Nemo walked, tired and aching, toward the mess hall. His stomach had been rumbling since they had started exercising, but what had started as a mild ache had grown into an almost all-consuming hunger. He couldn't distance himself from the waves of desire for nourishment—and carnage.
He could already see the large building in the distance, and with his heightened senses, he could even smell the food. His mouth watered and his steps quickened, all pain and tiredness seemingly forgotten at the thought of eating. But just as he was about to step into the hall, he held himself back.
This could be seen as a form of training—the willingness to stop even when nothing was restraining him. He smiled bitterly, took a step back, and sank to the ground beside the entrance.
Just until they arrive from the shore. How long could that be? Five minutes? Maybe ten? Nemo thought he could make it ten minutes. So he sat down, his back against the cool wall, and closed his eyes. The hunger vanished for a moment.
"Vanished" might be the wrong word. He no longer felt hunger—hunger was for people who merely wanted to eat. He was famished now; it had turned from a want into a need. His body craved nutrients—anything to make it feel whole again.
Still, he persisted. They should be here any moment now. I've already been sitting here such a long time—it must be any moment now. Just then, he heard footsteps approaching. He eagerly opened his eyes, but it wasn't who he was expecting. It was someone he'd never seen before.
A boy, likely in his late teens—a bit younger than Nemo—walked quickly and with purpose toward the mess hall. When he noticed Nemo watching him, he flashed a quick smile and was about to walk past when Nemo asked, "Hey, who are you?"
The boy paused, unsure why he'd spoken at all, then looked down. "Why do you want to know?"
Nemo looked up at him. The boy was well-built with silver-white hair. Really, almost no one on the island looked normal. Everyone had at least one striking trait.
Of course, that made them all normal to each other. Or maybe normal wasn't the right word. More like nonsensational. Nemo followed the thread of this thought.
"Hey, do you know which of us on the island stands out the most? Is it more beautiful or more... outstanding?"
The boy seemed unsure how to respond to the abrupt shift.
"Hmmm..." he began, thinking.
But Nemo had already moved on in his thoughts, barely remembering the question he'd just asked. Instead, he began drawing inferences. It seemed reasonable to think that these outward physical differences correlated with the strength or nature of their roots. He didn't know any mundane people with such obvious traits.
He looked back up. "Hey, boy, your power wouldn't happen to be—wait a moment, what was your name again?"
The boy looked up, his mind still on the earlier question. "My name is Cyrill."
Nemo nodded. "Ah yes, Cyrill. Great name. Your family wouldn't happen to have any ties to the Northern Hemisphere Great Plateau? I've heard names like yours in that region."
Cyrill nodded. "Yes, we originally come from the north."
"And your power has something to do with ice?"
Cyrill shook his head. "No, not really. It's related to light, but—what is this...?"
Nemo stopped talking and stared at Cyrill's hair again. It was silvery, almost flowing, like beams of light piercing through clouds. There were subtle shifts in shade—lighter and darker strands creating depth.
While they were talking, another person approached—a much younger girl, who stopped behind Cyrill, unsure if Nemo was some sort of gatekeeper. Nemo turned his attention to her.
Her hair was blonde, with brown spots intermingled, and her eyes were a pure, deep brown. Nemo stared into them. He stood and walked closer, inspecting them thoroughly. The girl stepped back, and Cyrill placed a hand on Nemo's shoulder, holding him back.
"What exactly are you doing?"
Nemo turned. "Do you think her powers have something to do with earth? That would make the most sense, no?" He looked back. "Are your powers associated with the earth?"
The girl, now somewhat frightened, shook her head vigorously. "No, no—nothing with earth. My powers are about poison."
Nemo backed up a few steps, studying her again. He was about to ask another question when a low rumble escaped his stomach, and he fell to his knees. His famine had returned with greater force. Even as he writhed in pain, he looked up at them and asked through labored breaths:
"Hey, would you be able to tell me... what color my hair and eyes are?"
The two exchanged a look. Cyrill then took the girl by the hand and led her into the hall, leaving Nemo writhing on the ground.
It seems my faults are fighting against control, Nemo thought, coughing as he tried to right himself. After a few moments, he managed to sit again, leaning against the wall. Then another coughing fit shook him.
Why would I be coughing from hunger? he thought, annoyed. How long has it been since I sat here? A few minutes? More? Even less? He couldn't tell—his mind was consumed by hunger and by the correlation between physical traits and powers.
Again, he heard footsteps. His eyes fluttered open. Finally, he saw a haggard-looking Holt and a limping Giada coming up the forest trail. Solomon followed behind, a spring in his step.
He really is something of a monster, Nemo thought, but he stood up slowly, stabilizing himself with the wall.
"Huh huu, look who finally made it," he said through gritted teeth.
"Finally?" Holt and Giada turned to Solomon, who also looked surprised. Then something clicked. He noticed Nemo clutching his stomach, and a wicked smile crept onto his face. He bent down and touched the grass theatrically.
"Ah, my dear pupil, you have made a valiant effort, enduring great hardship waiting for your comrades. Your patience shall be rewarded—for every ten minutes you waited, I grant one day off from training."
Nemo already knew what was coming. He had probably endured nine minutes—barely—but enduring even that had been hard. He was proud to have come close.
"But, my poor pupil, it seems we were too fast—or perhaps you were too slow. Reaching the promised land quicker might've earned you some spare time to suffer."
Then Solomon walked past him into the mess hall.
"No, no, Nemo—I'm just kidding. You weren't even close. Four minutes and thirty-seven... thirty-eight... thirty-nine..." Solomon's voice faded as he walked inside.
Holt and Giada looked at Nemo, amusement and compassion on their faces. After a moment, they shook their heads and followed Solomon in. Nemo trailed behind them, nearly incapacitated by hunger.
Around five minutes. That was the time he had spent in front of the mess hall. Five minutes that had felt like an eternity.
Even while eating a mountain of food, Nemo was lost in thought. He ate absentmindedly. Then, despite wanting to stay silent, a question forced its way out.
"Does every awakened have the ability to control their fault? You make it seem effortless, like it's a requirement."
Solomon, who had been enjoying eggs on toast, paused and chewed slowly before replying.
"It depends. Actually, many faults don't require control—because they function more like laws. Imagine your fault is always telling the truth. In that case, control isn't an option. You just learn to live with it. Most faults are like that. In fact, you might be considered both lucky and unlucky."
"I certainly don't feel very lucky," Nemo mumbled, his mouth full.