Grahilo felt it—the green pulse still humming beneath his veins, quiet but insistent. Like a drumbeat. Like a whisper. Like a challenge.
He stood on a ridge of sand, staring at a cracked pillar half-buried in the distance. Metal. Ancient. Forgotten by everything but the desert.
"OK." He said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's try this."
He stretched out his hand and made his fingers curl. He took a deep breath and focused on connection.
The feeling in his core. The vibration beneath thought.
A shimmer of light swirled in his palm.
Then came heat.
Not like fire. Not like lightning.
Something deeper.
Gamma.
The word surged through his mind unbidden—foreign yet familiar. And then the shimmer exploded.
A beam of volatile green energy erupted from his hand, twisting like plasma, warping the air in its path. It didn't just burn—it unmade. The pillar didn't explode. It ceased.
First its structure fragmented into a thousand particles, then those particles vaporized mid-air—dissolved into nothing.
Grahilo staggered back, eyes wide. "Whoa. Okay—that was not a light spell."
His palm still crackled with residual green. He turned it over, flexing his fingers. The power was unstable. Wild. Like holding a star that hadn't decided whether it loved you or wanted you dead.
He breathed deep, whispering to the wind: "Gamma destruction…"
A grin tugged at his lips.
"Kirigaar's going to wish they'd let me in."
He flexed his fingers.
The green shimmer responded instantly, curling up his arm like smoke, then condensing into crackling bands around his fist—tight, pulsing, volatile. It didn't feel like flame or electricity. It felt like holding gravity that's having a breakdown.
"Okay, gamma wrap... activate?" he muttered, half sarcastic, half terrified.
His hand glowed like the aftermath of too many glow sticks at a rave. Sand danced beneath his feet. The wind paused, probably reconsidering its life choices.
Grahilo narrowed his eyes at the cracked earth ahead. Just a harmless patch of desert. No pressure.
"Let's see what happens."
He pulled back his fist like a cartoon character about to punch the moon, then slammed it down into the earth.
The result?
Madness.
The impact wasn't just loud—it was biblical. A blast of green surged out on contact, shredding the dune like a sandstorm on steroids. The earth cratered beneath him, rippling outward with cracks that raced into the distance. Pebbles launched skyward. A nearby skeleton (wait, why was there a skeleton?) snapped in half from the shockwave.
Grahilo stumbled back, panting, eyes wide with disbelief.
"Okay… gamma punch equals mini apocalypse," he gasped. "Sweet."
Grahilo stood at the edge of the crater, gamma still sizzling faintly around his fingertips. But this time... he wasn't thinking about destruction. He wasn't thinking about punching holes in the planet or waking ancient staircases.
He just raised his hand.
Slowly.
No rage, no command—just curiosity.
The air around his palm shifted. Twisted. Like reality was suddenly second-guessing itself.
Sand blew sideways in unnatural wind. The light dimmed for a breath.
Then—snap.
In a blink, something appeared in his grasp.
A dagger.
Not just any dagger.
It was black—not matte, not shiny—void-black. Like the color you'd get if you drained every star from the night sky and told it to sharpen itself into a blade. Its edges shimmered with faint green veins, pulsing in rhythm with his breath.
"What the..." Grahilo whispered, holding it up.
It didn't feel like metal. It felt alive. Cool to the touch, but somehow humming. Like it knew what it was.
Like it knew him.
"Didn't ask for a murder knife," he muttered, "but sure, let's add this to the list of freaky orb side effects."
The dagger twitched slightly.
He didn't move.
Grahilo sat cross-legged on a rocky patch of scorched earth, the void dagger resting at his side like a loyal cat with trust issues. He stared at his hands—not in horror this time, more like... curiosity. Like someone reviewing a surprise résumé he didn't apply for.
"Okay," he muttered. "Let's see what kind of cosmic gift basket that green orb dumped into my DNA."
Andevhe began to write in the sand so he could juggle his thoughts.
Abilities So Far:
- Gamma Destruction
- Apparently I can punch reality so hard it reconsiders itself.
- Vaporized a chunk of ancient metal and shattered half a dune.
- Feels unstable, unpredictable… very much 'don't use indoors' energy.
- Gamma Wrap
- I can wrap the destruction energy around my fists like combat tape from the apocalypse.
- Used it to smash the ground—and accidentally opened a creepy staircase. 10/10 drama points.
- Eye Shift Control
- Eyes switch from green glowing death-orb chic to old-school brown.
- Seems to reflect my power state… or mood. I blink, reality blinks back.
- Void Dagger Summoning
- I raised a hand. Reality flinched. Now I own a dagger that looks like it was forged in a dying star.
- Pulses with green energy, knows how to behave ominously, probably haunted but in a helpful way.
- Durability Boost
- I got skewered, sky-launched, cratered—and survived.
- Healing fast, bones no longer vote to eject themselves when I move. Upgrade confirmed.
- Orb Integration
- Whatever that orb was, it's not gone. It's living in me.
- The energy responds to thoughts, emotions… sarcasm.
- This isn't borrowed power. It's bonded.
Grahilo exhaled slowly, watching a flicker of green dance across his fingertips. "So I'm basically a walking sci-fi arsenal now. Rejected by one city and adopted by the universe's moodiest relic."
His brown eyes blinked once—then turned green. He got up and stretched. He had to get out of Scarragon. He wasn't wanted here.
"I need to find a place to stay for the night." He thought. "I'm not sure I will be able to face any of the Jiporugis right now."
He needed to get stronger.
The desert stretched endlessly, each dune like a memory erased, each breeze whispering things that didn't sound like hope. Grahilo walked with slower steps now—not from weakness, but from calculation. Gamma still pulsed faintly under his skin, and the dagger at his hip shimmered occasionally, as if keeping watch.
Then he saw it.
A jagged silhouette half-buried in the dunes—a crumbled structure of stone and bone, wrapped in rusted pipes and dust-worn fabrics. It might've been a bunker once, or a lookout post. Now it was just forgotten.
Perfect.
He approached carefully, scanning for movement, traps, angry ghosts—Scarragon things. Nothing stirred.
Inside, the place was hollow. The roof had partly collapsed, letting in slices of sunlight. A warped cot leaned against the wall, and metal crates lined one corner. Grahilo tested a crate—stable enough—and sat down heavily, finally letting his muscles breathe.
He rolled his shoulder, wincing at the lingering wound. The green veins around it had stopped pulsing, but they still glowed faintly, like the orb had installed a backlight in his nervous system.
He exhaled. Deep. Long.
"Alright," he murmured to the room. "Temporary base secured. Mood: questionable. Magic status: dangerous. Enemies: pending."
Outside, the wind howled and passed.
Inside, Grahilo closed his eyes for just a moment—not to sleep, but to gather.
He sat in the crumbling bunker, shadows stretching across the cracked floor like old regrets. The dagger rested beside him, pulsing faintly with green light. The orb's power still hummed in his chest—a quiet storm held in check. He wasn't broken anymore. Just… redefined.
The desert had taught him pain.
He finally relaxed and went to sleep.