I GOT SUMMONED WITH THE POWER OF NUKES

THE SUN INSIDE

The Awakening Ceremony pulsed under Queen Onelia's gaze, her golden aura crushing the air like a fist. The crystalline orbs hummed, a low growl that shook bones, rattled hearts.

Students stepped onto the crimson mat, one after another. Hands pressed to glass, faces twisted, breaths caught—then they stumbled back, forever changed.

Ren lurked at the edge, eyes slicing through each awakening. A boy lurched off the mat, frost exploding from his fingers, no shield to catch his fall. Another summoned jagged iron, sharp and wild, nothing to guard him. Across the hall, a girl glowed, light weaving around her with a protective hum. Another—sound waves paired with a shimmering barrier. Women balanced, men weapons. A cruel, deliberate split

Deliberate, Ren thought, jaw tightening. Stark. Rigged.

When his turn came, he moved toward the mat—but paused. He bowed low, his voice steady, sharp enough to cut the silence.

"Your Majesty, may I ask a question before my awakening?"

Onelia's eyes narrowed, gleaming like drawn steel. She let the pause stretch, then inclined her head. "Speak."

Ren's voice carried clean through the chamber. "I've noticed women receive two magics—attack or support, paired with protection. Men, only destruction. Why?"

Whispers hissed. Advisors stiffened.

The queen rose. Her aura surged outward, a pressure wave that forced half the room to their knees. Ren's legs trembled, and he dropped to one knee with controlled grace, bowing his head but not breaking his stare.

"You observe well," Onelia said. Each word landed like stone dragged across steel. "In Melincia, women are balance. Men are destruction. This law is written into the marrow of our world. That is all."

Ren held her gaze for a heartbeat, then bowed lower. "Understood. Different world, different rules."

Power dominates, he thought. No matter how they dress it.

He stepped onto the mat. Met Dianca's worried eyes across the hall. A faint smile ghosted across his lips—then his hands pressed to the orbs.

White heat ripped through him.

In his mind, a miniature sun roared awake—unstable, ravenous, devouring all in reach. Pain seared down to the soul, branding itself into him. He staggered, breath torn from his lungs.

When he opened his eyes—nothing. No glow. No aura. Just silence.

"I… don't feel anything physically...," he muttered.

Advisors exchanged uneasy glances. One finally stepped forward, voice careful. "You did not receive magic, Ren Amamiya. You have awakened an ability."

The word hit heavy. Murmurs spread—confusion, pity, thin laughter.

Then, with a sharp clap of hands, one of the advisors called, "Bring her forward."

A side door creaked open. From it stepped a young woman, robed in gray, her expression calm but unreadable. She bowed first to the queen, then to the advisors, then to the gathered students.

Without a word, she stepped onto the crimson mat. Her eyes closed as she lifted one arm.

Light shimmered faintly around her wrist. A hum built in the air—low, almost delicate—and then solid metal took form. Piece by piece, like an artisan's vision hammered into reality, a blade appeared. First the hilt, then the guard, then the long gleaming edge. When it was done, she gripped it firmly, presenting it with both hands.

A sword.

Gasps rippled through the students.

The woman bowed again and spoke, voice steady. "My name is Elira. I did not awaken magic. My ability is Sword-Making."

She turned the weapon, its surface catching the light, flawless, deadly. Yet there was no aura of spellcraft around it. No runes. No glow. Just steel, born of her will.

One of the advisors stepped forward, his voice carrying like a judge's sentence.

"This is what we mean. Abilities do not command the world's axioms. They do not shape the laws. They are what you make with your will. Rare, yes. Useful, sometimes. But weaker—because they lack the balance of magic."

The sword gleamed for a moment longer before dissolving into sparks, vanishing as Elira lowered her arm. She bowed once more to the queen, then quietly withdrew.

The students stared in silence. Some with awe. Some with pity. Others with smug relief that they had awakened "real" magic.

Snickers erupted from a cluster of boys.

Ren let the noise wash over him, face unreadable. Weaker? We'll see. He stepped down, Dianca's eyes full of worry.

Alex bounded up, grinning like the weight of the world had missed him entirely. "Matter Control! Not bad, huh?" He clapped Ren's shoulder. "Don't sweat it, bro. I've got your back."

Ren's mouth twitched into a thin smile. "Yeah. I know."

That night, the palace scattered them into rooms.

At his door, Dianca caught his hand. Her voice was small, fragile against the stone halls. "Ren… can I stay with you tonight? I… I just want to feel safe."

He hesitated. Her vulnerability cut sharper than the queen's pressure had. He cupped her cheek, thumb brushing gently. "Not tonight, babe. Not yet." He kissed her forehead, smiling faintly. "I'll protect you. Always. You don't have to worry."

Her shoulders eased. She nodded, released him, and left.

Ren shut the door. Leaned against it. Closed his eyes.

And there it was again—the burning sun inside his skull.

Test it.

He shut his eyes, summoning the vision that had branded itself into him. Not flame. Not light. A sun. A weapon.

The pieces clicked. Not magic. Not axioms. Physics—nuclear physics. The sun burns on it.

My ability isn't fire. It's fission.

His throat tightened. Two possibilities: the power to mimic miniature suns—or the power to recreate every nuclear weapon humanity ever designed. Both terrible. Both his.

He chose the smallest test: the Davy Crockett.

Every ruthless detail filled his mind—the frame, the trigger, the destructive core.

Because when he opened his eyes, it hung in the air outside. Real. Present. Moonlight slicked across its surface.

A spike of agony knifed through his skull. He clenched his teeth, a hand rising to his mouth to stifle sound; warm blood slicked his palm. He forced himself to breathe, to focus.

"I can't leave it here…" His voice rasped. He crooked a smile at the bomb. "Up you go."

The weapon shot skyward, a streak swallowed by the night. Ren staggered, counting under ragged breath. One minute. Two. Three. Altitude: orbit.

His hand rose. Trembling. Voice raw.

"Explode."

The night became day.

For a single heartbeat, a second sun burned above the world—before snuffing itself out, even its too small to shook anything.

Ren collapsed, agony twisting his body, blood soaking his palm. Through the haze, a faint smile clawed its way to his lips.

"From now on… my ability's name is… Nucleons."

Darkness took him.

Morning light dragged him back. Ren woke stiff on the cold floor, palm split and dry with blood. After wrapping it, he sat by the window, dawn soft on his face.

The door creaked. Dianca slipped in, grin fading when she saw the bandage.

“Ren… your hand?”

He smiled faintly, ruffling her hair. “Just a scratch.”

She didn’t believe him. Quietly, she kissed the cloth. “You’re too stubborn.”

Ren chuckled. “And you’re too kind. Thanks, Dianca.”

Her cheeks warmed. “I love you, you know? I’ll keep trying.”

He touched her cheek, voice low. “Thanks for loving me.”