—And the Thunder Core's Echo
For the next few weeks, Shawn Mercer's life returned to what seemed like normal.
His Thunder Core stayed quiet, as if it had never activated. The memories of the battle—the clash between the O.S.S. and the Wyrm Guardians, the CP-Hub intervention—felt more like fragments of a fading dream.
But Shawn knew better.
It hadn't been a dream.
He buried himself in his studies as university exams approached. Despite the fierce competition, he remained effortlessly at the top—week after week, his name unmoving from first place, as if fate had sealed it there.
Dan and Judy, top students in their own right, couldn't accept it.
Dan, marked with the All-Seeing Eye. Judy, bearer of the Spectre Axe.
They studied harder, watched Shawn closely, puzzled over his quiet dominance.
"It doesn't add up," Dan muttered one evening.
"Maybe he's using something," Judy said. "Thunder Core?"
Dan still remembered the failed ambush weeks ago—the flash, the surge, the way the Thunder Core had flared to life like a living storm.
Now, they sat in the same lectures as if nothing had happened.
They weren't far off.
Sometimes, during exams, a faint current flickered beneath Shawn's skin. The answers didn't come to him—they came through him.
The Thunder Core wasn't just helping.
It was changing him.
And even he didn't know how far it would go.
At night, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling, his thoughts always circled back to one thing: a paper slip his grandfather had given him when he was six.
It carried a single phrase:
"Harmony exists in the rhythm of change, where all opposites find their place."
The same words had appeared in Mr. Ranzi's lecture on the Meta-I Ching.
Why had his grandfather given it to him?
School ended early that day ahead of the upcoming May 1st holiday.
With a rare free afternoon, Shawn headed to the one place he always went when searching for answers—his grandfather's study.
The room was lined with books on philosophy, history, and metaphysics.
Most were rare. Some were handwritten.
He ran his fingers along the shelves until his eyes landed on a familiar, worn-out spine:
Meta I Ching Research.
His grandfather had read it countless times.
Shawn pulled it out.
The old pages smelled of history and wisdom, but as he flipped through them—
Something slipped out.
A small, aged slip of paper.
Shawn froze.
It was almost identical to the one his grandfather had given him years ago.
Same parchment. Same ancient feel.
But the words were different. No picture.
A poem:
Thread through silence, deep and wide,
Names forgotten, souls abide.
Not by blood, nor wound of time,
But Soul Kin stir to read the sign.
Nine the steps, and nine the Core—
Shadow flares where light burned before.
At Rift's Bridge, the Loop shall end—
Call my name, and time shall bend.
— Lucy
Shawn's breath caught. His fingers tightened around the fragile slip of paper, as if afraid it might vanish like a dream.
Lucy.
The name meant nothing to him—yet it carried a strange, unsettling weight.
As if he should remember it.
As if it had been waiting for him.
The words stirred something inside—something buried, something nameless.
"Not by blood, nor wound of time... But Soul Kin stir to read the sign…"
Soul Kin.
The term echoed in his mind like a half-remembered lullaby.
His eyes drifted back to the earlier verse:
"Nine the steps, and nine the Core—Shadow flares where light burned before."
Nine steps.
Nine... Core?
A flicker of unease passed through him.
Did it mean there were nine Elemental Cores?
Was this a call to find them?
The poem didn't answer.
His gaze slid back to the final lines:
"At Rift's Bridge, the Loop shall end— Call my name, and time shall bend."
Rift.
That word again.
It wasn't a coincidence. It couldn't be.
This wasn't just an old scrap of poetry.
It was a message.
And it was meant for him.
The door creaked open.
Shawn looked up sharply.
His grandfather, Elias Mercer, stepped in, carrying a cup of tea. The late afternoon sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting long, golden streaks across the wooden floor. Dust motes floated in the stillness, suspended in the air like pieces of forgotten time.
Elias paused when he saw the paper in Shawn's hand. The lines on his face deepened, and his steps slowed, as if some unseen weight had settled on him.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Shawn could hear his heartbeat—loud, insistent.
The paper trembled slightly between his fingers, not from any breeze, but from the weight of a question he hadn't yet asked.
Finally, he turned to his grandfather, urgency flashing in his eyes. His voice was low but sharp.
"Grandpa... who is Lucy?"
Elias stared at the slip.
The color drained subtly from his face.
His expression didn't harden, but softened—into something unreadable, shaped more by sorrow than secrecy.
He crossed to the side table, set the tea down carefully, and stood there in silence.
"Eighteen years," his grandfather said softly, as if the number itself carried a sacred weight.
Shawn frowned slightly, curiosity stirring beneath the surface.
Eighteen years.
His whole life.
It was the second time he'd heard his grandfather speak those words with such gravity.
The first had been when the symbol on his old parchment had flared to life—an awakening that led to one of their rare, solemn conversations.
His grandfather had spoken of an eighteen-year promise… and of her.
Shawn hadn't asked more at the time.
But now, it all came together.
Could Lucy be the one he meant?
His thoughts raced. Every memory, every strange coincidence suddenly felt like part of a hidden pattern—like he'd been walking a path quietly laid out long before he knew it existed.
Elias's gaze dropped again to the slip of paper. His voice grew softer, more certain.
"She can finally rest in peace."
Shawn's heart lurched.
"She… Lucy?"
His grandfather's face turned solemn. For a moment, the air between them grew still—charged, as if touched by something ancient and unresolved.
Then, in the silence, Elias spoke the words that broke it all open:
"Let me tell you a story, Shawn."
"The story of Lucy—the woman who gave everything for what she believed in."