"The gods chose everyone but me. That should've made me safe. I was wrong."
The sky burned with light the night the blessing of gods rained down.
It was supposed to be just another Selection Day — fireworks in the sky, parades in the city, and students crammed in the hallways, praying for a divine brand to bloom on their skin. But for Shoji Arasaka, seventeen and still unblessed, it was just another day of being forgotten.
He stood at the back of Class 3-C in Kamizu Academy, the lowest-ranked public Exalted high school in the Yamato Prefecture. Most of the students here were bottom-tier hopefuls — born from weak bloodlines, poor, or just unlucky. But even in a school of last-chancers, Shoji was at the bottom.
No family lineage. No grace. No power.
Just scars on his hands from holding practice swords that never moved the way they should, and grades barely good enough to keep him off the drop list.
"Still nothing?" asked Kana, his only friend and the class rep, her arm glowing faintly with a silver vine — a minor Blessing of Temperance from the Faction of Grace.
Shoji shook his head. "Guess I'm not useful enough to be a meat puppet for a god."
She frowned. "Don't joke like that. The Marks aren't… evil. Some of them do good."
Shoji looked away. He wasn't sure if she believed that or just needed to. The truth was, receiving
Grace meant power, and power meant survival — especially now, when cities vanished overnight in "proxy wars" the public wasn't allowed to talk about.
It was common knowledge whispered in back alleys and censored news feeds: the gods couldn't descend to the human world. Not directly. But every few years, their factions released Marks — living fragments of divine essence that latched onto chosen humans, turning them into Bearers.
These humans gained abilities tied to the domain of the god that graced them: Wrath-borns became living weapons; Sloth-graced could slow time; Greed-favored controlled matter at will.
But every Grace had a cost. Some Bearers burned out — their bodies unable to handle the strain. Others became unstable, their powers warping beyond control. A few simply vanished, consumed by the will of the god they served.
Shoji had read every case study, every record. Not because he wanted to be one of them — but because he was obsessed with understanding why he wasn't.
Everyone wanted to be chosen. Shoji just wanted to know why he wasn't.
That night, something changed.
It wasn't during class. It wasn't even during the ceremony.
It was in the alley behind the school, long after sunset, after Shoji stayed late to clean up the kendo room — alone, again. The night air was thick with mist, the kind that muffled sound and made the world feel like a nightmare.
And then the sky tore open.
He had seen it before — once, when he was twelve. Everyone had.
When a Grace descended, the sky shimmered. Soft light, slow and sacred, like falling feathers made of starlight. The air would hum with quiet music, and one lucky soul would feel their skin burn with the seal of a god. That was how it was supposed to happen. Holy. Beautiful. Chosen.
This wasn't that.
This was violent.
The sky didn't shimmer — it split, like someone had torn a hole in the heavens with bare hands. A rift hung jagged over the rooftops, bleeding golden light that pulsed and twisted like something alive, something big.
And then came the voice.
Not loud. Not even spoken. Just... there. Inside him.
"Chosen... discarded... perfect."
A single fragment of light fell.
But this was no normal Grace.
Normally, Graces had shapes — distinct, divine logos that reflected the god's faction. Wrath-borns were marked with flames, jagged and consuming. Greed's graces shimmered with gold, ever-shifting like coins. Temperance came in flowing vines, green and delicate, a symbol of balance and restraint. Each symbol was a reflection of the god's domain, precise and purposeful.
This wasn't that.
It wasn't the usual glowing symbol, the refined shape of a god's purpose. No elegant design. No divine mark.
It pulsed — unstable, shifting, like raw light surging across Shoji's hand, struggling to hold its form, flickering as if it didn't belong, constantly warping in and out of focus.
Shoji didn't move. He couldn't. The light struck his hand.
And for a moment, he felt everything — a universe of rage, grief, hunger, and despair, all screaming through his veins. Then, nothing. All black.
When he woke, the alley was empty. No gods. No witnesses. No mark on his skin.