Arriving home, curious stares followed Griffin as he lugged his purchases. He dropped the two five-litre kegs with a thud and opened his door.
Creak!
Inside, he quickly lit the gas lamps. The flickering flames chased away the shadows, illuminating his cramped room.
The gaslight glinted on the network of pipes that crisscrossed his walls, obscuring most of the brickwork; only glimpses of the underlying structure were visible between the metal.
He sighed; the cramped, pipe-filled space was a constant reminder of his desperate need to move. It felt like he was living inside a gas plant!
This was, after all, the only free room available, a fact he found bitterly ironic considering the bathroom facilities were eight blocks away—the street's shared public toilet, no less—and it involved a significant queue every day from 8 am to 10 pm.
The only respite was the shorter line between 11 am and 6 pm, allowing perhaps six trips from one person during that time.
He made a mental note of his 11 am bath tomorrow.
He began unpacking. The kegs went under his makeshift bed, and the textbooks and diary were carefully arranged on the workbench. He took out a half loaf of bread—part of his carefully rationed supply—aiming to make the three and a half loaves last a week, eating only once a day, diluting the rest in water to stretch the rations. The cheese went into a box under the bed.
Sitting on his bed, he broke off a piece of bread. It was coarse and slightly dry, but the aroma was comforting, a scent of baked grains. The first bite was slightly chewy, with a faintly sweet taste that gave way to a satisfying heartiness. His gnawing hunger eased slightly, but the half loaf was far from enough. Even the most basic level of fullness remained unattainable.
After finishing the bread, Griffin retrieved one of the five-litre kegs, opened it, and poured the liquid into a cup until it brimmed. He drank it down, the coolness soothing his throat. He repeated this with a second cup. The hunger receded considerably. He was ready for sleep.
"Well, I should just sleep on this one," he murmured, settling down.
This wasn't his usual bedtime, but the lingering hunger would have to wait. He needed to rest before tomorrow's tasks. He knew the three loaves wouldn't truly last a week, even with his rationing plan; six days at most.
Restocking would be necessary.
Fortunately, he had contacts who could help, and he planned to increase his own production according to the new path in formulation.
Tomorrow, by 1 pm, he intended to be in Arcana Way with Aria and the others. Until then, he'd dedicate the morning—from 8 am to 12 pm—to experimenting with his abilities.
A few minutes later, a loud snort could be heard coming from Griffin. He romanced his bed, shifting uncomfortably from left to right.
Thud!
Eventually, he fell to the ground, but he didn't even lift an eyelid. He continued snoring and snorting, as if he had resolved that no matter what, he wasn't going to wake up in the middle of the night, only to find it hard to drift back to sleep.
The thought of waking up in the dark, disoriented and restless, made him anxious because once roused, the quiet of the night would amplify his worries, making it nearly impossible to relax again.
Griffin's half-naked body, clad only in his underwear, settled on the cold ground. His snorts grew louder with each passing second, ticking on the clock wall.
...Thirteen hours later...
Griffin's eyes snapped open, automatically adjusting to the dim light. He stretched, feeling the stiffness in his limbs from sleeping on the hard floor.
A wave of pain shot through his back, reminding him of his uncomfortable position. He yawned, and his best friend, hunger, struck him with renewed ferocity; however, he chose to ignore it for the moment.
He shuffled over to the mirror placed on the ground and gazed at his reflection, still bewildered by the drastic changes in his body fat and skin tone.
Griffin yawned once more, then moved away from the mirror, kicking aside his jeans, which had been carelessly left on the ground. It flew across the room, hitting the wall with a soft thud before falling back to the floor.
The clothes he had bought yesterday were carefully arranged on his chair; he decided to wear them today when meeting up with the others.
The gas lamp, on the other hand, had extinguished during the night, its flame was unable to sustain itself over the night.
The morning sun began to stream through his window, scattering a golden glow across his workbench like thin thread of lights. The light illuminated the dust motes swirling in the air, creating a serene atmosphere.
Outside, the usually chaotic street was surprisingly quiet, as workers and mechanics had the day off for Worship Day. Only a few people could be seen strolling along Cogsworth Avenue, enjoying the calm. Distant chatter and laughter were heard from various homes, where some had invited friends over to drink and celebrate on this restful day.
"Oh! I can't open the window..." Griffin exclaimed, quickly closing it again. He taped a black cloth over the glass to obscure anyone from seeing what was happening inside. This was to prevent prying eyes from witnessing the experiment he was about to begin. His room grew dark once more, and he moved to turn on another gas lamp, placed right beside his window.
Griffin struck a match, the last one he had, and held it to the gas lamp's burner. The flame ignited with a soft whoosh, and the golden light filled the room, leaving a few corners shrouded in darkness.
"Shall we begin? First, I would like to know where my pen is... It's been over a month since I last saw it."
Griffin focused intently, and instantly the purple powder exploded once again. A wave of purple engulfed his vision, a blinding, intense burst that stung his eyes.
The powder was visible only to him, and this time it burned. But at Minister Thorne's mansion, its unexpected activation had caused no pain whatsoever. Why the difference?
He stumbled back, clutching his face, his head swimming. He rushed to the small mirror, his reflection was blurry through the purple haze.
As he stared, his own eyes, usually dull and lifeless, mirrored the explosion. Not simply a reflection of the purple powder, but an active, swirling vortex of violet energy pulsed within the mirrored pupils.
Instead of the usual colour, a radiant, almost otherworldly purple blossomed, illuminating his irises with an inner light.
A gasp escaped him, a mixture of shock and exhilaration.
For the first time in his life, he found his eyes beautiful; stunning violet hues that glowed momentarily before dimming, leaving a faint lingering purple glow behind. The image of the purple-tinged reflection sparked something in his mind; a sudden clarity, a pinpoint focus. He saw it—a faint, shimmering reflection emanating from the mirror, not directly from his eyes but reflecting from somewhere in his room.
He looked away, back at his chaotic space. His pile of discarded gears and junk – a chaotic landscape he called his storage – now pulsed with a soft, inner glow from beneath the pile, illuminating the entire mess in a blinding flash of light.
His burning eyes subsided.
"Wow! So, that's where you've been…" he murmured, his common sense finally catching up to the visual input. His gaze intensified, piercing through the metal gears, until he saw it clearly: a simple, silver pen, its metal barrel was slightly scratched, the ink cartridge was near empty, nestled amongst the cogs.
A common everyday writing pen.
He instantly knew he must add this newfound perception to his research notes.
He plunged his hands into the pile, scattering the gears. He pulled out his pen, a glorious smile spreading across his face. The purple glow in his eyes vanished completely, leaving behind the normal, dull eyes of old. Everything was back to normal.
"This is actually fascinating!" he exclaimed, turning towards his workbench. He took a step forward, and then a sharp, piercing pain shot through his foot. He cursed, stumbling back; he'd stepped on one of the sharp gears he'd so carelessly flung about.
His bare foot was gashed, a deep, clean cut pouring blood. The sight of crimson against the pale skin sent a wave of nausea through him.
"Bullocks!" he yelled, "Why did I throw them all around carelessly?!"
But then something extraordinary happened. The wound, as though imbued with a strange, silent energy, began closing up. The edges of the cut pulled together smoothly, the flow of blood rapidly diminishing. The skin knit itself back together as he watched, his eyes widening in a mixture of shock and disbelief.
The flesh tightened seamlessly, as though the damage had never happened.
Another gasp escaped his lips.
He jumped back, feeling a prickle of fear alongside the astonishment. He felt like tearing off his foot and throwing it out the window, convinced it might be cursed! He stared at his fully healed foot, his mouth agape in a silent, awestruck expression.
The wound was completely closed. Not a scar, not a mark, not even a faint discoloration remained where moments before, blood had flowed freely. The skin was smooth, unbroken, as if the injury had never existed. Griffin stared, speechless, his mouth hanging open. He struggled to articulate his thoughts, his mind reeling from the sheer impossibility of what he'd witnessed.
"I…can…heal…also…?" he stammered, his voice was barely a whisper. The shock was so profound, it threatened to overwhelm him.
"This is…so overwhelming…how…how did Father do all this?"
He had never anticipated awakening any memory, certainly not for fifty years at least—it was impossible. Yet, here it was, impossibly real.
"Father did mention being related to this…but how is it possible to awaken a memory from someone? I need to put this down on a note…my mind can't hold this…it's too much."
He rushed to his workbench, his movements was frantic. He swept aside the discarded gears and half-formed ideas, sending them tumbling to the floor, leaving only his textbooks and his diary on the now-cleared surface.
He threw himself into the act of recording, his hands trembled slightly as he opened his diary and grabbed his pen.
The act of writing would ground him somehow. He couldn't even think of sitting down to process the information, instead writing while standing.
He started with the date, scrawling across the page in his usual precise hand, almost mechanical in its precision; a stark contrast to the turmoil within him:
'8th of Lunara, Worship Day.'
He left the year unwritten, still in a rush to record the events.
His handwriting, usually neat and organized, was slightly erratic as he began writing, capturing the events of the morning. Initially, the words flowed in as a tight, almost compressed script, conveying a sense of urgency and his struggle to contain the overwhelming information. His pen raced across the page, the ink barely pausing as he described the purple powder, the explosion of light, the vision in the mirror, the shocking revelation of his self-healing capabilities.
As he wrote, the script gradually eased, the letters becoming larger and less precise, reflecting the gradual lessening of his panic. He detailed his discovery of the pen's location, and the subsequent injury and immediate healing. His writing became more descriptive, almost awed, as he documented the impossible reality of it.
There were some underlines, exclamation marks, and even a few smudged words, as his hand fumbled, and then drew itself together once more. The words themselves reflected his emotional journey—from initial shock and disbelief, through a growing sense of wonder.
'8th of Lunara, Worship Day.'
'The Healing & More!
'Purple powder explosion! Eyes! Violet! Insane! Stepped on a gear—deep cut—blood—GONE! No scar! WHAT?! It seems my body has drastically evolved in all aspects, blowing my blood mind up! I found out I can...heal! It's just...the...I can't, the intake, I can't just take it into my mind!'
'Other Abilities
I seem to have also developed in martial arts, but somehow, my body moves on its own when in danger. However, I haven't researched more on that! I think I have increased agility and a heightened sense now, like I can reason deeper than before, judge things before they happen, but sometimes, well it's the first time, whatever, it wasn't well composed so we failed in the robbery but I suppose some of the other members retrieved some things. But not me! The point is, I'm dumbfounded!'
'Awakened Memory
'My first memories: three days ago. Father's teachings…fragment. This is…more. So much more. Healed instantly.'
'Domain or creation of a new world!
'I...wait, I can create a domain, like another world apart from this. I need to research on that now!'
Griffin dropped the pen onto the nearly filled page and closed the diary. He then moved to the centre of his room with a relaxed expression on his face, taking a deep breath to calm his racing heart.
Once more, he focused intently, attempting to conjure a fictional world.
He resolved to exclude any beasts from his mind, trying to think of the last one was now forbidden to him.
He began envisioning a barren land, the ground fractured as if it had suffered from earthquakes, dark clouds looming overhead, with no sun, moon, or stars in sight—just an endless expanse of desolation.
As his imagination solidified, he felt his surroundings distort dramatically; everything began to rise and stretch like strands of spaghetti. The colours painted the background, causing his eyes to cross, while the gas lamp twitched, wavering and elongating beyond its casing.
A peculiar sensation washed over him, as if his head were splitting—not painfully, but intensely.
Shortly after this distortion of reality, he found himself standing in the world he had envisioned.
The landscape was hauntingly desolate. The ground was cracked and dry, with fissures snaking across the surface, creating deep shadows. The dark clouds hung low, swirling ominously, their edges were tinged with a faint, eerie glow.
There were no signs of life—no animals, no plants—just an endless stretch of broken earth.
He was astonished, taking in the view, confirming that no beasts had been added. Perhaps, with just a fleeting thought, they might have materialised in this world.
"I should try stretching this further and see how far this ability can go..." he pondered. "Can I create something else in this world?"
Griffin imagined a mountain rising from the ground. Suddenly, twelve metres away, the earth trembled slightly, and a massive structure began to take shape. The mountain grew taller, reaching a height of at least fifty metres, its width expansive, stretched nearly one hundred metres across. Jagged rocks emerged, forming steep cliffs that pierced the dark clouds above.
Moments later, The mountain became fully formed. A sense of awe washed over him, but then a sharp pain shot through his head, quickly subsiding after a few seconds.
"Can I consider that an effect of adding another creation? It was a bit sharp..."
"Since I can manipulate reality in this world, I should try creating something man-made... a throne room, for example! I shouldsee if that was really an effect..."
At the very minute, the ground underneath him began to tremble once more. From beneath his feet, the earth shifted and formed into a grand throne room, rising up from nothingness. The walls materialised first.
Columns shot up, reaching towards the darkened ceiling - covered in floating darkness, that were slowly being laid by rumbling rocks to form a roof.
From behind Griffin, the throne itself emerged—a magnificent seat, crafted from dark wood and embellished with gold accents. The backrest arched high, offering a commanding view of the room. Griffin stood in awe, about to exclaim. But suddenly, a loud bell tolled in his mind, an intense pain surging through him, greater than anything he had ever experienced.
He collapsed to the ground, blood pouring from his nose in thick streams. His vision blurred, his eyes shaking, and his pupils shrank as the agony became unbearable.
"So, I also have a restriction on how large the world can be... I guess my body hasn't developed well enough to handle such vast amounts of magic like this...
"I feel like I'm going to die, again! Another trial of death, once more!"
In a moment of clarity, Griffin realised he needed to dispel the world he had created.
Instantly, everything began to vanish, like thick smoke dissipating into the air. The fog descended from the sky, consuming his creations. Things that didn't happen in the first creation happened in the second!
In mere seconds, he found himself back in his room, everything exactly as he had left it. He felt a renewed strength, and as he crawled to his mirror, he noticed that all traces of bloodshed were gone, all pain had vanished—everything had disappeared as if it had been swept away with the world.
"That was deadly magic, even for me who owns it! I had an 80% probability of dying if that world had remained intact. The scale was simply too large for my current capability!"
He rose from the ground and walked to his workbench.
Opening the diary, he stared at the words he had written for a moment before picking up his pen.
He dragged the newly bought cloth off to the ground and pulled the chair closer to the workbench, sitting down with a sharp breath and a relaxed mind. He drew down the black cloth covering the window, allowing sunlight to stream in, scattering across his desk and the diary. His gaze wandered back to the mirror.
"Everything is strange; the emotions, movements, struggles, and my father..." he muttered, feeling a pang of melancholy.
"I might have fallen into this rabbit hole set by my father, but since I cannot escape, I will make it my kingdom and be the lord of this trap!"