I can hear everything—the refrigerator grumbling, the car grumbling, even the city moaning.
They said it was talent, but I became an outlier because of it.
Until that day, my toaster went "sleeping" forever after toasting my last piece of toast.
Only then did I realize that the entire world was heading toward the end of "spiritual core failure."
Pure-blood humans regard me as a traitor, awakened omnics label me as a variable, ancient spiritual beasts are wary of me, and natural spirits cast a judgmental gaze on me.
What's even more terrible is that the cold "sages" deep in the earth's core believe that I am a logical paradox that must be eliminated, but the ancient guardian calls me the "chosen resonator"...
In this battle of life and death sweeping the continent, I am not a savior, I am just a repairman who wants justice for my toaster.
