Allen sat stiffly, surrounded by the soft hum of artificial lights and the faint buzzing of electricity that always seemed to crawl beneath the surface of this strange place. The classroom, if it could even be called that, was filled with bodies clad in skin-tight, black battle suits, each marked by a glowing number across the chest. His own suit bore the number 415.
One year ago, he'd been Allen Walker, a boy drowning in grief, betrayed by love, alone in a crumbling world. Now, he was 415—one of the many numbered, stripped of names, of freedom, of identity. He was no longer a student. He was a subject. A weapon in training. A rat in a maze of steel and secrets.
And yet… he survived. More than that—he evolved.
The room smelled sterile, metallic, the way a hospital does after hours of surgery. The kind of scent that stuck in your nose and made your brain feel like it was being cleaned with bleach. Allen's white hair, slick with sweat, clung to his forehead as he stared blankly at the holographic board flashing equations and combat maneuvers.
His crimson eyes weren't paying attention to the lesson. Not anymore. He was too far ahead.
A year ago, he was forced to start over—freshman geometry, biology, combat simulations, strategy, philosophy, interdimensional theory. At first, it was insulting. Then it was exhausting. Now? Now it was a challenge.
In that year, Allen had become something… more. His body, once frail from emotional exhaustion and months of hunger, had adapted unnaturally well to the relentless training. Whether it was from this world's different laws or something else entirely, General Xacsti claimed Allen's muscle growth rate was nearly double that of the average human trainee. More impressive, however, was his mind.
"He's not like the others," Xacsti had once said to a masked scientist. "His recall is perfect. Cognitive processing is off the charts. Subject 415 might be the one."
Those words haunted Allen.
He had no idea what "the one" meant. Nor did he care. The only thing he cared about was getting free.
The bell rang—three sharp buzzes that signaled the end of training.
Allen stood and adjusted the synthetic black armor on his shoulders. It hugged his form tightly, showing every curve of his growing musculature. He wasn't the scrawny kid he'd been. At 16, he looked older. Sharper. His back was broader, his arms powerful, and his eyes—his eyes had the glint of a man who knew pain too well to ever forget it.
As he made his way to the cafeteria, Allen passed dozens of others. All numbered. All silent. Their faces were blank slates—fear hidden behind emotionless masks. Some were young. Children. Others looked nearly grown. But none were normal.
He called them the Numbered. And he hated that he was one of them.
The cafeteria opened like a vault. As he stepped in, a wave of familiar noise struck him—clinking trays, murmured conversations, and the distant whir of the food machine.
Today, though, something was off.
There were more people than usual. Way more. The Numbered were gathered in groups by rank, their uniforms glowing faintly under the sterile lights. Allen's crimson eyes scanned them quickly. He recognized some. Others were new.
Then he saw her.
Number 520.
She stood like a goddess among mortals. Her aura was different—sharp, regal, unapproachable. Her long black hair shimmered with blue undertones, cascading down her back like an oil-slick waterfall. Her golden eyes glowed faintly, and her face—beautiful didn't begin to describe it. She looked like Featherine from that old anime he barely remembered, but with a predatory grace that set her apart.
She had risen through the ranks faster than anyone else. From a silent girl in the corner to Number 301.
Their eyes met for a split second. She didn't smile. She didn't frown. She simply looked through him, as if assessing a piece of machinery.
Allen's pulse quickened.
Then…
"Subject 415."
The voice cut through the room like a knife.
Allen snapped to attention. General Xacsti stood at the far end of the cafeteria, flanked by nine other generals. Each one stood beside a top-ranked Numbered.
Allen's boots echoed against the metal floor as he approached.
He counted ten in total—ten Numbered like himself, hand-picked, standing silently in formation.
Then, without warning, the room went dark.
A slow, low hum filled the air. Then light.
But not from the ceiling.
A pillar of bluish-white energy erupted at the center of the room, and from it, stepped a man.
The Scientist.
He hadn't seen them since Day One.
Allen's breath caught in his throat.
That Thing—it looked exactly the same. Cold eyes. mask Long white lab coat that shimmered with faint energy lines. And that same terrible smile.
The entire cafeteria was silent. You could hear a pin drop.
"Congratulations," the it said, it's voice amplified yet soft, almost hypnotic. "You ten have proven yourselves exceptional. Your minds, your bodies, your wills. You've all risen through pain, discipline, and despair."
Allen clenched his jaw.
"Today," the it continued, raising a hand as vials floated beside itself , glowing ominously, "you will be given your first taste of divinity. The X-Gene Shot."
Allen's eyes widened.
So this was it.
The reason they'd been pushed, trained, manipulated, broken, and rebuilt.
Power.
Real power.
The Scientist smiled. "This is your reward. Your evolution. But also your greatest test. The X-Gene will amplify your greatest traits—and reveal your deepest flaws. Survive… and become gods."
Allen felt the world shift beneath him. Not literally—but in that subtle, terrifying way that meant his life was about to change forever.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears.
He wasn't ready.
He had no choice.