The Next Morning…
The recruits were not led back to the familiar classroom. Instead, Damien guided them down a different corridor.
It went deeper into the foundations of the Library’s headquarters. The air grew cooler.
The soft, golden light of the main halls gave way to the flickering, uncertain glow of torches. They were set in ancient stone sconces.
Their footsteps echoed in the silence. It was a lonely, rhythmic sound that seemed to be swallowed by the immense, dark space ahead.
They arrived at a pair of massive stone doors. They were carved with intricate, strange symbols that seemed to writhe at the edge of Carter’s vision.
With a low groan of grinding stone, the doors swung inward. They revealed the chamber within.
It was a vast, round room. Its domed ceiling was so high that it was lost in shadow.
The walls were smooth, black stone with no features. The floor was a single, unbroken slab of polished obsidian.
It reflected the torchlight like a dark, still lake. There were no windows, no furniture.
Only the unnerving, empty space.
“Class will take place here today,” Damien announced. His voice echoed in the big room.
He walked to the center of the room. The recruits followed him.
Their unease was a real thing in the cold, still air.
“Yesterday, I explained the laws that govern magic,” Damien began. His voice was the calm, clinical center of the unsettling place. “Today, we address the most basic barrier.”
“It stands between you and the ability to use that magic. We are here to discuss the Gate.”
He looked from face to face. His steel-gray eyes seemed to pierce through their nervous outsides.
“The Gate is a subconscious doorway. It is a barrier deep within the soul of every human being.”
“It is a natural defense. It is designed to protect the fragile human mind from the raw, untamed power of the cosmos.”
“In every person who cannot use magic, that Gate is sealed shut. They are surrounded by magical energy, but it cannot flow into them.”
“To become a mage, you must first do one thing: you must open your Gate.”
I’ve never had that experience, Carter thought. The car crash, the council chamber… my magic had just happened.
There was no sense of a barrier breaking. There was no feeling of a door being forced open.
“I’ve never had that experience,” Carter said. The words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Damien turned his analytical gaze on him.
“That is impossible,” he stated. His tone was flat and absolute. “Every human has a Gate.”
“The only beings who do not are magical creatures. Their very essence is already part of magic.” He paused.
A flicker of academic curiosity was in his eyes. “It is true that a human who is changed, like our Director, can lose their Gate.”
“But they lose some of their humanity in the process. You, Mr. Cross, are human. Therefore, you have a Gate.”
“You simply do not remember the moment it was opened.”
Damien turned his attention back to the group.
“There are two ways to open a Gate. The ancient way is slow and careful. It uses meditation and will.”
“A mage would travel to a place of strong natural power—a deep forest, a remote mountain peak—and spend months, sometimes years, in quiet thought. Slowly and carefully, they would unlatch the door to their soul.”
He shook his head.
“We do not have years.”
“This brings us to the second method,” he continued. His voice dropped to a low, serious tone.
“A more… direct approach. The soul is the doorway to magic, but the body, the soul, and the subconscious mind are all linked.”
“The Gate is a lock, and the most effective key is trauma. When a human body is pushed to the absolute edge of destruction, in a moment of extreme, life-threatening stress… the soul acts.”
“In a final, basic attempt to keep itself alive, it will tear the Gate open. It floods the body with magic as a last choice.”
The recruits looked at each other with nervous glances. The meaning of his words was starting to sink in.
Damien kept Akira and Carter to the side.
“You two have already gone through this. You will watch.”
He then turned to the other five. They were Yulian, Paige, Keyona, Nico, and Amy.
Their faces were pale in the flickering torchlight.
“That is the purpose of this chamber,” Damien revealed. His voice had no emotion at all.
“I am going to put each of you into a magically created state. It will pretend to be the final, terrifying moments before your death.”
“It will be a perfect illusion. Your subconscious mind will not know it’s not real.”
He saw the terror in their eyes. He held up a hand.
“Let me be clear. You will be in no real physical danger. Your bodies will be perfectly safe.”
“I will monitor you, and Ms. Sato will too. But the experience—the pain, the fear, the despair—that will be completely real.”
“Your mind will think it is dying. And at the edge of that perceived death, your soul will be forced to act.”
Ruby stepped forward. Her usual bubbly energy was gone.
It was replaced by a quiet, professional focus. Her pink eyes were filled with a gentle understanding as she looked at the terrified recruits.
“My power is French,” she explained. Her voice was soft and reassuring. “It allows for the creation of powerful illusions.”
“They affect all five senses. I will be the one guiding you. I promise, I will keep you safe.”
Yulian, his big body shaking a little, was chosen first. He stepped forward.
His face was a mask of serious determination.
“We will begin with your deepest fear, Mr. Volkov,” Damien said. His voice was like a clinical, detached tool.
Ruby placed a gentle hand on Yulian’s forehead. She spoke a single, soft French word.
A shimmering, rainbow-colored mist began to swirl around Yulian. It hid him from view.
Carter watched as the big Russian’s body went stiff. His eyes closed.
His face twisted into a mask of pure, total terror.
Then, the world changed.
Inside Yula’s Mind…
I am in the dark. The air was thick with the smell of old cigarette smoke, cheap vodka, and the metallic taste of old blood.
My head throbbed. It was a dull, constant ache behind my eyes. I tried to move my hands, but they were tied tight behind me.
The rough rope dug into my wrists. I was tied to a chair in the middle of a dirty, concrete room.
A single, bare light bulb hung from the ceiling. It cast long, strange shadows on the damp walls.
This is the place. The place I have tried so hard to forget. The place that haunts my nightmares.
The door creaked open. Three men walked in. I knew their faces. I knew the cold, dead look in their eyes.
They were the second-in-command men. The men I used to work for. The men I thought I had escaped.
“Yulian, Yulian, Yulian,” the one in the middle said. His voice was a low, rough sneer.
He took a long drag from his cigarette. The tip glowed a mean orange in the dim light.
“You thought you could just run away? Disappear to America? You thought we would forget about the money you owe us?”
“I don’t have it,” I say. My own voice sounds weak, pathetic.
“We know,” he says with a cruel smile. “But we are not unreasonable men. We have found a way for you to pay your debt.”
He steps aside. Two of his thugs drag them into the room. My mother. My older sister. My little niece.
Their faces are pale with terror. Their eyes are wide with a desperate, pleading fear.
They are crying. Their sobs are the only sound in the room besides the steady drip of water from a leaky pipe in the corner.
“No,” I whisper. The word is a choked, strangled sound in my throat. “Please… not them. Take me.”
“Do whatever you want to me. But let them go.”
The man laughs. It’s a harsh, ugly sound that echoes off the concrete walls. “But this is so much more effective, don’t you think?“
He pulls out a pistol. The metal glints in the dim light. He presses the cold, hard barrel to my mother’s temple.
“NO!”
I scream. It’s a raw, primal sound of pure, total agony. I struggle against the ropes.
My muscles strain. My skin tears. But it’s useless. I am helpless. I am a failure.
I am watching my family die, and there is nothing I can do.
My sister is screaming. My niece is crying. My mother is just looking at me.
Her eyes are filled with a love and a terror that will haunt me for the rest of my life.
The man’s finger tightens on the trigger. The world narrows to a single, unbearable point of focus.
This is it. This is the end. This is my failure, my punishment, my hell.
And then, something inside me snaps.
It is not a thought. It is not a feeling. It is a violent, primal scream from the very core of my soul.
A desperate, defiant roar that says NO! I WILL NOT LET THIS HAPPEN!
A searing, white-hot pain erupts in my chest. A feeling of my very essence being torn in two.
It is an agony beyond anything I have ever known. It is a thousand times worse than any punch I have ever taken.
It feels like my soul is shattering like glass.
And through the cracks, something floods in.
A power. A raw, untamed, magnificent power that is as ancient and as solid as the earth itself.
It surges through my veins. It is a torrent of pure, total energy.
The ropes on my wrists don’t break; they turn to dust. The chair I am tied to doesn’t shatter; it crumbles into sand.
Yulian lets out a raw, guttural scream as he wakes. His body shakes violently.
A wave of pure, untamed magical energy erupts from him. It sends a shockwave through the room.
The torchlight flickers and dances. He collapses to the floor.
His big frame is limp. His breathing is ragged and shallow.
The shimmering mist around him disappears. He is left shaken, pale.
His face is slick with sweat. But he is alive.
And he is now connected to the flow of magic.
The other recruits stare at him in horrified silence. Their faces are ashen.
They have just seen the brutal, terrifying birth of a mage.
Damien looks down at Yulian’s unconscious body. His expression cannot be read.
He then turns his cold, steel-gray eyes to the next recruit in line.
“Ms. Hellen,” he says. His voice is a calm, clinical command.
“You’re next.”
Paige stepped forward. Her small body looked even more fragile in the vast, dark chamber.
She pushed her red-framed glasses up her nose. It was a nervous, usual move.
Her face was pale. But her blue eyes, wide with a mix of terror and serious determination, were fixed on Damien.
She knew what was coming. She had seen the memory play out in her nightmares a thousand times.
Paige gave a single, jerky nod. Her throat was too tight to speak.
Ruby came toward her. Her pink eyes were filled with a soft, understanding light.
She placed a gentle hand on Paige’s forehead. A shimmering mist, the color of deep sea green, began to swirl around the small, red-haired girl.
Paige’s body went stiff. Her eyes fluttered shut.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Then, the world changed.
Inside Paige’s Mind…
I am sinking.
The water was a crushing, suffocating weight. It was an icy blanket that stole the warmth from my body and the air from my lungs.
Panic was a wild, clawing thing in my chest. I thrashed and kicked, but my movements were slow, useless, like a dream.
The surface, a shimmering, sunlit ceiling, grew farther away with every passing second. My lungs were on fire.
They screamed for air, but there was only the cold, unforgiving water.
This is it. This is how it happened. The family trip to the coast. A playful shove from my older brother.
The shock of the cold water. The laughter that quickly turned to screams. I was only a child.
I didn’t know how to swim.
I can’t hold my breath any longer. My mouth opened in a silent scream. The water rushed in.
It was a salty, burning flood that filled my throat, my lungs. It felt like drowning from the inside out.
My vision started to narrow. The world dissolved into a dark, blurry haze.
And then, I see it.
From the deep, dark water below, something was rising. It was a shape of impossible size.
It was a vast, living shadow that blotted out the faint, distant light. It was a creature of the deep.
It was a leviathan from a forgotten age. Its skin was slick, oily black. Its eyes were a series of pale, glowing orbs.
They stared at me with a cold, ancient intelligence. It was the thing I saw that day. The thing no one else believed.
The thing that has haunted my dreams ever since.
It opened its mouth. It was a cavern of needle-like teeth. The last of my strength, my will, my hope, dissolved into pure, total terror.
This is my end. A small, unimportant speck, about to be swallowed by an ancient, unknowable god of the deep.
I am nothing.
And then, something inside me awakened.
It is not a scream of terror, but a whisper of defiance. A small, quiet voice from the very core of my being that says, I am not nothing.
I am Paige Hellen. And I will not die here.
A sharp, searing pain erupted in my mind. It was a feeling of my consciousness being split in two.
It was an agony of the soul. It was a feeling of my very identity being torn apart.
And through the crack, a new kind of knowledge flooded in.
It is not the ordered, logical knowledge of my books and my research. It is something else.
Something wild, ancient, and based on instinct.
I feel it, I understand it, and I command it.
The water that fills my lungs is no longer an enemy. It is a part of me.
I breathe.
Paige lets out a soft, shuddering gasp. A wave of shimmering, turquoise energy, like a heat haze on a summer day, ripples out from her body.
She sways on her feet for a moment. Then her knees buckle, and she collapses to the floor.
Her body is limp. Her breathing is slow and steady.
The sea-green mist around her disappears. She is left shaken, pale.
But she is alive. And she is now connected to the flow of magic.
Ruby looks up from Paige’s unconscious body. A flicker of concern is in her pink eyes.
She sees Keyona Baker already stepping forward. The striking African-American girl, with her gothic makeup and confident, almost challenging posture, looks completely unafraid.
“Let’s just get this over with,” Keyona says. Her voice is a low, steady drawl.
Damien nods. A flicker of respect is in his steel-gray eyes.
Keyona’s confident front cracks for just a moment. A flicker of raw, painful vulnerability is in her dark eyes.
Then she schools her face back into a mask of cool indifference.
Ruby places a gentle hand on her forehead. A shimmering mist, the color of polished silver, begins to swirl around the proud, defiant girl.
Keyona’s body goes rigid. Her eyes close.
Her jaw clenches in a tight, stubborn line.
Then, the world shifts.
Inside Keyona’s Mind…
The world smells of lemon polish and old paper. I’m standing in my father’s study.
The late afternoon sun streams through the large bay window. It lights up the dust motes dancing in the air.
The walls are lined with mahogany bookshelves. They are filled with leather-bound medical journals and framed degrees from important universities.
This room is a monument to my parents’ success. It is a shrine to the life they built.
The life they expect me to inherit.
And I am a desecration.
They stand before me. My mother and my father. Their faces are a mask of cold, disappointment.
They are dressed in their perfect doctor’s coats. Their expressions are as sterile as the operating rooms they command.
They look at me, but they don’t see me. They see my ripped jeans. My black mesh top.
The dark lipstick I carefully put on this morning. They see a failed experiment.
A genetic mistake that has gone off the perfect, planned path they set for me since birth.
“We saw your report card, Keyona,” my father says. His voice has no warmth at all.
It is the same voice he uses to deliver a final diagnosis. “A C- in calculus. A B in chemistry.”
“This is not the work of a future neurosurgeon.”
“And this… look,” my mother says. She gestures to my clothes with a wave of her hand.
It’s like I am something unpleasant she found on the bottom of her shoe. “This is not a phase. This is a rebellion.”
“A deliberate, planned act of defiance against everything we have worked for, everything we have given you.”
“I don’t want to be a neurosurgeon,” I say. My own voice sounds small, weak.
It is a pathetic whisper against the crushing weight of their disapproval. “I want to be an artist.”
The word hangs in the air between us. It sounds ugly and wrong.
My father lets out a short, humorless laugh. “An artist,” he repeats. The word is like poison on his tongue.
“You have the chance to save lives, to push the limits of medical science, and you want to what? Smear paint on a canvas?”
“You are throwing your life away, Keyona.”
“You are throwing OUR life away.”
“We are done,” my mother says. Her voice is sharp and final, like a scalpel’s cut. “We have given you every advantage, every chance.”
“And you have wasted them all. You are a disappointment. You are not our daughter.”
The words are a physical blow. It’s a fist of ice that hits my chest, stealing the air from my lungs.
This is it. The moment I have dreaded my whole life. The final, unchangeable judgment.
I am not good enough. I am a failure. I am… nothing.
And then, something inside me ignites.
It is not a whisper. It is a roar. A furious, defiant fire that burns away the fear and the shame and the years of quiet, suffocating despair.
It is a voice from the very core of my being that screams, I AM NOT NOTHING. AND I AM NOT YOURS TO BREAK.
A searing, electric pain rips through my mind. It is a feeling of my very identity being made new in a fire of pure, total rage.
And through the fire, a new kind of power floods in.
It is a power that is sharp, and clean, and simple. It is the power to create, to build, to make something from nothing but pure, focused will.
It is the power that they, with all their degrees and their honors and their cold, sterile science, could never even begin to understand.
It is mine.
Keyona lets out a sharp, defiant cry. A wave of pure, white light, as clean and as sterile as a surgeon’s blade, erupts from her body.
She stumbles back. Her knees buckle, but she doesn’t fall.
She catches herself. Her head is held high.
A single, silent tear traces a path through her dark makeup.
The silver mist around her disappears. She is left shaken.
Her confident front is shattered. But in its place is something harder, something stronger.
She is now connected to the flow of magic.
Damien gives her a single, almost unseen nod of approval. He then turns his gaze to the next recruit.
“Mr. Reyes,” he says. His voice is a calm, steady instrument in the echoing silence.
Nico steps forward. His body is trembling.
His face is a pale, waxy mask of pure terror. He knows what’s coming.
For the others, it was a fear.
For him, it is a memory.
A fresh, bleeding wound that has not yet had time to heal.
Nico’s eyes widen in horror. A choked, strangled sound escapes his lips.
Ruby comes toward him. Her pink eyes are filled with a deep, total pity.
She places a gentle hand on his forehead. A shimmering mist, the color of blood and shadows, begins to swirl around the terrified young man.
His body goes rigid. His eyes close.
A single, silent tear rolls down his cheek.
Then, the world shifts.
Inside Nico’s Mind…
I am home. The familiar, cloying humidity of the Philippines hangs heavy in the air.
It is thick with the smell of rain-soaked earth and my mother’s cooking. I’m in the living room.
The worn rattan furniture is a comforting, familiar sight. My brothers and sisters are all here.
Their laughter fills the small house with a chaotic, joyful energy. This is my life.
This is my world. And it is about to end.
The words are a poison in my mouth.
The strange, alien language that had been bubbling up in my mind for days. The words felt more real, more right, than the ones I had known my whole life.
I tried to hold them in. I tried to swallow them down. But they were a pressure building in my chest.
It was a desperate, screaming need to be heard.
“Tulungan mo ako,” I whisper. The Tagalog words for “help me” escaped my lips before I could stop them.
Alien words, different from the Thaylic I had spoken my whole life.
And then, everything stops.
The laughter dies. The air grows cold. The warmth in my mother’s eyes vanishes.
It is replaced by a flat, empty blackness. My brothers, my sisters, their faces go slack.
Their expressions turn into identical masks of cold, mindless rage. They are not my family anymore.
They are puppets. Their strings are pulled by an unseen, evil hand.
“ABERRATION DETECTED.”
They say together. Their voices are a single, monstrous, robotic drone that is not their own.
“BY ORDERS OF THE KING… KILL THE DEFIANT.”
I run.
I scramble out of the house. My heart is a frantic, hammering drum against my ribs.
I run through the narrow, muddy streets of my village. My bare feet slip on the wet ground.
I see my neighbor, Mr. Santos. He is tending to his garden.
“Mr. Santos, help me!” I scream. The strange, new words tumble from my mouth.
He looks up. His kind, wrinkled face turns towards me. And then his eyes go black.
He drops his trowel. He begins to walk towards me. His movements are stiff and robotic.
I run again. I see my friends playing basketball in a dusty, makeshift court.
“Miguel! Paolo! You have to help me!”
They stop. The ball bounces away, forgotten. Their heads turn in unison.
Their eyes go black. They start walking towards me. Their faces are empty.
Their intentions are clear.
Panic is a wild, clawing thing in my throat. I run towards the market. My lungs are burning.
I see Mrs. Reyes, the old woman who sells mangoes. She has known me since I was a baby.
She will help me.
“Lola, please!” I sob. My voice cracks.
She looks up from her fruit stand. A gentle smile is on her face. And then her eyes go black.
I am surrounded. My family, my neighbors, my friends—my whole world has turned against me.
They form a silent, closing circle in the center of the town square. Their black, empty eyes are fixed on me.
Their movements are slow, deliberate, and inescapable.
This is it. The man from the Library who rescued me the first time isn’t here. There is only the end.
My oldest brother raises his machete. The dull blade glints in the harsh, tropical sun.
I close my eyes. A single, silent prayer is on my lips.
And then, something inside me shatters.
It is not a scream. It is a quiet, desperate plea. A final, whispered wish for it all to just… stop.
A searing, blinding light erupts in my mind. It is a feeling of my very soul being stretched to its breaking point.
It is an agony of pure, total terror. It is a feeling of being erased from existence.
And through the light, a new kind of energy floods in.
It is a power that is not solid, not liquid, not gas. It is the power of movement itself.
It is the kinetic force that binds the universe together. It is a power that can absorb, and redirect, and release.
It is mine.
The machete falls. But it does not hit me.
It stops, inches from my face. It is held in place by an invisible, unyielding force.
The shock on my brother’s face is the last thing I see before the world goes black.
Nico lets out a long, shuddering sigh. His body goes completely limp.
A wave of pure, energy, visible only as a faint, shimmering distortion in the air, ripples out from him.
He collapses to the floor, unconscious.
The blood-red mist around him disappears. He is left pale and trembling, but he is alive.
And he is now connected to the flow of magic.
Damien’s gaze moves to the last recruit. Amy Soo-young.
The Korean-American girl with the bleached blonde hair and the expression that always looks bored.
Throughout the whole ordeal, she watched the others suffer with a cool, almost clinical distance.
Now, as Damien’s eyes land on her, a flicker of something—fear, anger, a deep, old pain—flashes in her hazel eyes.
Then she schools her face back into a mask of bored indifference.
“Your turn, Ms. Soo-young,” Damien says.
Amy stands and walks to the center of the room. Her movements are slow, deliberate, almost defiant.
Amy’s mask does not crack. She simply closes her eyes.
It is a single, silent act of giving up. Ruby comes toward her.
Her pink eyes are filled with a deep, sorrowful understanding. She places a gentle hand on Amy’s forehead.
A shimmering mist, the color of a cold, moonless night, begins to swirl around the still, silent girl.
Inside Amy’s Mind…
Then, the world shifts.
I am small again. The world is a place of giants. It is filled with looming shadows and loud, angry voices.
I am in my childhood bedroom in Seoul. It is a small, sterile room with pale pink walls.
There is a single, barred window that looks out onto a rain-slicked alley. The air is thick with the smell of kimchi and stale soju.
It’s a smell that will forever be tied to the feeling of dread that lives in the pit of my stomach.
It is night. The only light comes from the flickering neon sign of the bar across the alley.
It casts shifting, monstrous shadows on my bedroom walls. I am huddled under my thin blanket.
My body is a tight, trembling ball. My eyes are squeezed shut. I pray for a sleep that will not come.
I hear his footsteps in the hallway. Heavy, uneven, stumbling. He is drunk again.
The floorboards creak outside my door. It’s a sound that makes my heart stop in my chest.
I hold my breath. My entire being focuses on the sound of the doorknob.
It turns.
The door swings open with a low, mournful groan. He fills the doorway.
He is a hulking, terrifying shape against the dim light of the hallway. He is my father.
A man whose hands are stained with the crimes of the Seoul underworld. A man whose eyes hold a hunger that has nothing to do with food.
He closes the door behind him. The room is plunged into near darkness.
The only sound is his heavy, ragged breathing and the frantic, hammering beat of my own heart.
“Amy-ah,” he slurs. His voice is a low, rough sound that makes my skin crawl. “Are you awake?”
I do not answer. I do not move. I try to make myself smaller. I try to disappear into the mattress.
I try to become nothing more than a forgotten lump under a blanket. But it’s useless.
He knows I am here. He always knows.
He stumbles towards my bed. His shadow looms over me like a hungry wolf.
I can smell the sour stench of soju on his breath as he leans over me.
I hear the wet, slick sound of him licking his lips. Then, the sharp, metallic click of his belt buckle being unlatched.
This is it. The moment I have lived again a thousand times in my nightmares. The feeling of being small, helpless.
A trapped animal in a cage he made. The feeling of being completely and utterly powerless.
And then, something inside me breaks.
It is not a snap. It is a slow, cold, planned fracture. A piece of my soul, the part that knows how to be afraid, the part that knows how to cry, simply… breaks off and drifts away.
And in its place, something else rises. Something cold, and hard, and empty.
A searing, icy numbness spreads through my mind. It is a feeling of my very emotions being frozen.
They are flash-frozen into a brittle, crystalline structure.
And into the emptiness, a new kind of power flows.
It is not a warm, living thing. It is the power of the void. The power of gravity.
The power to pull, to crush, to bend the very fabric of space to my will. It is a power that is as cold, and as empty, and as absolute as the space between the stars.
It is mine.
Amy Soo-young does not scream. She does not cry out.
She simply stands there. Her body is perfectly still.
Her face is a mask of serene, cold emptiness. A wave of pure, gravitational force, invisible but immense, emanates from her.
It presses down on everyone in the room. The air grows heavy.
The torchlight seems to dim. For a moment, Carter feels as if a great, invisible weight is trying to crush him into the floor.
Then, the pressure vanishes. Amy sways on her feet.
A single, delicate shudder runs through her body. Then she catches herself.
Her eyes open. They reveal a gaze that is colder, harder, and more distant than before.
The dark mist around her disappears. She is left shaken, but not broken.
She is now connected to the flow of magic.
Damien looks at the five unconscious or trembling recruits on the floor. Then he looks at Carter and Akira.
They watched the whole ordeal in stunned silence.
“It is done,” he says. His voice is a flat, final statement. “Their Gates are open.”
He turns to Ruby. She is already moving to help the dazed and disoriented recruits.
“The lesson is over for today. Take them to the infirmary. Lady Seraphina will see to their recovery.”
As Ruby and a few of the now-waking recruits help the others, Carter looks at Akira.
The arrogant, condescending mask is gone. In its place is something else.
Something raw, and vulnerable, and deeply, totally afraid. For the first time since he met him, Akira doesn’t look like a prodigy or a rival.
He just looks like a scared kid.