The air was heavy, saturated with heat.
The dormitory window was slightly ajar, letting in a faint breath of cooler air amid the suffocating summer night. Outside, a pale full moon—porcelain-white—reigned over the sky, the only source of light in the stifling calm.
Inside, around thirty boys, all roughly sixteen years old, shared a dormitory with strict, military-like austerity. Each bed was nothing more than a simple camp cot, aligned in a strict, methodical row. The atmosphere was thick, dry, and heavy with the scent of sweat and exhaustion. It was not hard to guess why this room, belonging to a repurposed orphanage, felt more like a correctional camp than a refuge.
In the far right corner, on the last cot, lay Khalem. A frail, thin boy who had just turned sixteen the day before. Barely one meter seventy, his eyes were sunken with accumulated fatigue. His jet-black hair was unkempt, wild, untouched by a comb for days. His hands and arms bore the calluses of laboring in the dirt. His legs, still stained with earth, told the story of a long day's toil. He waited patiently for his turn to use the "shower"—a generous term for the one decrepit faucet assigned to the room.
The ambient heat, mixed with the sleeping breaths of the other boys, pressed against his chest like an invisible weight. He felt each minute stretch endlessly, as if time itself were holding its breath in anticipation.
"Another long day," he murmured, eyes locked on the glowing moon.
"But at least I made it through."
It's getting close. I can feel it.
"I just turned sixteen... It should be soon now. Ten Marked were called today alone."
He rubbed his feet, trying to dislodge the dirt wedged between his toes. His thoughts drifted, trapped in a quiet tension.
"One came back. He was taken away immediately by the army—to the Academy of Myths."
The more Khalem thought about the ones who had vanished, the more the idea of an uncertain future haunted him. He replayed the numbers in his mind, the rumors, the whispered stories. A strange sense of injustice crept in. Why did some return changed... and others not at all?
For over sixty years, the Arena had been calling. Men, women, children—none were spared. His own parents had died in their Ascension, broken by a trial no human had been ready for at the time.
Back then, the words "Arena" and "Pantheon" meant nothing. Humanity had been caught off guard. Billions perished. The Earth lost 80% of its population in just a few years, and another 10% in the years that followed, due to the collapse of infrastructure, failing power plants, and famine. The world had fallen into chaos.
But out of that chaos, a new era was born: the age of the Receptacles. Those who returned from the Arena changed. Wielding powers, weapons, and fragments of forgotten history. For the Arena took, yes—but it also gave. Thanks to the Pantheon, the immaterial memory of all humanity's myths and heroes, each Receptacle received a power… and a flaw.
He still remembered the hollow gaze of one former Receptacle from months earlier. The man had shouted incomprehensible things before being seized by special forces. They said he had absorbed too many fragments—or perhaps his hero had been too unstable. Khalem didn't know. But he did know this: the fear wasn't of the Arena itself. It was of what it revealed in each person.
"Khalem! It's your turn! Hurry up, it stinks in here!"
Khalem flinched, violently pulled from his thoughts. He stood up and walked toward the shower.
Maybe the last one of my life... Wouldn't be the worst thing, in a way.
He left the dormitory and walked down the orphanage's worn corridor. It was once a school—repurposed to house adolescents with no families. Not out of kindness, but to ensure the State could closely monitor those who might become threats if they failed the Arena.
For failing one's Ascension didn't mean death.
It meant becoming one of the Fallen.
A mindless, bloodthirsty husk: a Residue—the lowest rank among the Fallen. These creatures had nearly driven humanity to extinction.
The first surviving Receptacles of that era had united to fight them. Many perished. The survivors founded an institution to guide future candidates.
The shower was cold and brief. Only a little rainwater remained. After rinsing off, Khalem returned to his bed, lay down, and closed his eyes.
He tried to breathe slowly. To listen. The sound of dripping water. The creak of a few beds. Rhythmic breathing. Everything seemed peaceful. And yet, deep inside, something pulsed with certainty.
Tomorrow would be a long day.
And maybe, this time, it would be his last before the Call.