The following Saturday, Daniel Mercer announced that the family would spend the afternoon training.
Noah imediately regretted getting out of bed.
“Why?” mhe asked.
Daniel stood in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee.
“Because your sister nearly put a hole through the garage wall yesterday.”
“It was a controlled experiment,” Mara protested.
“It was an uncontrolled experiment with a controlled explanation afterward.”
Owen laughed into his cereal.
Mara pointed at him.
“You melted a garden hose.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was testing something.”
Daniel rubbed his forehead.
“Exactly.
That’s why we’re training.”
The family used a concealed clearing several miles from town.
They had discovered it during the years following the laboratory accident, when they needed somewhere to understand their abilities without attracting attention.
The location was surrounded by thick woodland, and an old service road made it accessible without requiring them to walk through the town.
Noah had visited before.
He had always participated in the ordinary parts of the sessions: carrying equipment, recording observations, and reminding everyone to stop when an experiment became dangerous.
He had never demonstrated his real abilities.
Today would be no different.
Mara stood in the centre of the clearing, a collection of stones arranged around her.
She raised one hand, and three stones lifted from the ground.
“Watch this.”
She sent them spinning through the air, then redirected them toward a tree.
They struck the trunk one after another with heavy thuds.
“Good,” Daniel said.
“Now do it without damaging the tree.”
Mara sighed.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m your father.”
“That’s what I said.”
Owen went next.
He stood beneath a low branch while Daniel dropped a heavy wooden beam toward his shoulders.
At the last moment, Owen’s body stiffened and absorbed the impact without injury.
He grinned.
“See?
Perfect.”
“You were supposed to move,” Daniel said.
“I wanted to test durability.” Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
“You could have moved and tested durability.”
“That would have been less scientific.”
Helen stepped between them before the argument could develop.
“Enough.
Daniel, you’re up.”
Their father demonstrated a series of controlled lifts and strikes, showing Owen how to direct strength through his body without injuring himself.
Helen watched the others, occasionally correcting their posture or warning them when their heart rates rose too quickly.
Noah sat on a folding chair with a clipboard.
He looked exactly like what he was pretending to be: a teenager with no special abilities, helping his family document theirs.
“How’s the data?” Helen asked.
“Consistent.”
“Anything unusual?”
“Your husband’s technique is improving.”
Daniel smiled.
Mara groaned.
“He’s going to write a report saying we’re all terrible.”
“I would never do that,” Noah said.
“You’re writing it right now.”
“I’m writing that your control is inconsistent.”
“That’s worse.”
Noah lowered the clipboard.
“Would you prefer that I lie?”
Mara stared at him.
Then she laughed.
The training continued for another hour.
Noah recorded measurements, noted changes in performance, and asked questions that helped his family identify patterns in their abilities.
He was careful not to reveal how much he understood about supernatural power in general.
His previous life gave him a broad familiarity with fictional abilities, but the world around him was not obligated to follow television rules exactly.
He could help his family by observing them objectively.
That was a legitimate role, and it suited his cover.
During a break, Helen sat beside him.
“You know,” she said, “you don’t have to keep proving you’re useful.”
Noah looked up from the clipboard.
“What do you mean?”
“You’re always helping us.
Taking notes, organising equipment, checking that everyone gets home safely.
You don’t have to do that just because we have abilities and you don’t.”
For a moment, he did not know how to answer.
The original Noah’s memories contained years of quiet frustration.
He had loved his family, but he had also watched them become stronger and more unusual while he remained, in their eyes, the ordinary child.
They had never deliberately excluded him.
The emotion was old, but its residue remained.
Noah chose his words carefully.
“I help because I want to.”
Helen studied his face.
“Are you happy?”
The question was simple.
It was also more difficult than it should have been.
He was living in a world that could kill him through circumstances he did not yet understand.
He had a powerful body, a new psychic ability, and knowledge of future events that might change dramatically because of his presence.
He had also inherited a family that genuinely cared about him.
“Yes,” he said.
“I am.”
Helen reached over and squeezed his shoulder.
“Good.”
She returned to the others.
Noah looked down at the clipboard.
He could have told her that his body was far stronger than anyone in the clearing.
He could have shown them that he could fly, that bullets would not harm him, or that a concentrated beam from his eyes could cut through metal.
But doing so would change the family’s understanding of him.
They might be delighted.
They might be worried.
They might demand explanations he could not provide without discussing the transmigration and the system.
More importantly, revealing his powers would create expectations.
His family would no longer see him as the quiet brother who recorded their training sessions.
They would see him as the strongest member of the household, and every future danger might become a reason to call on him.
He did not want to be careless with their trust.
For now, they were safer believing him ordinary.
As the afternoon ended, Mara threw an arm around his shoulders.
“Come on, muggle.
We’re getting food.”
“Why am I the muggle?”
“Because you’re the only one who hasn’t thrown a rock through a tree.”
“I’ve been busy recording how you did it.”
“Exactly.
A muggle.”
Noah shook his head and followed her toward the road.
He could hear his family talking and laughing around him.
The secret he kept was not a rejection of them.
It was preparation.
One day, he might tell them everything.
But before he asked his family to understand the impossible, he wanted to understand it himself.