The butterfly effect... could that explain what I was witnessing?
Victory hadn’t stopped after her first win; she had turned it into a relentless streak, entering match after match, each more grueling than the last. Now, on her seventeenth battle, her stamina was visibly eroding. Her breaths came heavier, her movements slower—but somehow, impossibly, she remained undefeated.
But it wasn’t just her endurance or fighting skill that had captured everyone’s attention. It was her astonishing arsenal of abilities, her mysterious meta nature. Over the course of her streak, she had displayed more than a dozen distinct powers, each tailored perfectly to counter her opponents. The audience was baffled, caught in the charm of her performance.
They had never seen anything like her—a prodigy of this magnitude appearing in a place like this? It defied belief.
The reason for their shock was simple. The people who typically fought in these rings were mercenaries, drifters, and fighters seeking fortune and glory. They were driven by their own ambitions and desires. But a truly powerful person? They never needed to seek such things. Power, wealth, and fame naturally gravitated towards them without any conscious effort on their part.
But Victory? She was an anomaly.
The spectators whispered among themselves, speculating in hushed tones: could someone like her even exist in the first place? After all, any individual capable of displaying such immense power would surely be claimed by the governments, secret organizations, or powerful families. They would be fiercely protected and kept hidden from the public eye, their abilities too valuable to risk in the chaos.
Unless, of course, she was something even rarer. A magical meta: those metahumans could learn and cast multiple spells.
Forgetting all about that, At the outset, Victory’s chances had been laughably slim—one in a thousand, if that. Her first win alone felt like a miracle, the kind of long shot you’d never bet your future on. But now, as she cut through opponent after opponent like a blade through mist, the impossible had become a streak. My meager wager, placed more out of curiosity than conviction, had ballooned into something staggering.
The payout I stood to claim was astronomical—well into the millions.
The thought of that kind of money should’ve been euphoric, a life-changing windfall.
But it came with another type of headache I hadn’t anticipated. Redeeming such a sum wasn’t as simple as walking up to a counter. A windfall like this would inevitably draw scrutiny, and in a place like this, scrutiny was dangerous. If I could slip away with it quietly, I’d never need to bother with lotteries or schemes again. My future would be secure.
Yet, money was the last thing on my mind. What truly consumed me was the mystery of who this masked fighter was.
In HyperSpace, anonymity was absolute. No names, no genders, no tells—just avatars and the powers they wielded. Victory’s identity was buried beneath layers of digital obfuscation.
I wracked my memory for any clue, any flicker of familiarity that might explain her. Nothing came. She didn’t fit anywhere in the timelines I’d lived before, and no one with her skill set should have existed at this point in the passage of time. It was as though she had materialized from nothing.
Of course, I could also be very wrong, as I could barely remember many details from so far in the past. My plethora of memories made it difficult to recall specific events with absolute certainty.
For a brief moment, I entertained the possibility that she might also be a time traveler, but I dismissed it just as quickly. If this was true and it was her third cycle, then her skills would have been far sharper. Any experienced metahuman who had mastered their abilities could have decimated a hundred powered opponents without breaking a sweat, let alone struggle through seventeenths matches. They would have overwhelmed their opponents, perhaps even dozens at once.
The crowd’s roar snapped me back to reality as she claimed yet another win. She looked exhausted but unyielding, standing tall despite the strain.
Whoever she was, wherever she’d come from—she wasn’t done yet. And neither was I.
Surely, I couldn’t be the cause of this butterfly effect... Could I? Nothing I’d done felt weighty enough to create ripples of this magnitude—at least not that I could remember.
Stepping on an ant doesn’t create a meta-human powerhouse who shatters rules and expectations.
The more I thought about it, the more tangled my thoughts became. It was pointless to obsess over it now; the answers weren’t going to magically appear in my lap.
What I did know was one crucial detail: she was from my city. The arena’s rules mandated local registration, meaning she wasn’t some unreachable mystery from halfway across the globe. Our paths could cross again, and when they did, I’d have my chance to uncover the truth.
For now, though, there was no need to overthink it. Leaning back in my seat, I allowed myself a grin as I let the reality sink in: I’d made a fortune. The pot of gold my meta nature had shown me had proven literal in more ways than one.
Might as well sit back and enjoy the show. There was no telling how far she could go or how many opponents she’d take down before this streak ended.
<hr>
Logging out of HyperSpace always left me a little dazed, and this time was no different. The transition from the immersive virtual world to the stillness of reality was jarring. Midnight had slipped by unnoticed while I was inside, and now, back in the real world, exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks. My body felt heavy, my eyelids drooped, and hunger gnawed at my stomach. But the stairs to the kitchen felt like an insurmountable trek, so I collapsed onto my bed and let sleep claim me.
Morning came too soon, the shrill blare of my alarm shattering the peace.
I groaned, burying myself deeper in the cocoon of blankets, and hit snooze—then again, and again. By the time I finally rolled out of bed, it was already ten.
The world outside was alive and buzzing, while I was still shaking off the remnants of my grogginess. After a quick shower, I trudged back to my room to get dressed.
Opening my closet, I was immediately hit with a grim reminder of my poor living situation.
My wardrobe was pitiful—faded t-shirts, two pairs of jeans, and one jacket that was practically falling apart. I couldn’t help but mutter, How did I manage to live like this? With a sigh, I grabbed the clothes I’d stashed away for “special occasions”: a decent black jacket, a half-sleeve sweater, and a pair of pants that didn’t scream I’ve given up.
I layered them together.
"Dress like you own the place," I said to myself as I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting my hair that fell in windswept layers around my face. The outfit wasn''t flashy—far from it—but it felt polished, deliberate. A step up from my usual thrown-together look. It wasn''t just the clothes; it was the energy they brought. I could feel my spirit shift ever so slightly, an undercurrent of confidence creeping in.
For a moment, I lingered in front of the mirror longer than I usually would. My reflection stared back with contemplative willow eyes beneath long lashes, and I allowed myself the rare luxury of really looking. I had to admit, I was good-looking—not in a way that demanded attention, but enough to hold it. My face was thin, high cheekbones and defined jawline gave me a quiet elegant air, but only if I was groomed properly. While my full lips held a thoughtful expression. My skin seemed to glow under the bathroom lights, and my height didn''t hurt, either. At just shy of six feet -- due to modified genetics, I had a presence that couldn’t be ignored, not in an overbearing way, but enough to draw attention and hold it for a moment longer than most.
The thought made me smile a little, though I quickly pushed it aside. This wasn’t about vanity; it was about carrying myself differently.
Downstairs, my aunt was sprawled on the couch, flipping through TV channels with the kind of aimless ease I envied. I made a beeline for the kitchen, where her voice followed me. “There’s some avocado toast in the bowl,” she called out. A small wave of gratitude washed over me—no scavenging for breakfast today. I poured myself a cup of milk and sat down, ready to dig in.
That’s when her question blindsided me. “What, are you going on a date or something?”
I froze mid-bite, my spoon hovering in the air. Slowly, I turned to look at her. She was leaning over the back of the couch, eyebrows raised, an amused smirk playing on her lips. That look—the one that said she’d sniffed out something interesting and wasn’t about to let it go.
I swallowed hard, trying to play it cool. “What? No. Just felt like dressing up.”
Her smirk widened. “Sure, sure,” she said, her tone dripping with disbelief.
To be fair, my aunt’s question wasn’t all that strange. Aunt Grace—Grace Rudge—had always been someone I could relax around. We got along effortlessly, and our banter came naturally. She was the kind of person who could make even the most awkward moments comfortable, which was probably why my parents decided I’d be better off living with her than on campus. She knew me too well, and I guess they figured that’d keep me grounded.
At eighteen, having just been accepted into one of the country’s most exclusive academies, I figured I should start making an effort to look more put-together every once in a while.
Still, she didn’t seem like she was planning to let the matter go. I could feel her watching me as if she were trying to detect the tiniest shift in my behavior.
“I’m sure something happened,” she muttered, almost to herself, her brow furrowed as if piecing together a mystery.
Her reaction made me smirk, though I tried to keep it subtle. In her eyes, it was as if the scruffy, perpetually underdressed nephew she knew had been replaced by this polished version sitting at her kitchen table.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.
Before I could think of a witty response, she waved me off with a casual flick of her hand. “Anyway,” she said, switching topics, “don’t come home early today, alright?”
I blinked, caught off guard. “Why?”
She raised an eyebrow at me, clearly unimpressed by my cluelessness. “Why? Just because you can’t pull bitches doesn’t mean I can’t,” she said with a sly grin, leaning back into the couch with a self-satisfied air.
I couldn’t help but laugh, shaking my head as I returned to my toast.
Aunt Grace was in her late twenties, and she had the kind of confidence people twice her age only dreamed of. She had a solid job, plenty of ambition, and no problem keeping her social life interesting.
Her meta nature wasn’t anything flashy—she could repair paper, and only paper—but she carried it with a quiet pride that I’d always admired. It wasn’t about how grand or powerful her abilities were; it was about how she owned them, how she found value in something so seemingly small. That was Aunt Grace in a nutshell—unapologetically herself, no matter what.
After finishing breakfast, I grabbed my bag and was just about to step out the door when her voice stopped me. “Before you leave, tell me how’s my day,” she called.
I froze for a moment, glancing back at her. She was lounging on the couch, her expression casual and unreadable.
Over time, I’d learned to respond to these moments without looking too deeply.
There were rules I’d set for myself, values I clung to, especially when it came to knowing too much. Sometimes, the future wasn’t something people really wanted to see, and I was more than happy to keep it that way.
“It’s looking good,” I said with a small smile, careful to keep my voice light.
She nodded, seemingly satisfied, and I stepped out into the cool morning air, letting it sweep away the weight of the moment.
By the time I got to the academy, I’d already missed my first lecture. The second one, Fundamentals of Meta Nature, was well underway when I slipped into the classroom.
I kept my movements quiet, though no one seemed to notice. Most of the students were absorbed in their notes or the instructor’s animated explanation. A few heads turned briefly, but they quickly lost interest.
I couldn’t help but notice that the class felt different. A lot of the faces around me were unfamiliar, and it hit me—this wasn’t the same group I’d been sitting with last week. At the academy, classes weren’t static; they shifted constantly, tailored not just to a student’s meta nature but also to the roles they were expected to fill in the future. It made sense, but it still felt strange to see how fluid everything was, how temporary.
I slid into the empty table, letting my bag drop to the floor beside me with a soft thud.
As I settled in, my gaze drifted sideways. Sitting to my right was a girl with short, meticulously styled hair that framed her face just so. Her clothes, sharp and effortlessly coordinated, hinted at a sense of fashion that was anything but accidental.
Designer baby? I thought to myself. It wasn’t an unusual guess.
Genome editing had been a perfected science for over two centuries. Nearly everyone born in the last couple hundred years carried tweaks of some kind, even if they were subtle. In my case, it was height—I was taller than both of my parents—and a complete immunity to common illnesses. I’d never even had a cold.
But those with wealth didn’t stop at subtle. They could push the limits, tailoring their children into walking masterpieces. Sculpted beauty, enhanced intelligence, even engineered athleticism—the possibilities were endless, provided you had the cash. And with the right labs, even natural disadvantages could be rewritten.
I remembered hearing about cutting-edge research labs in the future working to guarantee the forming of a powerful meta nature through prenatal editing. Yet, despite the enormous funding and lofty goals, the results had been… lackluster.
Meta nature didn’t play by the rules.
It emerged with its own mysterious rhythm, defying even the most advanced predictive models. No amount of money or science could force it.
Still, there was something about this girl that felt… off.
It wasn’t her style or the inevitable modifications behind her flawless appearance. There was a subtle dissonance, a tension I couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t obvious—not to anyone else, at least. But to me, it was like the faintest vibration in the air, something just outside of reach.
My eyes flicked away, pretending to adjust my notes, but my curiosity lingered.
Too many odd things were happening around me. Or Coincidences!
The feeling crept in, subtle but insistent, like catching the edges of a pattern you couldn’t quite piece together. Something was amiss, though I couldn’t put my finger on it.
I wasn’t trying to be judgmental, but the sense was oddly familiar, like when you notice a pattern but can’t fully grasp it. Maybe it’s just her meta nature, I told myself, deciding to let it go for now. Whatever it was, it would surface eventually.
I turned my focus back to the lecture. Even with the experiences and knowledge I''d accumulated in my last cycle, a refresher on the basics wasn’t a bad idea.
Our instructor’s voice cut through the room, sharp and engaging. “As we’ve discussed before, we classify meta nature into three main types, each with their unique characteristics: Unique, Hive, and Bizarre.”
Her eyes swept across the class, bright with expectation. “Can anyone give me an example of a Hive-type meta nature?”
Silence stretched out as her gaze moved across the classroom, waiting for someone to volunteer. I considered responding, feeling a slight itch to contribute—but I decided to hold back, curious to see if anyone else would answer.
The tension in the room was palpable.
Hive meta natures weren’t rare—if anything, they were the most common, making up about eighty percent of the population. Stable and predictable, Hive meta natures had relatively uniform traits across users and rarely came with significant personal drawbacks.
Unlike the volatile Unique meta natures, Hive powers were widespread and safe, often passed down generationally without much variation. You’d think someone would be eager to answer such a straightforward question.
But the hesitation made sense, too. Many students had grown up with warnings from parents or mentors: Don’t talk about your meta nature openly. Someone might use it against you.
That fear was ingrained. It wasn’t paranoia; it was survival.
You never knew who might try to exploit what made you unique. Still, some meta natures were so infamous that everyone knew about them, their names whispered on the news, plastered across the internet, or associated with the kind of notorious figures who made headlines.
Fifteen percent of the population, however, wasn’t so lucky. Those with Unique meta natures had abilities that were as individualistic as fingerprints but came at a cost. Some had side effects—like energy-draining consequences, odd physical transformations, or unpredictable behaviors. Others had powers so obscure or specific that they struggled to find practical uses for them like Aunt Grace.
By contrast, Hive meta natures were generally reliable, as their traits were more uniform across users and rarely caused major personal drawbacks.
“The Ghost Writer,” a boy in the front row finally said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.
Mrs. Marlee’s face lit up, clearly pleased. “Exactly. The Ghost Writer is a classic example of a Hive-type meta nature.”
She wasn’t wrong. The Ghost Writer was practically the blueprint for Hive meta natures—and one of the most mysterious and common examples. Those who awakened as Ghost Writers didn’t just gain an ability; they inherited a role. It was as if the universe itself handed them a place in a sprawling, ever-shifting narrative. Their powers weren’t just tools—they were threads in a cosmic story, interwoven with secrets, influence, and peculiar rules.
It was said that their actions, and even their existence, aligned with a grand, unknowable plot.
In some ways, they weren’t just living their lives—they were fulfilling a story. Their abilities often manifested in strange, narrative-driven ways, unpredictable and yet oddly purposeful. The Ghost Writer didn’t just write—they created outcomes, forced events into motion, and uncovered truths as if compelled by a greater force.
There was even a rumor that one of the strongest humans alive possessed a Hive-type meta nature with the title Protagonist.
And, naturally, the world didn’t limit itself to a single protagonist—Just as stories often featured multiple leading figures, the world, too, could support more than one. And titles like Protagonist, Antagonist, or even Hero and Villain could appear.
A ripple of interest moved through the classroom as Mrs. Marlee continued. “For those of you unfamiliar, Hive meta natures are often shared across groups, though they vary in how they manifest for each individual. Some are straightforward, like enhanced physical abilities. Others, like The Ghost Writer, are more complex and tied to broader concepts, Titles, for instance, are a fascinating example. They don’t just grant abilities—they assign inherent roles or tendencies that influence the person’s life and actions. It’s as if the universe gives them a function within its story.”
As I glanced around, I noticed the shift in the room. A few students were leaning forward now, listening more intently. It wasn’t surprising—Hive meta natures had an inherent balance of power and risk. Their shared traits could make them strong, but they also came with predictable vulnerabilities. Those interconnected qualities could be exploited, but the flip side was undeniable: being part of a larger group meant they had strength in numbers, a built-in network of support.
“For your first assignment,” Mrs. Marlee announced, “I’d like each of you to meet one of our teachers who possesses the Ghost Writer meta nature. His title is The Wise Mentor, which is quite a unique one. When you have time, go and introduce yourselves to him. Be polite—he’s someone who can help you with many of your challenges.”
A teacher with the title Wise Mentor? That practically screamed importance.
“And your second task,” she continued, “is to gather and write about as many Hive meta natures as you can find among family, friends, or even online. We’ll discuss them in our next class.”
I had to admit, Mrs. Marlee’s teaching approach was refreshingly unique and effective. She was giving students hands-on experience.
Then Mrs. Marlee shifted gears. “As I’ve mentioned the Hive meta nature,” she said, her voice taking on a more deliberate tone, “I’m pleased to add that we have quite a few Unique meta natures among us as well. Feel free to introduce yourselves to each other after class.”
However, then, her tone darkened slightly, her expression more guarded as she added, “But one word of caution for everyone—be aware of Bizarre meta natures.”
She didn’t elaborate, leaving the warning to hang in the air. That in itself said a lot. The government had invested considerable effort into educating people about the dangers of Bizarre meta-natures, and with good reason. They were rare enough that most people would never encounter one in their lifetime, but their unpredictability and chaotic nature made them a constant concern.
It was widely believed that Bizarre meta natures were “broken,” fragmented meta natures that didn’t conform to any logical system.
They were unlike any other category. I’d had my own unsettling experience with a Bizarre meta nature once, and it wasn’t something I’d ever forget. Those powers didn’t feel like they belonged to the person—or thing—that wielded them. It was as if the abilities had a mind of their own, existing outside the individual’s control or understanding.
Bizarre meta nature were also the only ones known to manifest in anything: a person, an animal, or even an inanimate object. That unpredictability was what made them so dangerous.
You could prepare for a Hive or Unique nature, but Bizarre natures? They defied preparation.
They didn’t just bend the rules; they ignored them entirely.