No Path Chosen

It had been weeks since Leon discovered how to control his power. Now, summoning it was second nature—like breathing. But behind that effortless command simmered a quiet storm he kept buried, even from his closest friends.

One bright morning, Leon headed out with Harry and Lucian—his roommate and unofficial brother. As usual, they followed their weekend ritual, winding through the familiar streets of town. Their first stop: Jala's comic book store, just a block from the orphanage.

They slipped in with practiced ease, weaving between shelves like shadows. They never stole—too risky—but they read as much as they could before anyone noticed. The thrill of it was half the fun. But if the police caught them, juvenile detention would be waiting.

"Ugh, look at this one—it's all words, no pictures. My eyes are bleeding," Leon groaned, holding up a thick volume like it was cursed.

"Where's the new issue? The last one ended on such a damn cliffhanger," Lucian muttered, scanning the shelves.

"Not here," Harry sighed. "Maybe the publisher skipped a week?"

With a collective groan, they left the shop and headed for their next comfort: the ice cream stall.

The town wasn't fancy, but it had soul. Solid stone roads. Steam-powered cars hissing past horse-drawn carriages. Street vendors calling out prices. Glowing lamps lined the sidewalks even in daylight. It was a place that felt… stable. Like nothing ever really changed.

The scent of potion smoke mingled with the sweetness of baked bread and motor oil. Here, magic wasn't mysterious—it was part of daily life.

At the stall, the vendor greeted them with a tired smile. Young, scruffy, dressed in a stained apron, he leaned forward on the counter like he barely had the strength to stand.

"What's it gonna be today?" he asked, voice warm but worn.

Leon licked his lips. "Pineberry vanilla."

"Classic vanilla with sprinkles. Waffle cone," Harry said like he was placing a royal decree.

Lucian, true to form, muttered, "Chocohazard. As always."

The cones came out—Leon's at 3.20 lin, Lucian's at 1.5, and Harry's sugar-loaded monstrosity at 5 lin. Their allowance was 15 lin a week. Harry never saved. Lucian always did. Leon hovered somewhere in between.

They stood by the corner, licking away at the first signs of melting when a loud voice pierced the hum of the street.

"Step right up! Join the fun! Big prizes, easy rules!"

Across the square, a man stood on the steps of a run-down caravan, waving a bright banner in one hand and a fishing rod in the other.

The boys exchanged glances.

No words.

Just a sticky smear of ice cream and a shared nod.

They approached.

"What's the event?" Leon called.

The man looked around, then down—grinning as he spotted the trio.

"Fishing competition, boys! You ever caught a big one before?"

Leon stepped forward, clamping his hands over his friends' mouths before they could speak.

"Of course. We're naturals," he lied smoothly. "Caught plenty."

Harry and Lucian blinked, then played along.

The man chuckled. "Confident! I like that. Ten lin per entry. We'll supply the rod. Bait's down by the port—just a two-minute walk."

Leon and Harry nodded instantly. Lucian frowned.

"This is a waste," he muttered. "You two can't fish to save your lives. And ten lin? That's two meals."

"It's not about the fish," Leon said. "It's about the thrill."

Harry grinned. "And the glory."

"We don't even have a rod!" Lucian hissed.

"You will," the man said, pulling out a wooden stick with twine for line. "Here you go. One ticket, one rod."

Against his better judgment, Lucian followed them as they paid, collected their gear, and headed toward the event site.

A small crowd had gathered near the docks—fifteen, maybe twenty people. It looked legit. But just as they stepped toward the entry line, a massive man blocked their way. He smelled like spoiled ale and old sweat.

"Tickets," he grunted.

Leon handed theirs over.

The man barely glanced at it before tearing it in half.

"No kids allowed," he growled. "And if you weren't kids, I'd knock your teeth out for handing me a fake."

Silence.

The words hit like a gut punch.

"…Fake?" Harry asked, voice cracking.

Leon's jaw clenched. "That son of a—"

"I told you it was a scam," Lucian snapped.

They turned and bolted back toward the square—but the caravan was gone. Not just gone—vanished. No tent, no man, no fishing rods. Just a stretch of dirt and two thin wheel trails leading south.

Leon stared at the empty space where the caravan once stood, his knuckles white with fury. He didn't just feel fooled. He felt used. Like a child too naïve for the world he lived in

"I'm going to burn that bastard," he said through gritted teeth.

Without another word, he turned and followed the tracks.

Harry glanced at Lucian, then at Leon's back.

"…Guess we're doing this," Harry muttered.

Lucian groaned and shook his head. "Unbelievable," he said, but his feet moved anyway.

They followed the trail into the unknown.

The trail of wheel marks drew the boys deeper into the town's southern fringe—a part of the city they'd never dared to enter. The streets grew narrower, the buildings rougher. A metallic tang clung to the air. They had arrived at Rolygrail Street.

This was where Grade 1 potions—the lowest tier, cheap and widely used—were mass-produced. These potions weren't glamorous; they fueled cars a little longer, made engines run hotter, spiced up cheap meals with the kick of liquor, or gave tired bodies a quick, dirty boost of stamina.

The district teemed with Potencborn—those born with nature-bound gifts. Some manipulated roots like limbs, bundling crates of potions into neat stacks. Others, with twitching fingers and vacant stares, flipped through thick manuals using only their minds. The whole area pulsed with a raw, chaotic energy.

"This place feels wrong," Lucian murmured, crouched behind a rusted barrel.

"I haven't seen a single cop," Harry whispered back. "No guards. No cameras."

"Means anything could go down here... and no one would stop it," Lucian said grimly.

Most of the Potencborn here weren't even licensed. They sold their powers like day laborers—cheap, replaceable, forgotten.

Leon narrowed his eyes. "There. Left side. That's the caravan. I recognize the markings."

They moved low, careful not to draw attention, weaving through shadows and scattered debris until they reached the vehicle.

Leon dropped to one knee. "Climb up," he whispered. "See if anyone's inside."

Harry stepped onto his back and peered through a crack in the door. The smell hit instantly.

"Ugh…" he gagged, covering his nose. "It reeks. Like rotting earth and burnt oil... thick and bitter."

Lucian pointed to a building just beyond the caravan—a crumbling warehouse half-swallowed by shadow.

"I think he went in there," he said, eyes narrowing. "That's where we're going next."

They crawled closer to the warehouse, sticking to the shadows. The windows were too high to see through, but the walls were riddled with small holes—just wide enough for an eye.

Each of them found one and peered inside.

The scammer was there, sitting comfortably in the center of the dim room, legs kicked up on a crate. Beside him stood another man—tall, wiry, and masked with a scarf that covered his mouth. A long wooden rifle rested in his hands, its barrel scratched and stained.

"Look at this week's haul," the scammer laughed, jingling a pouch of coins. "Easy profit."

The masked man didn't share his amusement. His voice was cold, barely above a growl. "You really proud of scamming kids? All that for a few lin?"

The scammer shrugged. "Better than sitting around doing nothing. Least I can afford a drink tonight."

"This isn't what we're supposed to be doing," the skinny man snapped. "We're here to patrol. You know what'll happen if LongTiger finds out. We need to wait until they pick the boy up. And don't forget im the Chorus, you re just a Static."

The scammer groaned and rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. Don't be such a priest. You gonna snitch on me now? There's nothing going on at the edge of Rolygrail anyway. Not even junkies. All the real trouble's deeper in town."

He tossed a coin toward the masked man, who didn't move.

"I'll buy you a drink too. Lighten up."

As the men talked, the boys were already on the move—circling the warehouse, eyes scanning for a way in. They found a loose wooden panel near the back, just wide enough to slip through. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the faint stench of old potions.

They crouched low behind a stack of crates, preparing.

Harry picked up a glass bottle from the floor, gripping it tightly. Lucian grabbed a rusted metal pipe, testing its weight. Leon clenched his fists, heat rising through his arms—his power already stirring beneath the surface.

"Harry," Lucian whispered, eyes locked on the man with the rifle, "throw that bottle at him. We jump right after."

"I'm gonna land a real swing," Leon muttered, veins glowing faintly beneath his skin. "Let's do this."

Harry didn't answer. His hands were shaking, breath short—but he nodded. Then, with a sharp inhale, he hurled the bottle with all the strength he could muster.

The aim was perfect—headed straight for the masked man's head.

But before it could make contact, the man flinched—almost like he felt it coming. In one lightning-fast motion, he raised his rifle and fired.

CRACK!

The bullet tore through the bottle mid-air, shattering it into a spray of glass and potion mist.

Harry gasped.

Lucian cursed under his breath.

Leon's eyes flared.

So much for surprise.

The bottle shattered mid-air—but not without consequence. Shards of glass and potion debris exploded in all directions.

A sharp scream tore through the warehouse.

"GAHHHHH—my eyes! What happened to my eyes?!" the scammer shrieked, stumbling backward. He clutched his face, but the pain only intensified. Blood oozed between his fingers, streaming down his cheeks. "I can't see! I can't see—!"

The masked man didn't flinch. He stood completely still, the rifle steady in his grip. His eyes, cold and sharp behind the scarf, scanned the room.

"Come out," he said, voice low and dangerous. "You've got the guts to start a fight—let's see if you've got the spine to finish it."

You're lucky I'm not like the others… LongTiger wouldn't have let you live.

The boys crouched behind a heavy desk, breath held. Harry trembled, silent tears running down his cheeks. Lucian clamped a hand over his mouth, eyes locked on the masked threat just meters away.

Beside Leon, a drawer hung open—inside, a strange mask shaped like an owl's face stared back at him. For some reason, the owl mask made his skin crawl. It felt like it was looking back. Without hesitation, Leon grabbed it, calculated the angle, and flung it fast and hard across the room.

CLANG!

The mask struck a hanging sheet of foil, the sound sharp and sudden—like a blade on steel.

The masked man instantly pivoted, eyes drawn to the noise.

That was the moment.

"I wasn't just fighting him—I was fighting every adult who ever lied to us."

Leon launched himself over the desk like a bullet, fire spiraling around his arm in a vortex of heat and light. The air around him shimmered with heatwaves. His roar was primal—more than anger, it was fury forged from betrayal and instinct.

He drove his burning fist toward the man's chest.

But the masked man reacted in a flash—literally.

CRACKLE!

Blue arcs of electricity surged from his body, meeting Leon's flame in a violent clash of elements. Sparks exploded outward. Fire hissed against lightning. The force sent both of them skidding backward, boots screeching across the floor.

Leon hit the ground hard, breathing ragged. The scent of scorched metal filled the room.

The masked man's scarf had burned away, revealing a face etched with old scars and cold fury. Electricity still danced along his fingertips.

Those scars... Leon had heard rumors of a man who once survived an execution by lightning chain.

"You've got power, kid," he said, lightning crackling across his scarred skin. "But you're not the only one this world forgot."