Aetherborne Infinte Glitch

The tattered curtains of the small apartment flickered in the stale breeze of an air conditioner that had seen better decades. On the scarred wooden table sat a small, leather-bound volume that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic amber glow. 

It was a [Cipher Tome], the lowest tier of its kind—an F-rank instructional manual for a spell called [Ignis Spark]. 

To most, it was a joke of a skill, a flickering ember compared to the roaring infernos of the elite. To Axel, however, it was the sum of a dead father’s inheritance and five years of grueling, soul-crushing labor in the city’s scrap-yards.

Axel stared at the book, his reflection caught in the polished surface of the table. He had been a scholar once, or at least he was on the path to becoming one before the "Cataclysm" shattered the world’s infrastructure. He knew the math. He had calculated the risks. If he didn't awaken naturally by twenty-five, the chances of his biology spontaneously manifesting a mana-gate dropped to nearly zero. This tome was his last-ditch effort to force the gate open.

"In the worst-case scenario," he whispered to the empty room, "I have enough credits for three months of rent. In the best case... I stop being a ghost in my own life."

He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as they brushed the warm leather. The wealthy didn't have to choose between a roof and a soul; their children were bathed in Aether-enriched chambers from birth. For the rest of the world, awakening was a gamble where the house always won. Axel steeled his resolve, pulled the tome to his chest, and closed his eyes.

A searing heat erupted from the book, lancing through his sternum like a red-hot needle. He didn't scream, but the air left his lungs in a sharp hiss. A blinding white flash scorched his retinas even through his eyelids. When the spots finally cleared from his vision, the book was gone, replaced by a fine layer of gray ash on his shirt. But something else had replaced the silence. At the periphery of his vision, a translucent blue interface shimmered into existence.

[Axel Jetters]

[Constitution: 10]

[Might: 10]

[Aether: — ]

[Skill: Ignis Spark]

The relief he expected was instantly replaced by a cold, hollow dread. He stared at the third line until his eyes watered. Aether: —. Not zero. Not one. A dash. A void.

The history books were clear: when the monsters poured out of the spatial rifts a year ago, the world changed. Humanity adapted by tapping into Aether, the magical energy that powered the "System." Every Awakened had a numerical value for their Aether pool. It dictated how many spells they could cast and how powerful those spells were. A typical F-rank beginner started with an Aether value of 10 or 20.

"Why is mine empty?" Axel stood up, his legs feeling strangely light. He felt different—sharper, as if a layer of grime had been washed off his brain. He could feel the [Ignis Spark] skill etched into his muscle memory like a reflex. But the lack of a number suggested a broken engine. Could he even ignite the spark without a fuel tank?

Determined to find the answer before the panic fully set in, he grabbed his jacket and headed for the "Grey Barrens," a stretch of scorched earth behind the high-rise slums where the city's discarded trash was burned.

The air outside was thick with the scent of ozone and industrial exhaust. Axel found a secluded corner behind a rusted shipping container. He raised his right hand, imagining the heat he had felt from the tome. He focused on the concept of Ignition.

"[Ignis Spark]," he commanded.

Fwoosh.

A ball of concentrated orange flame, roughly the size of a grapefruit, manifested inches from his palm. It crackled with surprising intensity before he willed it forward. The fireball struck a discarded refrigerator, leaving a blackened, molten dent.

Axel gasped. "It worked."

But the question remained: for how long? A standard F-rank Mage could usually manage five or six of these sparks before their Aether ran dry, leaving them nauseous and exhausted. Axel waited for the fatigue to hit. He waited for the "Aether Low" warning.

Nothing came.

"[Ignis Spark]. [Ignis Spark]. [Ignis Spark]."

He fired three more in rapid succession. The air grew hot. His heartbeat remained steady.

"[Ignis Spark]... [Ignis Spark]..."

By the time he reached fifty, he was sweating from the ambient heat of the flames, but his internal "tank" felt exactly as it had at the start: empty, yet overflowing. The dash on his status screen remained unchanged. At one hundred, he began to laugh, a jagged, hysterical sound. At three hundred, his arm was tired from the motion of aiming, but his soul felt untouched by fatigue. At five hundred, he stopped.

He looked at his hands, then at the smoking ruin of the trash heap in front of him. 10 times the capacity of a D-rank. 50 times the capacity of an F-rank. No... it wasn't about capacity.

The realization hit him like a physical blow. The dash didn't mean zero. It meant limitless.

Axel spent the night in a state of hyper-lucidity. He didn't sleep; he planned. If the World Awakened Association discovered a man with infinite Aether, he wouldn't be a hero—he would be a laboratory specimen. He needed a license to enter the dungeons, the only places where he could legally harvest Aether Shards to sell for profit. But to get that license, he had to pass a test.

His bank balance was a depressing $5,867. The [Ignis Spark] tome had cost him $20,000—nearly every cent his parents had left behind after were killed in the initial rift opening. He had been lucky to survive in the basement while the monsters tore through the upper floors. Now, he was done being lucky. He was going to be powerful.