Suffocating from black smoke, Nathaniel woke in a panic.
His bedroom was engulfed in flames, memories of his childhood melting away.
COUGH COUGH
His body couldn't decide whether breathing or coughing was the better option.
The flames closed in around him, growing fiercer with every frantic movement.
The roller shutter's rope had burned away, cutting off any escape through the window.
Then the fire consumed him.
GAAAAAH
He screamed until his vocal cords ruptured—that was the kind of pain he felt.
Like a nightmare.
No one could survive being burned alive.
Except for a certain kind of Ascender.
BEEP BEEP BEEP
A familiar yet alien sound invaded Nathaniel's consciousness, pulsing with each heartbeat.
'Hospital', he thought, and the memory of the inferno rushed back.
With consciousness came pain—unrelenting, searing.
His burnt nerves, damaged beyond repair, misfired like a broken circuit, amplifying every signal into agony.
Worst of all was his back, where the pain consumed his mind entirely.
He opened his mouth to scream.
He had a mouth—but could not scream.
Only a hollow rush of air escaped his lungs. Not a single functioning cord remained to translate his suffering.
Wrapped head to toe in bandages, Nathaniel looked like a mummy roused from centuries of slumber.
His arms and legs thrashed against the hospital bed, but all he felt was fire.
The violent crashes echoed through the medical wing.
Nurses rushed in, syringes in hand, plunging a needle into his arm.
Morphine should have brought relief—but as the liquid entered his veins, his skin began to glow.
The heat intensified until the morphine ignited, setting his bandages and grafts ablaze.
The nurses stumbled back, shouting into their radios.
And as they did, Nathaniel's mind finally surrendered to unconsciousness.
Three Years Earlier
Thousands of islands dotted the oceans—some populated, some discovered, many still untouched.
Four hundred miles off Cabo Verde, a shipwrecked cargo vessel was located by GPS on an uncharted island.
The island was small, just fifteen miles across: sand, coconut trees, the usual fare.
Except for the tower.
A mile high and a quarter-mile wide, its architecture defied all known history.
The U.S. government sent Marines and archaeologists to investigate.
When the first researcher touched the tower, the world shifted.
Natural disasters intensified. Climate change accelerated. Unknown diseases spread.
People died. Infrastructures collapsed. Yet humanity endured.
Then, little by little, people began developing powers.
"Yeah… sounds like an average manga plot," Nathaniel had scoffed three years ago, back when the tower was first discovered. "Oh! Look at me! I have powers..."
He'd regret those words when he woke up.
***
The same relentless beeping dragged Nathaniel back to consciousness.
He braced for another wave of pain—but none came.
Only the tight grip of bandages, the itch of fresh grafts, and the sun's warmth bleeding through the window.
"Are you awake?" A woman's voice, smooth as polished steel.
"YEEEEAH." His reply was a jagged growl, vocal cords still torn.
"Fucking finally!" A chair clattered to the floor as she stood. Heels hammered against linoleum, then faded down the hall.
A new voice rushed in, trembling. "Sir Nathaniel Flanagan! Are you in pain?"
"No." The word rasped out like a blade on stone.
The nurse flinched. She'd heard what happened last time—how the first team had watched him burn. How the hospital only learned the truth after his body ignited morphine and bandages alike.
"You… you won't combust again, right, Sir?"
Nathaniel didn't answer. Couldn't.
Minutes later, a doctor arrived, clipboard in hand. "The fire at your residence—we didn't understand its origin. Until you woke up." A pause. "You're a Fire-Type Ascender. Your powers manifested in your sleep. And—"
"Parents?" Nathaniel interrupted.
The doctor's throat bobbed. "They didn't survive."
Nathaniel's fists clenched. His fault. His parents were ash because he was the spark.
He tried to scream. What emerged was a wheezing ruin of sound—his tear ducts scorched dry, his grief trapped inside a body that couldn't even weep.
The doctor continued, clinical. "Most elemental Ascenders resist their own affinity. You? You're vulnerable to fire—yours or otherwise."
Nathaniel's grafts pulled taut as he shuddered.
"Third- and fourth-degree burns. We prioritized grafting critical areas, and a healer assisted, but the damage is permanent."
Nathaniel's vocal cords would never fully heal, leaving his voice a low, shattered growl. His skin, where it was grafted, formed rough scales that shimmered unnaturally under light. His eyes burned constantly, requiring hourly drops to mimic the tears his ruined glands could no longer produce.
And the pain—sharp, electric—flared unpredictably along his limbs, as if his nerves had been rewired with broken glass.
But none of that compared to the truth: he was alone. Broke.
No insurance covered Awakened-related incidents. His family's funeral debts were his now.
When the bandages finally came off, Nathaniel faced the mirror—and the monster staring back.
His scalp was charred, though patches of brown hair would eventually regrow. His eyes, bloodshot and dry, glared from a face half-melted into ruin. The grafts on his body were thin, almost translucent in places, revealing the grotesque map of muscles and tendons beneath.
Days into rehab, a suit appeared.
"Ulari Taz," the man said, flashing a Hummingbirds Guild badge. "My founders were moved by your tragedy. We'll cover your medical bills, property damages, and your parents' funeral."
Nathaniel's hairless brow lifted. "Why?"
Ulari's smile flickered—just for a second—at Nathaniel's voice. "Your flames burned hotter than any fledgling's. Ice Ascenders couldn't even extinguish them."
The subtext was clear. He was valuable.
Nathaniel had no delusions. The law gave Ascenders two choices: enslave yourself to a guild or rot in a government cell.
Before Ulari could sweeten the deal, Nathaniel growled:
"Where do I sign?"