The sky was bleeding again.
Arin Vale stood barefoot on the rusted rooftop of Old Sector 9, staring into the broken horizon. Crimson clouds shifted and boiled overhead, turning the dying afternoon into a sea of blood. Beyond the cracked walls of the city, the Monster Zone stretched endlessly, a wasteland of bone forests and glass rivers shimmering under the poisoned light.
Every child in the world knew what lay beyond: death.
Arin shivered, pulling his threadbare jacket tighter. His birthday was tomorrow — his Tenth Year, when every citizen was tested. If the System judged you worthy, you Awakened and were granted a Class, Skills, and a Status Bar. If you failed...
He didn't want to think about it.
At his feet, an old public terminal flickered and whined, displaying a battered map of the city sectors. Most of it was marked with black slashes: quarantined, destroyed, abandoned. Only the inner walls, the First and Second Rings, still thrived, home to real Players — the ones who protected them.
I won't fail.
He repeated the thought like a prayer, the same way he always did. His mother needed him. His sector needed him. And somewhere deep down, a hotter, darker part of him whispered:
I need to be more.
A gust of wind howled across the rooftop, kicking up flakes of red dust. The shriek of the wind almost masked the distant sirens — another breach at the Eastern Wall. More beasts slipping through. More deaths. No one paid much attention anymore. Breaches were a way of life.
Arin turned away from the Monster Zone, climbing down the shattered fire escape to the slums below. His footsteps echoed along the empty alleys, past broken neon signs and rusted auto-taxis buried in sand. The scent of fried oil and desperation clung to the air.
As he passed a cracked mirror hanging lopsided on a wall, he caught a glimpse of himself: pale skin, black hair too long and tangled, hollow gray eyes. Small. Thin. Not Player material. Not like the stories of shining knights or sorcerers with blazing magic.
You'll die tomorrow, runt.
He clenched his fists until his nails dug into his palms.
No.
He would survive. He would Awaken. He had to.
...
The Awakening Ceremony was held in the remnants of a cathedral-turned-Arena, a crumbling place of shattered stained glass and scorched stone. Rows of children lined up, each one a bundle of nerves. Their families watched from crumbling pews or behind security fences, whispering prayers in a dozen languages.
An old man in silver armor stood at the podium, his voice amplified by crackling speakers.
"One by one," he rasped. "Place your hand upon the Crystal. If the System grants you a Class, you live. If not..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
The Crystal loomed at the center of the Arena — a jagged shard of blue-white light, pulsing faintly like a heart. It was said to be a relic from before the Rewrite, a shard of the old world's last defense.
Arin waited in line, heart pounding like a war drum. He watched as the girl ahead of him — a small redhead with tears in her eyes — touched the Crystal. For a terrible second, nothing happened. Then, light erupted, and a Status Screen appeared in midair:
Name: Selene Marn
Age: 10
Class: Elementalist (F-Rank)
Talent: Emberborn
The crowd clapped weakly. Selene sagged with relief as a uniformed Guild Worker led her away.
One by one, the children stepped forward. Some Awakened with weak Classes. Some with promising ones. A few touched the Crystal... and nothing happened. Those were dragged away silently by guards, disappearing behind heavy black doors. The ones who didn't Awaken weren't allowed to stay.
It was Arin's turn.
He stepped forward on trembling legs. The world seemed to narrow until it was just him and the Crystal. His hand hovered inches from the surface, breath catching in his throat.
Please. Please, anything.
He pressed his palm against the cold, humming surface.
Nothing.
At first, nothing.
A horrible stillness fell over the Arena. The old man at the podium frowned. Guards shifted behind him.
And then — the Crystal shattered.
A pulse of raw energy threw Arin backward, slamming him onto the cracked stone. His vision swam. Static filled his ears.
Above him, golden letters burned themselves into the air:
Name: Arin Vale
Age: 10
Class: — Unassigned —
Talent: DEVOUR
Warning: Irregular Status Detected. Initiating Containment Protocols.
The world exploded into chaos.
Guards shouted. The crowd screamed. Weapons were drawn.
The old man in silver armor barked orders, pointing at Arin: "Subdue him! Now!"
Pain lanced through Arin's skull, a sensation like barbed wire wrapping around his brain. He could barely move. Through blurred vision, he saw black-clad soldiers rushing toward him, stun batons crackling with electricity.
He tried to rise. Failed.
The Talent — Devour — whispered to him, something old and hungry stirring in his blood.
Fight. Feed. Survive.
Instinct overrode thought. Arin lashed out blindly, and something impossible happened: the nearest soldier staggered as a thin, invisible thread shot from Arin's hand, piercing the man's chest. Light and data bled from the wound, streaming into Arin's body.
Strength flooded his limbs.
The soldier crumpled, unconscious.
A notification chimed in the air:
Skill Acquired: Shockwave Strike (Lv. 1)
The crowd recoiled in horror. Mothers screamed. Some drew weapons.
Arin stumbled to his feet. The soldiers surrounded him now, their faces hard, their weapons aimed.
The old man raised his hand — a signal. No mercy.
"By the Authority of the Guild," he shouted, "we sentence you to death, Aberrant!"
...
Arin's heart pounded. His fingers twitched with stolen power.
Before he could decide what to do next, the world blurred — and a figure appeared behind the soldiers.
A figure wrapped in dark rags, with eyes like black suns.
It smiled at Arin.
And then the slaughter began.