Chapter 16: The Source

Makun walked down the street the way he came, heading back to his apartment.

But he was deep in thought.

One day.

One day was all it took to change his perspective of the world.

Yes, he knew about the war between East Europe and parts of Asia that started in 2027. Yes, there were strange rumors circulating about UFOs. All those crazy conspiracies people threw around on the internet.

However, what he saw today was different.

From Zuri to the presence to the market.

It all seemed to be a well-established system that had been present for god knows how long.

Humans could manipulate energy. Attack with energy. Had technology like the demonic mirror.

He was dumbfounded.

But also curious.

Because that was his only solution.

He realized something else, too. What the presence said wasn’t his only motivation. Seeing this new world made him excited. Not just because it could help him, but because it was something new. Far from mundane.

And he was eager to dive deep into it.

He also recalled Zack mentioning third grade Adept. He currently had no idea what that meant. What those tiers represented. What the hierarchy looked like.

But the book was surely going to help him understand that.

SCREECH.

A car swerved around the corner ahead. Too fast. Tires smoking on asphalt.

Makun stopped walking.

The car fishtailed, jumped the curb, and slammed into a street lamp ten feet ahead of where Makun would’ve been if he hadn’t paused.

CRASH.

Metal crumpled. Glass shattered. Steam hissed from the engine.

Makun stood there, frozen.

The driver stumbled out, drunk, shouting something incoherent before collapsing on the sidewalk.

It happened again.

My bad luck actually protected me from worse luck.

He’d noticed it more and more. On his way to the market. In the market itself. And now.

It seemed the presence breaking the chain really did have an effect on how he was affected by luck.

His misfortune still existed. Still hit him constantly.

But now it was redirecting worse outcomes.

Like a curse that had learned to aim away from fatal damage.

Makun stepped around the wreckage and kept walking.

Dawn broke as he reached his building.

The sky lightened from black to deep blue. Streetlights flickered off one by one.

He climbed the stairs slowly. His legs felt like lead. His throat still ached from where Zack had grabbed him.

The eviction notice was still taped to his door.

Makun stared at it.

Hmm. Not that many hours remaining.

Mr. Okoye was going to come today. Afternoon, probably. Start the official eviction process.

Well. Nothing I can do right now.

He was too tired.

He unlocked the door, stepped inside.

The apartment greeted him with its usual shabby misery.

Peeling paint on the walls, worse near the corners where water damage had spread. The ceiling had brown stains shaped like continents, evidence of leaks from the unit above that the landlord never fixed. The floor was scratched linoleum, cracked in places, curling at the edges.

The couch sagged in the middle, springs long dead. The coffee table had one leg propped up with folded cardboard because the original had snapped months ago.

One window. Cracked glass covered with duct tape. Curtains that used to be white but had turned gray from years of city grime.

This place was a tomb for ambitions.

But it was his tomb.

For a few more hours, at least.

Makun walked to his bedroom.

Smaller than the living space. Barely fit the mattress on the floor. No bed frame. Just the mattress and tangled sheets from this morning’s nightmare.

The single bulb overhead flickered when he turned it on.

Today has been a tiring day.

He needed rest.

But his body was wired. Exhausted and wired at the same time, adrenaline still buzzing beneath his skin.

He couldn’t sleep.

Not yet.

He had this book.

The more knowledge he got, the better it was going to go for him.

Makun sat on the mattress, crossed his legs. Held the book in both hands.

Looked at it with a sense of longing.

My way out of this.

The leather was worn smooth. The pages were yellowed at the edges. The title burned into the cover: The Goal of a Mystic.

He opened it.

The first page had a small diagram.

A spiral.

Simple. Elegant. It seemed to pull his eyes toward the center, deeper and deeper, like it was three-dimensional despite being flat on paper.

Below the spiral, a single line of text:

The true goal of a Mystic is reconnection to the Source.

That was all.

Makun stared at it.

Reconnection to the Source.

What source?

He turned the page.

A note. Handwritten. The ink was old, faded brown instead of black.

This book is intended for all those initiated into Mysticism. Without certain aptitudes, you will not be able to understand what is written in this book. Some Chapters will not even be able to be read by you. So the book is a guide and can provide you with a path for limited advancement. Then you are on your own.

When Makun read this, excitement flared in his chest.

The lady was right.

The book was truly valuable.

He didn’t yet know what he was going to see in here, but the fact that it promised advancement was huge.

Real. Tangible. Something he could work toward.

He turned the page again.

The first Chapter.

The heading was simple:

The Fragmentation

Below it, the text began.

Makun leaned forward, eyes scanning the words.

In the beginning, there was only the Source.

Not a god. Not a being. Not a place. The Source was totality, infinite potential compressed into impossible unity. Everything and nothing. Wholeness without division.

But the Source desired experience.

To experience joy, one must know sorrow. To understand light, one must touch darkness. To feel separation, one must divide.

And so the Source fragmented itself.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Each division created consciousness. Each split birthed awareness. And with every fracture, the fragments fell further from their origin, becoming denser, heavier, more… material.

Makun stopped reading.

His heart pounded.

The words resonated somewhere deep. Not intellectually. Deeper than that.

Like they were describing something he’d always known but never had language for.

The Source fragmented itself.

And the fragments fell.

Became material.

Became… us?

He looked up at his shabby bedroom. The cracked ceiling. The broken chair. The reality of poverty and misfortune and twenty-three years of being ground down.

Is that what this means?

We’re fragments. Pieces of something whole that fell so far we forgot what we were?

His hands shook slightly.

The book felt heavier now.

Not physically. But like it carried weight beyond paper and ink.

Makun took a breath.

Kept reading.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep