Los Angeles — En route to Solari Consortium
As Ren drove through the morning traffic of Los Angeles, the hum of the engine faded into the background, overrun by the quiet weight of his thoughts. His gaze stayed forward, but his mind wandered—to the strange fate that had brought him here.
Reincarnated into Eleceed.
He remembered the manhwa well—at least the parts he had managed to read before life had spiraled into complications he'd rather leave buried. What always stood out to him, even then, was how the story skirted around the intricacies of its own world. There was never a clear explanation of the power system, no deep lore to give the structure weight. It felt unfinished—like a painting only half-colored in.
And then he was born again—into that very world.
Into a prestigious Japanese awakened family, no less. One steeped in tradition, bound by rituals older than memory, where honor was currency and conformity law. From the moment he could walk, he was trained. And it soon became clear: Ren was a prodigy.
But brilliance came with a cage.
By the age of twenty, he had enough. He disappeared—erased his name, took on a new one: Ren Arabe, and vanished into the world. Since then, he had wandered. He'd seen the buried ruins of old empires, followed rumors across continents, and unearthed truths that were whispered about only in the deepest awakened circles.
He learned that the gods of old—Zeus, Susanoo, the Jade Emperor, even lesser-known deities from fading pantheons—were not myth, but awakened individuals. So powerful were they that those around them, unable to comprehend their abilities, had simply called them gods.
Debate still raged among awakened scholars. Some argued those ancient awakeners weren't truly divine, merely mythologized by the non-awakened, their abilities recorded and exaggerated over centuries. Others insisted the aether of the old world was more pure, untainted by modern entropy—and because of that, the awakened of that era truly stood on a higher plane.
The truth? It was likely a bit of both.
His thoughts shifted to the canon events of the manhwa. Should he make contact with Jiwoo Seo?
He shook his head lightly. "Kaiden wouldn't allow it." The man was notoriously paranoid—justifiably so—and wouldn't trust a stranger like him, no matter how harmless he might appear. And I'm hardly harmless, Ren thought wryly.
He sighed, voice barely a whisper as he muttered, "Ashita wa ashita no kaze ga fuku."
Tomorrow's wind will blow tomorrow.
A reminder not to try to predict or control everything. The future, like the wind, shifts as it pleases. He still had two years before the core events of the story unfolded. Time, for now, was on his side.
Before long, the gates of the Solari Consortium came into view—a gleaming skycraper tucked into the LA hillside like a fortress of glass and steel. He slowed the car and grabbed his ID from where it hung on the rearview mirror.
The guard stationed there was a stocky man with a sun-wrinkled face. Bill, familiar and dependable.
"Morning, Bill," Ren said as he held up the ID.
Bill gave a casual nod. "Same day as always, Ren. Vacation treat you well?"
"It was good," Ren replied, a practiced neutrality in his voice.
Bill gave a signal, and the gate slid open with a mechanical groan. Ren drove through, following the winding path toward the employee parking lot. As he maneuvered into a space, he glanced at his reflection in the mirror. His long black hair was tied into a messy bun, a few stubborn strands framing his face like curtains.
But his thoughts darkened again, turning to Nexus-9.
Two branches destroyed. Brazil. Austria. He knew it was only a matter of time before they responded in force. For now, he would lay low. Keep his head down. Bide his time.
He stepped out of the car, the early sun catching in his hair, and walked toward the main building of the Consortium.
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Ren arrived at the main building of the Solari Consortium just as the sun crested the eastern skyline, its light gleaming off the building's mirrored facade. He made his way to the main entrance and assumed his usual position just beside the doors—neutral, composed, observant.
He checked the time. 8:20 a.m.
He had ten minutes before Celeste Lancaster arrived.
Celeste—second daughter of Alaric and Seraphina Lancaster—was 24 years old. Like her elder sister Vivienne, she had graduated from the prestigious World Awakeners Academy, a school known for producing elites. She now held the title of CEO of Solari's Pharmaceutical Division, a testament to both her pedigree and ability.
The Solari Consortium itself was no ordinary company. It was a sprawling, family-run colossus, its influence threading through tech, pharmaceuticals, energy, defense, media, and biological research. In many ways, it rivaled even state governments in power.
The Lancaster family was famous for their psychic-type awakened ability: Echokinesis—the power to manipulate sound waves. They can turn a whisper into a weapon, or erase a scream before it left your throat and thats only the tip of the iceberg. Moreover, his colleagues at work always remind People should really watch when they gossip around a Lancaster as they could eavesdrop even through walls. Ren smirked at the thought.
Right on cue, at 8:30 a.m. sharp, a sleek black car pulled into the circular driveway. Ren stepped forward as it rolled to a stop. He opened the door smoothly.
"Good morning, ma'am," he greeted.
Celeste looked up and blinked in surprise. "Oh—you've returned, Ren." Her voice carried the refined lilt of someone raised around power. "How was your leave?"
"It was good, ma'am," Ren replied, keeping it short.
But Celeste was never one for half-answers.
"I expect more than that," she said, stepping out with grace. "You'll fill me in on what you did—on the way to my office."
Ren exhaled softly through his nose, catching the teasing glint in her eye. "Yes, ma'am. I'll tell you how 'fun' it was," he said, tone flat with light sarcasm—still respectful.
"You know me, Ren," Celeste replied with a wink. "I always ask for detail."
Before walking off, she turned to gesture at her car. "Grab my documents—they're in the back seat."
Ren did as ordered, gathering the neatly stacked folders. They don't even have a weight at all. Not that it mattered.
As they made their way through the building's sleek corridors—glass, brushed steel, and soft ambient lighting all around—Ren recounted his fabricated vacation. He spoke of wandering through Athens, admiring the Parthenon, strolling through Ancient Olympia, and then flying to Rome to visit the Colosseum.
"The Colosseum," Celeste mused. "Isn't that where captured awakened individuals once fought for their freedom?"
"You're right," Ren replied smoothly. "It was a blood arena, though the records are… sanitized."
"You've got a thing for history, Ren," Celeste said, glancing sideways at him. "I've noticed."
Ren gave a light nod. Even if the trip was fabricated, the passion wasn't. "I do like history, ma'am," he answered truthfully.
It was a quiet passion—one that had survived even across lifetimes.
They reached her office at last. Ren stepped inside and set the documents on a side table near her desk.
Then, without a word, he stepped back out and assumed position at the door—his place.
———————
Celeste sat behind her desk, the morning sun casting long beams across her office's minimalist interior. Beside her, her executive assistant, Christie, was already sorting through the tall stack of documents—triaging them by urgency and relevance.
As Christie worked, Celeste's thoughts drifted—to Ren.
When he first applied to the vacant security position at Solari HQ, he had seemed like any other awakened individual looking for stable work. But their family never took appearances at face value, not when it came to security—especially not when it involved a Lancaster.
We conducted a background check, as was standard for every awakened applicant. It turned up clean. His name: Ren Arabe, Japanese by origin, no criminal record, no suspicious affiliations. Everything about him was neat, orderly—almost too perfect.
The next phase of the hiring process was far more stringent. All candidates who passed the background check were personally interviewed by a member of the Lancaster family—in this case, one of my cousins, a proficient user of Echokinesis.
With our sound-manipulating ability, we had honed truth detection into a science. Micro-vocal frequency analysis could catch even the faintest shift in pitch, tone, or vocal vibration—tiny tells of dishonesty most wouldn't notice. We combined that with Heartbeat Echo Detection, sensing fluctuations in internal rhythms: a breath caught too quickly, the subtle tightening of the throat, an irregular heartbeat.
Many applicants—nervous, hiding secrets, or simply lying—were caught and rejected on the spot.
Only a few remained. Ren was one of them.
The final test was what we called the Crucible—a series of one-on-one duels. It was designed to measure strength, adaptability, and how well an awakened individual could fight under pressure. At Solari, power wasn't optional. If you were weak, you protected nothing.
The duels were overseen by none other than my father, along with Vivienne and myself. Most of the bouts were uninspiring—one-dimensional fighters, either too cautious or too raw to display any real control over their abilities.
But then… Ren stepped in.
On paper, he had declared a physical-type awakening, boasting enhanced speed, strength, and endurance. What stood out immediately was his versatility—where others were limited to a single physical trait, Ren displayed a balanced and formidable control over all three.
He dispatched his opponents quickly, but not recklessly. His movements were sharp, measured, the product of rigorous training. Still, my father wasn't impressed by the level of opposition Ren faced.
So, father called out one of our own—a Solari agent and Echokinesis user—to face Ren directly.
Ren made one request: a wooden sword.
At first, I thought he was in over his head. The agent's precision and sound-based attacks disrupted Ren's tempo, forcing him on the defensive. But then, he adapted. Fast.
Ren began launching aether-infused slashes, bursts of pressure that forced the agent to react, throwing him off rhythm. He never gave him time to recalibrate. Then—in a flash of speed even I struggled to track—Ren was behind the agent, wooden blade hovering at his throat.
He had won. Decisively.
Father didn't say much at first. Just stared at him, thoughtful. Then, later, he told us that Ren was too well-trained for someone with such a spotless background. He insisted on personally interviewing him, wanting to see if Ren had somehow bypassed our detection methods.
After the private meeting, Father said only one thing: "He's clean." Then added something more surprising—he assigned Ren to be my personal bodyguard.
I've often wondered what my father really saw in him. What did Ren say—or not say—that convinced a man like Alaric Lancaster?