In 2091, a boy named Samye was born into what most people would call a fortunate family.

  His home stood in a quiet government colony, far from the crowded streets and restless borders of the world. The mornings there were slow. The nights were calm. Power cuts were rare. Sirens even rarer. To a child, it felt like the world had already found peace.

  Samye’s father worked in a high government post—one of those positions that didn’t appear on television but decided what appeared after. He was a man of few words and steady habits, the kind who read reports late into the night and left for work before sunrise.

  But what truly defined him was not his rank.

  It was his belief.

  “Justice,” he often told Samye, “is not something you give only to people like yourself. If it is selective, then it is not justice at all.”

  Ability users or ordinary humans—it made no difference to him. In a world that had begun to quietly draw lines between the two, Samye’s father refused to stand on either side. He believed his duty was to hold the line itself.

  That belief made him respected.

  And quietly disliked.

  Samye’s mother, by contrast, belonged entirely to the home. She carried warmth in her voice and discipline in her eyes, the kind that could calm arguments with a single look. She made sure Samye reached school on time, ate properly, and slept without fear—even on nights when news channels spoke too loudly about the world outside.

  At school, the world felt different.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Not peaceful.

  Excited.

  The classrooms were decorated with awareness posters—bright, hopeful slogans explaining how humanity had survived the Incident. Teachers spoke carefully about the past, referring to it with practiced neutrality.

  > “After the Halley Event,” they called it.

  Not disaster. Not catastrophe.

  Just an event.

  In science class, holographic models showed fragments of a shattered comet dispersing harmlessly across the planet. In moral science, students were taught how society could grow stronger if humans and the Manifested worked together.

  “Fear,” the teachers said, “is natural. But progress requires cooperation.”

  Samye listened quietly.

  Around him, his classmates buzzed with energy.

  Every morning, newspapers were stacked near the gate—headlines screaming about new awakenings, rescues, containment missions. Screens in the hallway played news clips of fire-wielders stopping riots, wind-users lifting collapsed buildings, lightning streaking through the sky like divine judgment.

  To most students, they weren’t dangerous.

  They were heroes.

  “I swear,” said Arjun, Samye’s closest friend, leaning back on his chair, eyes shining, “did you see yesterday’s clip? That Resonant stopped a train by himself. Just lifted it.”

  Beside him, Meera nodded eagerly, braiding her hair. “My cousin says if you awaken early, the government scouts you directly. Imagine that—training, respect, purpose.”

  Arjun grinned. “I’ll awaken first. Watch.”

  Meera laughed. “In your dreams.”

  They both turned to Samye.

  “You’ll awaken too,” Meera said confidently. “You’re always so calm. Legends are always calm before it happens.”

  Samye smiled faintly, unsure what to say.

  He didn’t see them as legends.

  When he watched the news, he noticed different things—the strained expressions behind the smiles, the carefully edited footage, the way destruction was always framed as necessary. He remembered how his father would pause the television, staring at the screen longer than needed.

  “These incidents,” his father once said quietly, “are not the problem. How we choose to use them is.”

  Samye didn’t fully understand that yet.

  But he felt it.

  As the school bell rang, students rushed out, voices filled with dreams of power, uniforms, and heroism. Samye walked home slowly, the evening sun stretching long shadows across the road.

  At home, his father was already reading reports, glasses low on his nose.

  “How was school?” he asked.

  Samye hesitated, then answered honestly.

  “Everyone wants to be a hero.”

  His father looked up, studying him carefully.

  “And you?”

  Samye thought for a moment.

  “I just want… things to stay peaceful.”

  For a brief second, something unreadable passed through his father’s eyes.

  “That,” he said softly, returning to his papers, “is a much harder wish.”

  Outside, the news continued to play—another awakening, another incident, another reminder that the world was changing.

  Slowly. Quietly.

  And none of them knew yet how fragile this peace truly was