The world was not supposed to look like this.
It was darker, heavier, and wetter than memory allowed. The rain fell in shards that cut through the alley with the sound of shattered glass, yet there was no pain. Not in his body—because there was no body left, or at least none he could claim. He knelt in the puddle, water seeping through the soaked fabric of his jacket, feeling the electric hum of a life that had once ended. His lungs drew in air as if he had never breathed before, and each inhale carried the sharp tang of metal and ozone.
He looked down at his hands. They were intact. Too intact. The bullet holes, the blood, the agony—they were gone. Skin unblemished, nails whole, veins pulsing faintly blue beneath the surface. It was a sensation that made him want to laugh and scream at the same time.
A sigil burned at the center of his chest. It was faint, a cobalt-blue swirl, impossible to ignore. He did not remember feeling it appear. Yet the moment he sensed it, the air itself shifted, as if acknowledging the presence of something ancient and patient. He could feel it—not just on his skin, but in his nerves, bones, and blood. The sigil thrummed with the pulse of a dragon that had chosen him.
And dragons were not benign creatures.
The alley was silent except for the rain. But he knew the silence was temporary. In the underworld, silence was rarely peace. It was anticipation. Somewhere, in the shadows, someone would be coming for him. Perhaps more than one someone. That was how it always began: a ripple, a tremor, then the storm.
His first thought was survival. Not vengeance, not strategy. Survival. He pushed himself to his feet, feeling the subtle resistance of gravity that the sigil now allowed him to manipulate in small, almost imperceptible ways. Not enough to leap over the building walls or crush concrete, but enough to steady himself against exhaustion that shouldn't exist. Every step he took felt measured, as if the world itself had become a challenge to his coordination.
He tested it instinctively. Raising his hand, he concentrated on the puddle beneath him. The water shivered, almost responding, a tiny wave that rose and fell without spilling over the edges. It was nothing yet, but it was acknowledgment. It was power.
The first footstep behind him was soft, deliberate. He didn't turn. Instinct told him to wait. The alley's narrow walls provided cover, and the rain masked most sounds. Yet he sensed the presence, the intent behind it. Whoever—or whatever—was approaching carried a weight. A sigil, perhaps, though weaker. He could feel the resonance even through the static of the rain.
"Do you know who you are now?" the voice whispered, gravelly and amused, carrying through the alley like a knife.
He turned slowly. A man stepped out from the shadows, coat slick with rain. His movements were precise, measured, almost ceremonial. The sigil on the man's wrist glowed faintly red—he could feel it through the pressure in the air, the tug in his chest. A Dragon bearer. Class IV at least.
"I… I'm me," he said, voice hoarse.
The man laughed, low and humorless. "You are more than yourself now. The sigil has chosen you. The Crax is yours to command—or to drown you entirely."
He didn't understand the words. Crax? The sigil? He only knew the sensation: a vibration in his veins, a presence behind his heartbeat, and a pressure against reality itself that made every breath an effort. He flexed his fingers. The air responded. Not with flames or sparks, but with resistance. With possibility.
"That… hurts." The word slipped out before he could stop it.
"It will hurt until you learn," the man said, taking another step forward. "Every action has a cost. Every violation of reality extracts blood, bone, mind. If you draw too much Crax too soon, you will die—not from me, not from anyone—but from yourself."
He wanted to ask why. But even as he opened his mouth, he felt it: the hum inside his chest, the tightening in his muscles, the faint metallic taste in his mouth. The sigil pulsed as if impatient, as if mocking his ignorance. He had survived death once, and it had demanded a price he could not yet comprehend.
The man lunged.
It wasn't fast. It was instantaneous. The air thickened, resisting movement. Rain slashed sideways, driven by some imperceptible wind. The man's fist collided with him—but not with his flesh. With reality. He staggered back, uninjured, as if the world itself had softened the blow. His hand shot forward instinctively. Blue energy surged along his veins. A tremor of heat, pressure, and something else—something ancient—pushed outward.
The man's eyes widened. The sigil on his wrist flared. But it was too late. The puddle beneath them erupted—not with water, but with weight, compressing like iron. The force pinned the man's legs for a fraction of a second, long enough for the boy to realize something fundamental: power was not in his fists, nor in fire or steel. It was in the way the world bent when he willed it, in the invisible threads of force that the sigil allowed him to tug.
The man recovered, smirk curling on his face. "Interesting. You're alive, but you've already drawn too much. Careful—every second, every push tears at your own body."
He felt it then. A twinge in his ribs, a faint cracking that shouldn't exist. Not pain exactly. More like awareness. The world had cost him something to bend. And if he continued, if he didn't learn restraint, the cost would grow exponentially.
He had survived death. He had been chosen by a dragon. And yet, he was still a child.
The man lunged again, this time slower, careful. He wanted to test him, to measure him. The boy's pulse quickened. He raised his hands. Blue energy flared along his veins. Rain hissed against his skin as if the atmosphere itself understood he was commanding it. The man's fist collided with the space just above his shoulder. The strike fractured the air—a sharp pop that made the hair on his arms stand.
He countered instinctively. He did not think about fire or water or lightning. He thought about weight, resistance, and presence. His palm pressed forward. The air compressed like iron. Rain and puddles bulged outward, then snapped back violently. The man staggered backward, cursing.
The alley shook. Bricks cracked. The water beneath them boiled, not with heat, but with the sudden shift of forces. He tasted iron. He tasted pressure. He felt every molecule in the air pressing back at him, demanding balance.
"Not bad," the man said, panting. "But raw force is meaningless. Crax obeys your body, your mind, and your limits. Push too far, and it will undo you before it hurts anyone else."
He swallowed, trying to absorb the meaning. Every step, every breath, every heartbeat now mattered more than life had ever mattered before. He was alive. But he was borrowed. The sigil had given him existence, and it demanded obedience.
A sudden thought struck him: the girl. The one he had saved. She had vanished, disappeared into the night after the assault. The thought sent a jolt through him, the memory mixing with the hum of the sigil. He wanted to scream, to curse, to demand answers—but the world would not allow it. Not yet. Not until he learned the rules.
The man stepped closer, crouching slightly as if to measure him. "You're Class V for now. Frail. Weak. But the potential…" He let the words hang. "…is enough to make the underworld shiver. Do not underestimate the stakes. Every family, every sigil, every dragon—every one of them is watching. You will draw attention. And someone will come to collect."
The boy clenched his fists. The hum in his chest surged. The sigil pulsed stronger, tasting anticipation. It was a living thing. Not his ally. Not his master. Not even entirely a friend. Something older than the world, patient, sovereign, and indifferent.
"Then I guess… I have to learn fast," he whispered, more to himself than the man.
The man smiled, a grim, knowing curve. He turned and melted back into the shadows, leaving only the rain, the shattered alley, and the pulsing sigil.
He was alone.
And yet, not alone.
The sigil burned. The blue pulse throbbed in his veins like a heartbeat of its own. It whispered of limits, of costs, of power that could tear the world and the bearer in equal measure. He flexed his fingers again. The puddle quivered. A shard of water lifted like a blade, suspended in midair.
He had survived death.
He had drawn the sigil.
He had begun.
The rain fell harder. The world waited.
And the first lesson was clear:
Power was not a gift.
It was a sentence.