Chapter 6: Chapter 6 : The eye incident

It started like any other day.

I woke up to the smell of something suspiciously close to burnt toast — which meant Father had once again tried to “surprise” Mother with breakfast.

After the chaos in the kitchen subsided, my sister took me by the hand.

“C’mon, Ar’cen! Let’s go into the village today! You can meet more kids your age!”

More kids… Joy.

We walked together through the winding path into the village. I kept my head low and my steps smaller than usual. I didn’t dislike the village. It was warm. Familiar. But that didn’t mean I wanted to talk to anyone in it.

That’s when it happened.

“Hey... uh... Is your eye supposed to look like that?”

A boy had appeared out of nowhere. He had messy golden hair and an awkward sort of expression — like someone who accidentally touched a beehive and was trying to pretend they didn’t.

I blinked. “What?”

“One of your eyes… it’s red. Not, like, irritated red. Like… red red.”

Red?

My blood froze. I ran to the nearest window and stood on my toes to peer in.

And there it was. Staring back at me.

One of my eyes had turned a glowing shade of crimson — the same eye that had always been golden. Not even reddish-gold. Full-blown firetruck red.

Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

I quickly yanked down my bangs to cover the eye and turned around just in time to see the boy — later I'd know him as Deoh — still gawking like he’d just spotted a ghost.

“What are you even talking about?” My sister’s voice cut through the moment like a hot knife through butter.

“Her eye—didn’t you see—?”

THUD.

Deoh was now on the ground, holding his shin. Aspher stood over him, one leg still mid-swing.

“She’s just fine. Maybe check your own eyes, sunshine.”

She turned to me, eyebrows raised slightly, but said nothing.

Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

We walked home together, and I didn’t say a word the whole way. I could feel her eyes on me now and then, but she didn’t push.

I was grateful for that.

I A V A I

“Mom?” I asked once we were alone. “Is it… normal for eyes to change color suddenly?”

She was scrubbing something at the table, but her hands paused.

“Well… it can happen sometimes. Especially in children exposed to magic early. Think of it as… an enhancement.”

She turned toward me with a faint smile. “Maybe your body is adjusting. Accepting the mana around you.”

“So… does that mean I’ve awakened?”

She tilted her head. “Maybe. You might start feeling stronger. Or faster. Maybe even smarter.”

Stronger, huh?

I squinted toward the living room… and locked onto my prey.

The sofa.

It looked big. Heavy. But no match for my new, magically enhanced self. Right?

I got into position, gritted my teeth, and—

“NNGH—!”

Nothing. Not even a budge. My arms started trembling from effort alone. My back made a weird pop noise.

“…Ow.”

From behind me, my mother chuckled. “Trying to move the furniture already? I don’t think the sofa’s ready for battle, dear.”

“Nooo,” I groaned, flopping dramatically on top of it. “The magic lied…”

She just shook her head and ruffled my hair.

I A V A I

After the great sofa lifting incident (which resulted in a stubbed toe and a very smug chair in the corner), I decided that maybe... just maybe… my magical enhancement wasn’t physical strength. Not unless the strength was in crying, because I was getting very good at that.

Still, life didn’t slow down just because my eye glowed for a bit or I embarrassed myself by declaring war on a piece of furniture.

Not long after, my father—who had the unnerving habit of treating even breakfast like a military operation—called me over with his trademark, "We need to talk."

That phrase had never meant good things in any world.

"You're about the right age to begin combat basics," he said, crossing his arms. "Your sister started at your age."

Of course she did.

I blinked at him. "I don’t want to fight."

He looked like I’d just said I wanted to become a potato for a living.

"It builds character," he grunted.

"It builds bruises," I countered in my head, but I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to get conscripted just for being cheeky.

Mom stepped in to mediate, because she’s the only one who could get away with telling him no without being challenged to a duel.

But my sister was another story.

One sunny afternoon, she came bouncing up to me, spear in hand, and excitement radiating off her like a second sun.

"Come on, just one round! It'll be fun! I promise I’ll go easy."

That was a lie. Or maybe not a lie, but a grave underestimation.

Ten seconds into our “light spar,” I took a hesitant step forward and got accidentally poked in the stomach.

And by "poked," I mean I flew back three feet, landed flat on my back, and saw the silver moon in broad daylight.

My sister panicked. I cried. Dad looked like he was trying not to laugh. Mom dragged him away by the ear.

And that was the last time I ever agreed to touch a training weapon.

From that day on, I solemnly swore to stick to a different path—one where stabbing was reserved for vegetables and burns came from the stove.

"Would you like to learn how to clean the pots?" Mom had asked me that same evening, trying not to hover too much after my ‘tragic’ duel.

"Do pots bleed?"

"...No?"

"Then yes. I will master them."

And so, I began learning cooking, cleaning, and other daily tasks from Mother. Turns out, peeling potatoes was a lot less painful than being used as a training dummy.

Still... sometimes, when no one was looking, I’d glance at my sister’s spear and wonder...

What if I hadn’t fallen?

Then I'd remember the pain in my ribs and decide the potatoes were just fine.