Morning broke across Sector 7 in a haze of gray light and smoke. Most of the orphanage still slept, but Kael was already outside, his shirt clinging to his back with sweat. He trained every morning before sunrise. It was the only time the world felt quiet—before the noise of survival returned.
Today, he pushed himself harder than usual.
His fists blurred as they struck the air, the wind hissing with each punch. He chained movements together: jabs, hooks, knees, rolls. The sequences weren't part of any formal martial art. He had never studied one. They were something… else. Something built out of necessity and instinct.
Always be faster.Always be sharper.Never get hit twice.
A metallic clang pulled his focus.
A trash can lid had rolled into the courtyard. Kael turned. A group of older teens—local thugs from the outer district—stood just beyond the fence, sneering.
One of them, tall and snake-thin, leaned over the rail. "Yo, freak. Heard you like playing soldier out here. Thought we'd stop by and see the show."
Kael straightened. "You're not supposed to be here."
Another thug, bulkier and sporting a shock-baton at his belt, laughed. "This whole block's lawless, genius. And rumor has it… there's a little freak who doesn't bleed."
Kael didn't flinch.
"You've got guts, Unranked," the tall one continued, stepping into the courtyard. "You think just because you knocked out a few punks last month, you're untouchable?"
"I don't think," Kael replied evenly. "I know what I can do."
"Oh? Then show me."
The tall thug lunged.
Kael didn't step back. He moved in.
In less than a second, his foot slid diagonally, shoulders turning, elbow snapping forward. He struck the thug in the temple before the man could raise his fists. The impact was clean, efficient—like a machine executing a programmed motion.
The thug crumpled without a sound.
The others stared, stunned.
"Shit—he dropped Lazen in one hit—!"
The bulky one pulled his baton and charged.
Kael ducked the first swing, rolled beneath the second, then caught the thug's wrist mid-strike. He twisted, pivoted, and brought the man's arm down across his knee with a crack.
The scream that followed echoed through the district.
Two more tried to rush him together. Kael flowed between them like water through stone—striking, dodging, redirecting. In less than a minute, four bodies lay groaning on the concrete.
Kael stood in the center, barely winded.
Sil appeared at the orphanage entrance, eyes wide. "Did you just…?"
"I warned them," Kael said simply.
From the alley, someone slow-clapped.
Kael turned sharply, muscles tensing. A man in a long gray coat stepped into view. He looked out of place—too clean, too polished. His eyes, hidden behind a lens visor, tracked Kael carefully.
"Very impressive," the man said. "Not many Unranked can neutralize four opponents without using an ability."
"I didn't know there'd be an audience," Kael said coldly.
"Wasn't supposed to be." The man stepped closer. "Name's Serin Rook. I work with Regis Institute. Scouting division."
Kael's posture shifted. "Why would Regis send someone here?"
"You." Rook smiled faintly. "We monitor irregular combat reports in slum sectors. Most of them are noise. But you… Kael Vire. You've been flagged four times this year. Fights, training anomalies, scan inconsistencies."
Kael said nothing.
"We thought it was a fluke," Rook continued. "Until today. That wasn't luck. That was skill—refined, instinctive, and something else entirely."
"You came to tell me that?"
"No," Rook said. He reached into his coat and produced a black envelope marked with a silver crest.
Kael recognized it immediately.
Regis Institute.
"You're being invited to join Regis next cycle," Rook said. "As a candidate for Experimental Class 13-Z."
Sil gasped behind him. Kael stared at the envelope.
"I don't have a rank," he said.
"Exactly," Rook replied. "That's what makes you interesting."
He placed the envelope in Kael's hand, turned, and walked away.
Kael stood in the center of the broken courtyard, four unconscious attackers around him, an invitation in his grip, and a thousand questions running through his mind.
Later that night, he sat alone in his room. The envelope lay open on the bed beside him. Inside were travel instructions, a biometric ID badge, and a sealed letter.
He unfolded the letter.
Kael Vire,
You have been selected by direct exception of the UGA's Combat Research Division. Your status as Unranked qualifies you for specialized assessment. Arrival at Regis Institute is mandatory. Refusal will result in enforced conscription.
We are watching your development with great interest.
— Regis Admissions, Class 13-Z
Kael looked at the words for a long time.
Then he turned and pulled open the bottom drawer of his old metal desk. Buried beneath spare clothes and a broken comm device was a small, locked wooden box.
The one Sister Mae had once said belonged to his parents.
His hands lingered on the surface. Then, without hesitation, he picked the lock.
Inside, nestled in aged cloth, was a cracked silver pendant etched with a strange, unrecognizable crest.
As Kael lifted it into the light, it pulsed faintly—once.
Then again.
Like a heartbeat.