All Kyren wanted was to keep Jamo safe and go back to selling soup.
But Sector Twelve didn't make room for simple dreams.
Two days after the sky lit up with his name, Kyren had counted four bounty posters, two strange visitors asking for "the Debt Saint," and one attempted stabbing by a cultist wielding a spork taped to a kitchen knife.
Jamo thought it was funny.
"You're finally famous," he said, holding up a blurry poster with Kyren's face and the caption: LAUGHING FLAME – HIGH VALUE, LOW PATIENCE. DO NOT APPROACH UNLESS UNINSURED.
Kyren slapped it out of his hands. "Stop collecting those."
"They're collectibles now."
"You're not helping."
"Neither are you. You still don't know how to use the thing."
Kyren didn't answer. The spear sat in the corner, leaning against the fridge like it owned the place. Every now and then, it hummed. Like it was annoyed.
> "You're not wrong," the voice echoed in his head. "I'm getting bored."
---
He didn't sleep much.
Every time he closed his eyes, he dreamed of movement—flashes of red light, a thousand hands reaching for him, laughter that didn't stop when it should've.
On the third night, the spear flared without warning.
Kyren woke to find it hovering at the end of his bed.
"Okay," he whispered, "we're doing this."
He grabbed the shaft. Felt heat crawl up his arms. A shiver ran through his spine, and for a second he wasn't in the room.
He was somewhere else.
A place of black stone and firelight. Shadows watching. Something massive breathing beneath the floor.
> "You want to learn?" the voice said. "Then bleed for it."
---
The next morning, he stumbled outside, bruised and sore, shirt clinging to him from sweat.
Jamo looked up from a frying pan. "You look like you lost a bet with gravity."
"I think I fought a ghost."
"You think?"
"It might've been a memory. Or a tutorial. Or a trauma hallucination. I don't know anymore."
Jamo handed him a plate. "Eat first. Then hallucinate."
---
Later that afternoon, a knock came at the door.
Not a quiet one.
Kyren stiffened. Jamo moved to the side. The spear rolled across the floor, humming low.
Kyren opened the door slowly.
A girl about their age stood there, wearing a ratty jacket and fingerless gloves. Her eyes were sharp. She held a contract in one hand and a meat bun in the other.
"Kyren Omari?" she asked.
"Yeah?"
She bit the bun, chewed, swallowed.
"Great. I'm here to train you before you get yourself killed."
Kyren blinked.
"And you are?"
"Chiyo," she said. "Your spiritual babysitter. Now move. Your technique sucks, your stance is lazy, and your spear looks like it wants to divorce you."
Jamo grinned. "I like her."
Kyren sighed. "Of course you do."
---
As the nights grew longer and the shadows deeper, Kyren began to understand the weight of his new life. The bounty hunters grew bolder, the sky messages more frequent. And with each passing day, the whispers grew louder—whispers of a boy with a cursed spear who could shake the very heavens.
The story of Kyren Omari had just begun, and it was already more than he had ever bargained for.