Chapter 451 – A Future Without "Ordinary People"
In every capital city, behind closed doors, the same realization was spreading.
It began as murmurs in the smaller meetings. Then, as data poured in from health ministries, research institutes, and military intelligence, the murmurs became conviction. By the end of the second month, no one could deny it anymore:
There would soon be no such thing as an ordinary human.
On the giant screens of a global conference, the latest charts from the World Health Council appeared. They showed the same trend in every country that had access to Aten's rice. Children growing stronger, healthier, with faster reflexes. Adults gaining energy, recovering from long-term illnesses, even awakening a faint sensitivity to mana.
"This is not just food," one official said quietly. "It's transformation."
Around the table, the ministers and generals sat in uneasy silence. Everyone knew the truth, but saying it aloud made it real.
"The difference between mortals and the supernatural has always been a wall," said a senior adviser from Japan. "That wall is crumbling. These grains are turning every hungry child into someone with the potential to awaken mana."
Another official, from Africa, added, "Not just children. Even adults are showing effects. Our medical reports confirm increased vitality and stronger mana signatures in older populations who have been eating Aten's rice since the first harvest."
Maps glowed on the screens. Green where the fields of Aten had spread, yellow where trade had reached, red where only ordinary food still remained. In just three months, more than half the world was already glowing green.
A European defense minister stared at the map. "What happens when there are no more ordinary people? When every single person has mana, even if only a little?"
The answer came from a scientist standing near the screens, his voice even but heavy.
"Then humanity itself will adapt. In another generation, we will no longer be a species without magic. This rice is making sure of it."
No one argued. Everyone in the room knew what that meant. The line that had divided mortals from gods, vampires, elves, and magicians was dissolving with every bowl of grain.
The world didn't have to wait long for the first sign.
It happened in the middle of a crowded city, on a bright afternoon when the streets were packed. The cameras of every phone in the area caught it, and by evening, the entire planet had seen.
An 18‑year‑old boy—one of the first generation raised entirely on Aten's rice—was standing at a busy crosswalk when it began. Witnesses said that, without warning, his body shimmered faintly, like heat rising from asphalt. Then, from his hands, thin trails of light spilled out, curling like threads of mist.
Someone shouted, "Mana! He's using mana!"
Before he even understood what was happening, the air around him shifted. People nearby could feel it—pressure, energy, something they had only seen in magicians or supernatural beings. He turned, eyes wide, staring at his hands, and a faint spark of lightning danced across his fingertips.
The crowd froze. Phones went up. Some cheered, others gasped, and a few stepped back, whispering in awe.
Then, before anyone could react further, a truck came skidding from the opposite street.
Its horn blared. Tires screamed.
The boy, stunned and overwhelmed, barely had time to glance over before the heavy vehicle slammed into him.
The impact was brutal. The crowd screamed as his body was thrown across the intersection, rolling over the asphalt before coming to a stop nearly thirty meters away.
For a moment, there was only silence.
Then, panic erupted. People rushed toward him, others calling emergency services. The driver, pale and shaking, stumbled out of the truck, shouting, "I didn't see him! I didn't see him!"
When they reached the boy, they expected a broken body.
Instead, he was sitting up, dazed.
His shirt was torn, his skin scraped, but there were no shattered bones, no blood pooling on the pavement. Only a few shallow cuts, a thin stream of blood on his arm, and bruises where a normal human should have been crushed.
"He's… alive," someone whispered in disbelief.
"He just got hit by a truck—how is he alive?!"
The driver dropped to his knees, staring in shock. The boy blinked, still confused, as faint arcs of light danced weakly along his fingertips again. His voice trembled.
"I'm… I'm fine… I think…"
Phones kept recording. The footage of a human taking a direct hit from a speeding truck and getting back up spread within hours.
And with it, the truth could no longer be hidden.
The sirens came fast.
Within minutes, the entire intersection was blocked off as emergency services poured in—paramedics, police, fire trucks. Crowds were pushed back, but no one left; every single person was still holding up their phone, recording.
The paramedics surrounded the boy, their faces grim as they checked his pulse and vitals, only to pause in shock.
"His heart rate is steady," one said. "Strong. No fractures."
The boy blinked at them, his voice shaky. "I'm fine. I really… I feel fine."
One of the paramedics glanced at the dents in the truck, at the cracked windshield, and then back at the boy's unbroken body. "This shouldn't be possible."
News crews arrived even before the ambulance pulled away. Drones hovered overhead, live streaming the chaos. The anchor's voice on a city broadcast stuttered as he tried to make sense of what everyone had just seen.
"A young man, struck directly by a truck traveling over seventy kilometers per hour, has… survived with only scratches. Witnesses report he had been manifesting mana just moments before the incident. If confirmed, this will be the first public case of a human—born with no supernatural lineage—awakening visible power."
The footage replayed on every screen. The moment the boy's hands lit with pale blue sparks. The collision. The impossible survival. The camera zoomed in on the shallow cuts on his arms, blood trickling lightly.
People watching from their homes or phones held their breath.
By evening, the video had reached every continent.
Far away, in the shadows of the supernatural world, the reactions began.
In the Magic Association's towers, alarms rang. Instruments that measured ambient mana pulsed as the awakening registered on their screens. Mages gathered around the readings, staring in silence.
In vampire courts, silver-eyed elders paused mid-conversation as they watched the broadcast on screens meant for mortals. "It begins," one whispered.
In Alfheim, under the silver branches of the Sunleaf Court, Vira watched the footage alone, her emerald eyes narrowing as she thought of Alex's gift. "This is what you wanted," she murmured. "This is only the start."
Even the halls of Olympus fell silent when Hermes appeared, waving a crystal tablet that replayed the moment. Athena leaned forward, watching intently, while Artemis crossed her arms. Zeus said nothing, but the way his hand tightened around the armrest of his throne said everything.
Back in the city, the boy was placed on a stretcher. Cameras followed every step as he was taken into the ambulance. Reporters shouted over each other.
"Are you in pain?!"
"How did you survive?!"
"What happened before the truck hit you?!"
The boy only said one thing, still trembling as the ambulance doors closed.
"I just… I just wanted to cross the street. Then something inside me woke up."
The doors slammed shut. The ambulance pulled away, leaving the crowd stunned, the cameras still rolling.
That night, the world no longer asked whether Aten's rice could change humanity.
They had just seen the answer.
Chapter 452 – The Awakening of Everyone
The boy in the city was only the beginning.
In the days that followed, reports began to pour in from every corner of the world. Not just from children, but from adults, the elderly, even those who had been bedridden for years.
At first, the changes were small.
A construction worker fell from a second-story scaffolding and stood up with bruises instead of broken bones.
A woman in her forties was caught on camera pushing away a motorbike that skidded toward her, her reflexes so fast that bystanders swore she moved before she even saw it.
An elderly man, after decades with a cane, dropped it in surprise when his legs no longer hurt.
None of them were superhuman. None of them could cast spells or bend the world.
But their bodies were different.
Stronger. Harder to hurt. A step closer to something that, until now, had only belonged to the supernatural races.
And along with it came something subtle, like a low hum that only they could feel: mana.
Doctors began to notice faint traces in scans.
Scientists found themselves staring at graphs that no longer made sense.
The numbers showed the same thing again and again.
"Mana," one researcher whispered. "Ordinary people are starting to generate mana."
The news channels could barely keep up.
Within a week, there was not one, but thousands of incidents.
A schoolteacher shielding students during an earthquake, the debris bouncing off her arms with only scratches.
A delivery driver lifting a crashed car just enough for the trapped person to crawl out.
Children throwing a ball so hard it dented a steel trash bin.
These stories, once impossible, were now daily.
In the streets, the conversations changed.
People no longer asked if it was happening.
They asked why.
On livestreams, in chat rooms, on the massive global broadcasts that now linked the human and supernatural worlds, one question began to dominate:
"Is this what Aten wanted?"
Theories ran wild.
"He's making us like them."
"This is how humanity catches up. He said nothing, but this was the plan all along!"
"Maybe this is dangerous. What if everyone becomes too strong?"
Some argued it was a gift, a chance to erase thousands of years of difference.
Others whispered that it might be a warning, or even a test, because the Aten who gave this never explained why.
In the great towers of the Magic Association, scholars met in silence.
One of them finally said what everyone was thinking:
"If this continues for another generation, humanity will no longer be prey."
For the first time in history, there was no longer a clear line between ordinary and extraordinary.
And in every conversation, every debate, the same name was spoken over and over.
Aten.
The silent god who had changed the very foundation of the world.
Two days after the incident, the boy from the city woke to find himself in a hospital room filled with flowers and cameras. The bed was spotless, the air smelled of antiseptic, and through the large glass window he could see hundreds of reporters outside.
A nurse came in quietly. "You're going to be interviewed," she said gently. "The world wants to hear from you. You don't have to say much. Just tell them how you feel."
He nodded, still dazed.
They led him to a large hall in the hospital, where bright lights from cameras washed over him. The crowd of journalists fell silent as he sat down.
The first question came from a woman in the front row. "You were struck by a truck at full speed and survived. How do you feel?"
The boy hesitated, glancing at the microphones. His voice was steady but unsure. "I feel… alive. I don't know why I didn't die. I thought I was going to, but… my body didn't break."
Another reporter asked, "Before the impact, witnesses say they saw light in your hands. Can you tell us what that was?"
He swallowed, looking at his palms. For a moment, faint threads of pale blue light flickered there again, as if answering for him.
"I don't know how," he said softly. "It just happened. I wasn't trying. Something inside me just… woke up."
The hall was silent. The cameras zoomed in on the light, capturing every flicker.
A young man stood up from the crowd. "Do you think this will happen to everyone?"
The boy looked up, thinking of the rice fields that had spread across the earth, the meals he had eaten every day since the famine ended. He thought of the other stories he'd heard since waking—the children lifting heavy objects, the old man who stood without a cane.
"Yes," he said at last. "I think it's not just me. Sooner or later, everyone who eats that rice will change. Maybe not all at once, but… it will happen."
The cameras clicked like gunfire, capturing his words.
The next day, his image was everywhere: news screens, newspapers, social feeds.
"HE SURVIVED THE TRUCK"
"THE SYMBOL OF A NEW HUMANITY"
"SOON, THERE WILL BE NO MORE ORDINARY HUMANS"
In cities, people gathered around giant screens to watch his quiet face as he repeated the same words:
"I think we're all going to change."
From that moment on, he was no longer just a survivor.
He became the face of a world that had begun to evolve.
Parents pointed at him and said to their children, "Look. That's what you'll be like when you grow up."
And in every discussion about Aten, one truth now echoed everywhere:
This was no longer a question of if.
It was only a question of when.
While the boy was still trending, the online world exploded.
Not with fear, but with something else entirely.
Excitement.
Every platform—ordinary human networks and supernatural forums alike—was flooded with one topic.
"I want this too."
Threads with millions of comments appeared in hours.
People talked openly, without hesitation.
"Do you know how many centuries we've been stuck as the weakest species? Aten is literally fixing that!"
"I'm ready. I've already eaten three bowls of that rice today. If I don't awaken by next week, I'm suing somebody."
"Wait your turn. I've been eating it for a month. So far all I got is a six-pack and a lot of bathroom trips."
Others chimed in with jokes, comparing it to the plot of old movies.
"In the movies, scientists create viruses to evolve humans. They inject people, say 'For the future of mankind!' and the next scene, boom, everyone's a zombie."
"Yeah. All that effort, so dramatic, and they end up making man-eating mutants. Meanwhile Aten just throws seeds on the ground. Now my grandma can open jam jars by herself."
"This is evolution the easy way. No mad scientist. Just rice. I'm calling it: Ricepunk."
The supernatural community joined in too.
Even young magicians and elves started posting:
"I want humanity to catch up. Do you know how lonely it is when you can't find a sparring partner who doesn't break in two hits?"
"Agreed. Maybe in a few decades, humans won't just watch—they'll join the duels."
Someone uploaded a meme: a photo collage of dramatic scenes from old science fiction movies with the caption:
"How movies said evolution would happen: Mad Science, Suffering, Blood.
How it's actually happening: A God Gave Us Rice."
The replies poured in.
"I'll take rice over mutants any day."
"Imagine explaining to aliens that the golden age of humanity started with a lunch."
In a particularly popular livestream, the chat scrolled too fast to read as one viewer typed:
"Why didn't any scientist ever think of THIS? No germs, no viruses, no explosions—just rice!"
Another replied:
"Because scientists in movies don't know how to cook."
The streamer couldn't even continue their commentary; they laughed until they fell out of their chair.
By midnight, one hashtag was dominating every platform in the world:
#RiceNotViruses
And beneath it, a single sentence repeated over and over:
"Evolution should be delicious."
Chapter 453 – The Ones Who Endured
Beneath the limestone roots of Mount Saint-Gabriel, deeper than catacombs and older than the first monastery built on the hill, the air held a silence so profound it pressed like a weight. It was a chamber of impossible stillness, untouched by centuries, guarded by nothing because nothing dared to enter.
Seven chairs stood in a perfect circle.
And every chair was occupied.
At the center stood Merlin.
The world believed him a legend, a relic of Camelot, but he was older than any tale. He had seen kings rise and vanish like mist. He had walked with druids, spoken with gods, and studied the threads of fate until his mind understood patterns no one else could see. Tonight, though, even he had no pattern to offer.
The others had arrived without fanfare. They never teleported, never used spellwork, only walked the hidden paths carved in a time before maps. They had no need to flaunt their existence. Their very presence was weight enough.
They were the Ones Who Endured—the seven Immortals who formed the foundation of the Magic Association.
And for the first time in centuries, they were uneasy.
Merlin's voice carried, soft and deep.
"You know why I called you."
He gestured, and glowing streams of magic folded into a living map of the world, showing ley lines, flows of mana, magnetic shifts, and the pulse of the supernatural.
"There is no argument anymore," he said. "You've all seen it with your own eyes. Humanity is changing. Not slowly, not by chance. Something has pushed them forward."
Nicolas Flamel
The alchemist who had created the Philosopher's Stone, destroyed it, and lived with the consequences. He sat thin and upright, a scholar carved from patience.
"The grain," Flamel said softly. "It began like a whisper. But it spreads faster than plague. Stronger than gold. Stronger than greed. I have walked centuries, and I have never seen change this fast."
Leonardo da Vinci
Eternal and restless, with boots that never collected dust, leaned back lazily.
"I've traded lifetimes for mastery," he said. "But I can't measure this. I can't paint it. They say evolution is slow, and yet here it comes like a brushstroke in wet plaster."
Sun Tzu
Precision in the form of a man. He spoke only when every word mattered.
"In war, I watch the balance between predator and prey. That balance is vanishing. If these humans continue, in a generation they will no longer be prey. They will become… something new."
Queen Elizabeth I
Still regal, her eyes bright as the day she ruled England.
"I ruled over nations built on the fragility of mortals," she said with a calm smile. "If that fragility ends… so does everything built upon it."
Rasputin
The mad monk, whose every attempt to die had failed, laughed under his breath.
"I saw the boy on the news. Truck hits him. He stands up. Bleeding, but alive. Ahh…" He tilted his head, grin sharp. "Do you know what I felt? I felt the earth's heartbeat change."
Michelangelo
The sculptor who had made a statue so pure that it fused heaven into stone and remade him.
"I have shaped form from marble. I know when a line becomes something else entirely. This… is the first crack in the old sculpture of humanity. Something new is emerging. Something no chisel can predict."
Dante Alighieri
Cloaked in red and black, voice like a poem that had seen Hell.
"The fields," he murmured. "The rice. It is not divine. It is not infernal. It is human. That is why it spreads so easily. It was made for them."
Merlin let them speak, then raised a hand.
"You all know the truth. The Magic Association was never made to dominate anyone—not magicians, not vampires, not gods. We exist to mediate. To prevent chaos from swallowing the world. To keep balance between the races so that humanity is not crushed beneath them."
His gaze swept the room.
"And now, because of this, there will soon be no such thing as 'ordinary humanity.'"
Flamel said what they were all thinking.
"This cannot be coincidence. The Aten—whoever he is—has set this in motion."
Sun Tzu nodded once. "This is not an attack. This is preparation. He wants humanity to stand beside us."
Elizabeth leaned back, watching the faint glow of the world-map projection. "Then perhaps the question is not whether they catch up… but how we endure the storm when they do."
Merlin turned toward the map.
"This will reshape everything. Families, bloodlines, politics, balance. In less than fifty years, the weak will become something we have never seen before. We must decide how the Association will stand when that moment comes."
In the silence that followed, the seven Immortals sat motionless, each of them older than kingdoms, watching the image of a changing Earth.
For the first time in centuries, none of them had an answer.
The room was silent for a long time.
The map of the Earth rotated slowly in the air, glowing threads of ley lines weaving around it like veins. Here and there, faint new points of light pulsed—clusters of mana signatures that hadn't existed six months ago.
Flamel finally broke the stillness, voice calm but firm.
"We do what we were created to do," he said. "We observe. We mediate. And we do not interfere unless the world itself begins to break."
Sun Tzu inclined his head.
"To interfere would be to declare war on a future we do not yet understand. That would create the very chaos we were founded to prevent. The wisest course is patience."
Leonardo spun a small bronze cog on the table with one finger, smirking faintly.
"And curiosity. Let us watch and see how fast these little ones climb. Perhaps they will surprise even me."
Elizabeth's eyes narrowed in thought, but her lips curved.
"If humanity rises, the balance shifts. But a balance that shifts is still a balance. So long as we guide them away from folly, it need not collapse."
Michelangelo's deep voice followed.
"Do not strike the marble while it is still rough. Let it take shape before deciding whether to chisel or to protect it."
Rasputin chuckled softly, folding his arms.
"I like it. We wait. We watch. And when the world finally notices that its prey have teeth, I'll be there to see the panic in their eyes."
Dante spoke last, his words quiet and steady.
"The Book of Fate has opened a new page. We are only readers. Not authors."
Merlin listened to each of them, eyes thoughtful. Then, with a flick of his wrist, the projection of the world dissolved back into the still air.
"Then it is decided," he said. "The Association will not interfere. We will observe, and only if their growth turns toward destruction will we act. Until then… this is their path to walk."
From the ceiling, threads of fate shivered like thin silver strings, whispering to those who could hear. Across those threads, one faint mark burned brighter than all others—gold and black intertwined.
None of the seven commented on it.
But every one of them knew:
Whoever had set this change in motion was watching as well.
Chapter 454 – Hair and Grain
The online world was in chaos again.
This time it wasn't about the boy hit by the truck.
It wasn't about shrines or golden fields.
It was about a question that suddenly appeared in the global forums:
"Which is better: Aten's rice or Alex's hair?"
In the merged networks—now used by both humans and the supernatural community—this became the number-one topic overnight.
Someone posted side-by-side images.
On the left, a sack of golden rice, glowing faintly under the sunlight.
On the right, a single black hair sealed in a crystal vial at an auction house.
The caption read:
"Both change your life. Which would you choose?"
People flooded the comments.
"Rice is everywhere now. You can eat it every day and slowly change. Hair? You can't even buy it unless you sell your house!"
"That hair isn't normal. Only five strands have ever been sold and each one went for insane prices."
"One strand can be refined into medicine and it's like a cheat code! You can become a superhuman overnight if you survive the process."
Clips from auction houses began circulating again:
Five auctions. Five strands. Each one ending with staggering bids.
The supernatural community and the wealthiest mortals fought over them like relics.
Reports from those who consumed the refined elixirs appeared, too.
Some became physically superhuman, their mana multiplied several times over, their senses sharper, their energy endless.
Others—those with compatibility—gained affinities that had never been in their bloodlines before.
The most famous case was Lady Sharon, a noblewoman who had purchased a single hair, refined it into a potion, and awakened an affinity for Space.
In just six months, she had learned to fold dimensions, stepping through thin air as easily as opening a door.
In contrast, the golden rice was everywhere.
Anyone could have it.
It was slow, but it was certain.
Even without alchemy, eating it every day reshaped the body, gave people strength, endurance, and a natural connection to mana.
One was a steady evolution.
The other was a lightning strike.
In the forums, the debates became hilarious.
"Rice makes everyone better. Hair makes a few people into monsters."
"Aten gave a blessing. Alex dropped cheat codes on accident."
"I don't care. If I ever find one strand, I'm not selling it. I'm drinking it."
"Lady Sharon got SPACE. I want TIME. I'm gonna shave him bald."
"Bold of you to think you can even get close enough to pluck one hair before the gods kill you."
Someone posted a joke poll:
'What would you rather find on the street?'
A single strand of Alex's hair.A sack of Aten's golden rice.
Ten million votes later, the comments looked like this:
"Hair. 100%. If I die, I die. If I live, I'm Superman."
"Rice. I can eat like a king forever."
"Why not both? Fry the rice with a hair potion sauce."
And then the memes came.
"Science: Decades of effort to evolve humanity.
Aten: Plant.
Alex: Drops hair."
Someone replied:
"World's two most dangerous farming products: rice and hair."
By the end of the week, the argument had spread everywhere. Even some supernatural scholars joined, posting carefully worded essays about the differences:
Aten's rice: long-term, widespread evolution.Alex's hair: rare, instant breakthroughs with unpredictable results.
Both changed the balance of the world.
Once the debate about hair versus rice cooled a little, the focus shifted to something else entirely.
Photos.
Specifically, the photos from the auction houses that had displayed the five strands of Alex's hair.
High-resolution images began circulating online, zoomed in so closely that every detail of the strands could be seen.
People noticed something right away.
"This doesn't even look like normal hair."
Unlike ordinary hair, Alex's was unnaturally pure black. No streaks. No fading. It shone even under poor lighting, so much that some of the photos almost looked edited. It caught and reflected light in a way that made it seem like silk spun from midnight.
Comparisons immediately followed.
Users began posting pictures of their own hair next to the auction images:
"See? Normal black hair is kind of brown in sunlight. His looks like liquid ink."
"Even healthy hair under a good camera doesn't shine like that. It's like glass."
"If my hair looked like this, I'd auction it too."
This triggered a flood of memes:
"What shampoo is this guy using? Aten Rice Essence?"
"Forget mana, I just want that hair care routine."
"Some people have plot armor. He has plot conditioner."
And then the scavenger hunts began again.
People dug through CCTV footage of every city Alex had been rumored to visit. Forums lit up with groups organizing "hair search parties," combing through streets where the cameras had once caught a glimpse of him walking.
"Most of the places have already been cleaned up," one user posted.
"I know, but just imagine. One strand and you never have to work again!"
"I found a random strand of hair once. It wasn't his. I made a potion anyway. Now I just have really shiny teeth."
Footage from a crowded sidewalk where Alex had walked months ago became a hot spot. Even though everyone knew the area had been picked clean by alchemists, thrill-seekers still came.
They crawled through alleys, searching the cracks between paving stones, looking under benches. One man even bought a high-powered portable mana detector and waved it over a storm drain.
Another forum thread popped up that evening:
"If you find one, do you sell it or use it?"
And the top reply was:
"I'll sell it. Then use the money to buy Aten rice and never work again."
By nightfall, people began joking that Alex's hair was more valuable than diamonds. Someone uploaded an image of a jewelry store with the caption:
"Rings are out. Strands are in."
The comments below were full of laughing emojis and mock proposals:
"Will you marry me? I got you an Alex hair."
"If anyone gives me one strand, I'll be their servant for life."
From obsession with golden fields to obsession with black strands, the world had now officially become a treasure hunt.
And somewhere, on countless screens, two images kept being shared:
A sack of shining golden rice.
A crystal vial holding a single, glossy black hair.
Two icons of a world that was no longer the same.
Chapter 455 – Children's Treasure Hunt
In the quiet neighborhood of a small town far from the big cities and their auction houses, a new game had begun.
It started with the news.
Every screen was filled with it: people fighting over strands of Alex's hair, the outrageous prices, the glowing potions, the way Lady Sharon stepped through thin air as if the world had become a hallway.
Even kids who didn't understand mana or auctions understood one thing:
Hair = Treasure.
"We could find one too," said a boy with a wooden stick over his shoulder.
They had all been sitting on the curb in front of their houses, phones and tablets clutched in their hands, watching clips of scavengers crawling through streets.
"We don't live in the city," his friend pointed out, doubtful. "He probably never even came here."
The boy shrugged. "So? People online said you can find it anywhere. Maybe he walked by once. Maybe the wind carried one."
That was all it took.
Within an hour, the neighborhood changed.
Groups of kids armed with brooms, toy shovels, and magnifying glasses began searching everywhere they could think of. Not the city streets, not alleyways—but their own backyards, the corners of their gardens, the cracks in wooden fences.
They pretended the dry leaves were treasure maps. They made up rules: if you found anything shiny, you had to shout "I found it!" as loud as you could.
Parents, confused, watched from porches as their kids went crawling on all fours through grass, under laundry lines, between flowerpots.
One little girl, maybe eight years old, was searching behind her family's house.
The others had already gone off, laughing and yelling.
She searched quietly, peeking behind an old flowerbed where sunlight cut through the shade.
That was when she saw it.
A single strand, caught in a spider's web.
Thin. Black.
It glistened like a thread of midnight, brighter than any hair she had ever seen.
She stared, wide-eyed, frozen for a moment.
Then, with hands trembling, she plucked it gently out of the web.
It was soft and smooth, so perfect that it reflected the sunlight like polished glass.
Her voice broke out, high and loud:
"I FOUND ONE!"
The neighborhood erupted.
Children came running from every direction, shouting and falling over each other to see.
In her small hands, they saw the strand.
Shiny. Jet-black.
The boys looked at it and whispered, "That's not normal hair…"
One girl clapped her hands to her mouth. "Do you think it's really his?"
They all stared at it, unsure what to do, their hearts pounding like they had just discovered a dragon's egg.
By the time the parents came running to see why everyone was screaming, the strand was already being held up to the sun like a crown jewel.
Phones came out. Photos. Videos.
Within an hour, those photos were online.
The post was simple:
"We found this in our backyard. Could it be Alex's hair?"
Attached was an image of a tiny hand holding a single, gleaming, black hair.
No one knew if it was real.
But by evening, the photo had already gone viral.
And for the first time, the scavenger hunt craze had a new kind of hero:
Children.
The next morning, the quiet street was no longer quiet.
Two black cars rolled to a stop in front of the girl's house. Men and women in formal suits stepped out, carrying strange cases made of metal and glass. They were representatives from one of the largest alchemical research firms in the supernatural world.
The parents, bewildered by the overnight chaos, met them at the door.
"May we see the strand?" one of the experts asked, voice calm but serious.
The girl, still holding the hair in a jewelry box her mother had given her, reluctantly handed it over.
The experts opened their cases right there in the living room.
Machines unfolded—mana scanners, resonance analyzers, purity spectrometers. They were fast, precise, and silent.
For thirty minutes, the only sound was the low hum of the equipment.
Finally, the lead researcher stood up, looking pale.
"It's genuine," he said.
The parents blinked. "Genuine?"
He nodded, holding up the readout. "It matches perfectly with the hair samples from the previous five auctioned strands. Mana purity, density, the unique energy signature—it's the same. This is Alex's hair."
The room went silent.
They made an offer on the spot.
"We are prepared to purchase this strand for ten million dollars," the researcher said. "We'll handle the paperwork and security immediately. You will also receive first rights to a refined elixir made from it, should you choose."
The parents exchanged stunned looks. They were ordinary people; their house was small, their jobs simple. Ten million dollars was unimaginable.
The girl just looked at her box, biting her lip. "Does that mean I can't keep it?"
Her mother knelt down and hugged her. "Sweetheart, this will change our lives. We'll get you something even better. And they said they'll give us medicine from it. That's more than we could ever ask."
Reluctantly, the little girl nodded and placed the hair into the scientist's gloved hand.
The contract was signed that same morning.
By noon, the story hit every news network.
HEADLINE:"Backyard Discovery: Child Finds Genuine Strand of Alex's Hair – Sold for $10 Million!"
Footage rolled: the shy girl holding a box in her small hands, the scientists confirming the results, the signed agreement.
Within hours, the photo of the shiny black strand was all over the world again—this time with confirmation stamped across it:
REAL.
And so, from that day, the legend of "The Backyard Hair" began.
People everywhere looked at their own backyards differently.
Somewhere out there, another strand might still be waiting.
By the next day, reporters were camping outside the family's house. Cameras, microphones, and drones hovered as if a celebrity lived there. They wanted to see the girl who had found "The Backyard Hair," and more importantly, they wanted answers.
One of the reporters turned to the lead researcher, shoving a microphone toward him.
"How does a strand of Alex's hair end up in an ordinary backyard in a small town? Can this really happen?"
The researcher, still wearing his white gloves, gave the most careful answer he could.
"Hair is a very light object. Once it separates from the body, the wind can carry it farther than most people imagine. It can settle on trees, get caught in clothing, or be trapped on a bird's feathers. Sometimes it lands somewhere unexpected."
Another journalist asked, "So this means—"
"Yes," the researcher interrupted before the frenzy started. "If the strand is not immediately found, natural elements can move it hundreds of kilometers. There is no rule that it must stay in the city where it fell."
That one statement was all the internet needed.
Speculation erupted across every platform:
"The wind is on our side, brothers and sisters! Search your yards!"
"This proves Alex hair can be anywhere. Not just where he walked!"
"Even a farm in the middle of nowhere might have a hidden treasure."
People began to think of it like seeds carried by the wind.
A single hair could drift like a feather, and wherever it landed, wealth and power would follow.
In the days that followed, the phenomenon now had a new name:
Hairfall Season.
Families, children, even grandparents were out in their gardens, scanning bushes, fences, rooftops.
Neighborhoods turned into treasure maps. People argued over who got to keep a hair found on the sidewalk, while others formed "Hair Patrols," walking with portable magnifying glasses and little glass vials.
Even the experts started to shake their heads. They had only meant to explain how rare and unpredictable the wind could be, but that one explanation had triggered a gold rush unlike anything they had seen before.
Far away from the chaos, in the calm of Alex's living room, the news was playing on a muted screen.
The headline scrolled across the bottom:
"Backyard Hair Verified – $10 Million Sale!"
Hanabi was sprawled on the sofa, one arm over the backrest, a grin playing across her lips as she glanced at him.
"You know," she said, "I've been meaning to ask… how many strands of hair have you lost in your life?"
Alex didn't even look away from the screen. "Enough."
"Enough for what?" Hanabi's grin widened. "Enough to make a fortune for half the world?"
He sighed. "I burn them now."
"I know," she said, tilting her head. "I see you do it. The moment a strand comes loose, poof, you burn it away like it never existed. But…" She leaned closer, red eyes glimmering with amusement. "You weren't always so careful, were you?"
Alex stayed silent.
She smirked. "In the past, you just walked around like a normal person, didn't you? And sometimes a strand fell out, and the wind carried it off. And now look what's happening. Whole crowds fighting over the pieces you left behind."
"…That was before I realized how ridiculous people could be," he said flatly.
Hanabi let out a laugh, curling up on the sofa. "So somewhere out there, there's a treasure map made of your hair. And you're the only one who doesn't know where you dropped them."
"I don't intend to find out," Alex said calmly, leaning back. "If they want to dig up the planet for a few hairs, let them."
"That's easy for you to say," Hanabi teased, "but at this rate, even a single strand could start a war. You really should be more careful."
Alex gave her a look, deadpan. "I am careful."
"Now," she said with a playful grin. "But back then? You've basically been sowing black gold all over the world."
She laughed again when he didn't respond, the sound filling the peaceful house while, outside, the world was tearing itself apart searching for the hair he'd let the wind carry years ago.
Chapter 456 – Four Months Later
Four months passed.
In that time, the world's rhythm had changed.
Golden fields had spread across continents, across cities, across valleys that once knew only dust. The once-precious rice of Aten was now a staple; it filled warehouses, fed nations, and became part of the daily meals of billions.
And after four months of eating it, something happened that even the boldest projections had underestimated.
The first reports came from local hospitals.
Children recovering from illnesses faster than doctors could explain.
Teenagers breaking records in schools without even realizing why.
Adults—ordinary office workers, drivers, teachers—who suddenly felt a faint hum in their chest, a warmth that was not illness, not fever.
At first, people dismissed it as coincidence.
Then, the scanners confirmed it.
Mana.
It began with isolated cases.
A factory worker whose reflexes saved him when a machine arm malfunctioned—he caught it barehanded and stopped it cold.
A woman in her twenties who, frightened during a robbery, flared with invisible force that threw the attacker back.
A grandmother who, when her grandchild fell from a tree, ran faster than she ever had in her life and caught the child mid-fall.
Each time, experts came. Each time, the readings showed the same thing: these were ordinary people who had awakened a seed of mana.
Within four months, the pattern was undeniable.
Across every country, nearly ten percent of ordinary people—people with no supernatural bloodline, no ancient magic, nothing but Aten's rice in their diet—had awakened.
The news networks called it "The Awakening Generation."
In the streets, in cafes, in crowded buses, people whispered to each other:
"Did you hear? Ten percent."
"My neighbor's kid, he can feel mana now. He says it's like a buzzing in his hands."
"My sister can light a candle just by touching it. She was a schoolteacher a few months ago!"
And the whispers turned into excitement.
Scientists were baffled, but one truth was obvious:
This was not limited to children.
Adults were awakening. Even the elderly.
The world had never seen this before.
The supernatural factions watched closely.
Vampires, elves, magicians, gods—they all saw the same trend.
If ten percent could awaken after just four months, then in another few years… what would the numbers look like?
This was no longer a slow drift. This was evolution racing forward.
On forums, someone posted:
"This isn't like the boy from the truck anymore. This is everyone. It's happening everywhere."
And the most liked reply was:
"Aten's plan. Humanity is catching up."
The question came during a live global broadcast.
The anchor turned from the big screen that displayed "10% AWAKE" in bold letters and faced a panel of experts—demographers, statisticians, biologists, and sociologists.
Her voice was steady, but everyone watching could feel the weight behind it.
"If this rate continues," she asked, "how many years will it take before every normal person is able to awaken mana?"
The room fell quiet.
A senior demographer adjusted his glasses, looking at the data scrolling across his tablet.
"At the current trajectory," he began carefully, "assuming the spread of Aten's rice remains universal, and without any additional acceleration, we are projecting approximately 15 to 20 years before the majority—close to 100%—of the global population awakens at least a basic mana sensitivity."
Another expert, a woman specializing in population health, added, "However, that assumes no second-generation effect. The children being born now to parents who have eaten Aten's rice from pregnancy onwards are showing signs of increased potential even before birth. If that factor multiplies, we may see this timeline shorten drastically—to as little as 10 years."
The anchor's eyebrows rose.
"So you're saying… within one generation—possibly less—there will be no such thing as an 'ordinary' human?"
"Yes," the woman confirmed.
"Ordinary will become extraordinary."
Another statistician leaned toward the microphone.
"And keep in mind, that 10% we're seeing now… that's after only four months. The curve isn't linear. It's accelerating."
The screen behind them changed again, showing a graph:
a steep, upward curve with years marked along the bottom.
2050 was highlighted in red. By that point, the chart showed 100% of the population glowing in a sea of blue mana.
The camera cut back to the anchor, whose voice had gone quiet.
"This… this changes everything. Nations, economies, power structures… even the idea of what a human being is."
Social media exploded.
Clips of the demographers' statements were everywhere within hours.
People began counting down to a future where "ordinary" would no longer exist.
The broadcast ended, but the words kept echoing.
Fifteen to twenty years. No more ordinary humans.
For the first time in history, the entire planet—cities, villages, deserts, and islands—was talking about the same thing at the same time.
In homes, in schools, on factory floors and in crowded trains, people whispered to each other with an energy that felt like spring breaking through winter.
"This is evolution," someone said on a crowded bus, holding onto the strap with one hand while replaying the news on their phone with the other.
"It has to be," a co-worker replied as they walked out of an office. "For so long, we were the weakest thing on Earth. Now we're catching up."
In small houses, children sat cross-legged in front of their parents, asking,
"Does that mean I'll be able to use magic someday too?"
and their parents, smiling in ways they hadn't in years, answered,
"Yes. Maybe even sooner than we thought."
People began to talk about their bodies differently.
About their future differently.
Even those who hadn't awakened yet walked taller, because for the first time, they believed that their limit was no longer fixed.
Online forums were filled with declarations:
"We're evolving."
"The world is changing and this time, we get to change with it."
"For thousands of years, humans have been prey. Not anymore."
The old despair of being powerless in a supernatural world was shifting into something new.
Hope.
And with that hope came determination.
If ten percent could awaken in four months, the rest knew it was only a matter of time before their turn came.
For the first time, ordinary people believed they were stepping out of the shadow of gods, demons, vampires, and magic.
This wasn't a gift anymore.
It was evolution.
Chapter 457 – Those Who Watched
High above the world, in places no satellite or mortal plane could see, the supernatural factions gathered—not in one hall, but in a thousand hidden rooms at the same time.
They had all been watching the same thing for months.
The fields.
The rice.
The changes.
And now, with ten percent of humanity awakened, none could ignore it.
The Vatican
In the marble chambers beneath Saint Peter's Basilica, the high cardinals sat beneath stained glass that glowed like divine fire.
For centuries, they had hidden what they knew of angels and demons, of relics and old bloodlines. Now, they spoke openly.
"This is the safest path," said the Archbishop of the Supernatural Office. "Aten's rice lifts humanity without bloodshed. It gives them a chance to protect themselves."
"Do we fear it?" another asked.
"No," came the answer. "We support it."
For the Vatican, this was an answered prayer: a way for humans to survive without war.
The Magic Association
In London, deep beneath the city, the Seven Immortals had already made their decision.
For the first time in centuries, humanity was moving on its own.
Merlin spoke quietly: "We will not oppose what strengthens the weak. This is what balance is."
The Vampires
Far to the east, in the crimson halls of the Crimson Court, the elder lords watched.
Once, long ago, they had hunted humans. But that time had passed a thousand years ago.
For the last millennium, vampires had lived in quiet luxury, buying blood legally through massive corporations they themselves owned—blood banks, pharmaceuticals, private healthcare. Their money was older than nations.
Now, with humanity rising, they smiled faintly.
"If they grow strong," said one ancient vampire, "it only makes the blood sweeter."
For vampires, this was no threat. It was opportunity.
Humans who were healthier, stronger, and filled with mana?
It made the blood rich.
The Elves and Dragons
In Alfheim, beneath the endless silver trees, the elves remained silent.
For thousands of years, they had cut ties with the human world.
"This is their path," the Elf Queen said. "We will not interfere."
Her daughters agreed. The pride of the elves was not touched by human growth—they had simply chosen long ago to no longer involve themselves.
The dragons, sleeping beneath mountains or deep in the folds of other realms, felt the same.
For them, humans were a distraction they had left behind.
Demons and Angels
Even demons, once chaos incarnate, had changed.
Long ago, they had made a pact with the angels, dividing their realms and stepping back from the mortal stage.
A middle-aged demon with horns worn smooth from age leaned back in his seat, speaking to a hall of others.
"Let the mortals rise. Let them have their age. We will not stand in their way."
The angels, for their part, agreed.
There was no war left to fight.
But not all followed.
Even as the old powers stepped aside, not every vampire had embraced the Crimson Court's laws.
Not every demon respected the accords.
There were outlaws.
Hunters in the dark who had never given up their old ways.
They still hunted, still killed, still sold their power in the shadow of law.
And now, as humanity changed, those outlaws began to take notice.
The world was shifting.
The great factions had chosen to stand still and watch.
But the ones who lived without allegiance, without law—they would not stay still for long.
The first clash came in the night.
It happened in a port city—one of those sprawling places where warehouses stood shoulder to shoulder, the air smelling of salt and rust. Most nights, the streets were quiet after dark. But on this night, there was screaming.
A group of newly awakened humans—dockworkers, couriers, and teenagers who had only begun to feel mana in their blood—found themselves face to face with something that belonged to the shadows.
Not a vampire of the Court.
Not a demon bound by treaty.
But outlaws.
A handful of rogue vampires and two horned demons whose eyes burned like embers.
The air thickened with bloodlust.
The awakened humans fought back as best they could. Sparks of mana flared from their fists, crude and untrained, like newborn stars. One boy even managed to throw a burst of energy that cracked a wall.
But the outlaws were older, faster, and far more practiced. They dodged every blow, laughing as they closed in.
"You think a little mana makes you strong?" one of the rogue vampires taunted, his fangs gleaming under the dim light. "You're children."
A punch from a newly awakened man was caught mid-swing and twisted behind his back. Another was thrown across the street like a rag doll.
The humans were outmatched.
Their newfound strength was nothing compared to centuries of predatory skill.
Just as the first of them fell to the ground, dazed, a ripple of power split the air.
It wasn't from them.
It came from above.
A flash of silver, and a figure dropped into the street like a blade falling from the heavens.
When the light cleared, a tall vampire in a long crimson coat stood there, his silver eyes cold as winter. He moved faster than the outlaws could react, his hand clamping onto one rogue's throat.
"Crimson Court law," he said, voice like steel. "No hunting humans."
In the next instant, the outlaw vampire was slammed into the pavement, unconscious.
From the other side, a circle of golden light bloomed.
A priest stepped out, his vestments glowing faintly with angelic blessing.
Behind him, two armored enforcers of the Magic Association followed.
The rogue demons froze.
"We agreed to peace," the priest said, his tone even. "You chose otherwise."
The fight ended quickly after that.
It was not a battle.
It was an arrest.
The outlaws were bound with magic chains, their power sealed.
The awakened humans sat in shock, staring at the supernatural figures who had just saved them.
"Are… are you here to protect us?" one young woman asked, her hands shaking.
The crimson-coated vampire glanced at her, expression unreadable.
"Most of us," he said, "do not wish to see you die."
By dawn, the story was everywhere.
The images of a bloody street, mana sparks in the air, and supernatural guardians standing between ordinary people and predators.
For the first time, people understood that their awakening was not just power. It was also a signal.
The outlaws had noticed them.
And the world was not as safe as they had thought.
As dawn crept over the port city, the street was cordoned off. Emergency services arrived, but for once, the loudest voices came not from sirens, but from the legal supernatural beings themselves.
The crimson-coated vampire stood in front of the group of shaken dockworkers, couriers, and teenagers. Their faces were pale, some bruised, clothes torn. A few were still trembling from the terror of the fight.
"You fought well," he said in a low, cold voice. "But you need to understand something. Mana does not make you a warrior."
One of the dockworkers, an older man with broad shoulders, spoke up. "We… we tried. We just thought maybe… now that we could feel it, we could do something."
"And you did," the priest replied, stepping closer. "You survived. That is more than ordinary humans could have done. If you hadn't awakened, tonight would have been a slaughter. You would have had no chance to fight back."
The teenagers exchanged uneasy glances, realizing just how close they had come to dying.
The vampire gestured toward the unconscious outlaws bound on the ground.
"They didn't come after you because you were strong. They came because they thought you were easy prey. Mana saved your lives tonight—but raw strength without skill will not save you next time."
His words hung in the air like frost.
A young courier, no older than nineteen, swallowed hard. "So what… what are we supposed to do?"
"Learn," the priest said firmly. "Control it. Train. If you intend to stand in a world that has predators like this, then you cannot remain ignorant."
Those words carried across the city, replayed later on a dozen news channels:
"If they had been ordinary humans, they would have died without a chance to fight back.
Awakening saved them—but it's only the beginning. Strength without control is just luck."
That night, in countless homes and on every screen, the message spread:
Humanity was changing. Mana was a shield—but it was also a responsibility.
And for many watching, a new thought took root:
If this is only the beginning… what comes next?
Chapter 458 – A New Kind of School
The number was now everywhere.
Ten percent.
Ten percent of the human population had awakened mana in just four months.
And after the incident at the port city, the reality of that number hit harder than ever.
News broadcasts ran the same footage over and over: a group of battered dockworkers and teenagers, their fists still glowing faintly, standing behind the crimson-coated vampire and the priest who had saved them.
On screen, a commentator's voice said what everyone was now thinking:
"They survived because they awakened. If they had been ordinary, they would have been killed on the spot."
Across the world, the conversation shifted.
It was no longer just about hope or excitement.
It was about preparation.
In cities and villages alike, people were asking:
"If ten percent have awakened now, how many will awaken next year?"
"What happens when there are millions—tens of millions—of people with mana who don't know how to use it?"
"Will we be ready when the outlaws come again?"
Within a week, the first proposals began.
Governments, education boards, and even supernatural factions released statements:
Mana Education Programs.
Training Academies.
Awakening Guidance Centers.
In Japan, an emergency council meeting was broadcast live.
The Prime Minister stood before the cameras and said:
"From today forward, we will establish specialized schools and courses to help newly awakened citizens understand mana and defend themselves. This will not be optional. Mana is a gift—but also a responsibility."
Similar announcements came from Europe, Africa, and the Americas.
The Vatican announced something unprecedented:
holy academies would open their doors not just to priests and exorcists, but to ordinary awakened people, teaching them how to use mana responsibly.
Even the Magic Association agreed to share basic techniques with human instructors.
In public forums, the voices of ordinary people grew louder:
"I want my kids to learn. I don't care if they can't fight like the supernatural, but at least they'll be safe."
"If we don't learn now, the next attack could be worse."
For the first time, humanity realized that awakening mana was only the first step.
The next step was learning how to use it.
And around the world, preparations began.
In the weeks that followed, schoolyards began to change.
The old classrooms were still there—math, literature, science—but next to them new buildings rose quickly, built almost overnight. Signs went up:
"Awakening Guidance Hall."
"Mana Foundation Course."
"Control and Safety Wing."
For the first time, ordinary schools now had sections for mana training.
In Rome, the Vatican opened its first "Sanctum Schools," formerly quiet monasteries now echoing with the laughter and nervous excitement of children learning to feel the mana in their bodies. Priests in white robes guided them through breathing, prayer, and control exercises.
"This is not for combat," one priest explained during a tour broadcast on live television. "Our goal is to ensure that when a child's power awakens, they can calm it, hold it, and never let fear cause it to harm others."
In London and Cairo, the Magic Association used its vast knowledge to create Mana Academies.
The instructors were magicians, not soldiers, and their methods were more technical:
First month: meditation and mana flow controlSecond month: energy reinforcement of the bodyThird month: how to release small bursts of mana without damaging yourself
Combat training came only after a year, and even then, it was optional.
Merlin himself made a rare statement to the press:
"We will teach them as if they were our own. Balance cannot exist if the weak cannot stand."
Government programs, meanwhile, had a different approach.
Countries began to convert old sports stadiums into training centers, where awakened adults—dockworkers, couriers, ordinary men and women—came in after work to attend classes taught by instructors hired from both the Vatican and the Association.
Here, lessons were practical:
"How to strengthen your grip without breaking tools.""How to shield yourself in an accident.""How to sense an enemy approaching."
For the first time, factory workers, nurses, and bus drivers practiced mana techniques alongside teenagers and office clerks.
Television news showed these scenes to the world:
Children standing in circles, eyes closed, breathing in unison as faint sparks of light gathered in their hands.
Dockworkers sitting on mats, sweating as they tried to hold back a wave of mana that threatened to spill everywhere.
Instructors gently correcting their stances, murmuring, "Again. Slower. Don't force it."
It was awkward.
It was clumsy.
But it was a beginning.
And across the world, a sense of unity grew.
The first generation of awakened humans was learning how to stand on its own feet.
In a quiet living room far from the new academies, the television played without sound.
The screen showed a live broadcast from one of the newly established mana training centers—a group of teenagers standing barefoot on polished wood floors, their palms glowing faintly, eyes closed in concentration. Some of them trembled as the faint sparks in their hands sputtered and went out, while others smiled as they managed to hold it steady for a few seconds.
Alex sat on the couch, one arm resting lazily along the backrest.
The others in the house were out today, leaving him with only the soft hum of the broadcast and the shifting light coming in through the window.
He watched in silence.
Every channel was like this now.
Clips of ordinary people learning.
Children holding small mana orbs.
Adults, clumsy and sweating, learning to balance energy that had never been there before.
What had begun as a slow ripple was now a wave.
And he could see it clearly.
It would grow.
His hand absently moved to his hair, fingers brushing through the black strands. He thought of the little girl who had found one in her backyard, and how something so small had changed her entire life.
Now, it wasn't just about a strand of hair.
It was the whole world.
"They'll stumble," he murmured to himself. "They'll fall more than they stand. But… they'll get there."
On the screen, a dockworker—the same man who had nearly died at the port—was now standing straighter, his rough hands glowing with a controlled shimmer as an instructor corrected his breathing.
Alex's lips curved slightly. It wasn't a smile so much as a quiet acknowledgment.
"They don't need me for this part."
For someone like him, who could erase gods and monsters with a gesture, the world often felt fragile. Too fragile.
But watching these people, their slow clumsy growth, something shifted in him.
This was the kind of strength that didn't come from gifts or shortcuts.
It came from trying.
From falling.
From standing again.
He leaned back, closing his eyes, listening to the faint sound of the television as the world outside learned how to stand on its own.
"Good," he whispered. "Get stronger. Become something I won't need to protect."
His words disappeared into the quiet house.
For now, he would watch.
He would let them develop, stumble, and rise.
The day would come when they wouldn't need him at all.
And when that day came, the world would be ready.
Chapter 459 – Aoi
The living room was still quiet when Alex opened his eyes.
On the muted television, a replay of that day's broadcast showed her again.
A little girl standing shyly beside her parents, holding a small box in both hands.
A camera zoomed in on her face just before she gave the strand away.
She smiled for the crowd.
But in her eyes, there was sadness.
Even after months had passed, he could see it clearly now that he watched closely.
Her name had been released during one of the interviews.
Aoi.
Eight years old.
A child from a small town who had never seen a supernatural being until that day.
And by pure chance, she had found a strand of his hair tangled in a spider's web.
It had made her famous.
It had made her family rich.
But in that moment, when the scientists came to take the strand away, she had looked like a child being asked to give up her most precious treasure.
Alex turned off the television.
He leaned back on the sofa, fingers brushing lightly against his own hair.
The world was obsessed with these strands.
But she… she had been the first to find one and hold onto it, not for money, not for power—just because she thought it was beautiful.
He closed his eyes.
A thought, a twist of will, and space folded.
Far away, in that same small town, in the same backyard where the spider's web once swayed in the sunlight, a faint ripple disturbed the air.
There, on the wooden railing of the fence where Aoi often sat, lay a single hair.
Glossy.
Black.
Shining like liquid midnight in the soft light.
Placed so it would be impossible for her to miss.
That evening, Aoi came home from school.
She dropped her bag and wandered outside, as she always did, to check the flowerbeds and play in the dirt.
Then she saw it.
Her breath caught.
There, waiting for her, was another strand.
Her hands trembled as she picked it up, as soft as silk against her fingers.
She looked around, wide-eyed, but there was no one.
Only the wind moving gently through the garden.
For a long time she just stood there, staring at the strand in her hands.
And then, slowly, she smiled.
This time, she thought, she wouldn't let it go.
Back in his house, Alex opened his eyes again, a faint exhale escaping his lips.
"That should be enough," he murmured. "Just one. Something for her to keep."
He could already imagine her face when she found it.
Outside, the world continued to change.
But somewhere in a quiet backyard, a single girl held onto a piece of midnight and felt, for the first time, that something extraordinary belonged just to her.
Aoi stood there for a long time, the late afternoon sun painting the backyard gold.
She was afraid someone would come take this one away too.
Her small hands cupped the strand protectively as if even the breeze might steal it.
Then she had an idea.
She ran into her room, breathless, and pulled open the drawer where she kept her tiny treasures—shells from the river, shiny stones, a pressed flower. Among them was a small silver locket her grandmother had given her on her last birthday.
With careful fingers, she opened it.
The inside was empty.
It felt like it had been waiting for this.
She curled the strand into a loop so delicate that it almost disappeared against the silver and placed it inside. When she closed the locket, it made a soft click.
Aoi pressed it against her chest.
It was warm, though she wasn't sure if that was her own heartbeat or something else.
When she walked back into the house for dinner, no one noticed.
Her parents were talking about work, the smell of food filling the air.
She sat quietly at the table, her fingers touching the little locket under her shirt.
No one would know.
Not this time.
That night, before she fell asleep, she whispered to it.
"Thank you."
Then she closed her eyes with the faintest smile.
The strand gleamed in the locket, silent and perfect, and for the first time since that day the sadness in her eyes faded.
Night settled quietly over the small town.
The streets emptied, the last shop lights dimmed, and the only sound left was the chirping of insects.
In her little bedroom, Aoi curled under her blanket, the silver locket still around her neck. She held it gently in her hands, the way other children might hug a stuffed toy.
The single strand inside gleamed faintly in the dark, though she never noticed.
She fell asleep quickly that night.
For the first time in months, there were no dreams of strangers taking things away, no restless turning in bed.
Her breath evened out, her small body relaxing completely as a warm, invisible calm settled over her.
The strand wasn't just a strand anymore.
Far away, across distance and walls, Alex had write a magic formula into it as he left it behind—so subtle that no magician, no vampire, no god would sense it.
Not protection in the sense of shields or weapons, but something quieter.
A steady warmth.
A little strength when she was tired.
A calmness that let her sleep without fear.
An unseen guardian no one would ever notice.
By the time the moon reached its highest point, the faint glow around the locket pulsed once, then faded.
And Aoi slept soundly, her hand still resting over her chest, her breathing soft.
In his home, Alex sat on the edge of his bed, eyes half-lidded as he felt the spell settle into place.
"Sleep well," he murmured into the stillness.
From that night forward, the locket would become her quiet secret.
To the rest of the world, it was just a keepsake.
But for her, it was an unseen amulet that made the world a little less frightening.
The next morning, sunlight spilled across Aoi's small bedroom, painting the floorboards in golden stripes. The alarm clock chirped, but for the first time in a long while, she didn't wake up feeling tired.
She sat up slowly, blinking in surprise. Her body felt… light.
Not just rested—refreshed, as if every bit of fatigue had been washed away during the night.
Her hand went instinctively to the locket at her neck. It was still there, warm against her skin.
Breakfast smelled of miso soup and grilled fish.
Her mother paused mid-sentence when Aoi came into the kitchen.
"You look different," her mother said with a laugh. "You actually slept well last night?"
Aoi nodded quickly. "Mm-hmm! I didn't wake up even once."
Her father ruffled her hair as she sat down. "That's good. You've been frowning in your sleep for weeks."
As the day went on, she noticed other things.
The walk to school didn't make her legs ache.
She wasn't short of breath when she ran to catch up with her friends.
And during PE class, when they had to run laps around the field, she didn't fall behind at all.
One of her classmates whispered, "Aoi's fast today."
She just smiled quietly, a hand brushing against the locket beneath her shirt.
By the time she came home that afternoon, she had already decided.
No one would ever know why she felt this way.
Not the teachers.
Not even her parents.
This strand wasn't just treasure. It was hers.
In her room, she opened the locket just enough to peek inside. The black hair gleamed faintly in the soft light. She smiled at it and whispered:
"Thank you."
Outside her window, the wind stirred the trees.
In the days that followed, something subtle began to change for Aoi.
At first, she only noticed it in the mornings.
She woke up refreshed, never groggy, her head clear like the sky after rain.
Her parents thought it was because of the golden rice she had been eating these past months, like everyone else in town.
But she knew there was more.
Every day after school, she would run through the backfields with her friends. Before, she would tire quickly, stopping to catch her breath while the others ran ahead.
Now she kept up easily. Sometimes, without even trying, she was the one who finished first.
When she fell and scraped her knee, the pain didn't linger. By the next morning, the wound had already begun to fade.
Her teacher at school noticed during handwriting practice.
"Your hands aren't shaking anymore, Aoi," the teacher said, watching as her pencil glided across the page.
The little girl blinked in surprise. She hadn't even realized.
The combination of Aten's rice, which had been feeding her body with quiet strength, and the soft, invisible magic from the locket began to weave together like two threads in a single fabric.
Day by day, she grew a little healthier.
A little stronger.
And most of all, a little more confident.
She never told anyone the truth.
When her friends asked why she'd gotten so good at running, she just smiled and said, "Maybe it's because I eat a lot."
But at night, before bed, she always opened her locket and whispered her thanks to the single strand of black hair inside.
By the time a month had passed, even her parents noticed.
"She's changed," her mother said one evening, watching Aoi climb the fence with the ease of a cat. "She was such a fragile little thing before."
Her father nodded, smiling as he stirred the rice pot. "It's Aten's blessing, I suppose."
Aoi, sitting on the porch, touched the locket and smiled softly.
And in the distance, far beyond the fields and the small town, the one who had left that hair behind could sense the faintest ripple of life growing stronger.
Chapter 460 – The Taste of a New World
Four months after Aten's rice had changed the future of humanity, it began changing something else entirely:
The way the world ate.
At first, people had treated it like a rare luxury.
Golden grains that shimmered faintly in the sun, guarded in warehouses, cooked with ceremony.
But as fields spread across continents and harvests came faster than anyone expected, the price of Aten rice fell.
By the start of the fifth month, it cost no more than ordinary rice.
What had once been rare was now on every table.
Street food vendors were the first to see the opportunity.
In Bangkok, a tiny cart under a bright red umbrella was already serving steaming bowls of fried rice that sparkled faintly in the sun.
The vendor, a woman who had been cooking on that corner for thirty years, laughed when a reporter asked her about it.
"Same wok, same soy sauce. But the rice?" She tapped the pan with her spatula. "It smells sweeter. People eat one plate and feel like they can work another ten hours!"
Lines formed down the street.
In Italy, bakeries began grinding the dried grains into a soft golden flour.
From that flour came bread that rose higher, softer than before, with a warm golden color that made shop windows glow.
Tourists and locals alike swore they could taste something more than wheat—a subtle, energizing sweetness that lingered on the tongue.
In Mexico, tortillas made from Aten flour became the talk of entire markets.
Vendors joked that one taco made with these golden tortillas could keep you full from morning to night.
In New York, food trucks advertised "Aten Rice Burgers," with buns made from pressed golden rice, crisped on the grill.
In Tokyo, soba masters began experimenting, grinding the rice into flour and mixing it with buckwheat. The noodles came out paler than usual, but their texture was springy and smooth, with a faint fragrance that made even seasoned gourmets stare in surprise.
Everywhere, people talked about the same thing:
"I don't feel tired after eating it."
"I don't know if it's mana or just good food, but it makes you want to move."
"This rice is going to change everything—even the way we cook."
Soon, restaurants were hanging signs proudly:
"Made with 100% Aten Rice."
"Golden Flour Bakery."
Even high-end chefs began building menus around it—soufflés, pastries, pasta, dumplings—all with that subtle golden glow.
For many, it was the first time they realized Aten's gift wasn't only about awakening mana.
It was about life becoming richer in small ways too.
Even a bowl of street fried rice had become a taste of a new world.
It wasn't just restaurants that were changing.
Out in the countryside, where the fields stretched farther than the eye could see, the farmers themselves were talking about a different future.
For centuries, planting rice had been a gamble.
Too much rain? Ruined.
Too little rain? Ruined.
Fertilizer costs rising, pests, unpredictable markets—it was a life of constant risk.
But Aten's rice was different.
It grew fast.
It didn't demand constant irrigation.
Its roots dug deep, finding nutrients in soil that normal rice couldn't survive in.
Even in the highlands where people had never dared plant rice before, the golden stalks grew strong.
In the markets where farmers gathered after the harvest, talk had shifted:
"I switched one field to Aten this season. Twice the yield and no pests."
"Even the bad soil at the edge of my land grew it. I've never seen anything like it."
"Why plant the old varieties when this one feeds everyone better?"
Soon, more and more farmers began setting aside entire sections of land to replace their regular rice with Aten's golden strain.
And the shift wasn't just about one crop.
Because Aten rice grew so well and in so many climates, farmers realized they could now grow other things—vegetables, beans, and local rice varieties—alongside it.
They didn't need to choose between feeding their families and experimenting. The golden rice made sure there was always enough.
Across Southeast Asia, terraced fields that had once been emerald green were now streaked with gold.
In Africa, golden rice appeared next to maize and sorghum.
In South America, it was planted alongside traditional crops that had been abandoned for generations.
The farmers didn't abandon their heritage.
Instead, Aten's rice allowed them to bring back forgotten grains and flavors, because they no longer had to worry about starvation.
For the first time in decades, people in rural areas weren't just surviving—they were thinking about thriving.
And at the heart of every conversation was the same golden plant, swaying gently under the wind, feeding not just cities and nations but the confidence of those who grew it.
Inevitably, someone decided to try brewing with it.
It started in a small farming town where a family-owned brewery had been making beer the same way for three generations. The brewer, an old man with a sun-browned face, looked at the sacks of golden Aten rice piled in the corner of his storehouse and thought:
If it makes good bread, why not beer?
The first batch was an experiment.
He replaced part of the usual barley with Aten rice, milled it finely, mixed it with malt, hops, and yeast, and waited.
When the fermentation finished, the liquid that came out of the barrel was pale gold, clear as sunlight through honey.
The taste?
Light. Crisp. And strangely invigorating.
Word spread fast.
Within a month, travelers passing through the town were leaving with bottles of "Golden Draft," the world's first beer brewed from Aten rice.
By the second month, the brewery could no longer keep up with demand.
In a televised interview, the old brewer held up a frosty mug that seemed to glow in the light.
"I don't know about mana," he said with a grin, "but after one glass, you feel like you can plow an entire field by yourself."
Other breweries, hearing of his success, followed.
In Germany, brewmasters began experimenting with 100% Aten rice pilsners.
In Japan, sake makers started blending Aten rice with their traditional sake rice, creating a drink that tasted like a mix of silk and sunlight.
In Belgium, craft brewers announced a new "golden ale" that sold out before the first barrel was even opened.
Beer festivals that year had something entirely new on the menu:
Golden Aten Beer.
People swore they could feel warmth run through their limbs after a single sip, though scientists argued that it was just the mana-rich grain adding a new nutritional profile.
Regardless of the explanation, the result was the same: the world had found a new way to celebrate.
From fried rice to bread, from noodles to beer—Aten's gift was becoming a part of every table, every toast, every shared meal.
And for the first time, food and drink itself became a symbol of humanity's growth.