Chapter 1.3: Another Vision?


    The scent of oil and solder filled her lungs, thick and heavy, while smoke curled lazily along the walls of the cluttered workshop. Tools and scraps littered the benches—half-finished mechanisms left in the wake of someone''s latest obsession.


    At the counter, a boy sat on a stool, propped on one elbow with his chin resting on his hand. His left arm waved absently in the air.


    “It’s itchy,” he complained, wrinkling his nose as he flicked his fingers.


    “I told you not to pick at the graft, boy!” a heavy-set man bellowed, his voice carrying over the hum of machinery.


    The boy groaned dramatically. “I got bored. You tried like a million of ‘em already,” he muttered, still waving his arm.


    The man let out a long, tired sigh.


    Then—a chuckle. Soft. Light. Knowing.


    Kira stiffened. The sound hadn’t come from the room; it curled at the edges of her mind, familiar in a way that made her stomach twist. It wasn’t just a voice—it was her voice.


    "Just let him try a couple more," it mused, distant yet undeniably real.


    The man hesitated, then turned to her, rubbing his neck. “Princess, I really am sorry,” he muttered. “When they’re this young, they’re always hard to pair. Really, you can leave him here with me—I promise I’ll return him once we’re done.”


    At the edge of her vision, messages flickered into existence—a stream of notifications from the council. The meeting had already begun. Again she heard it: “I’ll wait.” She replied politely.


    Turning back to the boy, the old man finally managed to grab hold of his flailing arm. With practiced hands, he began sliding the tablet into place against the newly grafted neural interface embedded in the boy’s skin. The device resisted at first, its connection stubborn. The old man grunted, adjusting his grip before giving it one final push. A soft click sounded as the tablet locked into place. Its screen flickered to life, casting a cool blue glow across the boy’s arm. White text scrolled across the display: "Attempting to Interface…"


    “Ah, finally! A compatible model,” the old man exclaimed, his relief evident.


    “I don’t like it,” the boy said curtly, wrinkling his nose at the device.


    The old man sighed, rubbing his temple. “Well, we can remove the interface later. But until you can control your magic on your own, it’s too dangerous to go without a limiter. Do you not remember what happened just yesterday?”


    The boy paused as if recalling the massive explosion he had caused in class yesterday—but it lasted only a moment. His impatience grew; he scowled at the screen and jabbed it repeatedly with one finger, as if he could force it to move faster.


    Finally, the device connected with a sharp snap. A soft wave of magic pulsed through the workshop, stirring the air like a ripple on still water.


    The boy’s eyes lit up as he yanked the screen closer to his face. A deep, artificial voice hummed from the device, smooth and mechanical:


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    “Please focus your mana supply.”


    Eager now, the boy wasted no time. He poured his magic into the interface, his face set in determination—then, in an instant, it was over. In a blink, everything changed.


    The acrid scent of burnt electronics hit the air, sharp and suffocating. Smoke billowed from the tablet, curling in thick, black tendrils as the screen flickered violently before dying.


    For a heartbeat, silence reigned.


    Then—“No, no, NO!” the boy erupted. His frustration exploded as he yanked at the smoking device, his small hands gripping its edges as if he could tear it from his arm. His face twisted in rage, eyes wild with the beginnings of tears. “Stupid thing! Stupid, stupid thing!” he shouted, kicking at the counter as his legs flailed in uncontrolled desperation. His fingers scrabbled at the device, but it wouldn’t budge—the connectors remained firmly locked into the neural interface beneath his skin.


    Before the old man could react, the boy let out another furious yell and began pulling even harder.


    “Stop that, boy!” the man barked, stepping forward to restrain him. “You’ll tear the whole damn graft out—”


    “I don’t care!” the boy shouted, wrenching at it again. “It’s broken! It’s useless! It’s itchy! I hate it!”


    The smell of scorched metal still hung thick in the air, mingling with the wild, angry heat of his magic as it flared—unstable and unpredictable. Though the device was burned out, it clung stubbornly to what little power remained, with small sparks flickering along its edges.


    Kira tensed at the mounting chaos. “Enough,” she said, her voice slicing through the commotion like a blade. The boy froze, as if petrified by her words; his breath came in short, uneven bursts, and gradually, the wild frustration in his eyes subsided.


    She stepped forward, gently taking his arm. He didn’t resist. The anger, the tantrum—it was as if it had never happened.


    With practiced precision, she unlocked the scorched device and pried it free, setting it down on the counter with a dull clatter. The screen remained dark, while wisps of smoke curled from its ruined circuits.


    Her gaze shifted to the boy’s arm. The graft was intact, though blood welled at the edges where the skin had strained against the failed device. Kira exhaled softly, pressing her fingertips to the wound. Threads of magic wove beneath her touch, sinking into his skin like strands of golden light. Gradually, the bleeding slowed and then stopped, leaving only faint redness.


    Silence settled between them.


    Then, Kira spoke, “I wonder…”


    Her gaze drifted to her own left arm. Slowly, she lifted it, her fingers brushing over the smooth metal surface, and with a practiced motion, she unlatched it.


    In an instant, everything went black.


    Then—she felt it. A rush of sensation, sudden and overwhelming. Magic, emotions, thoughts—raw and unfiltered—crashed over her like a tidal wave. The world spun, weightless and formless, as if her very being had been unmoored from time. For a fleeting moment, she was everything and nothing—a vessel overflowing with a power too vast to contain.


    Her vision snapped back into focus.


    Before her stood a woman—radiant, regal, almost unreal. A beauty so transcendent it did not belong to the mortal realm. Her presence filled the space, divine and all-encompassing, as though she had always been—a force of nature given form.


    Kira understood now why the boy had frozen, why even his anger had evaporated in an instant. The sheer weight of her presence was immersive, undeniable. There was no resisting it, no ignoring it. This woman—whoever, whatever she was—commanded not just the space around her, but the very air, the very moment itself.


    Her armor gleamed, impossibly pristine. The metal glowed with a soft, luminous white, catching the light in ways that made it seem almost ethereal. The surface was smooth yet layered, crafted with masterful precision; every curve and delicate line flowed seamlessly to fit her form. Every plate moved with purpose—designed for both elegance and battle.


    Intricate patterns of gold traced the armor’s edges, subtle yet deliberate, flowing like sacred script etched by unseen hands. The filigree pulsed with a faint inner glow, shifting as if it carried whispers of something ancient, something beyond human understanding.


    Her gauntlets were finely wrought, each segment interlocking with the next to allow both grace and strength in movement. A cloak—a whisper of silver-threaded fabric—cascaded from her shoulders, barely stirring even in the unseen currents of energy that pulsed around her.


    And her eyes—deep pink and luminous, like twin celestial pools reflecting an unseen cosmos. Patterns swirled within them, shifting and evolving with each moment, intricate designs that pulled the soul deeper, drowning it in something both infinite and intimate. Looking into her gaze was intoxicating, as if she carried within her the weight of forgotten worlds and the silent wisdom of eons.


    Yet there was no cold detachment in her stare. Instead, it held a serene, quiet calmness so absolute it seemed to reach into the very fabric of reality.


    For a moment, as Kira absorbed this vision, a memory stirred in her—a faint whisper of a long-forgotten promise. And then, as if in answer, a voice emerged.


    A voice, smooth as silk and strong as steel, echoed in her mind. It was unmistakably familiar, yet not her own—a disembodied murmur that sent a shiver down her spine.


    "The AI’s name is Pyra," it intoned, the words threading through her thoughts like something half-remembered, yet laden with undeniable weight.


    And suddenly—awareness crashed into her.


    A moment ago, her mind had been firmly anchored in the woman before her. But now, everything had shifted. She could see what the boy saw and hear what he heard, yet it was not the same. She wasn’t in his body, nor inside his mind; instead, she experienced him through his raw, unfiltered essence.


    His magic pulsed against her senses, wild and unrestrained, flickering like an untamed flame. His emotions surged in waves—frustration, confusion, a restless energy—but his thoughts, his will, his very being remained elusive, untouchable.


    Then, as she absorbed this realization, the deep pink glow in the woman''s ancient eyes pulsed—as if they were watching, waiting.


    And then—her vision went white once again.