In the plaza, everyone stared wide-eyed at the advertisement screen — as if the unfolding scene might change their lives. As if life and death were about to be decided in that very moment.
And Ezgar's condition was even worse — his time was running out.
Suddenly, the screen flickered. A woman appeared — dressed in a blood-red coat, her hair tied into a tight ponytail. A metallic chain rested around her neck.
Then came the voice — sharp, cold, final. Like a judge delivering a death sentence:
"People from planet Anarken.
The Verge will begin in twelve hours.
All participants must report to their nearest administration department."
The screen returned to normal and advertisements resumed. But the people didn't.
They weren't the same anymore. Those chosen for the Verge looked like their hearts had been ripped out. Their parents — even the ones who had survived the Verge themselves — wore hollow expressions. After all, who could say whether their child would return?
But not everyone looked broken. A few faces gleamed — not with fear, but with anticipation. Ezgar noticed them. Recognized them.
Children from powerful families — bloodlines where crossing the Verge was almost a tradition. For them, this was just another rite of passage.
Ezgar, though? He had scraps of knowledge. Whatever came through city screens, cheap radios, or yesterday's newspapers.
That was it. Still… in a strange way, it was a relief. He no longer needed to buy Roxynil.
He could endure twelve hours without it. Whether that was good or bad, he couldn't say.
No one knew what happened inside the Verge. No one knew how people died there.
"Whatever. At least I get to live these twelve hours properly," he muttered.
Who knows what happens next? Let's focus on the present. Let's have some me time before dying, he thought.
Ezgar had been an orphan since the day he opened his eyes. Raised in a government orphanage until ten. Forced into factory labor by eleven. And at fifteen — kicked out. Because no child from that orphanage had ever survived the Verge.
He'd lived like a slave his whole life. But today?
Today, Ezgar walked the streets like a human.
Maybe for the first... and the last time.
He entered a modest restaurant — nothing fancy, but not a roadside stall either. He ordered a full meal. Ate every bite.
Then left to buy clothes. Black hoodie. Same as always. That's all he could afford.
He looked down at his torn shoes. His eyes reflected his helplessness.
"If only I had a bit more money…"
Just like that, as his money ran out, the day began to pass. The sun dipped beneath the horizon. And Ezgar was walking toward the administration department.
He reached a large gate. He didn't know what metal it was made of, but it looked strong — unbreakable.
He stepped through, eyes scanning everything around him. Slowly, curiously, like someone who didn't belong.
At the center stood a massive building — flanked by two smaller ones. A castle-like structure crowned the largest building. Nearby, a small garden. And a clean, straight road connecting all three.
"This must be the best building in the city," Ezgar thought.
He'd never stepped foot on private property before. And even when he had, he'd only ever seen the gate — never what was inside.
So for him, this was the best.
He entered the smaller structure marked with a glowing sign: VERGE REPORTING. Only one staff member stood inside.
"Huh… why's no one here? Did I miss it? Oh shit…"
Ezgar rushed to him, grabbed his hand, and begged:
"Sir… sir! I'm here for the Verge. Please help. I'm late. Do something!"
The man in the blue shirt calmly pulled his hand back.
"Are you out of your mind, kid? You still have three hours left."
He studied Ezgar for a moment. His face softened — just a little. He sighed and thought:
Doesn't look like this one's going to make it.
Ezgar checked his watch. Yes — three hours remained.
The staff member gestured toward a counter. "Since you're early, fill out your details. You'll also get the exclusive Verge packet."
Ezgar was about to apologize — but the words exclusive details made him pause.
And a question came: Strange… but why hasn't anyone else arrived yet?
The man caught his puzzled expression and answered coldly: "You'll find out later."
He led Ezgar to a clerk, and the registration began.
Name. Age. Status: Orphan.
Then came the harder question:
"Nominee details?"
Ezgar knew the system. Every Verge participant received 10,000 Snowcrust — the universal currency. Not much for others, but enough to keep Ezgar fed for a year.
He thought about the orphans — the ones still trapped under the same roof he'd escaped from.
But then… the warden's face flashed in his mind. And with it — a memory:
"Children, today we're going to a wonderful place! There'll be toys everywhere! You can play as much as you like!"
It wasn't a toy store. It was a factory.
"Toys" meant equipment. "Play hour" meant labor.
That day, Ezgar learned one thing: when people act sweet, it means you're useful to them. And useful things don't last long.
No. That fat bastard will take everything. I won't give him a single coin.
Then, unexpectedly — he thought of her. The seductress. He didn't know why. But it felt like she had infected his thoughts like a virus.
But… he didn't even know her name.
"I don't know her name," Ezgar said, "but she owns a medicine shop in Silt Alley. Can you check your system?"
The clerk blinked in disbelief. "Who lists a complete stranger as their nominee?" "We recommend listing someone… trustworthy."
Ezgar thought: She's still more trustworthy than that damn warden.
"Just check. Please."
The clerk sighed. Typed something. Waited.
Then looked up.
"Boy… you're lucky. She's registered. Her medical shop is on record."
Ezgar nodded. "Yes. List her as the nominee."
The clerk gave a brief shrug and typed her information into the system. A few more questions, a digital scan, a final confirmation — and it was done.
The staff member returned.
"Head to Building No. 3 — the Information Centre."
Ezgar turned toward the door, took a step… then stopped.
Wait. I'm forgetting something… Yes… her name.
He had never even asked the nominee's name. He turned back, ready to ask the clerk…
But he stopped.
Even if I ask her name — what could I do with it? Will I meet her again? Maybe. Probably not. Almost no chance.
So he let the thought fade.
If I return… I can get the money back myself.
If I die… well, that money can't buy me a life.
And with that, he moved on.
The hallway was long. Too quiet. Every step Ezgar took echoed slightly, like a whisper bouncing off stone walls.
He reached the door marked with silver letters: INFORMATION CENTRE.
For a moment, he hesitated. His fingers hovered near the handle. His chest tightened — not from fear of what lay inside, but from the weight of too many unknowns pressing down at once.
He pushed the door open.
The room was dim and quiet — like an old library. Desks. Books. Dust. Lamps. At the far end sat an old man hunched over a thick journal.
Ezgar approached slowly, each step slower than the last.
The old man didn't look up. Not at first. He was scribbling something into a thick journal, hand moving with mechanical precision.
Ezgar opened his mouth to speak — but then the man raised his head. His eyes locked on Ezgar's hands — and the curling tendrils of smoke.
He sighed and muttered under his breath:
"If it were my era… you'd have a few years left.
But now? You're lucky if you survive a few days."
Ezgar blinked.
"What?"
He stepped forward.
"What do you know about this smoke, sir?"
The old man tapped his pen against the table.
"Same frequency signature as the energy on my trial planet. But that world is gone now. Destroyed."
Ezgar felt something break inside him.
"So… there's no cure?"
The man shook his head.
"None."
"But you said I might survive?"
"Yes. For a few days. And only there."
"Why?"
"Because your body's already corroded. You're human — you need Roxynil to stabilize the organ reversal. Other species don't.
You're already rotting on the inside, boy. Just too alive to notice."
Ezgar's fists clenched.
"So I'm just… doomed?"
The old man chuckled — voice like dry leaves.
"You're not alone. Many will walk that same path."
Ezgar snapped.
"You're laughing at someone's death, old man?"
The elder rose slowly.
"Fine, fine. You want answers? I'll give you answers."
He led Ezgar to a narrow side room.
"This projection will explain everything. Sit down. Watch."
Ezgar stepped inside cautiously.
As soon as he sat down — the door hissed shut behind him.
He stood, alarmed.
"Hey! Open the door! Old man!"
No response.
The lights dimmed. And the projection began.
But what came next… made his blood boil.