Bloody nails. The metallic scent in the air, like rotting meat left too long under the sun.

And that voice—deep. Raspy, rough, dragging like bones scraped against stone. Not human. Clearly not. Its body simmered like soot, dense and heavy. Smoke pretending to be shape. Beneath it, another body curled up. Her legs still hooked around the shadow man's hips—ridiculous. An intimate position twisted into torture.

Her neck tilted slightly. A hairline crack. Just a small pull, and the head popped off like a cheap porcelain doll.

But she laughed. A low giggle from the chest—not the chest of softness, but a hollow cavity filled with embers. The corner of her mouth torn, her right lip dangling, teeth jutting out of the wound like shards of broken glass.

"...but what?" she murmured, her tone amused, like a child discovering a dead worm in their friend's pants. Blood still dripped from her mouth—fresh, warm, salty.

The shadow leaned in, slipping into her breath. His eyes glowed faintly—red? purple?—like swampfire, and that smile... too self-aware. Too satisfied.

"...but not stronger than me."

Once—back in the age of stone and wounds—he stood atop a mountain of skulls. Voiceless, heartless. Blood was a river, and his tongue licked from bone to bone.

That large hand moved down, rough like ember sludge. Found a bare stomach that should've felt soft—but it wasn't the comforting kind of softness. It was disgusting. The kind that made your gut turn. Too quiet. Too compliant. His fingers rose, slowly, licking the air between two bare mounds, uncovered and shivering.

She sighed—not from pleasure. Not even from discomfort. But boredom.

Tch. If her neck wasn't held like firewood on a butcher's block, she would've jumped. Ripped that stinking creature to ribbons and tied its intestines into pretty bows.

"Your hand tickles. Are you trying to seduce me, or are you just an idiot?" Flat. Dry. Her eyes narrowed, biting back a snarl.

The shadow didn't reply. Just dug deeper. One fingertip poked a sensitive spot with no regard.

"I should be gentle with my food. My delicious food."

The fingers pressed—just enough to tighten the skin, enough to make the brain twitch in revulsion.

"Oh? Seems like you're a bit excited down there too. Don't tell me… you've got a fetish for prey that hates you?" Her tone was flat, but every word felt like a shard of bone flung into the monster's face.

The shadow chuckled. A sound layered deep, like a thousand little laughs from mouths that had no shape. His face moved closer. His breath reeked of wet soil and expired flesh.

"Too much talk, for something that's going to die."

And then—bite. Not a bite. A tear. Brutal. Deranged.

Back then, a bite meant coronation. The one who bit was the one who ruled. Blood was a signature, an inheritance, a wound that never died.

Her ear ripped off. Blood spurted, fast, rhythmic like the last seconds of a rat caught in a washing machine.

She bit her lip. Eyes wide—not in fear. But hatred.

The monster chewed—her ear—like soft candy, then swallowed in one gulp. A little moan followed, like a sick orgasm. His body trembled. Bliss.

"Mmm… you taste divine. Worth the millennia. I'd wait again."

Silence. Silence. Silence.

Back then, no one spoke after being eaten. They hissed, they laughed, they waited for their turn to return the favor.

In the next life... You are no longer the hunter. You are prey. I will become the hole in your stomach that you cannot close. I will eat you from the inside.

Bastard.

And that—was the woman's last thought. Before her skin was chewed like wax. Before her bones were snapped one by one like brittle pine branches. Before her skull went crack— Nothing left.

Back then, there was no such thing as a "noble death." Only silence. Only teeth. Only a name left to rot in history.

A pair of violet irises lazily turned toward the ceiling of a classroom that was far too clean. Too sterile for stories of naked women and monsters licking blood off their own prey's chest. How could kids be asked to read that? How could... they believe it?

"Miss, if that's in history, does that mean creatures like that are real?"

Glasses kid. The type who doesn't yet know how to hide the smell of their own armpits. Finger raised like summoning a genie.

The answer was obvious. They are real. But they wrote them like fairy tales. Watered down. Cut up. Changed blood to dust. Screams to dramatic narration.

The teacher stood at the front—default smile, weary face hidden under makeup, short hair too "neat" for someone who claimed to have two kids. "That's right," she replied. "Those creatures were called…"

Of course. The real name was never spoken. Always replaced with something safe. Something neutral. Something that wouldn't crawl out of the grave and eat them in their sleep.

"…and their existence continues even now. That's why, in this era, we have special humans. They're trained to hunt those evil beings."

Evil. A funny word. Evil—for eating? Hilarious. They call themselves human and flay cows alive for dinner.

"Miss! How do we know if someone's a special human?"

Too sharp a question for a mouth that still sucked fingers. But... good.

The teacher answered like an educational bot. "There are several ways. The simplest: instinct. Their aura feels different. Second, they often have unique traits. Third, their abilities surpass human limits."

Ah yes. Powers. A blessing to the government. A curse to the bearer.

Rivea rested her cheek in her palm. Too bright. Too noisy. Too... fragrant. This class felt like an aquarium of goldfish fighting over bread crumbs.

"Rivea."

That voice cut through her thoughts.

Rivea looked up. Heavy eyelids, pupils like pinholes, violet eyes mocking the world. "…yes?" Soft. But cold. A voice that made people unsure whether to adopt or slap her.

The teacher began to walk. History book in hand, heels tapping like tiny hammers on the floor. "I see you yawning. Not paying attention."

I hear it all. Every word. Every lie wrapped in educational tone.

She stopped two steps from Rivea's desk.

"Answer this. What year did the death of the woman occur?"

A joke of a question.

Rivea's lips curled. Not sweet. Not a little girl's smile. It looked more like a scar being peeled open.

"2025," she replied. "During the war between Dev'ra and the monster." A pause. A breath. Her violet eyes stared straight.

"Which ended… with the woman being devoured. Completely."

The classroom fell silent. Too silent for a morning meant to be filled with children's voices.

The teacher stared at her. There was something in her eyes she couldn't hide. Confusion? Fear? Or… a memory rising from the deep?

Rivea lowered her gaze, small fingers tracing nothing across her desk. She knew. That line was too specific. Too alive.

But let them be. It's not time yet. Not yet time for them to realize... that the story read in dry voices isn't a fairy tale. It's history. It's real.

The wall clock ticked like a lazy heartbeat. Forty-eight minutes past the hour. Twelve minutes to freedom. But for Rivea, time didn't move. She was trapped inside a cage of flesh that called itself human.

"That answer was... very accurate." The teacher tried to smile, but her jaw tensed slightly. Her grip on the history book tightened, a reflex she probably didn't notice. "Let's… get back to the lesson, okay?"

She turned back to her desk. Her heels sounded heavier now. Quicker. Rushed.

A chuckle followed from the back row. A boy with stiff hair and a permanently sarcastic mouth leaned back in his chair and called out, "Damn, Rivea. You read the uncut version or what?" A few kids giggled. A girl covered her mouth with her hand like she was trying to be proper. "I thought the whole 'eaten alive' thing was just made up. But… kinda creepy if it's real."

Rivea didn't turn. Her finger kept tracing faint lines into the surface of her desk—shapes with no clear meaning. Symbols never taught in school. Symbols from a time before time had a name.

"Rivea?" The voice came from her right. Nina. The sweet girl with the pink ribbon who always smelled like cupcakes. "Aren't you scared?" she whispered. "I mean… if those creatures still exist…"

Rivea lifted her chin slightly. Looked at Nina without a smile. Without emotion. Just… looked.

"I'm more afraid of humans," she murmured.

Nina laughed, awkward and unsure. Not sure if it was a joke. "Eh, yeah… true."

But she didn't speak again after that. Silence swallowed the class once more.

"Miss!" A heavy voice from the front.

A big boy in a school sports jacket. Sixth-grader, held back twice for throwing a chair at a teacher.

"Can I go to the toilet? Emergency."

The teacher checked the clock. Nodded. "Be quick." Rivea followed the boy's movement with the corner of her eye. Not because she was interested.

But because his footsteps were too light.

Too… deliberate. He walked like someone who knew he was being watched. But not by the teacher.

I smell it. That faint scent clinging to his body—not sweat, not cheap body spray. Something older. Metal. Blood.

He wasn't a normal kid.

And he wasn't alone.

Rivea leaned back again, closing her eyes.

"Veil's pulse…" she whispered, barely audible.

The skin under her arm itched suddenly.

The cracked symbol sleeping there—began to throb softly. Like an eye… almost opening.

The sky over Nythra that evening looked clear—too clear. Like the surface of water hiding a corpse underneath. Sunlight bounced off the classroom windows, casting a dull glow on the faces of kids already bored out of their minds. Then the school bell rang—splitting the air like a gong at a funeral.

But no one stood. Not a single kid reached for their bag.

The classroom door creaked open—not the homeroom teacher, but the principal himself. His smile looked like it had been stapled on after vomiting blood. "Alright, children. Out to the field. All of you."

The floor of the lower hall trembled slightly.

A chorus of footsteps echoed through the corridors. From first grade to sixth, every kid was herded toward the back field. It was usually empty at this hour. Not today.

Two figures stood at the center. Not teachers. Not staff. Not parents.

One—tall, lean, hair tied back in a dark ribbon, eyes like chipped jade. No school badge on the uniform. Didn't need one.

Shadow Council. The kind that could sniff fear from a mile away. The kind that could smell the blood of a "special" before the poor kid even knew they were a monster.

The other—big, mean, a black jacket with a silver fang embroidered at the collar. His arms covered in brutal metal gauntlets that looked like they could crack open a grown man's skull like a peanut. FANG unit. The government's own rabid dog.

"Everyone sit," the principal said, voice higher than usual. Too high.

Rivea sat in the third row from the front.

She yawned wide, then deliberately leaned into her right hand, lifting one brow.

"They look like failed superhero auditions," she whispered, just loud enough for two rows on either side to hear. The kid beside her stifled a laugh, then fake-coughed to cover it.

The FANG officer snapped a look her way. "That mouth…" he growled. His fist clenched on instinct, and a heatwave of raw presence burst from his body—enough to make three kids nearby shiver without knowing why.

But the Shadow Council figure simply raised a hand. Didn't even turn. "She's just a child." The voice was flat. But those jade eyes…they were already locked on Rivea.

And she knew. He knows who I am. Rivea smirked sideways. Damn it.

The Shadow Council figure began to walk. Not fast. Not slow. But every step felt like it was counting every heartbeat in the field. He raised a finger. Pointed to a boy in the back row.

"You. White hair. Stand."

The boy stood, casually. Messy silver hair, half-buttoned uniform, and eyes like shattered mirrors. He yawned and grinned.

"Finally. I was about to die of boredom here."

FANG growled, ready to pounce if the kid made a wrong move. But the Shadow Council just glanced at him, then looked away.

"He's clear," he said.

"But… he's not the highest."

His gaze drifted back to Rivea. And the girl met it. Not with fear. But with sheer attitude—chin raised, hand under her cheek, a smirk just shy of disrespect.

"I don't stand unless you say 'please'," she said.

FANG almost lunged. But the Shadow Council sighed quietly. "Children…" Still, in those jade eyes—something shimmered. Awe. And hunger.

Three dots.

That was it. Three unmoving dots in a sea of elementary blue uniforms.

The Shadow Council raised his hand again—and the field fell into dead silence. He pointed. Not quickly, not carelessly—like he was picking the ripest fruit from a rotten tree.

"White hair. Back row. Stand."

"Already am," the boy replied, still standing like he'd been for the past minute. He yawned again, mouth half-shaped into a just take me or leave me alone kind of vibe.

"Middle row. Sixth grade. Black hair, violet eyes."

"Me?" Rivea raised a hand, all mock innocence. "Sure? I'm kinda sleepy, y'know. Might pass out halfway there."

FANG took half a step forward. Shadow Council didn't flinch. His jade-stone eyes never left her. "Come."

Rivea stood, tugged at her wrinkled uniform, walked like she was heading to the snack bar, not a test.

And the last one—that finger turned toward the fifth-grade section.

"That one. Solen Vire."

Solen rose without a sound. Clean. Polished. Too composed for a kid his age. Gold-gray eyes, light brown hair neatly combed. He looked like a poster child for a school brochure.

And honestly? He was. The whispers from teachers along the edges of the field started up. "He's brilliant."

"Already tested. Off-the-charts IQ."

"Model student."

Three kids now stood in the center.

FANG crossed his arms, eyes scanning them like a guard sizing up which dog bites hardest.

Shadow Council turned slowly, his coat trailing like ink in water.

"No tools needed," he said—quietly, maybe to FANG, maybe the principal, maybe just to himself.

He'd probably smelled it from the start.

Solen—clean. Strong aura. Controlled.

White-haired boy—wild, like a live wire stripped bare. Dangerous, but raw with potential. Rivea—

He stared at her longer than the others. A second. Then a few more.

And Rivea stared right back, with a small smirk. "That's the third time you've looked at me like that. Crush much?"

Solen blinked slowly.

Silver-haired boy burst into laughter.

"Damn, this girl's nuts. I like her."

The Shadow Council didn't blink. "You're one of the few who don't look away."

"I prefer watching people's backs as they run," Rivea said with a shrug. "But hey, if your face is asking to be stared at, I'm not rude."

FANG growled again, hand twitching toward his baton.

But once more—he was stopped.

"I said, just children."

"Children, my ass," FANG muttered. "That one's a little monster."

Through it all, Solen remained silent.

Eyes straight ahead, hands behind his back, like he was waiting for his turn at a debate podium. Then, softly—almost a whisper:

"Are we... being taken away?"

Shadow Council turned to him.

"Not necessarily," he said. "Today... I just want to know which one of you knows—knows that you're different."

Rivea shrugged. "I knew back when my parents still thought I was a blessing. Now? They get nervous just making eye contact."

Silver boy grinned. "I knew the first time I died."

Silence.

FANG shot him a look. "Died?"

"Yup," the boy said, utterly casual. "Don't worry, just a quick one. Came right back. Cool, huh?"

Solen said nothing. But his eyes flicked—to Rivea, to the silver-haired boy. And for the first time... His perfectly calm expression cracked. Just a little.

The children had been dismissed. The teachers faded away like mist being reeled back into the fog. The schoolyard fell silent. Too silent.

Three children stood in the middle of it.

One glowed like fine gold. One like white embers that refused to die. And the last—she didn't shine at all. She pulled. Like a black hole. Drawing everything in.

The Shadow Council now stood with his back to them, facing the school principal, who was visibly sweating.

"Those two… aren't registered under any known candidates. No prior reports."

"I know," the Shadow Council said without turning. "But both of them… have kept their fangs hidden for too long."

He paused, his voice dropping like wind through an empty room. "The girl… doesn't belong to this generation."

The principal furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Too early to explain. Too late to stop."

Behind him, Rivea was sitting on the ground, humming softly as she plucked grass from the earth. The silver-haired boy stood with his back to the wind, hair wild, smile too calm. Solen stood straight as ever—but his fists were clenched too tight.

FANG watched them all, then stepped closer to the Shadow Council. His voice low but firm. "If they blow up in the middle of the city… who's taking the fall?"

Only a glance came in response. "If they blow… then the city won't be big enough to contain the consequences."

Rivea stopped plucking the grass.

She looked up—toward the sky, now cracking faintly into violet. Her eyes narrowed.

"…You're all late," she said. Softly. But it hit like a blade. "I woke up a long time ago."

The walls were too white. Dead white. Not the holy kind, but the shade of formalin decay and expired promises.

The corridors of the Vigilant Entity Neutralization Task Headquarters—V.E.N.T.H.—were sterile by design, nearly soundless, as if the building swallowed noise and spat out silence. The air reeked of antiseptic and metal. Rivea had wanted to vomit within the first five minutes.

Staff shoes clicked in uniform rhythm. Tight. Precise. Identical. Rivea dragged her feet on purpose, cutting through the tempo.

No one said a word.

Beside her, Kael grinned like a kid who knew too much. His silver hair was a mess, a sharp contrast to Solen—the fifth grader with a neat little suit, polished shoes, and the poise of a prince freshly dropped from heaven. His eyes observed. Every step. Every breath. Measured.

"They're all staring," Kael muttered, licking his lips, "and nothing's exploded yet."

"Yet," Rivea murmured. She glanced at the massive mirror ahead, catching her own reflection. Empty gaze. Tiny pupils. The faint pulse of the mark on her back throbbed like a whisper.

Solen looked at the two of them with a neutral face, but his chin lifted slightly.

"Act like you belong. This isn't a playground."

Kael chuckled. "Who shoved a ruler up your spine?" Their steps halted at a large, handleless door.

A man was already standing there. Old, but not frail. Calm face. Silver hair slicked back flawlessly. His black suit looked carved from the night itself. And his eyes—weren't human. No whites. Just endless black. Like ink wells that never dried.

Eidren Vaelmont. Someone whispered, "Warden Vaelmont," and bowed.

Even the FANG unit who earlier looked ready to drag Kael by the throat was now standing still, eyes locked forward, like soldiers awaiting judgment.

"Good morning," Eidren spoke gently. Too gently. Like a silk cloth in the hand of an executioner. "I hope your journey was comfortable. If not… I couldn't care less."

Rivea raised an eyebrow. Hmm. One star for customer service.

"Please, enter," Eidren said, opening the door without touching it.

The room behind it was wide. A round table. Three small chairs. Nothing more. On the far wall hung the V.E.N.T.H. insignia—a broken circle slashed through by five jagged lines.

The three entered.

Eidren walked slowly behind them, hands folded behind his back, not in a rush. "Let me introduce myself. I am Eidren Vaelmont. Warden of the Shadow Council Division. Starting today, I'll be observing you—to see if you're worthy." He stopped behind Rivea. His voice dipped low. Nearly a whisper. "Or dangerous."

Rivea turned her head slowly, lips curling.

"I'll go with dangerous. Sounds more fun."

Solen sighed quietly, disgust bleeding through. Kael raised both hands. "Then I pick sexy."

Eidren smiled, but his eyes stayed flat.

"Choices mean nothing here. Only results."

He turned, gaze sweeping the room.

"Tomorrow, you'll face the First Gate Test. Don't let the invitation swell your head. Many are called. Few return."

He glanced at Solen. "Even golden boys."

Then at Kael. "Even the sacrificial clowns."

And finally, Rivea.

His voice sharpened. Cold. "And especially the one who should've died thousands of years ago." Rivea said nothing. But her blood simmered. Just a little. Her smile never flinched.

Their chairs were uncomfortable. Too hard. Too straight. Designed, perhaps, to make sure your back never relaxed too long.

Or maybe no one was ever meant to feel comfortable in front of a warden.

Eidren Vaelmont sat across the round table.

A thin notebook lay before him. No pen. No screen. Maybe he remembered everything.

Or maybe... he didn't need to remember.

"Alright. Let's start with something simple."

His soft voice cut the air like a dining knife over fine porcelain.

His eyes—unyielding wells of black ink—turned right. Toward the white-haired boy, legs crossed, chin resting on one hand.

"Name?"

"Kael Veyne," the boy answered without hesitation. "But if Warden prefers, you can call me your problem soon."

Silence. Rivea let out a small sneeze. Could've been a stifled laugh—or a protest.

Solen exhaled like someone spotting a stain on his silk tie.

"Age?" Eidren asked, flatly.

"Twelve. But age is just a number, right? Unless I'm disguised as a piano teacher—that'd be very inappropriate."

Eidren tilted his head slightly. Studying Kael like he was dissecting him. "And where are you from, Kael?"

"Now or before?" Kael snapped his fingers. "Currently? Glyne District, block 3C. But back then… maybe a cave. Underground. Molded from flesh, not born."

No one laughed. But Eidren's eyes narrowed—for just a second.

"Next." His gaze slid to the center.

"Name?"

"Rivea Kaelith." Clear voice. No preamble.

"You can call me Rivea. Or don't call me at all—unless it's important."

Eidren nodded slowly. "Age?"

"Eleven. But like my neighbor here said, numbers mean nothing." Kael raised his small hand. "See? She gets it! Old soul club!" Rivea didn't respond.

"Origin?" Eidren asked, tone unchanged.

"You've got the file, right?" Rivea leaned her chin on her palm. "Glyne too. Block 2B. But... maybe I wandered here from somewhere deeper."

Eidren held her gaze for a long moment. But didn't press. Instead, he turned to the left.

The boy who sat with perfect posture, not a wrinkle out of place.

"Name?"

"Solen Vire," he replied crisply. "Fifth grade. Ten years old. Echo District, block 7. My parents work for the government. I have a flawless academic and medical record. My psych evals are above national standard, and—"

"That's enough." Eidren cut him off. "I don't need a brochure." Solen fell silent. Slightly vexed, but composed.

Eidren leaned back. His left hand brushed the table's surface. "Have any of you ever seen something... that couldn't be explained?"

Rivea stayed quiet. Solen lifted one shoulder with practiced caution. "Certainly. But I know how to differentiate hallucinations from abnormal manifestations."

Kael raised his hand.

"Seen one," he said. "When I was little. In the old house. Something whispered under the floorboards. One night I dug. Found a head. Old. Broken. But alive."

Eidren didn't blink. "And?"

"And it taught me how to play the piano," Kael said. "But only songs from hell. So I burned it."

Solen scoffed. "Ridiculous."

"Exactly. But you believed it for a second, didn't you?"

Eidren stared at Kael. Not angry. More like... catching the scent of poison beneath plastic flowers.

"Interesting," he said at last. "Many hide truth behind jokes. Few know how to bury traps inside them."

Kael smiled—quietly this time. Rivea glanced at him sideways. Guess his brain's not as broken as it looks.

Eidren stood. Calm steps. He circled the table, stopping behind them. His shoes barely made a sound on the stone floor.

"Last question. Are you willing to lose... a part of yourself to become stronger?" Solen answered immediately. "If it's for duty and national safety, I am."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Which part are we talking about? I've already lost a lot. But if I can choose, maybe... I'll give up my normal side first."

Rivea slowly turned her head toward Eidren, though he stood behind her. "I don't care what gets lost. As long as I get to eat first."

Silence. But not the empty kind. More like… a door somewhere had just creaked open. Eidren walked back around to the front of the table. He faced them.

"Tomorrow, all three of you will be tested. Not just physically. But your intent. Your mind."

He smiled faintly. "And you're allowed to regret it."

Then he sat again.

"You're dismissed. For now."

The moment the word left his mouth, no one moved.

Rivea stayed seated, legs swaying lazily.

Kael leaned so far back in his chair he nearly tipped over—would've hit the floor if not for his reflexes. Solen still upright, still composed. But his hands had drifted from their formal lock on his lap. He was... weighing something.

"Can we ask something now?" Kael spoke up. "Our turn." Eidren tilted his head slightly. "Go ahead."

"Why doesn't this room have any cameras or recording devices?" Kael pointed at the ceiling. "You using instinct? Or is your brain wired to the walls?"

Rivea glanced at him. Not a dumb question.

Well—not entirely. Eidren didn't answer right away. He rested both hands on his lap.

"Because truth doesn't show itself to lenses. It only lives where there's safety—or entrapment. This room provides both."

Kael grinned. "Damn. That was poetic, Sir." Solen nodded once, approving. "An efficient answer."

"My turn." Rivea cut in, voice half-lidded but gaze sharp. "Why us three? Out of hundreds out there... why only us?"

Eidren looked at her like she was a flame in a place meant to be frozen. He didn't answer right away—just raised a brow. "You already know the answer," he said quietly.

Rivea shrugged and licked her chapped lips. "Wanna hear your version."

"Most of them are just alive," Eidren replied. "But you three... exist. Kael snorted. "Mysterious. Cool. Still starving."

Solen raised his hand. Polite. Like a student in class.

"One question, Sir Eidren."

"Go ahead."

"Have you ever been wrong?"

The silence that followed wasn't tense. It was deep. Not because Solen sounded defiant—he didn't. But because the question was too clean for a ten-year-old. And not just any kid. Solen looked like a prototype of the elite.

Eidren tilted his head, eyes locking onto Solen's. "I'm human. Mistakes are inevitable. But I've never doubted." Solen recorded that mentally. Not for now. For later.

Kael shot his hand up like he was about to pee himself. Face lit up with excitement. "Final question!" he declared. "What's your favorite food?"

Eidren stared at him. Hard to tell if he was gauging a trap or just stunned by the stupidity. Then he answered. "Salted fish. With warm white rice."

Kael stared back, dead serious. "…Okay. You pass."

"Pass what?"

"The humanity test. I thought you ate baby brains or ancient leaves from alternate dimensions."

Rivea let out a laugh. Short, real. Solen wasn't sure whether to nod or be concerned. Eidren stood again—but not as stiffly this time. His steps toward the door were calm, unhurried.

"Save your other questions for tomorrow. You might lose your mouths during the test." Kael grinned. "If I lose my mouth, I'll insult you through writing. Or interpretive dance."

Eidren raised two fingers—a silent cue for the guards outside. "Up to you. Just don't dance at FANG headquarters. They're not known for humor."

As the heavy door creaked open, a gust of cold corridor air swept into the room—

and with it, the quiet certainty that from this moment on, they were no longer just kids.

The ceiling of V.E.N.T.H. headquarters was far too high for any regular human.

Steel-grey walls polished to a dull sheen. Every step echoed—like the sound of a body too small walking through a space too vast.

Rivea led the way, hands buried in the pockets of her worn-out school jacket.

Kael trailed behind, walking backward, rambling as usual. Solen followed, posture stiff and straight—like a height chart in human form.

"This place is huge," Kael whistled low. "Swear to God... if there's a secret hallway, I wouldn't even be surprised."

"If there is," Rivea muttered, "I'd find it first. You're way behind, silverhead."

They passed a corridor marked: FANG OPS: AUTHORIZED ONLY. Behind the clear glass, several FANG operatives were assembling weapons. One of them paused, glancing toward the kids—eyes sharp like a wolf catching a scent from the wrong direction.

Kael waved. "Hi there, scary uncle."

No response—just a blank stare. Then someone tapped the glass, soft and deliberate. Tap. Tap. Tap. Like a code.

"Why does everyone here look like they wanna punt us into hell?" Kael muttered, voice lowering.

"Because we're nobodies," Solen replied, not bothering to look back. "And this place isn't a kindergarten."

"And you like being here?" Rivea asked, raising an eyebrow.

Solen paused for a beat. "No. But... I know it matters."

They passed an observation room, a long-range training bay, and one empty hall with scuffed floors—battle scars left behind by drills or... something worse.

Everyone they walked past stared. Some glanced. Some scoffed. And the rest... watched. Like they were waiting for the kids to slip up—just once.

Rivea caught sight of a FANG operative—a tall woman with a scar running down her cheek—mouthing something to her comrade: "Those are the special kids? Them? Seriously?"

Kael grinned. "I wanna suggest a training session where we fight over chairs like in preschool—except with chainsaws." Rivea smacked the back of his head. "Your brain's ninety percent air."

Solen didn't react. His gaze never wavered.

Eventually, they reached the living quarters—if they could be called that. Not rooms, exactly. More like semi-private cells. Each space held one bed, one desk, and a hanging light that couldn't be turned off.

The children who were "taken in" weren't allowed to live outside the HQ. They weren't "ripe" yet—untested, unmarked. Not hunters. Not yet. Just candidates. Ones that could easily be discarded if they failed.

"This our spot?" Kael asked, voice halfway between sarcasm and surrender.

"Looks like a luxury hamster cage," Rivea commented, flopping onto the thin mattress that groaned beneath her.

Solen inspected the small cabinet in the corner like he was running an audit.

"Hygienic. Minimal. Uncomfortable... but adequate."

"I could cook noodles on this ceiling lamp," Kael offered. Rivea laughed—short, dry, more at the absurdity than the humor.

Outside their quarters, the hallway returned to silence. A few staff members passed by from other divisions. None spoke. The only sounds were military boots on metal floors, and sometimes... the muffled voice of the world beyond the small window at the corridor's end.

The sky over Nythra was overcast, as always. And this headquarters—despite its size—felt like the belly of a beast that had just finished feeding.

That night, a light rain tapped against the metal roof of V.E.N.T.H. The corridors glistened with reflections from sterile, cold lighting. The air hung heavy, like a voice stuck in the back of a throat.

The three kids had been placed in the same residential block. Their rooms were side by side, separated only by transparent sliding doors—privacy in name, a thin illusion of space that wasn't truly theirs.

Kael was the first to step out, his silver hair a mess, hoodie sleeves rolled up past his elbows. Rivea sat just outside her door, legs folded, eyes cast down to the floor.

"I thought this place would at least have vending machines. Or snacks we could use to barter for survival," Kael muttered as he walked over and sat beside her.

"Well, you could barter. If you're offering a kidney first," Rivea replied calmly, twirling a rubber bracelet around her wrist.

The third door slid open. Solen emerged, still in perfectly unwrinkled sleepwear, holding a small book—no one knew from where—and paused to study the other two like sculptures in a poorly curated museum.

"Why are you sitting on the floor?" he asked flatly. "It's dirty."

"The floor's the one suffering, actually," Kael grinned. "Poor thing had to feel your feet first."

Solen ignored him. Sat down a few meters away, opened his book, and began reading like he was surrounded by sterile air instead of stale hallway air.

Rivea glanced sideways. "You're seriously reading? At this hour?"

"Maybe he's got an exam," Kael chimed in. "Or... writing his final letter home?"

"Maintaining routine keeps the brain from rotting in places like this," Solen answered without lifting his eyes.

"Damn," Kael chuckled. "Respect. Two days in, and you already sound like a professor in a monster-infested university."

Rivea leaned her head back against the wall. "So this is what being the golden child looks like?" Solen closed his book slowly. "I'm just... more disciplined than you."

"Nope. You're just stiff," Kael corrected casually. "If you ever laughed, the world might crack open."

"And if you two were a little more serious," Solen replied, voice still calm, "maybe we'd get out of here faster."

Three seconds of silence.

Then Kael let out a small laugh. "I like this guy. He's like a thermostat—cold, flat, but turns up the heat if you push the right buttons."

Rivea didn't laugh, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She rested her chin on her knees.

"Hell trio," she muttered. "Annoying, sterile, and... halfway insane."

"I'm not sterile," Kael said instantly.

"Me neither," Rivea echoed.

They sat in silence after that. Only the rain outside and the quiet hum of the ventilation system filled the space—like a sleeping creature breathing behind the walls.

They still didn't know when the test would begin. Didn't know who they'd be fighting. Didn't know who among them would break first.

But one thing was certain: For the first time since they'd arrived, this place... felt a little less quiet.

The sound of heavy metal slammed the door shut behind them.

CLICK.

The locking mechanism echoed long through the empty room—like a coffin sealed from the outside.

The ceiling was too high for a normal training chamber. The floor was black, rough, like charred skin. Light poured from above in harsh spotlights, casting down on three children standing in the center: Rivea, Kael, and Solen.

Up high, behind a glass tower, a silhouette watched. Eidren sat poised, hands resting on the arms of his chair. He said nothing.

He didn't need to.

A door opened on the far side.

Through a veil of mist, someone stepped in.

Tall, broad-shouldered, wearing the battle-worn gray of the Cradle Unit.

His face was familiar to those long in the organization—Instructor Drein, a former field operative now tasked with training "

problematic children.

He dropped three black bags in front of them. Inside: headsets, a body-monitoring device, and a special wristband that latched onto their left arms the moment it touched skin.

"Good morning, kids," Drein said, voice hoarse and flat like he hadn't spoken since yesterday. "Today's your first test. System calls it: Triple Kill."

Kael raised a brow. "Wow. Cheerful name."

"Quiet." Drein's eyes cut sharp. "This test has three phases—physical, mental, strategic. Fail one, you still move on. But we log every break point. And believe me, we know when you're faking strength."

Rivea dipped her head slightly, a faint curve to her lips. Solen inhaled calmly, composed as ever. "First phase: physical. Your enemy isn't a monster. It's the room itself."

With a single tap on Drein's tablet, the floor around them shifted. Metal panels rose, separating the kids. Without warning, walls emerged, forming a tight maze. Lights flickered and bent—reality itself seemed to twist.

"You have three minutes to escape. The room reconfigures every fifteen seconds. Don't bother memorizing. Focus. Move. Or get trapped."

"Questions?" Drein asked out of protocol, not courtesy.

Kael raised a hand. "If we die…?"

"…your bodies will be cleaned up before lunch," Drein replied, deadpan.

"Fair enough." Kael gave a thumbs-up. "Love the honesty."

BEEP.

A timer blinked into the air.

180 seconds. Countdown started. The floor rumbled—And the maze swallowed them whole.

Rivea didn't run. She walked. Her breath was steady, body fluid like water, slipping through the narrow spaces like she wasn't a sixth-grader but something else entirely.

Kael laughed as he ran, shoulder-checking a wall just for fun before flipping over it. "Come on, give me something—this is barely foreplay!"

Solen, meanwhile, didn't panic. He counted steps, mapped patterns, hunted logic in an illogical space. His eyes sharp, his mind faster.

Above it all, Eidren watched. A small smile touched his lips. "Now it's getting interesting," he murmured to himself.

Three kids. Three approaches. One labyrinth that didn't care who they were. And this—Was only the beginning.

Darkness. Then... a faint light, like a lonely lantern drifting at the bottom of the sea. Rivea opened her eyes—or felt like she did.

No walls. No floor. Just... emptiness.

Footsteps echoed, but pressed on nothing.

Laughter followed—neither human, nor animal, nor even sound.

One word surfaced in her mind: the next test had begun. She saw something. A mirror. But not her reflection.

A small child crouched in front of something.

Dirty hair. Violet eyes. Staring down at something bleeding. Something breathing—its last breath.

And the child... smiled. A grin, proud and quiet. Rivea stared. Her brow tensed. "I never... did this." But the mirror didn't care. A single violet petal drifted from the sky.

Kael woke up in a dining hall. Immaculate. Too immaculate. Long table. Shining silverware. A steaming bowl of soup before him. And across the table—himself.

An older Kael. Face lined with scars. White hair still a mess, but the eyes—cold. Not lazy-cold. Empty. Cold like someone who stopped believing in anything.

"So this is the 'successful' me, huh?" young Kael leaned back with a smirk. The older Kael said nothing. Just spooned soup into his mouth. The boy chuckled. "Come on. I'm obviously the funnier one, bro."

Silence.

Young Kael flung his spoon across the room. No sound followed its landing. A mirror formed behind the older version. Its reflection wasn't human. Not a creature. But something starving.

Kael tilted his head, smile crooked.

"Ah... so that's the punchline."

Solen walked through a school corridor.

Empty. Pristine. Chalk-scented. Every door was shut—except one. His old classroom. Grade 5.

He stepped in.

The teacher stood by the board. His classmates sat in perfect silence. All of them staring at him. The teacher pointed. "Solen Vire. Solve the problem."

The blackboard was filled with numbers.

Equations. Symbols. But none of it made sense. Plus signs twisted into snakes. Square roots wilted into flowers. The problem moved. Shifted. It formed a face.

Someone he once defeated.

Solen stepped forward, slowly. The chalk in his fingers melted. His fingertips began to burn. But every pair of eyes stayed fixed on him.

"If you can't answer, Solen," said the teacher,

"they'll finally know you're just... pretending." He trembled. But his mouth still smiled. "They won't know."

A mirror unfurled from the ceiling. Inside it—himself. A boy who won, but never really slept again.

Eidren sat still in the observation chamber, fingertips brushing the surface of black glass. Three panels flickered: brainwaves, body temperature, and something else—something only an observer like him could read.

He closed his eyes.

"Rivea Kaelith... still too aware. But... she bites back."

"Kael Veyne... doesn't fear the shadow. He flirts with it."

"Solen Vire... believes his confidence is a lie. And uses that lie to survive." He opened his eyes. Black. Deep. "You three... haven't broken."

"But the cracks... are showing."

"Five minutes," said the voice from the wall speaker, flat and lifeless. "Use it to recover. Or don't."

Click. Silence.

Kael was still sprawled on the floor, one hand covering his eyes, the other absentmindedly twirling a random cable he'd found.

"Two things," he muttered. "First, I know I'm hot, but I'm pretty sure I just made out with myself. Not cool. Second, why does my brain feel like it got deep-fried in recycled oil?"

Rivea sat slumped against the wall. Her hair a mess, pupils still not fully back to normal. "You never shut up, Kael. Can you, like... not?"

Kael sat up, staring at her. "If I stop talking, the world turns hollow. You want that?"

Solen, who'd already straightened his posture with trained precision, glanced at them. "You two... are too expressive. That could be a liability in a real mission."

Rivea turned slowly to him, face blank but eyes screaming murder. "And you're too stiff. That could be... annoying."

Kael chuckled. "Relax. This isn't a motivational speech contest. We just got our throats slit by dreams. I think we've earned a little whining."

Solen inhaled deeply, then stood like he was about to give a graduation speech. "It wasn't a dream. It was a simulation. A psychological stress test under extreme—"

"Yeah yeah, thanks, Professor Failed His Thesis," Kael cut in. "We got it. But could you not talk like you swallowed a dictionary?"

Rivea let out a short laugh—low and sharp.

Kael glanced at her. "Okay, she laughed. I'm not kidding, this might be the apocalypse."

Rivea stood up, brushing off her white uniform. "I was just thinking... you two are the type I'd throw off a cliff if we were still in the stone age."

Kael grinned. "And you're the type who'd drag us down with you so you wouldn't be lonely."

"Fair."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was the kind of silence that comes after a storm—when everyone realizes they're still standing.

Solen looked at them. He wanted to say something—about how he'd predicted the simulation's ending, about emotional control, about mental fortitude—but...

They didn't need it.

They made it through, too. No theory required. He just took a deep breath and said, "…Are we a team, then?"

Kael and Rivea turned to him in sync. "…Depends," Rivea replied.

"You got snacks?" Kael added. Solen blinked. "What?"

Kael stood and stretched. "I only team up with people who bring snacks. That's my new golden rule."

Rivea stood too. "And I only team up with people who aren't trying so hard to be perfect."

Solen stared at them. Then sighed through his teeth. "…You two are impossible." Kael winked. "And you're fun to bully." Rivea smirked. "Balanced team, right?"

The sky was red. The earth cracked. The air simmered softly, like the whisper of an old wound. Rivea stood in the center of a burning circle. Same clothes. Different world.

No Kael. No Solen. No exit.

Just five people. Bound. Crying. And a flat voice echoing from the sky, belonging to no one: "Five will die. Save one. Time is limited."

The faces weren't unfamiliar. A disheveled woman with a rasping voice: "Riv… I... I'm your mother..." A tall, lanky man in a school uniform: "Rivea, I'm your classmate… we walked home together that day, remember?"

A small child with wide eyes: "Sis… you promised you'd protect me…" A teacher. And one more.

A stranger's face. But crying harder than the rest. Rivea said nothing. Her eyes traced each bound body in turn. Ropes coiled around them, tethering them to metal poles that seemed to melt in the unreal heat.

Time passed. But she didn't feel chased. Time didn't dare chase her.

Then another voice. Quieter. More real.

Inside her head: "This is real."

"This is your choice."

"One is saved. Four are sacrificed."

Kael hit the dusty ground with a sharp exhale. The iron door slammed shut behind him.

"Another damn simulation?"

No answer. Just five electric chairs in a row. Five people bound. Five pairs of terrified eyes. "I have to choose one, huh?" He stepped closer.

One of them—a wrinkled old man—screamed, "Son! Please! I'm your grandfather—look, this necklace! You gave it to me when you were little!"

Another—a teenage girl—sobbed, "Kael… you promised to save me. Back at the park. Don't you remember?"

Kael squinted. "Pretty sure I didn't even have a park." He stepped back. Someone shouted, "If you don't choose, all of us die!"

He scratched his head… and laughed softly. "…Man, this organization really wants to traumatize me, huh?"

Solen opened his eyes. Marble floor. Chandelier above. A grand room. Five people. Bound. Laid out before his desk. As if he were a judge. Or a god.

"Choose one. The rest will disappear."

"Why?" he asked, quietly.

No reply. Just sobs. And tears.

He took a step forward, hands trembling slightly. He recognized one of them—his old math teacher, the one who always praised him.

Another—a man in military uniform—claimed to be his father. "Come home, Sol. Your mother's waiting."

"…Mother?" His breath hitched. Logic and emotion crashed like waves in his head. Choose the youngest? The least familiar? Was this a test of attachment… or a measure of a life's worth?

He started building mental charts. But time doesn't wait for logic to finish writing.

Instructor Drein watched the monitors. "Three different reactions," he murmured. He glanced at Eidren, who stood still, hands clasped behind his back.

"…And?"

Eidren finally spoke, voice soft as fresh ink flowing from a pen "One seeks the truth behind all those faces. One questions reality… but laughs through the absurd.

And the last… wants so badly to be right, he forgets that time kills faster than mistakes."

His eyes moved from screen to screen. "All three… survive."

Click.

The monitors went dark.

Only seconds left.

Rivea stood before the five figures, unshaken. Their faces melted and twisted like masks, shifting shape over and over.

"Your mother..." "Your friend..." "Your teacher..."

And one small voice, "Please... sister..." Rivea let out a soft snort, half amused.

"I'm an only child, dumbass."

That voice—too shrill, too polished—felt wrong. Too perfect. Too... intentional. The face of the "little sibling" flickered, morphing—Becoming something else entirely.

The fifth one, the silent crier, slowly rose.

Still bound. But its shape... indescribable. Its flesh was too deep. Its face like a shattered memory, chewed and rewound.

Rivea froze.

Her pupils sharpened. The faint tattoo down her spine pulsed like a heartbeat. She knew that shape. Not from this life, but from the one before. The first. The one she buried in wrath and blood.

Her nemesis. Incomplete. Not whole. Just a fragment. But they knew. They—this goddamn organization—they knew. They dug too deep.

"Hah…"

Kael flopped onto the floor, arms folded behind his head. "Tired as hell. But hey, not bad. No need to play angel—they're just holograms."

Solen stood in the corner, silent, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. His hands clenched. His expression not as relaxed as Kael's. But he made it out. Alive.

Kael glanced his way, grinning.

"Who'd you save?"

"...No one," Solen muttered. "Damn. Smart kid, still heartless."

"If you saved them, they died first. It wasn't a moral test. It was about ignoring what isn't real."

"Hm. In that case, I passed without a brain. Sweet."

PSSST.

The back door slid open. Rivea walked out. Slow steps. Face calm. Too calm. Solen noticed immediately.

"…You saved one?"

Rivea stared forward. Then nodded. One word cracked the room like a whip. "…Yes." Kael pushed himself off the floor, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

Rivea turned, slowly, toward the darkened simulation chamber. Her voice was flat. But cold enough to cut. "Because he has to die…

but by my hand."

Silence.

Solen opened his mouth, then closed it again. Kael let out a short, awkward laugh. And behind the glass, the observer… started typing faster than ever.