Chapter 4: Back home

Chapter 4: Chapter 4: Back home

Rowan tightened his grip on the satchel carrying his delicate orchid and berries, quickening his pace as he rounded the bend.

Standing near the wooden footbridge that crossed the suburban creek was a cluster of three teenagers. They wore the loud, mismatched jackets typical of the local neighborhood troublemakers, kicking loose gravel into the stream. Because Rowan’s chronic illness had kept him confined to his bedroom for most of his youth—his entire understanding of social dynamics built almost exclusively on educational holovids and recorded lectures—he had never actually stood face-to-face with kids his own age.

As he tried to walk past them, the ringleader tapped his friend’s shoulder, pointing at Rowan’s faded tunic and frayed trousers.

"Hey, check out the ghost," the leader sneered, loud enough to echo across the dirt road. "Who let this pale raggedy thing out of the house?"

The others burst into coarse laughter. Rowan froze for a fraction of a second, his theoretical knowledge of human behavior failing to match the sudden, raw instinct of discomfort tightening in his chest. He didn’t know the unspoken rules of suburban rivalries or how to shoot back a witty retort—he only recognized hostility when he saw it.

"Hey! Speak up, rag-doll!"

One of the boys stooped down, scooping a handful of coarse river pebbles from the bank. Before Rowan could process the gesture, a sharp stone skipped off his shoulder, stinging through his thin shirt.

Panic flared. Tucking his satchel protectively against his chest to shield the wild orchid, Rowan ducked his head and burst into a sprint.

Laughter and harsh jeers followed him down the trail, accompanied by the sharp clack-clack of stones striking the dirt at his heels. Rowan didn’t look back until the footbridge vanished behind the tree line, his lungs burning from the sudden exertion—a harsh reminder of his fragile body, but his scavenged flowers and berries remained untouched in his hands.

The familiar, comforting scent of simmering herbal broth and steamed grains greeted Rowan as he pushed open the wooden front door. In the kitchen, his mother was bustling between the hearth and the counter, carefully measuring out ingredients for a nutrient-dense meal designed specifically to support his fragile constitution and ease his recovery from years of being bedridden.

She turned around with a warm smile, wiping her hands on her apron. "Welcome back, dear. How was your exploration?"

Rowan caught his breath, setting his satchel down on the wooden table. "It was... alright. But I ran into some local boys by the creek. They weren’t very friendly, so I had to rush home."

His mother’s face pale instantly. Dropping her cooking spoon, she rushed across the room, her hands hovering anxiously over his shoulders and arms as she inspected him from head to toe.

"Did they hurt you? Are you bleeding anywhere? Rowan, tell me!"

"I’m fine, Mom, really," Rowan reassured her gently, lifting his arms to show he was intact. "They just threw some small stones, but none of them hit me hard, and I ran before they could get close."

After a thorough once-over, she finally released a long, shuddering sigh of relief, leaning her forehead against his for a brief moment. "Thank goodness... You’re still recovering, Rowan. You can’t be taking those kinds of risks."

As she stepped back, her eyes caught sight of what he had carefully laid out on the table—the plump sky-berries, the shimmering pale blue blossoms, and the wild purple-and-white orchid resting in its damp ball of earth.

"You gathered all of these?" she asked, her tone softening into wonder.

"Yeah," Rowan smiled faintly. "I wanted to try something."

Leaving his mother to finish preparing lunch, Rowan carried his gathered specimens out through the back door.

Behind the house lay a barren, sun-bleached patch of land. The soil here was dry, cracked, and notoriously infertile—a stubborn plot where even common weeds struggled to take root. Perfect for an experiment.

Rowan knelt in the center of the dusty dirt, setting the orchid and berries beside him. Taking a slow, deep breath, he focused inward, tapping into his newly manifested Class skills. A faint, subtle warmth began to pulse through his veins, gathering at the tips of his fingers as he pressed his palms into the unyielding earth.

With deliberate care, he began clearing a small experimental plot, preparing the barren soil to see just how far his powers could transform this dead land.

The door to the Vance home clicked open well before the usual dinner hour, followed by the heavy, familiar thud of work boots hitting the entryway rug.

Arthur Vance stepped inside, dusting off a light layer of gray stone grit from his heavy canvas jacket. He looked exhausted—the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke to a man who juggled morning shifts at the local mana-stone mines, afternoon security duty at the local tavern, and cold night patrols along the town’s outer walls. Yet, despite the grueling routine, his face lit up with an undeniable energy the moment he stepped into the living room.

Martha Vance emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, her eyebrows raised in gentle surprise. "Arthur? You’re early. Did something happen at the bar?"

"Shift manager let me off forty minutes early," Arthur said, taking off his thick leather gloves and hanging them by the door. His voice was deep, raspy from years of breath in the mine shafts, but warm. "Told him I wasn’t going to sit around guarding drunk guardsmen while my boy was getting his awakening registered today."

He turned his gaze straight toward Rowan, his tired eyes practically gleaming with pride and anticipation.

"Well, son?" Arthur asked, leaning against the wooden doorframe, a broad, expectant grin breaking across his worn face. "Don’t keep your old man waiting. How did the awakening registration go?"

Arthur chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, as he walked over to the sturdy oak table and pulled out a chair.

"Simple and straightforward is good," Arthur said, sinking into the seat with a heavy sigh of relief, his joints giving a faint, familiar popping sound. "Smooth processes mean fewer complications down the line. I’ll take a quiet registration over administrative headaches any day."

Martha set a steaming mug of tea down in front of Arthur, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder before looking over at Rowan with a soft, affectionate smile.

Rowan took a seat across from his father, leaning forward slightly. "It really was. Just standard forms, measuring baseline mana affinity, and logging the tier potential. But Dad... on the bus ride back, the news feed on the monitors was talking about the Tower again. They were showing footage of the high-tier heroes coming back from the upper floors—the ones clearing boss rooms and leading raid parties."

Arthur’s smile softened into something more contemplative. He wrapped his calloused hands around the warm mug, looking at Rowan through the thin wisps of steam.

"The Tower, huh?" Arthur mused, his tone grounded and steady. "It’s hard not to get drawn in by those news broadcasts. They make it look grand—all glory, silver armor, and ticker-tape parades in the inner district."

He leaned back, his gaze earnest and honest. "Truth is, son, the Tower builds heroes, but it eats double as many who go in unprepared. But I know that look in your eye. You didn’t just bring it up to talk about the news, did you? What was really on your mind while you were watching them?"