Chapter 1 — Eyes That See Too Much
The world was built on magic.
At least, that's what they always said—in schools, in churches, in the crowded mouths of merchants and the quiet pride of scholars. Magic was the foundation of everything. Every wall, every ship, every glowing lantern in the street... all of it, shaped by invisible hands.
But Aryn had never really believed it.
How could something born from "dreams," as they claimed, be so sharp, so violent, so real? If magic came from within, why did it feel like it was always pressing in from the outside—watching, judging, waiting?
And more importantly:
If I can't use magic... why can I see it?
He stood alone on the rooftop of a decaying house, the sea fog curling around him like soft claws. The harbor below was beginning to stir, all smoke and shouting and the smell of fish too long out of water. But Aryn's attention wasn't on the people.
It was on the threads.
They floated in the air—blue, shifting, alive. Thin lines, strange symbols, blinking patterns of light that formed networks between every person, every object, every piece of the world touched by magic. Most people couldn't see them. Probably no one could.
Except him.
Was that magic? Or was it something else entirely?
The textbooks had answers, sure. Magic was "the unconscious will, inherited through blood, shaped by desire." Aryn had memorized that line once, back when he still bothered to try. But it never explained what he saw. It didn't explain the way some spells left scars in the air, or why his eyes throbbed with static every time someone used a summoning rune within ten meters.
He didn't cast spells. He didn't have mana. But the world wouldn't stop glowing around him.
They called it Omni Eye—at least, that's what the voice in his dreams whispered.
No one else knew that name. No records in any library. No mentions in any scroll. Only that strange, fragmented whisper echoing in his skull some nights, when the air felt too still and the stars blinked just a little too slowly.
What am I?
A gust of wind pulled him back to the present, sharp with salt and something metallic—like rusted iron and burnt stone. His vision shimmered. The threads around him trembled.
There. At the edge of the dock.
A pulse. A ripple. A spell half-formed, collapsing on itself like broken glass.
Teleportation? No... it's wrong. It's cracked.
He leaned forward, squinting through the fog. Someone was standing at the center of the disruption. A girl—silver-haired, wrapped in fabric far too clean for this part of the city. Her feet hovered just slightly above the cobblestone, surrounded by runes that flickered like dying embers.
Aryn's breath caught.
And then, she looked up.
For a heartbeat, nothing moved. Not the wind. Not the water. Not even the threads.
Just two pairs of eyes—one that saw too much, and one that seemed to know it.
The moment broke when she moved—quietly, gracefully, like fog drifting over glass.
She stepped forward, boots not quite touching the stone, then without a word, sat down beside Aryn on the rooftop's edge. Just like that. As if they'd always known each other. As if she belonged there.
He blinked once. Twice.
Seriously?
"Nice view," she said, her voice smooth, distant. She didn't look at him, just stared out toward the harbor like it was the most natural thing in the world to teleport into a strange city, find a rooftop, and sit next to a random boy.
Aryn didn't respond. Not immediately.
Because when he turned to glance at her, it happened.
His vision flared—violently.
Lines exploded into the air around her, flooding every inch of his sight. Symbols in languages he didn't know twisted across her skin. Her name, etched in gold light above her head like a crown. Beneath it: bloodline, elemental alignment, spell signature, combat record, education, medical history, suppressed memories, childhood traumas—
Too much.
Too much.
> Elaina Rorth
House Rorth, Second Daughter.
Bloodline: Royal - Elforian High Arcana
S-Class Aptitude — Elemental: Light, Ice
Academic Rank: Prime-Level Graduate, Academy of Eron
Suppressed Memory (age 9): "The flames wouldn't stop—"
A sharp crack echoed in his skull, and suddenly the air smelled like metal.
His nose began to bleed.
"Shit," he muttered, pinching the bridge of it too late.
She turned sharply, eyes wide. "Are you—? Wait, are you bleeding?"
"Apparently," Aryn said flatly, already pulling out a crumpled cloth from his coat. The world still pulsed faintly in his peripheral vision, like afterimages from staring at the sun too long. His stomach twisted.
Elaina leaned closer, peering at his face, concerned but not suspicious.
"You didn't look like you were sick a second ago. That just… happened."
"Yeah, well," he muttered, voice dry, "happens sometimes when beautiful strangers fall out of the sky and sit too close."
She tilted her head. "So you do think I'm beautiful."
Aryn stared at her. "...That's what you focus on?"
Elaina shrugged, the corner of her lips twitching slightly. "You're the one bleeding. I get to choose what's weird right now."
He sighed and looked away, cloth pressed under his nose. The air was cooling again. Threads of magic around her still glimmered faintly in the corner of his sight, but he kept his gaze fixed on the sea.
"Don't take this the wrong way," he said slowly, "but who the hell are you?"
Elaina smiled. Not sweetly. Not coldly. Just like someone who knew more than she should—and wasn't ready to share.
"I'll tell you later," she said. "Right now, I just needed to sit somewhere quiet."
Aryn didn't respond. He didn't ask more. Didn't press.
Because something told him... she wasn't lying.
Aryn stood, wiping the last of the blood from his nose. The wind tugged at his white hair, making it flutter like some sort of ghostly flag. His blue eyes—tired, almost empty—glanced once at the harbor before he turned away.
"I'm leaving," he said, his voice quiet, but cutting through the air between them. "Not everyone has time to waste."
His back was to her, and he started walking toward the roof's edge. His footsteps were deliberate, as if pushing away the weight of this strange encounter. The wind rushed past him again, but there was something colder in it now—something that gnawed at the edges of his mind.
Elaina—or whatever her name really was—didn't say anything.
But the moment before he stepped off the rooftop, she spoke.
"Must be nice, huh?" she said, her gaze still fixed on the city below. "Living without a care in the world. Free."
Aryn didn't stop. He didn't even turn to face her.
"Freedom's just another illusion for the privileged," he muttered, his tone sharper than the wind. "You get to walk around like you own the world, while the rest of us are shackled to it, whether we like it or not."
A pause. The weight of his words hung in the air like a storm cloud.
"Some of us have to see things for what they really are," he added, almost to himself. "And trust me, it's not a pretty sight."
Aryn didn't look back as he walked away, his white hair trailing like a flag of surrender in the wind. The city hummed behind him—distant shouts from the market, the hiss of steam from the docks, and the constant grind of life moving forward. But there was a weight in the air now, one that clung to his skin like a chill.
His mind kept replaying her words.
"Must be nice, huh? Living without a care in the world. Free."
Free. The word burned through him.
The truth was, freedom didn't belong to people like her. The elite. The ones with the power. The ones who could waltz in and out of places they didn't belong without a second thought. It belonged to those who had nothing to lose, or everything to gain.
He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets and kept walking, his steps growing more purposeful as he neared the crowded streets below. A few blocks, and he'd be back in the maze of alleyways and narrow streets he knew too well—where the noise and chaos of the city would swallow him up.
He was almost there when he felt it.
A shift. Something dark, something threatening in the air around him.
Aryn stopped, his gaze flicking over his shoulder. The streets behind him were too quiet. Too empty.
Then, he heard the low hum of footsteps, the kind that didn't belong to regular pedestrians. The sound of leather soles against stone, moving with a purpose.
He didn't need to turn around to know they were following him.
The Tigerclub. He could sense them before they even showed up—a familiar pressure in the air, like a storm about to break. The gang, notorious for their brutality and underworld dealings, was never far from trouble. And they always seemed to find their way to him.
Aryn's eyes flashed.
Threads. They were everywhere now, swirling and pulsing with malicious intent. The low hum of magic from the figures behind him was unmistakable—summoning magic, a bit rough, but effective. He could feel the faint shift in the air, like the world was bending to their will.
He needed to move. Fast.
"Not today," he muttered to himself.
Without a second thought, Aryn flicked his gaze downward, his Omni Eye locking onto the movements of the figures in the distance. The threads swirled around him, a blur of blue energy filling his sight. The world was alive with magic, but now, it was clearer than ever—the Tigerclub was preparing something.
He sprinted, weaving through the streets, narrowly avoiding a blast of searing air that rushed past him. He didn't need to look. He could feel it, the sudden surge of force behind him. A blast of magic aimed at his back.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He ducked into an alley, his vision blurring with the heat of the explosion behind him. The walls shimmered with magical residue—black smoke curled upward, but Aryn was already moving. He couldn't let them pin him down, not now.
He twisted sharply, heading deeper into the maze of alleyways. His eyes darted around, scanning the threads of magic that danced between buildings, marking the safest path to evade them. There. A flicker of light from a nearby rooftop. An open window.
Aryn's footfalls were quick and measured. With a flash of blue light, he tapped into the space around him, predicting their next move. A burst of ice magic shot toward him from the left, but he was already gone, weaving into a narrow passageway that the attackers hadn't anticipated.
The threads of magic thinned around him, their strength dissipating as they scrambled to adjust. He could feel their frustration in the air—chaos, confusion.
"Stupid," Aryn muttered, his voice cold. "Did they really think they could outsmart me?"
A flicker of magic pulsed behind him—summoned blades whirling through the air. He could see them before they even took shape—sharp, deadly arcs of energy. But his Omni Eye told him where to move.
He ducked just as a glowing shard of magic sliced through the space where his head had been a moment before. The wind from the attack ruffled his hair, but Aryn didn't hesitate. He dashed forward again, calculating every step, every move, just a few steps ahead of them.
Aryn slid into a narrow street, his breath quickening but controlled. His heart raced, but his mind was calm. Magic might have been their weapon, but he was playing a different game.
He saw a building ahead—a construction site with scaffolding. He could use that.
As he neared it, a flash of movement caught his eye—two figures appeared in the distance, their magical energy rising like dark storm clouds.
Aryn didn't wait. He jumped.
His hand grasped a metal beam jutting from the side of the building, pulling himself up with a smooth, practiced motion. His Omni Eye scanned the threads again—he could see the pathways they'd take to follow him, the magical signals lighting up like roads in the dark.
He smiled.
"Catch me if you can."
From the rooftop, he could hear the frustrated curses of his pursuers below. He could feel their presence closing in as they tried to track his movements—but it was too late.
The world was a game of lines, and Aryn knew how to move between them.