As Kael made his way toward the altar, something strange happened.
People noticed him.
Whispers stirred like ripples in still water.
"Wait… who is that?"
"No idea. Does he even go to our school?"
"I think he's that creep who always sits in the back."
"Seriously? What's his name?"
"Who cares? Probably another background extra."
Laughter.
Not kind.
"I don't like this. It's always the weird ones that awaken something insane."
"Yeah, total freak energy. And why the hell is he still holding a smoothie cup?!"
Kael's left eye twitched.
His grip on the empty cup tightened slightly.
He'd been looking for a trash bin, but—of course—there wasn't one.
Just bloodstains and chanting cultists.
Not exactly eco-friendly.
Can't just throw it on the floor, either, he thought dryly.
What if littering is a capital offense here?
Wouldn't want to get smited for smoothie-related sins.
And so, smoothie cup still in hand like a cursed artifact, Kael walked step by awkward step toward the altar.
The Prophetess tilted her head slightly as he approached, eyes flicking from the cup to his face with the faintest trace of... confusion?
Suspicion?
Amusement?
Kael ignored her.
He'd spent years ignoring people like her—powerful, poised, too curious for their own good.
His fingers hovered over the crystal.
Left hand: Empty smoothie cup.
Right hand: Fate.
He sighed.
Muttered under his breath.
"Alright.
Whoever's running this divine clown show, if you're listening… don't screw me."
Every eye locked on him.
Adam watched.
Lilith watched.
The entire class watched.
Even the Prophetess was leaning forward slightly now, a rare curiosity in her expression.
And those red-masked cultists?
Unmoving.
But Kael could feel them too.
Watching.
Judging.
Waiting.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
In his mind, he began to pray—not to one god, but to all of them.
Light gods, dark gods, forgotten gods, vending machine spirits—whoever was listening.
He bribed. He bargained.
He even threw in a few ancient-sounding syllables from anime openings just in case.
And then, like he was diffusing a bomb with chewing gum and shaky hands…
Kael touched the stone.
Light pulsed.
Just for a second.
His eyes widened—
—and then it died.
Gone.
Snuffed out like a cheap candle in a wind tunnel.
Silence.
The room stared.
Kael blinked.
"Wait… what?"
Then—
A voice.
Not aloud.
But in his mind.
Smooth.
Empty.
Endless.
###
[⚫ Voice of the Void ⚫]
[Congratulations!]
[You have successfully awakened a True Rune!]
[True Rune: The Dying Spark]
[Description: A flicker against the dark, doomed to fade—yet somehow, still refusing to die.]
[True Rune Rank: 9]
[Attributes: [Beyonder], [Echo of Divinity]]
[Description: Produces a faint spark of heat. Too dim to burn. Too weak to be seen in daylight.]
###
Kael stood frozen.
Deadpan.
Processing.
His mouth opened slightly. Then closed. Then opened again.
A spark.
Not fire.
Not even a decent ember.
A spark.
The kind of heat a depressed candle would be ashamed of.
...You're kidding, he thought flatly.
I got... the spiritual equivalent of a dying cigarette lighter?!
The Prophetess froze.
But it wasn't the stunned reverence she'd shown for Adam.
This was different.
This was the kind of silence that fell when something wrong had just happened.
"…Rank Nine," she announced flatly.
A beat of stunned quiet.
Then the whispers started.
"Wait, did she just say Rank Nine?"
"No way, that can't be right—wasn't Rank Seven the lowest till now?"
"What the actual hell?"
"You're kidding, right?"
Laughter rippled through the chamber—sharp, unkind.
"Dude, that's not even tragic, that's comical."
"I was expecting some secret power, not… this."
"Yo, weren't people saying the creepy quiet ones always awaken something broken and overpowered?"
"Yeah. Plot twist—he's just broken."
"At this point, I don't know whether to mock him or start a donation drive."
Kael heard them.
At first.
And then… he didn't.
The words blurred.
The emotions dulled.
He'd been here before—invisible in a room full of voices.
After the initial sting, his heart returned to its usual rhythm: numb, steady, armored.
This wasn't new.
This wasn't surprising.
Still holding his empty smoothie cup, Kael turned toward the Prophetess.
He opened his mouth, quiet but steady.
"I… my True Rune is called—"
"Next."
Her voice cut through him like a blade
That was it.
No ceremony.
No acknowledgment.
Just the dismissal of something unworthy.
He stepped back into the group—but no one stepped near him.
They parted like he carried disease.
Mockery was replaced by distance.
And somehow, that was worse.
Kael glanced down at the empty smoothie cup in his hand.
He gave a faint, tired smile.
"At least you stuck around," he murmured. "That counts for something."
Mrs. Rose was next.
She approached the stone with silent dignity.
A gentle flash of light followed.
Rank Five
True Rune: Oath of the Hearthkeeper.
Murmurs of approval.
Respectable.
Solid.
Survivable.
But Kael wasn't listening.
Not anymore.
His body stood among the others, but his mind was elsewhere—watching them laugh, watching them flinch away like his failure might stain them.
Same script.
Different world.
He clenched his jaw.
Let them laugh.
Let them look down.
Let them forget.
But someday—somehow—
They'd remember him.
Not as the failure.
Not as the Rank Nine.
Not as the boy with the smoothie cup.
But as the one they didn't see coming.
The storm they didn't know was already here.