In a Small Mahogany Nursery, babies were crying. They reached for glowing amber crystals on the ceiling, fought for attention. One healer, a young mid-level Shaman, was busy with a three-month-old boy who rarely cried or finished his meals. For ten minutes she had been trying to play with him and make eye contact. He was unmoving and blank-faced, unblinking, like a stillborn. His fingers didn’t grip back on hers.

She asked, “Are Sorath’s blood readings in?”

“I think so.” An elderly woman put down a bowl of mashed veges, briefly touched a crying girl’s fingers, and sorted through a stack of papyrus. With a tender smile, she listed: “Cardon, Theo, Carrie, Andarah, Isen— Oh, Isen has promising potential in all stats. And multiple strong affinities.” She chuckled. “I have a feeling this one is going achieve great things one day.”

“And Sorath?”

“Hmm, Sorath, Sorath, Sorath. I don’t think—” Fingers clicked. “Ah, it was stuck to the back of Mira’s. Now, let’s see… Average Strength, good Dexterity, poor Vitality, good Intelligence, average Wisdom, and average Endurance… No known diseases. And a maximum-potential unknown affinity… with minor darkness. Big round zeros for all other known affinities. Interesting. Very interesting.”

Unknowns were rare and could be a result of an unskilled reading to underdevelopment to an entirely new manifestation of magic. Minor darkness was common enough that the King’s court didn’t care. But a combination of the two? Indeed, Sorath’s life was going to be very interesting.

The young healer’s frown grew worried while she continued trying to play with him.

Dandelions and daisies were blooming, and five-year-old Sorath couldn’t stop sneezing. He wanted to go back inside his room where his puzzle was left unfinished. Instead, he was stuck outside, trying to shut out ambient mana from flooding his head. Mana from the other children. From birds in their nests. From a ladybug by his toes.

Sorath crouched and concentrated. Fuzziness cleared. The ladybug’s mana was erratic and swirling, and he felt its emotions as if they were his own. It was scared. Confused.

“Sora, what are you doing?” a girl called loudly. He had forgotten her name.

“The ladybug is scared,” he mumbled without looking at her face.

“Awww, is it?”

“I can feel it.”

A boy ran up and stepped on the ladybug. “Now it’s squish!” He ran off, laughing.

“Theo,” the girl squeaked. “You hurt it.”

More than just hurt. Its shell was crushed. Tiny legs were broken, one torn off, one mangled into three pieces. Yellow goo flowed down a daisy’s flattened stalk. There were no feelings whatsoever. Fading magic was emotionless. Quiet.

Dead.

And Theo, in all his prankster glee, crossed a line of yellow chalk, into the trees, where grass was tall and full of fuzzy mana. Something bigger was slithering, hungry and curious. As Theo ran near, it coiled and stood straight in full-body fright. Fright turned into anger.

The snake sprang forth, bit Theo’s leg.

He screamed so loud that others screamed as well.

Mana popped all around. Adults were suddenly everywhere with weapons and shields out. Their alarm and concern was smothering for Sorath, so he took this opportunity to sneak back inside. Thick wooden walls blocked their feelings somewhat.

Today was Sorath’s seventh birthday. Check-ups with healers were now everyday at noon, but today he was having lunch with his parents, Cardon’s parents, Cardon’s parents’ close friend Pavel, and not to forget Cardon himself. Sorath had been worried about a big party. Thankfully, his parents had listened this time; they were finally starting to believe him.

Unstringing a linen-wrapped box, Sorath expected a rugged leather pouch about the size of a grapefruit. He got exactly that. It was bigger on the inside, and empty. His knew his hand was inside his soul—his soul’s inventory space that was now robust enough for a pouch to open.

“Sora, do you like it?” his mother asked happily.

“I do.” He smiled.

“Wow!” Cardon exclaimed. “Mother, can I also have one?”

“Not until you’re seven as well.”

Cardon groaned in frustration, his mother feeling amused. And happy. This happiness was a different kind altogether. A bit relieved. A bit guilty. And the longer Sorath focused on her magic, the clearer her emotions became. For the first time, he heard a hollow voice spoken by unmoving lips: Oh my lord, he looks so much like Pavel right now. I can’t believe no one can see the resemblance. Idiots. It was coming from within her head.

Suddenly mana swirled around him, and his sixth sense was without fuzz but reached a much shorter distance. An invisible hand and quill wrote indigo letters in the air.

You have naturally learned a new passive skill: Telepathy (Beginner 1)

Passive Effect: You are able to sense mana within a 10 stride range, including the feelings and verbalized thoughts of living things

A skill. A real passive skill granted by the gods. His strange mana-sensing ability wasn’t a disease; it was Telepathy. He wasn’t a freak, and he never had been a freak.

Newfound confidence made Sorath stand with balled fists. “I’m not an idiot.”

She flinched. “Pardon me?”

“You just called me an idiot.”

“I did not.” The pitch of her voice sharply rose. “You are being very rude, young man.”

“Yes,” Sorath’s mother agreed. “She didn’t call you anything. Please apologize.”

His father grunted in agreement.

Sorath angrily shook his head. “You were talking in your thoughts. You said, oh my lord, he looks so much like Pavel right now. I can’t believe no one can see the resemblance. Idiots.”

Color drained from her horse-like face. She shrieked just like a horse, “What did you say?!”

“I’m not an idiot.” He stood up, his hands shaking. Knuckles cracked. “Pavel is Cardon’s real father, isn’t he? Is that why he’s always with you?”

“How dare you tell lies!”

“I can hear thoughts. I’m not lying! I have—”

Out of nowhere, Sorath’s father back-handed him across the face. Hard. “Get in your room. Now.”

With a burning cheek, with tears spilling, he grabbed his pouch and ran. He dove under his bed, fingers in his ears. Their muffled shouting was thunder in the house. Beneath vibrating floorboards, a mouse was cowering in fright.

Nine-year-old Sorath stood in front of twenty other first-years inside a room at Greenwood Tutorial School. Lady Roan introduced him, “Quiet, everyone. We have a new student joining us today. This is Sorath, and he is of psionic affinity. Please, give a warm group welcome to Room Five for Sorath.”

“Welcome to Room Five, Sorath,” the class said in weirdly practiced unison.

Lady Roan said, “Thank you. Now, sit at the empty desk next to Clem and take out a notebook and an ink-enchanted quill. We’re going over strengths and weaknesses of Dexterity builds.”

“Yes, Lady Roan.” He did exactly as told, as his mother had advised. The chair was a little too high for him. From his inventory he retrieved stationery, and he began copying off the black board. The mana bubble on his head distorted his eyesight enough that many of Lady Roan’s cursive words were unreadable, but he managed to fill in gaps.

Clem asked, “What’s psionic affinity?”

Sorath glanced at him. “Basically mind magics. Without this bubble enchantment, I can hear everyone’s thoughts.”

“Come on. Be real.”

“I am.”

“Then take off that bubble and tell me what number I’m thinking. I’ll give you a hint—it’s even and greater than a hundred.”

“I’m not allowed to take it off, and if I do, I wont be able to put it back on. I swear I’m being real.”

He almost scoffed. “What else can you do? What’s your second and third affinities?”

“I only have psionic affinity. Maximum psionic affinity.”

“As if.”

“I do,” Sorath whined, frowning.

“Alright, Bubble Head, you don’t have to tell me.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sorath said feebly.

“Whatever you say, Bubble Head. And psionic sounds more like a disease, to be honest.”

Later that day, although Lady Roan clarified what psionic affinity was currently understood to be, the name Bubble Head stuck, and that was now his name when the teachers weren’t within hearing distance. Even his so-call friends—who had been placed into other classes—caught on to those two words. He somehow knew this was going to be his new name for a long, long time.

It was field trip day to see the village boundary. Wooden posts marked an invisible curved line, and the students of Room Five stood at a safe hundred stride distance. Ten-year-old Sorath lingered closer to wilderness than anyone else—apart from accompanying Village Guards who glared at him, at his bubble.

Lady Roan clapped twice. “Surprise quiz. Why is it always important to stay within the village boundary?” She pointed at a girl’s raised hand. “Yes, Mia?”

“Because within the boundary, faction laws will detect when someone commits a crime and when someone crosses the boundary.”

“Yes,” Lady Roan agreed, “but that’s not all.” She pointed at another girl’s hand. “Rierre, do you know?”

She smugly answered, “Faction land is divinely blessed so that open-world dungeons never spawn. Animals also never become dire.”

“Good, but what else?” Lady Roan smiled at a boy. “Anton. Your turn.”

He shrugged. “So we never find any good loot?”

Lady Roan chuckled. “I wouldn’t say it that way, but in essence, yes. I must repeat again that the dark gods like to tempt the brave and foolish with riches and power, but the odds are not in your favor—very far from in your favor.” She sighed. “Next question: how far is the boundary from the Town Hall?” Her fingers clicked at a pony-tailed girl. “Laria.”

She meekly said, “One and a half leagues?”

Lady Roan’s distorted face squinted sadly. “That is incorrect. We are now a large village; the boundary is two leagues from the Hall. Does anyone know how far it will be once we are a small town?”

A boy named Maelir shouted, “Three leagues!”

“That’s correct, but please don’t call out again.” Her hands cupped together. “Now, on the rare off-chance that you need to cross the boundary—when you are max-level adults that is—for whatever unreasonable reason only known to the gods, remember to never go alone. Always go in at least a full party with people whom you trust.” She took a deep breath. “I am going to pass out badges that represent classes. The parties that have compositions suited for surviving in a forest environment will be awarded high-quality ice cream cones crafted by yours truly.”

One by one, students received colored, labeled disks. Most were smiling, some couldn’t hide their nerves, and Sorath knew almost no one wanted to party-up with Bubble Head.

Rierre nudged his arm, teased, “So what can you even do. Do you even have a skill yet?”

“I told you I have Telepathy.”

“And yet you still haven’t taken off that stupid bubbl—”

“AHHHHH!” screamed a Village Guard at the boundary. An arrow had impaled him through the stomach.

Students yelled and ran toward the village wall, Lady Roan failing to maintain order, Guards and Farmers rushing in. Whole parties ran in pursuit into the lawless wild.

Needless to say, Tutorial School field trips to the boundary weren’t ever scheduled again.

Eleven-years-old.

Sorath woke from a nightmare of his mother’s death. His bed sheets and night clothes were damp from cold sweat. Her horrid screams continued ringing in his ears for minutes. It took an hour to drift back to sleep while mice partied under the floor, as though happy about his dream.

It was a rainy Saturday a month before Tutorial School graduation, and twelve-year-old Sorath was eavesdropping on Father and Town Guard Captain Madrog. They were talking in hushes tones. And Father was sniffing loudly, his nose blocked.

He was crying. “Any survivors?”

“None.”

“What? They don’t even know if she’s dead?”

Madrog sighed. “She may as well be.”

“So she may be alive.”

“You know the portals have a time limi—”

Father’s fist shook cups on the table. “I’m going down there.”

“Kallus. The chances that you find her—”

“She is my wife,” Father hissed. “I’m not sitting by while she could be in dying agony right now.” His footfalls neared the hallway.

Sorath scurried back into his bedroom. His bubble wobbled in his inner turmoil. Those recurring nightmares really had been vision of the future, but they hadn’t believed him. They never believed him. Now Mother was gone, lost in some random pocket wold dungeon thanks to that cursed dungeoneering guild.

Wiping away tears, Sorath forced his eyes shut.

An old man spoke with a booming, magically enhanced voice, “Welcome to Greenwood School of Adventure and Crafting. I am Headmaster Yassemir. For the next three-to-five years, you will grow from children into men and women. During these years, your individual strengths, weaknesses, and affinities, will become more apparent while you choose classes and professions.

“Here is my advice: Knowing some of you are better suited for certain roles than others, do not make choices out of ego or fleeting interest; choose what is best your futures, your friends and families, your wider community. For those blessed with great potential and high affinities, it is your duty to protect those less fortunate than you, and for the less fortunate, great things are nevertheless expected. But despite our individual differences, we are one people of one faction, and we look out for one another as equals. Thank you and best of luck. Please remain seated. Your professors may have some words for you.”

Thirteen-year-old Sorath clapped with everyone else, and like many, his heart wasn’t in it. Sure, the old man could say everyone was equal. That was one thing. Blood readings in the next hour were another. They were going to lump weaklings together with freaks and shove them into a side room so they were out of the way—protected. Some community. The King and his cronies certainly weren’t equal to anyone but themselves.

While the stage remained empty, a boy quietly joked, “What class do you think Bubble Head will choose?”

Isen, golden boy Isen, said, “Well, he has a strange self-headache ability. He can be an Arcane Mage and work for the circus. I’d pay to see his show once.”

“Once? I’d see it weekly.”

They laughed.

Sorath slouched in his seat. With his lackluster Vitality attribute, a circus clown wasn’t a too bad of a job. Safe with a pretty steady pay. Actually, that sounded terribly boring. Terribly non-violent. Maybe it was a growing pain, but these days he reveled in the thought of violence.

Sorath was inflicted with his first romantic crush at age thirteen. She had sparkling violet eyes, flowing chocolate-brown hair, and a heart-shaped face with full lips and a sprinkle of freckles. She was arguably a prodigy, already a level 29 Fire Mage. Best of all, she had transfered from Argentina Capital City the other week; she hadn’t witnessed his embarrassing bubble phase.

After school at the gates, he approached nervously. “Uh, hello Valia. I’m Sorath.”

Her hot mana coiled in surprise, and surprise turned into disdain, though she put on a friendly face like kind people tend to do. “Hello Sorath. Do you need something?” She added a thought, Ugh. I can’t believe I’m talking to you, Bubble Head. Do you even have a class yet?

Sorath’s heart sank. “I’m going to be a Blademaster, but I’m still not sure.”

She flinched. “Um, did I ask you what you want to be?”

“I have the Telepathy passive skill. I’m a psionic.”

“You’re a what?” She shuffled back in rising alarm.

He tried to smile. “Psionic affinity. Don’t worry. Most of the time I have to block everyone out or I’ll get headaches. Think of a number out loud in your head. I’ll tell you.”

Two million, three-hundred thousand, and fifty… two.

Sorath repeated, “Two million, three-hundred thousand, and fifty-two. See?”

Alarm worsened into dread, her eyes comically wide. “Um, that’s— That’s amazing. I’ve got to go. My father’s waiting for me. See you tomorrow.” She turned and briskly walked out the gate. Her sinking dread didn’t fade.

Sorath shrugged off the ache in his chest. Maybe she wasn’t so amazing. She was just like everyone else. Trash.

“Hey, Bubble Head!” Theo sneered, looking like a diseased ogre. “What number am I thinking?” He laughed with his friends.

That incident had been over two years ago. They were still giving Sorath crap about it. Sighing, he ignored them and walked on.

Abruptly Theo shoved him. “I’m talking to you. What number am I thinking?” His breath stank of week-old fish left out in the sun. “Guess what, buddy. Girls don’t like it when you spy on their thoughts.” He shoved again, harder.

Going for the throat, Sorath invoked maliciously, Telen—

Headmaster Yassemir’s booming voice interrupted, “Theo Eleric! In my office this instant! Your gang as well! In my office!”

Sorath steadied his breathing and walked away with images of spilled blood in his mind.

Sorath was now eighteen and taking odd jobs for the Guard Office, not officially as a Town Guard… yet. His options were of plenty. He was powerful for his age. Powerful for any age. He could be a dungeoneer like Mother had been. Or he could start at the local smithy or tannery or even at Torrel’s Restaurant, assuming any of them would hire a telepathic man at all. The Royal Guards would be more welcoming.

Or he could be a bounty hunter. Bandit Gang activity was at an all-time high.

Someone with grim earthen mana knocked the door. Madrog again.

“It’s unlocked,” Sorath called from the living room.

Madrog entered. He wore plain linen clothing and thick sandals. He sat across the room on a leather couch crafted by none other than Sorath. “It’s been a month. I had to declare your father as deceased yesterday.”

Sorath was long prepared. Ever since Mother’s disappearance, Father had been relentlessly searching for her in low-tier pocketworld dungeons. This was only inevitable. “I understand, but why are you so disturbed?”

“Well,” Madrog exhaled. “An accountant from the Royal Bank came to my office, and… to save you the details, you have inherited over half a million gold in debt.”

“What?!” Sorath’s voice echoed off clay walls. “Debt for what?”

“Mostly for tuition and childhood healer fees.”

Electrifying Mana stormed in Sorath’s gut. This had to be a bad Guard’s joke, but Madrog wasn’t showing any signs of joking, his mana pool solid like an inverted mountain. But half a million gold for healer vista and school tuition? That couldn’t be right.

Madrog read Sorath’s expression with ease: “From what I know, you had daily check-ups with a personal healer for most of your childhood. It quickly adds up. A portion of it is also interest, of course.”

Sorath stammered, “And— And if I can’t pay it back?”

Madrog’s chin dipped. “As Guard Captain, I must inform you that failure to meet repayments will result in you being taken into hold. You will be placed into forced labor until you work off your debt. Fleeing will likely result in your name appearing on the King’s bounty lists.” He swallowed, glanced away for a moment. “The Royal Bank also wishes me to inform you that your first repayment of at least three hundred gold is due in ten days to prove you are capable of repayment. This adobe will be auctioned in three days and will not count as proof of capability. You are also offered a free private vault for six months as condolences.” He stood. “In good faith, I will leave you to pack your belongings in privacy. Any questions?”

Sorath shrugged. “Can I live in the vault?”

“No,” Madrog chuckled and left.