched, still smiling. "Truly a novice."