The world tasted different. Not literally, of course. The bland, meticulously crafted organic purée designed to maximize nutritional intake for a growing three-year-old still tasted… well, like pureed everything. But the air felt different. It thrummed with a low-frequency hum, a constant vibration that resonated deep within Lucian, or rather, Ethan inhabiting Lucian.

He sat in his high chair, a miniature throne crafted from polished cherrywood, and dutifully shovelled the green sludge into his mouth. His personal chef, a burly, red-faced man named Gustav, beamed nervously. Gustav, like everyone else in the Thorne mansion, seemed acutely aware of Lucian’s every move, his every utterance. They treated him like a fragile Faberge egg, terrified of cracking the precious thing.

But the precious thing felt anything but fragile.

The previous day, while staring at a wilting rose in the conservatory, a strange compulsion had washed over him. An urge, not to water it or cut it, but to… reach for its vitality. He hadn't understood it then, but the memory now resonated with a sickening clarity. He had focused, almost instinctively, on the fragile bloom, picturing it vibrant and alive. And, for a fleeting moment, he thought he saw a faint shimmer around the petals. The rose, previously drooping mournfully, had momentarily perked up.

He'd dismissed it as a childish fantasy, a trick of the light. But today, the hum was stronger, the feeling more intense.

He looked at Gustav, who was nervously wiping his hands on his apron. Ethan, the old Ethan, would have seen a cook. Lucian saw… something else. He saw a flickering flame, a vibrant energy radiating from the man. It pulsed with warmth, a reassuring, grounded presence. The hum in the air seemed to coalesce around Gustav, amplifying his aura.

Suddenly, Lucian felt a sharp pang of sympathy. Gustav’s flame wasn’t as strong as it should be. He saw faint cracks, flickering moments of dimness within the aura. He was tired. Stressed.

The realization hit Lucian like a physical blow. He wasn't just seeing energy; he was sensing life force. The Necronomicon Interface hadn't just rewritten his code; it had unlocked something… primal. Terrifyingly, exhilaratingly primal.

He pushed his high chair away, startling Gustav. "Walk," Lucian announced, his voice still high-pitched and childlike, but carrying a newfound authority that made Gustav jump.

"But Master Lucian," Gustav stammered, "you haven't finished your breakfast."

"Walk. Garden," Lucian insisted, pointing towards the French doors that led to the sprawling Thorne estate gardens. He needed to test this. To understand.

Gustav, ever obedient, reluctantly complied. He bundled Lucian into a miniature Burberry coat and escorted him outside. The cool morning air nipped at Lucian’s cheeks, but he barely noticed. He was too focused on the explosion of life surrounding him.

The gardens were a symphony of vibrant energy. Each plant, each flower, each blade of grass pulsed with its own unique signature. The towering oak trees throbbed with ancient power, their energy a deep, steady resonance. The delicate tulips emitted a brighter, more fragile light.

He reached out to a nearby rose bush, its blooms a fiery crimson. He focused his attention, trying to replicate the feeling from yesterday. The hum intensified, building to a near-unbearable crescendo. He saw the rose’s energy signature in even greater detail, each petal glowing with individual intensity.

Then, without conscious thought, he reached for it.

He didn't know what he was doing, only that he felt compelled to manipulate the flow of energy. He imagined drawing some of the rose’s vitality into himself, just a tiny amount, enough to… to what? He wasn't sure.

The moment he focused his intent, a jolt of pure energy surged through him. It was intense, almost painful, but also… intoxicating. He felt a connection to the rose, a deep, symbiotic link. He could sense its health, its vibrancy, its almost imperceptible struggles against the elements.

He didn't take any energy, not consciously. He simply observed, allowing the connection to flow both ways. He saw a tiny aphid, clinging to a stem, slowly draining the plant’s life force. He felt the rose's inherent resilience, its natural defense mechanisms struggling to combat the parasite.

He frowned. This wasn’t just sensing; it was… understanding. He understood the rose's struggle.

He focused his attention on the aphid, picturing it… gone. He didn’t want to kill it, exactly, but he wanted it to… disappear. The connection to the rose amplified his intent.

Suddenly, the aphid seemed to convulse. Its tiny body trembled, and then, with a barely perceptible puff of dust, it vanished.

Lucian gasped, stumbling backward. He broke the connection with the rose, and the hum in the air subsided. The world snapped back into focus, the vibrant energies receding into the background.

He stared at the spot where the aphid had been, his heart pounding in his chest. He had… manipulated life. He had, in essence, killed.

A wave of nausea washed over him. He sank to his knees, the weight of his newfound power crushing him. This wasn't a game. This wasn't some intellectual exercise. This was real.

Gustav, ever watchful, rushed to his side. "Master Lucian! Are you alright?"

Lucian shook his head, unable to speak. He couldn’t tell Gustav what had happened. He couldn’t tell anyone. Who would believe him? They’d think he was crazy, a delusional child.

But the implications were terrifying. If he could influence life and death on this small scale, what could he do with more practice, with more control? The potential for good was immense. He could heal the sick, rejuvenate the elderly, restore balance to the natural world.

But the potential for evil was equally staggering. He could wither entire ecosystems, drain the life force from his enemies, become… a god.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine. He didn't want to be a god. He didn't want this power. He just wanted to go back to his old life, to the monotony and the despair. At least then, he hadn't been responsible for the life and death of everything around him.

He closed his eyes, trying to block out the hum, the vibrant energies, the overwhelming responsibility. He wanted to be Ethan again, the insignificant data analyst who just wanted to be left alone.

But Ethan was gone. He was Lucian Thorne now, the three-year-old heir to a technological empire, blessed (or cursed) with the powers of the Necronomicon Interface. And he was trapped in a gilded cage, surrounded by corporate vultures and whispers of the unseen, with the weight of life and death resting squarely on his tiny shoulders.

He opened his eyes, his gaze hardening. He couldn’t ignore this. He couldn't run. He had to understand this power, to control it, before it controlled him. He had to find a way to navigate this treacherous new reality, to protect himself and those he cared about.

Even if it meant embracing the role of Reaper, the reluctant sovereign.

"Take me back inside," he said to Gustav, his voice barely a whisper. "I want to read."

Gustav, relieved that Lucian seemed to be recovering, scooped him up and carried him back into the mansion. Lucian clutched Gustav's coat, focusing on the steady, warm flame of his life force. It was a reminder of the humanity he was so desperately trying to cling to.

As he was carried back into the sterile, opulent interior of Thorne Manor, Lucian knew one thing for certain: his life would never be the same again. He had glimpsed the hidden world beneath the surface, a world of vibrant energy and terrifying potential. And he was now inextricably linked to it.

He had to learn the rules of this new game, and fast. Because in this game, the stakes were nothing less than life and death. His own, and perhaps, the lives of everyone around him. The hum of the Necronomicon echoed within him, a constant reminder of the power he possessed, and the darkness that lurked just beneath the surface. The darkness that was now a part of him. The darkness that he might have to embrace to survive.