Chapter 3 — Eyes That See Too Much
Aryn finally arrived at his home, or what he reluctantly called home. It wasn't much—a small, weathered wooden house tucked in a corner near the bustling market. It sat right next to an old barber's shop, where the sound of scissors and the chatter of clients were the only signs of life. If you didn't know it was there, you might walk right past it without a second thought.
The place had an air of abandonment to it, like the world had forgotten it even existed. No one knew there was anyone living there. Most assumed it was just another abandoned structure left to rot.
The door creaked as he pushed it open, the familiar smell of dust and damp wood hitting his senses. It was quiet—too quiet, almost. The only light in the room came from a flickering lantern in the corner, casting long shadows across the cracked wooden floor. There were no luxuries here. No comforts. Just a thin, worn-out mattress on the floor and a small table with a chipped plate and some bread crumbs.
Aryn didn't bother with the bed. He was too tired. Too worn. Dropping to the floor, he unwrapped the stale bread he had scavenged from the market earlier—food that had been sitting in the sun too long, but it was all he had.
He tore off a chunk, chewing without much thought, and tried to ignore the hollow ache in his stomach. The bread was dry, tough to swallow, but it filled the empty space at least.
It wasn't much, but it was his.
He leaned back against the wall, resting his head on the cold, splintered wood. His vision blurred slightly, the weight of everything starting to sink in—the strange encounter with Elaina, the attack by the Tigerclub, and the relentless ache in his skull that never quite went away.
The world outside was loud, full of life. But here, in his little house, there was nothing but the silence and the gnawing emptiness that followed him wherever he went.
Aryn closed his eyes for a moment, and for the first time in a while, he let himself drift.
Aryn sat in the dim corner of his room, his legs crossed, hands resting on his knees as he closed his eyes. He tried again, focusing hard, willing the magic to respond. His mind raced with possibilities—runes, sigils, incantations—anything that could summon the power that everyone else seemed to take for granted.
But nothing happened.
He gritted his teeth, frustration bubbling up in his chest. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't force the magic out. It was as if the very thing that should have been a part of him—a part of everyone—was locked away, beyond his reach.
Aryn opened his eyes, staring at the palm of his hand. It was empty. Blank. No flicker of light, no surge of power. Just his pale skin, as still and unremarkable as ever.
"Dammit," he muttered under his breath, his voice rough with irritation. "Why can't I just... do it? What's wrong with me?"
His fingers curled into a fist. It was maddening, this inability to touch the very thing that shaped the world around him. Everyone else—Elaina, the people in the streets, the mages who studied at the Academy—they all had it. They could cast spells, summon elements, bend reality with just a thought.
And then there was him. The odd one out. The one who couldn't even make a spark.
"Why can't I use magic?" he whispered, the question slipping out without even thinking. The same question he'd asked himself every day, and every night, for as long as he could remember.
Aryn leaned back against the wall, letting out a slow, frustrated breath. The feeling of being left behind—of not fitting in anywhere—was becoming unbearable. If only he could use magic, if only he could be like everyone else.
But he couldn't.
He closed his eyes again, the darkness behind his eyelids pulling him into a brief, quiet silence.
"If I could just... I don't know... be like them..." he whispered, trailing off as exhaustion settled into his bones.
For a moment, it felt like a foolish dream. And yet, it was the only one he had left.
Aryn stared at the worn wood of the floor in front of him, his mind still wandering, lost in thoughts he didn't want to fully face. He let the silence fill the space, allowing the hum in his head to dull the rest of the world around him. His hand rested idly on the floor, fingertips brushing against the rough, splintered edges of the wood.
Then, suddenly, it happened.
Without warning, his vision flickered. The usual sharp throb in his head—the one that always preceded the surge—came, and just like that, the world shifted.
The Omni Eye activated.
Lines of blue light spread through his sight, a ripple of magic weaving its way into the wood beneath his fingers. He didn't even have to try—it just happened, as if the eye had a mind of its own. The floorboards beneath him were no longer just wood. They were a structure, a mesh of hidden energies and intricate patterns that only he could see.
The grain of the wood split into clear segments, each line of fiber a fine thread in the intricate weave. He could see the residual traces of heat from where his hand had been, a faint, glowing outline that lingered. There were fractures, tiny cracks running through the wood that had been there for years, unnoticed by everyone else, but they pulsed with the faintest glow—a sign of decay, perhaps, or the slow passage of time.
He could even see the magical residue—the faint traces of a spell, probably from years ago, that had left an imprint on the floor. It was a minor one, nothing dangerous, but it shimmered with a faint orange hue, the only sign of something that shouldn't have been there in the first place.
Aryn blinked, his head pounding as the information overwhelmed him, as it always did when the Omni Eye activated. The details flooded in—too much, too fast. He could see the fibers of the wood, the microscopic dust particles suspended in the air, the shifting currents of magic swirling beneath his feet, everything mapped out in a tangle of shapes and patterns only he could decipher.
His breathing became shallow as he felt the familiar strain in his head.
Too much. Too fast.
His vision spun, the sharp lines and vivid colors of the world beginning to blur together in a dizzying dance. He pressed his hand harder to the ground, his palm feeling the cold, rough texture beneath him as the migraine intensified. The glowing threads began to warp, twisting into a tangle of shapes and lines that no longer made sense.
With a groan, Aryn pulled his hand back, shutting his eyes as the world snapped back into its normal, blurry haze. The pain in his head surged as the aftereffects of the Omni Eye's activation left him gasping for breath.
It was always like this. Always too much, too overwhelming.
He rubbed his forehead, hoping the headache would fade. "Why can't I just... turn it off?" he muttered to himself, his voice hoarse.
But it wasn't a question he expected to have an answer to.
Aryn's hand still pressed to his forehead as he tried to steady his breath, the throbbing pain beginning to subside, though the strain lingered at the edges of his mind. His thoughts drifted again, aimless and lost, until—suddenly—an idea pierced through the fog.
A flash of realization struck him, sharp and sudden, like a spark lighting a dark room.
What if...
He could see everything. Every detail. Every pattern. Every invisible thread of magic that wove the world together.
What if he could use it?
The thought took root quickly, spreading through his mind like wildfire. His vision—the Omni Eye—wasn't just a curse. It wasn't just an overwhelming flood of useless information. It was a tool. A gift.
What if he could apply it... somewhere else?
The gambling dens.
The thought hit him like a wave crashing against the shore. He'd been to a few places like that before, just to watch. The dice, the cards, the spinning wheels... It was all about chance. But what if he could see beyond the chance? What if the threads of magic that wrapped around those games weren't just random? What if they followed a pattern, a rhythm?
He could read it. He could see every move, every shuffle, every roll of the dice. The magic—magic wasn't random. It had structure, laws, patterns. He could understand those patterns. Predict them. Control them.
His mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
"Why not?" he muttered, the idea growing clearer in his mind. "I can see everything. I can predict anything. And I could... use it."
The more he thought about it, the more perfect it seemed. No more living in the shadows of those who could use magic. No more struggling to make ends meet. No more being trapped in a life that never seemed to change.
If he could predict the games—every card, every spin, every throw—he could walk away with all the money he ever needed. He could live comfortably. He could finally have some control over his life.
Aryn stood up, the weight of his thoughts solidifying into something more tangible. His heart beat faster, not out of fear, but excitement. The Omni Eye had been nothing but a burden until now. But if he could make it work for him... If he could use it for something real...
He quickly gathered himself, smoothing out the wrinkles in his coat and pacing for a moment, his mind racing.
There were risks, of course. The casinos were dangerous. People who won too much money weren't exactly treated kindly. But he could handle that. He would handle it. He just had to be careful. Strategic. He had a mind for details—more than anyone else.
"This could work," Aryn whispered, the thought settling into him with cold certainty. "I could be rich. I could change everything."
And with that, he knew what he had to do next. He had a plan.
He just had to hope that his magic—this strange, painful gift—was as reliable as he needed it to be.
As he stepped toward the door, Aryn smiled again, this time with the sharpness of someone who knew exactly what they were going to do next.
As Aryn stood by the door, the thought of his plan to gamble began to settle deeper in his mind, but as he mulled it over, his Omni Eye flared to life again, responding to his internal thoughts like a silent, flashing warning.
Is it really worth it?
His vision blurred momentarily as the threads of magic around him shifted, and the familiar flood of information filled his mind. The words formed—silent, but clear—like a voice echoing inside his skull, almost too loud to ignore.
> High-risk. Last-minute magic interference. Systematic bias. High-level manipulators.
Aryn blinked, disoriented, as his mind processed the details the Omni Eye had so easily provided. The gambling dens weren't just games of chance. There was magic woven into them, hidden beneath the surface.
He'd seen it before, back in those dark corners of the city where people risked everything for a quick win. The air felt thick with the subtle hum of enchantments—spells that ensured the odds always favored the house. Magic, invisible to the average person, that swirled around the cards, the dice, the spinning wheels, subtly shifting the game in the last moment, making predictions nearly impossible.
And then there was the matter of the people who ran these places—the bandar, the house. Aryn's eye showed him more than just the game; it showed the players who controlled the flow. There were insiders, others who saw the threads, who played the system in ways that no one else could understand. They manipulated the game before anyone even had the chance to predict the outcome.
> Betrayal. Manipulation. Unpredictable.
The Omni Eye didn't sugarcoat the danger. If he tried to predict these games and the magic behind them, he would be facing more than just a chance of losing money. He would be up against people who had mastered how to bend the odds, people who played the game at a level far beyond anything Aryn could manage with his limited understanding of magic.
His stomach twisted.
Could he really beat them? Could he take on the system?
The risk was enormous. One wrong move, one misread pattern, and he'd be caught in the web of manipulations that he couldn't even begin to understand. Worse, he would probably be targeted by those who ran these games—powerful people who wouldn't hesitate to make him disappear if he became too much of a threat.
Aryn took a step back from the door, his hand resting on the handle as he considered the situation. His breath came out in a shallow exhale. He knew how dangerous this would be. But the pull of the idea, the chance to break free from the life he had... it was intoxicating. The thought of wealth, of power, of being able to live without constant struggle—those things were hard to ignore.
What do I do? he wondered.
His eyes flickered to the threads once more, still dancing in the air around him, as if mocking his indecision. Magic was everywhere, but so was danger.
"Guess I'll have to make a choice," Aryn murmured, clenching his jaw.
Aryn stood there for a long moment, his fingers gripping the door handle as he stared at the threads of magic weaving through the room. His mind raced, torn between the allure of easy money and the dangerous path that lay ahead. But slowly, the rush of adrenaline faded, and reality began to settle in.
He thought about his life—his constant struggle to get by, to eat, to survive. He wasn't some rich noble who could afford to take risks for the thrill of it. He was just a kid trying to make it in a world that saw him as nothing more than an outsider. Sure, the idea of going to a gambling den and using his Omni Eye to predict the game was tempting. But even his instincts, honed by years of survival, were telling him that this was a game he couldn't afford to play.
The risks were too high. He wasn't just up against the games and their magical manipulation. He'd be up against people who knew far more about magic and the system than he ever could. People who could ruin him without a second thought. He didn't even know if his power was enough to keep him safe in the kind of environment he was thinking about entering.
No, it's too dangerous. I can't risk it. The thought settled firmly in his chest, cold and clear. He wasn't ready to gamble his life away for a shot at wealth. He could barely make enough to eat, let alone get tangled in a system that could swallow him whole.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly, letting the tension slip from his shoulders. It was a harsh reminder of his limitations, but it was also a realization. Maybe there was another way. A slower, safer way. A way where he wouldn't have to risk everything on a single roll of the dice.
Aryn stepped away from the door, his gaze turning to the shabby, worn furniture in his tiny house. He needed to focus on surviving. Maybe one day, he could do something more than just survive. But for now, all he could do was keep his head down, keep moving, and make sure he didn't get caught in something he couldn't handle.
Survival first. Thrills later. He couldn't afford to forget that.
He let out a quiet sigh, the weight of the decision sinking in. The gamble was too much. And for now, he wasn't ready to lose everything just to make a quick escape from his struggles.
Aryn sat down heavily, his back pressed against the worn wooden wall of his small house. His legs stretched out before him, and his hands rested loosely on his knees. The room was dim, with only a sliver of light filtering through the cracked windows. He let out a soft sigh, the weight of the world settling heavily on his chest.
He often asked himself the same questions—questions that seemed to have no answers. Who am I? The question echoed in his mind like a hollow drum, relentless and unyielding. He had no answers to that. His past was a blur, a void filled with nothing but vague memories of an orphaned childhood, the cold streets of Leilang, and a sense of something always missing. The rest of the world was filled with people who were so much more than him—people with families, histories, bloodlines... magic.
And yet, here he was, a person who couldn't even use the one thing that defined everyone else.
Why can't I use magic? It was another question that lingered in the corners of his mind, always there, always unanswered. He knew the theories—magic was born from bloodlines, from desire, from willpower. Everyone had it, except for the few rare exceptions, like him. He could feel the weight of that difference in every glance he received, in the way people treated him—like a ghost, like someone who didn't belong.
Why me? Why am I different?
The Omni Eye stirred in his mind, but as usual, it didn't provide any answers. The eye could see things no one else could—secrets, truths, the fabric of magic itself—but it never revealed the answers he craved. Not about his past. Not about his family. Not about his place in this world.
The threads of magic swirled around him, so close, yet so distant. He could see the world in ways no one else could. He could see the magic in the walls, in the air, in the people around him. He could see the patterns, the flows, the hidden forces that shaped everything. But when it came to the one thing he needed to understand most—himself—Omni Eye was silent.
He let out a frustrated breath, closing his eyes for a moment. He hated this feeling—this feeling of being lost, of being stuck in a place where everything around him made sense except for him. His mind wandered to his parents—or rather, the lack of them. He didn't even know if they were alive, if they were dead, or if they had ever cared for him. The question of who they were, what happened to them—it haunted him, but every time he tried to search for answers, the trail went cold.
Why can't I see my past?
His eyes snapped open as the familiar dizziness began to settle in. The overload of information, the bright blue threads, the constant hum of magic—it always made his head ache, but today it was worse. The migraine pushed against his skull, a reminder of how much he had yet to understand.
If I can't even answer these questions about myself... who am I really?
He shifted, rubbing his temples. Maybe, one day, he'd find the answers. Maybe the Omni Eye would finally show him the truth. But until then, all he could do was keep moving forward, even if he didn't know where he was going.
For now, he was just Aryn. A boy with white hair, blue eyes, and a vision that saw too much but never enough.
Aryn let out a dry chuckle, his voice barely above a whisper. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, staring up at the cracked ceiling, lost in his thoughts.
"Isn't it funny?" he murmured to no one in particular, his tone laced with a strange bitterness. "Here I am, at sixteen, and while everyone else is out there thinking about love, about what they're going to do with their lives... I'm stuck here. Wondering why I can't even cast a simple spell, why I'm different from everyone else."
He closed his eyes for a moment, the words slipping from his mouth almost without thought.
"I should be out there, right? Having fun, messing around with people my age. Thinking about stupid things like crushes and who's dating who." His voice grew quieter, almost too soft to hear. "But no... here I am, stuck in a room with nothing but questions. Questions about who I am, what I'm supposed to do, and why I can't even be... normal."
A bitter laugh escaped him, like it was the only thing left to do. He shook his head, the cold weight of his words settling into the pit of his stomach.
"Some people get to have that innocence, that... freedom to just exist without thinking too hard about what's wrong with them. And then there's me. Getting older before I'm even ready for it." His eyes flicked to the Omni Eye, which was still blinking in his mind's eye, always there, always watching. "Maybe I'm not meant for the same things. Maybe... maybe that's my reality now. I can't be a kid, not when everything around me is so messed up. I don't have time to be distracted by things like that."
He sighed, leaning forward and running his hands through his white hair, the cool strands slipping through his fingers.
"I guess that's what it means to grow up, right? To stop dreaming about the little things and start facing the real stuff. To realize that life isn't a fairy tale, that there are no happy endings. Not for me."
Aryn shook his head again, a small, cynical smile tugging at his lips.
"Maybe it's better this way. Who needs love, or any of that nonsense?" he muttered, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. "I've got bigger problems to deal with."
Aryn laughed again—short, broken, and not at all joyful.
It echoed in the empty room like something sharp, like glass cracking under pressure.
"Right. No love. No distractions. Just focus on the bigger picture," he said, mocking himself with a crooked smile. "That's what I always say, isn't it?"
He leaned back, head resting against the splintered wall, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling above.
"Just focus. Just survive. Just... keep going."
His voice trembled near the end, and for a second, the words felt emptier than usual. Like they'd lost their power somewhere along the way. He'd told himself that line so many times—so many nights when his stomach ached and the cold crept in, when the silence got too loud and the questions too heavy.
You don't need love. You don't need warmth. You just need to keep moving.
"Gods, I sound like a lunatic," he muttered, wiping a hand down his face.
But still, part of him clung to it. Because what else did he have?
If he started hoping for things like affection, like comfort or even answers—he was afraid it'd all come crashing down. So he laughed instead. Laughed at the thought of love, of dreams, of anything soft.
Because pretending he didn't need it was the only way it hurt a little less.
Aryn took a deep breath, letting the air settle in his lungs before exhaling slowly. The room was quiet again, save for the faint creaking of old wood and the distant sounds of the city outside.
"Alright," he whispered to no one. "Goodnight, me."
He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them like a fragile shield. His head rested against them, eyes slowly fluttering shut.
No blanket. No warmth. Just the cold floor, the faded scent of dust and salt, and the echo of thoughts he didn't want to carry anymore.
But sleep came anyway.
Heavy. Silent. And far too welcome.
On the other side of the world—far from crumbling rooftops and flickering streetlamps—there existed a place that never appeared on any map.
The walls were covered in parchment and parchment alone. Wanted posters, blood-stained contracts, inked sigils of death prices and silent threats. Faces stared from the paper, some crossed out, others burned at the corners. And in the center of it all, under a single swinging lantern, sat a man at a long table, slumped forward in sleep.
He wore a black mask—simple, smooth, unbroken—save for a dark red "V" painted across the front like a bleeding brand. His black hair fell messily over his brow, and his clothing was far too formal for the setting: a crisp white shirt, black vest, blood-colored tie. Cards were scattered in front of him—tarot, contracts, currency, no one could really tell. A faint snore escaped him.
Across from him stood an older man.
Or perhaps "man" was a generous term.
He wore a red mask shaped like a demonic face, complete with curling black horns. His eyes were hidden in shadow. A long cloak—black stitched with red—fell from his shoulders, whispering against the cold stone floor with every small movement. Despite the bizarre appearance, he radiated an authority that made the walls feel thinner.
He leaned forward, tapping a long, gloved finger on the table, near the sleeping man's hand.
"This is the fourth time you've fallen asleep during a meeting," the old one said, his voice low, scratchy—like smoke dragging through gravel. "Should I assume you don't care about the bounty?"
The man with the V-mask stirred slightly but didn't lift his head. His voice came out groggy, but sharp.
"I care when the job's worth staying awake for."
There was a beat of silence. Then the sound of a heavy scroll being unrolled on the table.
A new name. A new face.
Aryn.
"I'd say this one," the horned man murmured, "is very worth it."
The man in the black mask finally sat up, his fingers lacing together as he leaned forward with interest. His voice turned colder, more alert.
"Details," he said simply. "I don't chase shadows."
The old man gave a small, raspy chuckle—like wind scraping against broken stone.
"Not a shadow," he answered, slowly turning the parchment so the masked man could see the sketch on it. "A boy. Young. White hair. Blue eyes. And something rarer than gold."
The masked man's gaze narrowed behind the "V".
"…What's he carrying?"
The horned elder leaned closer, lowering his voice, almost like savoring the words.
"Omni Eyes."
Silence stretched for a beat. Even the wind outside the bounty hall seemed to pause.
The man in the black mask didn't speak for a moment. Then—slowly—he reached for one of the cards on the table and flipped it with a sharp snap. The image was abstract: an eye split with silver lines, surrounded by coiled chains.
"Alive or dead?" he asked, almost casually.
"Alive," the old man said firmly. "Unharmed. Unspoiled."
The masked man raised a brow behind the porcelain.
"That's rare."
The elder nodded. Then slid a thick scroll across the table. Stamped in red wax. A bounty contract.
"Four million platinum coins. Paid in full. Just bring him breathing."
The man in the mask gave a low whistle. "Four million? For one kid?"
"He's not just a kid," the elder said, eyes gleaming beneath his mask. "He's the key."
The masked man leaned back, tipping his chair slightly.
"…Then I suppose," he said with a lazy grin in his tone, "I should start dreaming in his direction."