The room smells like steel, sweat, and scorched mana.
Dozens of recruits stand shoulder to shoulder inside the Rank Assessment Hall of the Fifth Hunter Division. The space is industrial and imposing—high ceilings reinforced by exposed iron beams, rust flaking at the edges.
Flickering mana bulbs swing from overhead fixtures, casting stuttering shadows on the concrete floor. Cold air seeps through invisible vents. It's sterile.
Lifeless. Like a battlefield pretending to be a lab.
Nobody talks. Nobody dares to breathe too loudly. The tension isn't just thick—it's sharp. Taut enough to cut skin. The collective unease hums through the air, amplified by the low whine of mana charging the pylons that ring the assessment platform.
At the back of the line stands a boy, silent, watchful. Still trying to make sense of the morning.
He doesn't remember his name.
Doesn't remember how he ended up in a dorm room, staring at someone else's face in the mirror. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A faint scar curving just above his chest.
Right above the heart.
It throbs sometimes. Not painfully. Just… persistently. A slow, cold pulse.
Not a heartbeat. A pressure. A quiet resistance. Like something is alive in there, coiled tight, out of sync with the rest of him. Foreign.
The mirror hadn't lied. But it hadn't told the truth either.
That reflection looked human. Normal, even. Clean face. Straight posture. No blood, no wounds. But the eyes—For a single breath of a moment, they had flickered black.
Just once.
He had seen it. Swore it. Not a trick of the light. Not a shadow. Just black. Like the void blinked.
That was hours ago.
The unease hasn't faded. If anything, it's blooming—spreading through his ribs, curling into his spine, threading his limbs with a dull electric charge that leaves him restless and alert.
The guy ahead of him fidgets. His boots squeak slightly on the floor. He rubs at his arms like he's cold—or afraid. Maybe he feels it too.
"What is this place?" the boy asks, voice low, wary.
The guy glances over his shoulder, brow furrowing. "The Fifth Division. You
passed the preliminaries, didn't you? You're here to be Ranked."
Ranked.
The word means little to him. He hasn't taken any tests. Not that he remembers. But the mark on his wrist—a dark coiled sigil that looks burned into the skin—glows faintly beneath his sleeve. Dim. Subtle. But active.
It reacts to the hall around him. To the pylons. To the platform. It pulses like it recognises something.
Like it belongs here.
Maybe it does.
Maybe none of this is a mistake.
Maybe it's worse.
"Next!" barks the examiner up front.
The line lurches. Everyone shifts forward a step, boots scraping. The boy moves with them, heart—or whatever is in its place—pressing harder in his chest. His skin feels clammy. His breath was shallow—his mind spirals.
His chest feels tight now. Wrong. He swallows.
And then freezes.
His breath catches mid-inhale. He presses a hand to his chest.
Nothing.
No thud. No rhythm. Just silence. Deep and hollow.
Like a body missing its metronome.
He stumbles, knees softening, vision blurring at the edges. But he catches himself, swaying on his feet. No one notices. No one cares.
The line moves. So does he.
The platform comes into view—raised stone etched with runes, surrounded by steel pylons humming with charged mana. Sparks flicker at the seams, dancing like fireflies caught in a storm. The scent of ozone and burnt air grows stronger, crawling into his lungs.
One by one, recruits step forward. They press their palms to the pedestal. A
pulse. A burst of light. The screen above flashes: S. A. B. C… and down.
A girl steps off the platform with her eyes wide and mouth parted in disbelief. Her result glows rare: B+. The next recruit trembles as he retreats, the crimson D flashing like a brand on his back.
Each rank is a label. A limit. A prophecy.
Then—it's the boy's turn.
The examiner narrows his eyes. "Name?"
He doesn't answer.
The silence stretches.
The examiner's face hardens. "Step in."
He obeys, legs stiff. The platform vibrates beneath his boots. Power crackles in the air, lashing against his skin like invisible tendrils. The hair on his arms stands upright.
He lifts his hand, hesitates.
The pressure in his chest surges now. Not just resistance. Something clawing
outward. Pressing against his ribs like it's trying to escape.
Still, he lowers his hand.
The moment his skin touches the stone—
Everything shatters.
A violent surge erupts from the pedestal, black and violet energy shooting skyward. The mana flares like a supernova—brilliant, unstable, crackling with violent life. Wind explodes outward. Screams ring out as recruits stumble back, shielding their faces.
Mana bulbs overhead burst in unison, glass raining down.
And then—darkness.
Everything cuts out.
Silence.
Only the pedestal hums, glowing with residual energy. The floor beneath him is cracked. Smoking.
Then, flickering light returns. The screen above stutters. Glitches.
And finally—buzzes to life.
E
Someone snorts. Then laughs—loud and cruel.
"All that drama for an E-Rank?" a voice jeers. "Thought the kid was about to
transcend."
Chuckles ripple across the room like oil on water. But the boy doesn't hear them.
He's still staring at his hand.
The stone is scorched and fractured beneath his touch. A faint pulse echoes up through his fingers.
Something responded.
The air buzzes faintly—too soft for others to hear. Like a frequency meant only for him.
He pulls his hand back, trembling. The lights overhead flicker again, only above him. As if undecided.
The examiner watches, eyes narrowed. Suspicious. On edge.
Something isn't right.
Even he feels it.
Whatever heart is beating inside this chest, it isn't his.
It isn't human.
And it's waking up.
—
That night, the boy sat alone on the dorm rooftop.
The city below hummed—mana trams gliding between high-rise rails, neon guild
signs blinking in layered languages. Steam rose from alley vents. Drones buzzed like insects across the skyline. But up here, above it all, it was quiet.
Still.
Like the world had forgotten he existed.
The wind tugged at his hair. Cold. Sharp. The stars above seemed too bright.
Too close. As if they were watching. As if they knew.
He stared at his hand.
His veins pulsed—just for a second. Black. Faint and fast, like lightning beneath the skin. Then gone.
A mirage. Or a warning.
He knew what he saw.
More importantly, he knew what he felt on that platform.
Something deep inside him had stirred. Pulled. Reached for the mana like it was food. Like it had been starving.
The memory hit him like a blade through the skull.
A vision—not his own.
Fire. Bone. A throne of skulls, cracked and blackened.
Figures knelt in the smoke. Shrouded. Silent. Bowing.
Whispering a name he didn't know.
"My Lord."
The words echoed through him still. Ancient. Worshipful. Dread-heavy.
But he wasn't a lord.
He wasn't even sure he was human.
A boy with no memory, waking with someone else's heart, anchored by it. A heart that shouldn't beat.
A heart that pulsed with dormant power. Not human. Not dead either.
Something else entirely.
He curled his fingers into a fist, knuckles pale under the starlight.
E-Rank.
A lie.
The system hadn't recognised him. Couldn't classify him.
That wasn't a judgment. It was a placeholder.
A glitch.
A warning.