As the rays of the sun pierced through the clouds, bathing his face in warm light, the young man stirred. The world around him began to take shape—muffled voices of bystanders, their words indistinct yet filled with curiosity and concern. The rain had ceased not long ago, leaving behind a damp chill that clung to his skin. His clothes were still soaked, heavy with rainwater and stained with blood, though the monster's body that had assaulted him was nowhere to be seen.
He glanced around, bewildered, as people gathered in hushed conversation. A police officer approached with measured steps, his expression a mixture of concern and suspicion. "Are you alright, son? Are you hurt anywhere? The locals called, saying there was a man bleeding on the street."
Jordan rose slowly, his body still sore from the ordeal, and muttered, "I'm fine, sir. Thank you." His voice carried an odd detachment, as if the weight of what had transpired still hadn't fully settled. The officer, though unconvinced, sensed that something about this scene was off. A man drenched in blood, standing there calmly, without any visible wounds, struck him as deeply unsettling.
"What's your name, young fellow?" the officer asked, as his curiosity piqued.
"Jordan Palmieri, sir. Do I have to stay here?" His voice was steady, though there was an urgency beneath it, a need to escape the questions and the crowd.
The officer sighed, the weight of his authority feeling oddly out of place in this strange situation. "No, kiddo, since there's nothing out of the ordinary, you can go. But are you sure you're not hurt?" His eyes scanned Jordan, searching for any signs of injury or distress, but finding only mystery.
Jordan nodded, turning away, but the officer's lingering gaze followed him as he walked off.
As Jordan walked home, his mind swirled with the weight of the day's strange events. Where was the creature's body? Had it all been a nightmare? No. It couldn't have been. The dread that clung to his bones, the exhaustion that drained his every step—those were real. But there was one question Worrying him above all others: what was a dharma? And Cinder's gift?
His voice cracked the silence, frustration bubbling up. "What the hell is a dharma?"
Before the echo of his question could fade, a voice boomed, deep and ancient, as though it rose from the core of the earth itself.
[Dharma is one of the primal categories of power bestowed upon humankind after the ???, to defend against the horrors that crawled from other realms. The categories are threefold: Artifacts, Dharma, and the Innate. Would you care for further explanation]
Jordan froze, heart pounding. The voice didn't come from any person. It reverberated from the very air around him, from the shadows gathering in the corners of the streets. It felt as if the darkness itself had spoken, an abyss stretching out from the void beyond the stars. He glanced wildly around, but there was no one—only the cold wind whispering through the empty streets.
Chilled to his core, but driven by a burning curiosity, he whispered back into the void, "Sure… explain it to me."
The darkness seemed to thicken, as if the very fabric of reality was bending toward his voice, hungry to tell its secrets.
[The voice, cold and unwavering, continued to flow through the night, wrapping itself around Jordan like a spectral fog.
["Artifacts manifest as objects in the physical world," it began, the tone carrying a weight of ancient knowledge. "They are the strongest of the three, capable of great feats of power, but they come with a steep price. To wield an Artifact, one must pour their life force into it—each use drains the vitality of the user. And, unlike the other categories, Artifacts are detached from their master. If lost, stolen, or seized, they are gone forever. In the wrong hands, an Artifact can turn the tide of a war or reshape destiny."]
Jordan's breath hitched. "A weapon that powerful..." He swallowed hard as the voice pressed on, a chill creeping up his spine.
["Dharma," the voice shifted, its tone taking on a solemn reverence, "is far more intimate. While it can sometimes manifest as an object, most Dharmas do not. There is no cost to wield them, no life force drained. They are extensions of the soul, bound so deeply to their host that they cannot be lost—unless." The voice hesitated, as if considering the weight of the next words. "Unless the host is defeated, and their will falters, conceding the Dharma to their conqueror. Or, should the host perish, their Dharma can be seized by the one who slays them."]
["And finally," the voice spoke of the last power, "Innate. These abilities have no physical form—they exist entirely within the soul, requiring stamina to fuel them. They are as much a part of you as your heartbeat. Because of their nature, Innates cannot be taken, not by force nor death. They are eternal, tied to your very essence, untouchable by any but the user themselves."]
"That is Interesting," Jordan muttered to himself, a grim smirk tugging at his lips. "So, there are people out there stronger than me, huh?" The thought lingered, both thrilling and unsettling, as if the weight of unseen titans pressed down upon him. His pulse quickened with the knowledge that he was now part of something larger, something dark and vast.
As he reached his house, the familiar comfort of home felt distant, foreign. His clothes were soaked in blood—some his, some from the creature he'd fought—and he knew better than to invite the inevitable questions.
Without a second thought, Jordan veered off the path and approached the side of his house, eyes darting up to the roof. The night was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of the city. He crouched low, muscles tense, and then leapt—grabbing the ledge of the roof with surprising ease. His body moved with an instinctive grace, honed by the tension of the day, as if the battle had awakened something primal within him.
Pulling himself up, he crept silently across the rooftop, each step as light as a shadow. The moon hung low, casting pale beams over his home, painting the night in silver. He reached the window of his room and, with a practiced hand, unlatched it, slipping inside like a wraith returning to its haunt.
Once inside, he paused, the stillness of his room contrasting sharply with the chaos that churned inside him. The bloodied clothes clung to his skin, a reminder of the violence he'd faced, and the power he'd tasted. He peeled them off, the fabric heavy with the scent of iron and sweat, and tossed them into a corner. For a moment, he stared at his reflection in the window—his New eyes shinning a bright orange, haunted, yet alive with New objectives.
He dressed quickly, his mind still racing with the revelations of the night. There were stronger forces out there, people who wielded power beyond imagination. But now, with the knowledge of Dharma, Artifacts, and Innates, Jordan knew he was no longer just an ordinary man.
A storm was brewing, and he would be ready for it.
As Jordan descended the stairs, the familiar murmur of the TV filled the air, but something about the atmosphere felt different. His entire family was gathered in the living room, eyes glued to the screen, faces pale with disbelief. The newscaster's voice was laced with urgency, a far cry from the mundane headlines Jordan was used to hearing.
"We've received multiple reports from countries around the world," the anchor said, the tension thick in his voice. "People are claiming they've developed superpowers—and we now have irrefutable proof that these claims are, in fact, true."