The weeks that followed my first manifestation of shadow powers changed everything, even if no one else could see it.

On the surface, I remained Lee Jun-ho, the frail transfer student who rarely spoke and avoided physical education whenever possible. But beneath that carefully maintained facade, I was transforming.

Every night after my parents went to sleep, I practiced. My bedroom became my training ground, the shadows my willing students. At first, I could only maintain a single shadow construct for a few minutes before exhaustion forced me to release it. By the end of the first week, I could maintain three simultaneously for nearly an hour.

I discovered that creating shadows drained something from me—not physical energy exactly, but something deeper. I called it my "shadow reserve" in my mind. Each time I depleted it, the recovery seemed slightly faster, and the reserve slightly larger.

Saturday morning, three weeks after my first day at Seoul Academy, I sat at the breakfast table, pushing eggs around my plate while my mother watched with concern.

"Jun-ho, you need to eat," she said. "You've seemed tired lately. Are you feeling ill again?"

I looked up, forcing a smile. "I'm fine, Mom. Just thinking about school."

The truth was, I'd pushed myself too hard the night before, trying to form more complex shadow constructs. I'd managed to create a shadow replica of our house cat, complete with detailed features and independent movement. It had left me drained, my shadow reserve completely empty.

"Your father and I thought we might go to Lotte World today," my mother said, reaching across the table to feel my forehead—her habitual gesture. "But only if you're feeling up to it."

Lotte World. The amusement park. In my previous lives, such outings had been rare treats, carefully planned around my good days, often canceled at the last minute when my health inevitably deteriorated.

"I'd like that," I said, and meant it.

My parents exchanged surprised but pleased glances. They had grown accustomed to my refusals, to my preference for staying home with books rather than risking overexertion.

Three hours later, we were walking through the entrance to the indoor theme park. The cavernous space buzzed with weekend crowds, families and teenagers navigating the attractions. My father kept a protective hand on my shoulder as we moved through the throng.

"What would you like to do first?" he asked, consulting the park map.

In the past, I would have chosen the tamest attractions—the carousel, perhaps, or the 4D theater where I could sit quietly. But today, I found myself pointing toward the giant looping roller coaster that dominated the center of the park.

"That one."

My parents stared at me as if I'd suggested skydiving without a parachute.

"Jun-ho," my mother began, her voice gentle but firm, "you know that's not a good idea with your condition."

"Please?" I asked. "I've been feeling stronger lately. I want to try."

This was an understatement. Beyond the shadow abilities, I'd noticed physical changes. My persistent cough had disappeared. The stairs at school no longer left me winded. My appetite had increased dramatically.

My father frowned. "Let's start with something smaller. If you handle that well, we can discuss the roller coaster later."

I nodded, suppressing my disappointment. They were being reasonable, of course. From their perspective, I was still the same fragile child I'd always been.

We compromised on the log flume—exciting enough to satisfy my new craving for adventure but not so intense as to alarm my parents. As we stood in line, I found myself studying the shadows cast by the overhead structures, by the people around us. They seemed to pulse slightly, acknowledging my presence.

When we finally boarded our log, I felt a thrill of anticipation. The gentle beginning of the ride, floating through scenes of animatronic animals, did little to raise my heart rate. But as we approached the final drop, I felt something shift inside me.

The log climbed the steep incline. Beside me, my mother gripped the safety bar, while my father placed a protective arm around my shoulders. At the crest, we paused for that breathless moment before the plunge.

And then we were falling.

Water sprayed around us. My parents screamed—my mother in terror, my father in delight. But I made no sound. Instead, I watched in fascination as shadows leapt from every dark corner of the tunnel we were plummeting through, reaching toward me like eager hands.

Without consciously commanding them, the shadows wrapped around our log, not visibly, but I could feel them—like an extra layer of protection. The moment passed in an instant, the shadows dispersing as we hit the pool at the bottom with a tremendous splash.

As we disembarked, soaked and laughing, I realized something extraordinary: the shadows had responded to my adrenaline, to my moment of excitement. They had protected me instinctively.

"That was fun!" I declared, shaking water from my hair. "Can we go again?"

My parents looked at each other, then at me—standing straight, eyes bright with excitement, no sign of the usual pallor or fatigue that followed even mild exertion.

"Maybe after lunch," my father said cautiously. "How about the carousel first?"

I agreed, but my mind was elsewhere. The shadow response during the drop had been automatic, almost like a reflex. What else could trigger it? And could I learn to control those instinctive reactions?

Throughout the day, I tested small experiments. When walking through darker areas of the park, I subtly directed shadows to move against the natural light. In the haunted house, where darkness was abundant, I created tiny shadow constructs that scurried along the walls, indistinguishable from the park's own special effects.

By late afternoon, I had convinced my parents that I was well enough to try the Dragon Coaster—not the largest in the park, but respectable enough. As we climbed into the cars, my father beside me, my mother waving nervously from the viewing area (she'd never enjoyed intense rides), I felt a surge of anticipation.

The coaster climbed its first hill agonizingly slowly. Around me, other passengers fidgeted and giggled nervously. My father gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

"We can get off if you need to," he said, misinterpreting my silence for fear.

I shook my head. "I'm not scared."

And I wasn't. For the first time in any of my lives, I felt truly alive, poised on the edge of discovery rather than the edge of illness.

The coaster crested the hill and plunged. Wind rushed past, stealing my breath. The world blurred. And inside me, something awakened fully.

My shadow reserve—that well of power I'd been carefully exploring—suddenly seemed bottomless. Shadows flowed from every dark space around the roller coaster, unseen by other passengers but vibrantly present to my senses. They swirled around me like a protective cocoon, responding to my exhilaration.

And then I heard it—a voice, deep and resonant, speaking directly into my mind.

*"At last, you begin to understand your potential, Vessel."*

The voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It simply was, ancient and powerful.

The roller coaster hit a loop, turning us upside down. My father whooped beside me. But I remained silent, focused inward.

*"Who are you?"* I thought back.

A cold chuckle answered. *"I am the one who chose you. The one who has waited through your deaths and rebirths. I am the original Shadow Monarch."*

The coaster twisted through a corkscrew turn. Reality seemed split—half in the physical world of the amusement park, half in some shadowy realm where this entity and I communed.

*"Why me?"* I asked silently.

*"Because you have died and returned. Because your vessel has been tempered by suffering. Because your spirit refuses to yield."*

The coaster began to slow as it approached the station. I could feel the presence fading.

*"Wait!"* I called mentally. *"I have more questions!"*

*"In time,"* the voice replied, growing distant. *"For now, learn the limits of what I have given you. When you are ready, I will reveal more."*

And then it was gone. The roller coaster glided into the station. My father turned to me, his face alight with the thrill of the ride.

"What did you think?" he asked.

"It was... illuminating," I replied, unbuckling my safety harness with hands that trembled slightly.

My mother met us at the exit, anxiety written across her features. "Jun-ho? Are you all right? You look pale."

Indeed, I could feel that I had expended significant energy during the ride—not from the physical experience, but from the mental connection and the shadow manipulation.

"I'm just a little tired," I assured her. "But I had fun."

We left the park soon after. On the drive home, I pretended to sleep in the backseat while my parents spoke in hushed tones about my surprising stamina and apparent improvement.

"Do you think the new medication is working?" my mother whispered.

"Maybe," my father replied. "But I've never seen such a dramatic change. It's almost like he's becoming a different child."

If only they knew how right they were.

That night, after feigning exhaustion to retire early, I sat cross-legged on my bed with the lights off. The room was pitch black, perfect for what I needed to attempt.

"Arise," I commanded softly.

Shadows gathered from every corner, pooling before me. I shaped them deliberately, creating a simple humanoid figure about two feet tall. It stood motionless, awaiting direction.

"Can you hear me?" I asked the original Shadow Monarch, focusing my thoughts.

No response came.

I tried again, pushing more energy into the shadow construct, making it more substantial, more detailed. Still nothing.

Perhaps the voice at the amusement park had been a fluke. Or perhaps I needed to be in a particular state to make contact—that blend of adrenaline and exhilaration the roller coaster had induced.

I dismissed the shadow figure and instead focused on creating multiple smaller constructs. Soon, a dozen shadow mice scurried across my bedroom floor, each responding to my mental commands. I could direct them individually or as a group.

An idea formed.

I sent one shadow mouse toward my closed bedroom door. Instead of stopping, it flattened itself and slipped underneath, into the hallway beyond.

A gasp escaped me. I could still see through the construct's "eyes," still control it, even though it was no longer in the same room with me. The range of my power was greater than I'd anticipated.

I guided the shadow mouse down the hallway, past my parents' bedroom where the television murmured softly, into the living room. It was bizarre, experiencing two perspectives simultaneously—my physical body sitting on my bed, and the disembodied viewpoint moving through our apartment.

The shadow mouse slipped under the front door, into the building's corridor. I pushed it further, down the emergency stairs, into the lobby. With each meter of distance, I could feel the connection stretching, thinning, requiring more concentration to maintain.

By the time the shadow construct reached the street outside our apartment building, the strain was intense. My head pounded with effort. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

Then, all at once, the connection snapped. The shadow mouse dissipated, and I was thrown back into my body with such force that I nearly fell from the bed.

Limits. I had found one of them. Distance mattered.

I lay back, breathing heavily, my shadow reserve significantly depleted. But I felt no discouragement—only determination. Limits could be expanded. Boundaries pushed. I had never been athletic in any of my lives, but I understood the principle of training, of gradual improvement through consistent effort.

Tomorrow, I would try again, push a little further. And the day after that, further still.

As I drifted toward sleep, a new thought surfaced—one that both excited and terrified me. If I could project a simple shadow construct outside my physical presence, could I eventually create something more complex? Something that could act on my behalf, interact with the physical world?

The implications were staggering.

The last thing I remembered before sleep claimed me was the echo of that ancient voice: "Learn the limits of what I have given you."

I intended to do exactly that.