The Olivia family's estate was silent that night, save for the soft rustle of leaves stirred by the late evening breeze. The day had ended with Tom, the arrogant heir, once again humiliating his younger brother in front of the family and their friends. Peterson's body still ached from the blows, but his heart ached far worse.
He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling of his small, dimly lit room. The cracks in the plaster seemed like scars—scars that mirrored his own life.
Why am I even alive? he thought. Every day is the same… beaten, mocked, ignored. I'm nothing but a shadow in this family.
He closed his eyes, but sleep did not come. Instead, a strange sensation washed over him—like a faint pulse, echoing from somewhere deep inside his chest. At first, he thought it was just his heartbeat. But then came the voice.
Soft. Distant. Almost like a whisper carried by the wind.
"You are not weak."
Peterson's eyes flew open. He sat upright, scanning the room. No one was there. His heart raced.
"Who… who's there?" he whispered, his throat dry.
No reply. Only silence. But the pulse inside his chest grew stronger, warmer.
The next morning, Peterson walked through the academy courtyard with his head bowed low. Students whispered as he passed. His fight with Tom yesterday had spread like wildfire.
"Did you see how Tom crushed him again?" one boy laughed.
"Pathetic. He doesn't even deserve the Olivia name," a girl added with disdain.
Peterson clenched his fists but said nothing. He had long grown used to the cruelty.
But as he walked, something felt… different. Every sound was sharper, every color more vivid. He could hear the distant flutter of birds' wings, see the veins on leaves, feel the weight of people's gazes pressing on him.
And then—he felt Tom.
Before he even turned, he knew his brother was behind him. The same aura, heavy and suffocating, like a flame consuming oxygen.
"Well, well," Tom's voice rang out, arrogant as ever. "If it isn't the disgrace himself."
Peterson stopped, his jaw tightening. Tom stood with his usual entourage—three strong-looking students, all smirking like hyenas behind their leader.
"You didn't learn your lesson yesterday?" Tom sneered. "Or maybe you enjoy crawling in the dirt."
Peterson said nothing. His silence only fueled Tom's rage.
"You think you're too good to answer me?" Tom's eyes narrowed. "Fine. Let's give the weakling another reminder of his place."
He stepped forward, fists sparking faint embers of fire—his natural-born ability. The heat distorted the air around his hands.
The crowd formed quickly. Students gathered, whispering eagerly. Everyone loved watching the spectacle of Tom destroying his brother.
Tom swung his fist. The flames roared, but Peterson instinctively stepped back. He raised his arm—though he knew it was useless.
But then… something strange happened.
The flames bent.
Not much. Just a flicker, like a candle swayed by wind. But it was enough to make Tom miss by inches.
"What—?" Tom hissed, surprised.
Peterson's arm trembled. He didn't understand what had just happened. His breath grew shallow. The pulse inside him returned, louder, stronger.
"Do not fear. Release it."
The voice again. It echoed within him, commanding, yet gentle.
Peterson gasped. His surroundings blurred for a second, and suddenly—Tom's second punch slowed. Not literally, but to Peterson's eyes, it was as though time itself had stretched. He could see every ember breaking off Tom's fist, every ripple of heat in the air.
And for the first time in his life—Peterson moved first.
He thrust out his hand, without thinking.
BOOM!
A shockwave burst from his palm. Invisible, yet devastating. The ground cracked, sending Tom skidding backward. His friends stumbled, barely keeping balance. The crowd gasped, some even screamed.
"What… what was that?!" someone shouted.
"Did Peterson just—?" another voice cut off in disbelief.
Peterson froze, staring at his trembling hand. His whole arm tingled, like needles pricking his skin.
"I… I didn't mean to…" he whispered.
Tom staggered to his feet, his eyes wide with fury and confusion. "You… you dare…?" His flames roared higher, hotter, fueled by humiliation.
But before he could strike again, a powerful voice boomed across the courtyard.
"Enough."
The crowd instantly fell silent.
It was their grandfather.
Old, tall, with long silver hair and piercing eyes, he carried an aura of authority that silenced even Tom. He walked with a cane, but each step carried immeasurable weight.
Peterson's blood ran cold. His grandfather never appeared in public.
"Peterson," the old man said, his tone calm yet sharp. "Come."
The crowd parted like waves. Peterson's legs shook as he followed, glancing once at Tom's burning glare.
That night, Peterson sat in the old man's private chamber. The walls were lined with ancient books and relics, glowing faintly with runes.
His grandfather stood before him, silent for a long time, studying him with those sharp eyes.
"You felt it, didn't you?" the old man finally asked.
Peterson hesitated. "Felt… what?"
The old man's gaze softened, but only slightly. "The void."
Peterson's breath caught. "Void…?"
The old man turned, staring at a massive tapestry on the wall. It depicted a woman clad in white, her form wreathed in stars and emptiness.
"The White Void Queen," the old man whispered. "Our family's forgotten secret. The source of power beyond human comprehension."
Peterson's chest tightened. The voice. The pulse. The explosion. It all came rushing back.
"I… I don't understand…" he muttered.
"You will," the old man said gravely. "In time. For now… know this: your suffering has not been meaningless. Your power was sealed—for a reason."
"Sealed?" Peterson repeated, wide-eyed.
"Yes," the old man nodded. "Because your true power… is not just dangerous. It is beyond this world. Beyond even me."
Peterson's whole body trembled. The room felt colder, darker, as if shadows leaned closer to hear the conversation.
"Why me?" he whispered. "Why… when Tom was born perfect, and I—"
"Because perfection breeds arrogance," the old man interrupted sharply. "But suffering breeds strength." His eyes burned with an intensity Peterson had never seen before. "One day, you will understand. Until then… survive."
Silence fell. The only sound was the faint crackling of candles.
Peterson lowered his gaze, his fists clenched. For the first time in his life, he felt something stir inside him—not despair, not weakness, but a dangerous spark of resolve.
---
Later that night, as he lay in bed, the voice came again. Clearer. Louder.
"Peterson Olivia. Soon, you will awaken. And when you do… the world will tremble."
His eyes widened. He sat up, heart pounding. His room was silent—but he swore, just for a second, he saw a faint silhouette of a woman standing at the foot of his bed. Her eyes glowed white like stars, and then—she vanished.
Peterson collapsed back onto the bed, breathless, trembling, and terrified.
But in the depths of his soul, he knew: his life would never be the same again.