Chapter 4: The First Spark
He stood there long after the leaves stopped rustling.
The wind had taken her footsteps. The jungle had swallowed her silhouette. And James remained where she left him—alone beneath the bleeding orange sky of the dying day.
The silence pressed on him.
It wasn't the kind of quiet that brought peace. It was heavier than that. Like the world had paused to watch him, to wait... to judge.
James clenched his fists.
The skin on his knuckles still bore the cracks from punching the bark earlier. Small flecks of dried blood clung to his skin, proof of both effort and failure. He looked down at them and felt a familiar sting—not from the wound, but from something deeper. Shame, maybe. Or helplessness. Or both.
"I tried," he muttered under his breath.
The wind whispered something he couldn't understand.
"I did everything she said... I felt something. Why didn't it work?"
No answer.
He looked up at the sky, where the last threads of sunlight were retreating behind the mountain ridge. A few stars peeked out. Distant. Cold.
He turned toward the forest.
And walked.
The trees loomed taller the deeper he went. Roots curled across the ground like sleeping serpents, and the air smelled richer here—like moss, sap, and the faint sweetness of night flowers just starting to bloom.
James didn't know exactly where he was going, but his feet seemed to. They followed the same half-remembered path his father used to take him on—back when the world had felt whole. When the word "family" didn't taste like ash.
He passed the waterfall with the cracked stone face. The bamboo grove where he'd once found a wounded bird. The tree with the hollow big enough to hide in, where he'd waited out his first storm alone after the fire.
It had been years since he'd come this far. And yet, it was all still here. Unchanged. Waiting.
Just like he had been.
The clearing was just how he remembered it.
Circular. Wide. Encircled by the twisted arms of old, thick trees. At its center stood a lone stone monolith, maybe ten feet high, with moss crawling up one side and glowing blue glyphs carved deep into its surface—runes that pulsed faintly with energy every time you looked at them too long.
He hadn't been here since he was eight.
Since the night his father disappeared.
And still, somehow, it felt like coming home.
He stepped into the clearing slowly, his shoes crunching against the dry leaves scattered across the mossy ground. The moment his foot touched the central circle, the glyphs on the monolith pulsed brighter.
thump
His chest tightened.
thump-thump
His pulse raced.
Something was here.
Not just memories.
Something... alive.
He reached out and placed his palm flat against the monolith. It was cold at first—stone cold—but then suddenly warm. Like someone else's hand was on the other side.
He didn't know why he said it.
Maybe it was instinct. Maybe memory. Or maybe desperation.
But he whispered the words anyway.
"Father... I need to know. What am I supposed to do?"
Nothing happened for a long moment.
Then—
The glyphs flared.
The ground shuddered.
And a voice—not one he could hear with his ears, but one that echoed straight through his skull—spoke a single word.
"Breathe."
James gasped.
Heat exploded in his chest like a match had been struck inside his lungs.
He fell back, clutching his ribs, but no pain followed—only pressure. Rising. Building. Boiling.
He could feel it crawling up his throat, through his veins, behind his eyes.
He remembered what his aunt said. About emotion. About understanding, not suppressing.
So he stopped fighting it.
He let go.
And in that moment—
His memories came back, unfiltered.
The sound of his mother laughing.
The warmth of his father's hand.
The scream of the fire.
The days alone.
The nights crying into pillows.
The mornings pretending to be okay.
He let it all rise.
And with it, so did the heat.
Flames erupted from his fingertips.
He didn't scream.
He didn't panic.
He understood.
The fire wasn't burning him—it was him.
His core wasn't broken.
It had been waiting.
And now, the island had woken it up.
From a distance, if anyone had been watching, they'd have seen a brilliant column of fire shoot up into the sky, illuminating the canopy with flickering red-orange light.
Birds fled.
Leaves caught.
The clearing glowed.
At the center, James stood surrounded by fire, his eyes burning bright crimson, his breath steady.
He didn't know how long he stood like that.
But when the fire finally calmed and the light dimmed, James dropped to one knee—exhausted, steaming, but alive.
And different.
Something had changed.
Inside him.
Around him.
The monolith hummed gently now.
Soft. Gentle.
Like it was... proud.
And then, without warning, a soft click echoed behind him.
He turned sharply.
A woman stood there, cloaked in black and silver, a glowing badge pinned to her chest, floating slightly above the ground.
She was... not from here.
Not from this world, even.
Her hair shimmered like mercury, and her voice was like metal chimes.
"You've been chosen, James Calren," she said simply. "Your emotional aura has awakened. The Hero's School extends its invitation."
James blinked at her.
"What?"
She stepped forward, smiling faintly. "Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life."
[End of Chapter 4]