Kael had always known he was different.
Not in the way most people in this world were. Not with flames in his hands or wings on his back. He didn't breathe ice or speak to animals or bend metal with his mind. While every other kid his age awakened some form of power by four or five, Kael remained painfully, undeniably normal.
"Late bloomer," the doctors had said.
"Maybe Quirkless," his aunt whispered when she thought he wasn't listening.
But Kael didn't care what they said.
Because deep down, he knew something was coming.
He could feel it—like a seed buried in his chest, waiting for the right moment to bloom. And it did. On the night of his twelfth birthday.
…
The dream began in silence.
Kael floated in a space without color or texture, an endless, shapeless void. He couldn't tell if he was standing or drifting. There was no up, no down. Just stillness.
Then—sound.
Voices rose around him. Hundreds. Thousands. Some loud, some soft. Some shouting, others whispering. Different languages, different tones. Men and women. Children and elders. Some laughed. Some wept. Some pleaded.
"Don't take it—please—"
"I want it back…"
"Power is a gift. Don't waste it."
Kael turned, but saw no one.
Just… light.
A sphere floated before him. It hovered several feet away—brilliant, glowing with a pulsing violet hue that beat like a heartbeat. Fine silver threads extended from it in all directions, too many to count, each one humming with faint energy. The sphere seemed alive.
Drawn forward, Kael stepped closer. Each movement felt heavy, like he was wading through water. His fingers tingled. His chest tightened.
He reached out.
And the moment his hand brushed the surface of the sphere, everything exploded.
…
Pain tore through him like fire across dry grass. It wasn't physical—not exactly. It was something deeper. Something ancient. His veins felt like they were being rewritten, filled with code instead of blood. His breath hitched, and his vision splintered into light and shape and memory.
A kaleidoscope of lives rushed through him:
A girl launching fire from her bare hands.
A boy whose skin turned to living steel.
A man who could vanish into shadows.
A mother cradling her Quirkless son, whispering apologies.
Kael felt every power. Every fear. Every burden.
And then—clarity.
It wasn't just a dream.
It was a transfer.
The threads weren't just light—they were Quirks. Powers. Fragments of people's souls. Each one resonated with its own frequency, its own identity. Kael could feel the tension in each thread—some thick and buzzing with energy, others fragile, barely alive.
He understood instinctively:
He could take them.
He could give them.
He was their Balancekeeper.
…
When Kael awoke, he wasn't in his bed.
He was on the floor, drenched in sweat, heart pounding against his ribs like a drum. His blanket was twisted around his legs, and the lamp beside his bed had shattered—its pieces scattered across the floor as if thrown by force.
But that wasn't what made him freeze.
It was the pen on his desk.
It floated six inches in the air, trembling, spinning slowly.
Kael stared at it, breath held. His heart thundered.
He didn't have a telekinesis Quirk.
Not until Daisuke, a classmate, brushed his hand during gym that afternoon.
Kael stood slowly. His hand shook as he extended it toward the pen.
The moment his fingers moved, the pen flew across the room and stabbed into the wall like a dart.
He backed away, stunned.
He wasn't Quirkless.
He was something else.
…
Kael didn't sleep the rest of the night. He just sat in silence, staring at his hands.
He could still feel them humming.
Not with one power. Not even with his power. But with many. Echoes of people he hadn't met. Abilities he didn't ask for.
Somewhere deep in his bones, something had unlocked. And now the world was different. Dangerous.
Not because of what others could do to him—
But because of what he could do to them.
…