His legs gave out halfway down the stairwell.

  No warning. One moment he stood firm—the next, gravity betrayed him, knees folding like wet paper as the world lurched sideways in a sickening tilt.

  Sound smeared thin, the entire stairwell dragged through a narrow pipe, every echo warped and distant.

  Arion saw the landing below. A body lay crumpled there, limbs twisted in unnatural angles.

  The chest rose once—shallow, ragged—then stilled.

  Well damn~… would not want to be that guy.

  His voice didn’t sound or echo—it only reverberated in his mind

  Ahh…

  Then it clicked.

  That’s… me.

  …

  The edges of the corridor bled away. Colour smeared like wet paint. The stairwell peeled back into a tunnel of blinding light..

  He reached for the railing. Fingers closed on nothing. The pull swallowed him whole.

  What—

  Then came the blasts of pure light.

  The light bent sharper, stretching into a tunnel that devoured everything. For a second he thought it was a hospital lamp glaring down.

  Then the world tore open at the seams.

  Colour bled into streaks. Lines of light whipped past like stars dragged into cosmic rivers. Space folded in on itself and flung him forward faster than thought could follow.

  His body—or whatever ragged scrap was left of his soul—plunged through it, weightless yet crushed, a thread pulled razor-thin.

  Reds cracked into violet, violet burned into blinding white, every hue colliding.

  The rush lasted only moments. Then the colours shattered like stained glass under a hammer.

  The tunnel of light collapsed.

  Then the darkness ate him whole.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  At first it was just black. A flicker of relief almost touched him—until he realised the dark was alive.

  They weren’t shadows.

  They had form.

  Shapes stirred at the edges of his vision, but the more he tried to focus, the less they resembled anything his mind could name.

  They crawled and twisted in absolute silence, and every time his mind tried to force them into something real, the image unravelled—leaving only the sickening certainty that he had stared too long at something that should never be seen.

  Arion wanted to scream, but that was a luxury he had no longer.

  The void pressed on him.

  Pressure, the kind that smothered thought itself—squeezing his consciousness.

  Then came movement.

  Something vast slid across him.

  Slow. Soundless. Immense.

  The dark rippled in reply—thousands of unseen presences stirring at once. He couldn’t tell if what he saw was happening or that they were echoes of his own fracturing psyche.

  More movement followed.

  They pulsed, expanded, fractured.

  Somewhere beyond sense, the pressure echoed, ancient and cold. He felt it ripple through the void like a shiver down the spine of reality.

  Then one stopped completely still.

  Everything else churned, but this shape froze.

  That was worse. Impossibly worse.

  It turned.

  Every nerve screamed for him to run, but he was merely a vulnerable speck of light within the incomprehensible void of darkness.

  Then a hand stretched out.

  His mind struggled to comprehend the concept—It was as if it didn’t have physical form. Like an idea made manifest.

  Dark and endless, fingers tapering into spears of pure absence. It did not move fast.

  It did not need to.

  Paralysis gripped him.

  His mind threatened to collapse.

  The hand drew near—

  —and reality screamed.

  A fissure of blinding light tore through the void, slicing it open from horizon to horizon.

  The light shone over the cosmic forms he could barely make out within the void—just a glimpse of them fractured his soul and mind, whatever was left of it.

  His consciousness shut off from the reality morphing experience as the hand burst apart, dissolving into static and ash.

  Darkness shrieked into brilliance.

  His vision regained only to be seared white, with his mind blanked—

  —and then came the wind.

  It roared against him, sky blazing above, a wild, brawling landscape waiting below.

  His being floated high above the world, staring down at a continent spread wide like a living map.

  Plains rolled like an endless blanket of emerald. Rivers cut black seams across the land. Ridges jutted like bones through skin.

  Clouds drifted lazily, casting slow shadows over patchwork fields. At the edge of sight, a pale coast curved until haze devoured it.

  No highways. No towers. No buzzing lines scarring the sky.

  Just raw, untamed earth—alive and whole.

  What in the hell!?

  He stared until his vision burned.

  Then the fall began.

  The fu—Am I… skydiving?

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Air collapsed against him, shaking his very being. The view tumbled once—sky flipping into earth—then stabilized, locked steady on the rushing horizon.

  The ground raced closer. Blades of grass sharpened into individual spears. White flowers stayed stubbornly defiant against the speeding wind. Heat shimmered upward in waves, warping the air like a mirage.

  The fall lined him perfectly with a figure in the field.

  Why is there a guy just lying there!? Does he wanna die?

  Young. Still. Pale robe, dark shirt and trousers, arms limp with no motion in sight. No way to twist aside.

  Oh Physics! It's a dream! Yes, a dream!

  Closer.

  WAKE UP!

  Closer.

  Then—

  OH SHIT—

  —impact.

  Followed by a massive surge of light.

  …

  Suddenly a chest convulsed.

  Air slammed into lungs that had not drawn breath for hours—or ever.

  “Huhhh—”

  His ribs jolted, heart hammering too fast, too hard, but steady nonetheless.

  “Haaahhh-hah… ha.”

  A sprawling landscape became a clear sky in a blink.

  He groaned. The sound tore out raw, as though his throat had been scraped with sandpaper. Light burned his eyes until tears pricked the corners. He squeezed them shut, then forced them open again, blinking hard against the brightness.

  The sky above was too clean. Blue without smog or haze. White motes drifted at the edges of his vision.

  His body twitched. Muscles clenched and released on their own, like cables being tested after long dormancy.

  He groaned louder and rolled to his side.

  “Ughh—what the hell just happened?” His voice cracked, rasping.

  He pressed a hand to the ground and sat up slowly, every motion tight with protest, as if waking from a long, disorienting nap.

  The field swayed around him, tall grass shifting like a green sea. A strange hum threaded faintly through it—more felt than heard—vibrating through his being. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The sensation slipped away like faint vibrations.

  The meadow ran wide in every direction. Dew glinted sharp in the morning light. Darker seams cut the land, maybe streams. A ridge of trees followed one such dip, leaves dancing in time with the grass.

  Arion touched his face. The shape was right… but the texture was wrong. Smooth. Younger.

  Huh…

  He staggered toward a shallow pool and bent over it—only to be further surprised.

  A stranger stared back.

  Ten years younger. Clean-boned. No scar on the lip. No dark bags under the eyes. His hair was silver rather than black, hanging just above his eyes, rough but bright, catching light even under streaks of dirt.

  “Wha—” Arion tried to move as if someone else was in his way, yet the reflection tracked his motions. “Who the hell is this handsome guy?”

  He splashed the water, creating ripples along its surface. Once settled, the same face appeared again.

  His laugh cracked into something nervous.

  “Haha… no way this is real, right?”

  The reflection held with the same unknown face, its sharp, glistening eyes staring right back at him.

  The dream did not blur nor end back into reality.

  The silence pressed heavily. No traffic hum. No cable buzz. Only grass, the creak of branches, and birds calling notes he did not know.

  The sound grounded him, bringing him back to sense.

  “Wait… birds?”

  Then one call struck familiar—three clear tones, bright as any flute he had heard.

  Relief surged.

  A bird. Earth enough.

  He turned toward the sound.

  The bird perched on a branch. Two heads swiveled in unison. Two throats sang the same run of notes.

  His relief cracked. Laughter broke half-mad.

  “N-never mind.”

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  On the ground, thirst pressed hard. His throat scraped dry as desert sand. He forced himself upright, swaying in this stranger’s body.

  The faint sound of running water reached him. He fixed on it like a predator on prey, relief cutting through the haze. He started walking toward it.

  Grass brushed his legs, damp against the coarse cloth of his trousers. His boots crunched the blades, faint pressure brushing his shins and arms as though the air itself leaned close, whispering secrets.

  The further he walked, the stranger the world felt.

  A flower along the path shifted colour when the wind touched it—pale blue one moment, sharp violet the next. He froze, stared, then forced himself on.

  Insects hovered low over the grass, wings beating, but their flight left faint streaks of light in the air, as though the world remembered their paths.

  He kept walking, muttering half-delirious: “I’m… just hallucinating. Yeah, just a little crazy in the head is all.”

  …

  The shrubs parted. The river lay ahead.

  Narrow, silver under sunlight. Flowing as if alive.

  The current ran smooth, the surface broken by drifting petals.

  He stood there, mouth agape, unable to compute what he was seeing.

  Yet thirst won.

  He ran over, crouched, and plunged a hand into the water.

  Cold stabbed to the bone. He drank, greedy, desperate. The taste burned, sharp as frost, cleaner than anything from a tap.

  He pulled back, panting. “Nothing strange. Just… small differences.” His laugh cracked, eyes twitching.

  “Except… Except rivers don’t just say no to gravity!”

  He watched as the river's current crawled uphill, defying the slope and gravity itself.

  His breath caught as he ran a hand through his wet hair.

  The last strings of hope and sanity snapped.

  “No. This can't be… No, no, no—”

  A slight insane chuckle escaped his disbelieved expression.

  “Ah… ha—haha.”

  Then the truth crashed in.

  “AHH—”

  He slammed his head straight into the river.

  BLUP!

  Bubbles burst as he yelled into the current, words lost to the flowing water. His skull went cold. Lungs shrieked for air.

  He tore his head up, gasping, water streaming from silver hair and shirt.

  And froze.

  Droplets hovered above him, sprays of vapour glimmering in the sun. Bubbles clung mid-air instead of sinking.

  They hung there like glass beads, trembling between existence and collapse. Light fractured through them, scattering rainbows across his face. The world stood still.

  As soon as he reached out, they scattered, falling and merging back into the current.

  His heartbeat kicked, wild. He blinked hard, as if clearing static from his vision.

  Did… that just happen?

  Shocked, he succumbed to curiosity and splashed like a child trying to recreate a magic trick.

  Again. Nothing.

  Another. Still nothing.

  “Damnit!”

  Frantic, he scooped, slapped, shouted—the river stayed calm. The silence mocked him, a soft whisper beneath the rush.

  Like a mage out of the games he had played, he spoke strange incantations to persuade it.

  “Aqua rise! Splash formation! Hydropump!”

  Nothing. Water clung ordinary.

  He tried again until his arms shook, shirt heavy, hair plastered silver to his brow. The air smelled sharp—metallic, alive. Tiny shivers ran through the river as though it laughed at him.

  Breathing heavily, he finally collapsed on the bank, defeated. Mud sucked at his sleeve. His pulse thudded dull in his ears. Lying there, he stared at the blue sky, chest rising slowly, thoughts dissolving like foam.

  Moments passed in silence.

  …

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  No… was it? It has to be, right? It’s the only logical conclusion.

  A thought rooted deep. He shot up, legs folded.

  Eyes shut. He reached inward.

  A tingle flickered faint, like static under the skin. A current ran along nerves, through muscle. Not blood. Not heat. Something else.

  It’s… circulating. Like electricity. A circuit.

  “It was me,” he whispered.

  “I triggered it. My outburst made it happen.”

  It was barely there, but definitely there. He focused, and the flicker grew.

  Branches, splits, reconnecting loops mapped through him. His mind snapped into patterns: Current. Resistance. Pathways. Nerves as wire. Muscle as conductor. Body as a living circuit.

  “Two energies,” he muttered. “Mine… and the other one—something outside. It was present in the river. A reaction born when both touched.”

  Arion crouched again, hand out.

  The tingle surged. He forced it down his arm, into his palm. Fingers burned.

  Maybe…

  Just maybe…

  But this time the river answered.

  The hairs along his forearm lifted; the air clicked.

  Mist coiled upward, vapour gathering around his hand. Heatless. Unreal. His chest seized.

  “Phase change… liquid to gas. Endothermic shift without thermal input. Hydrogen bonds disrupted, entropy increasing with no energy source.”

  He focused on the process. The vapour collapsed, droplets forming. They hung above his palm, trembling, steady.

  A shapeless body of water floated there.

  He laughed, breathless. “Impossible. A violation of the Second Law… Gah, forget it! Laws mean nothing if you can casually bend them.”

  He thought about shaping the water, and the water obeyed, morphing into a clean sphere.

  The sphere trembled in his palm. A fist-sized globe of water, impossibly floating, scattering sun across its skin. For a second he grinned like a lunatic.

  I did it.

  He wanted more. He drove the current harder down his arm—circuits straining, nerves screaming. Fingers burned like nails hammered under nails.

  The water warped, ripples crawling its surface.

  Then a droplet fell, hitting his palm.

  “Ah—”

  Pop!

  The sphere exploded, detonating in his face with the force of a fire hose. The blast caught him square in the mouth and nose, lifting him off his feet. He flew backward like a ragdoll, legs flipped skyward; he hit flat on his back. Mud splashed up his sides, water pouring over him like he’d just lost a wrestling match with the river itself.

  He groaned, choking on mud.

  “Guh! Son of a—” He hacked, spat, then wheezed, “Circuit overloaded… I pushed too hard and blew the bloody line…”

  Every nerve in his hand screamed. His chest burned where the force had smacked the air out of him. He rolled onto his side, coughing until his ribs ached.

  When the pain ebbed, he lay there, staring up at the cloudless sky. A single drop of water hung above his brow, refusing to fall—until it finally did, smacking him in the face for one last piece of disrespect.

  His face now plastered with an unimpressed, tired look.

  “Died. Gained a new handsome body. Figured out magic. And got my ass handed to me by a ball of water.”

  He let out a long sigh.

  Eventful. Painful. But… promising.

  Well, as long as I don’t kill myself first…