Atwell Orphanage
Lakane district
Pele city
Haumea Nation
10th May 285 Post Global Unification
Eighteen years after the Halley Incident
Eren lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, Ash's words replaying in his mind like a stubborn echo. Hours slipped by unnoticed. Dinner had come and gone, the orphanage settling into its nighttime quiet, yet his thoughts refused to slow.
They drifted back to the clinic.
He could still remember the sterile smell, the faint hum of instruments, Mother Ruth's reassuring hand on his shoulder as the healer examined him. The test had confirmed it—he had a spiritual circuit. The moment he heard that, young Eren had been overjoyed. Ecstatic. A spiritual circuit meant potential. It meant that, sooner or later, he could generate Anima and be able to cultivate his magical power.
Except it never happened.
Days turned into months. Months into years. He watched his brothers and sisters awaken one by one—some with modest talent, others with brilliance that made the air itself seem to bend around them. Ash's awakening, in particular, had been awe-inspiring. Eren remembered clapping, smiling, cheering for them all… and feeling something ugly coil in his chest.
Why him?
Why was he the exception—the one born with a spiritual circuit but incapable of cultivation? Why was he denied anima, the very force that defined worth in this world? Why was he given monstrous strength and speed instead, while everyone else was blessed with spiritual power?
In the end, it felt meaningless. Raw physical prowess could only take him so far. Any competent mage armed with the right technique could match or surpass him. Strength without anima was a dead end. So, what place did he have in the practical exam? That was what Ash had been trying to tell him.
Eren clenched his fists. He was stubborn—always had been. When he decided on something, he never let go. Even at ten years old, he'd worn Mother Ruth down until she agreed to train him. Martial arts. Discipline. She had been a former Hunter; there was no better teacher.
But even that wouldn't be enough for the practical test.
With a frustrated growl, Eren pushed himself off the bed. He paced the room, restless, agitation buzzing beneath his skin. Thinking about the future filled him with anxiety so sharp it made his chest ache. And it wasn't just about him. It was about his siblings. The kids at Atwell who looked up to him. He wanted to prove—to them, and to the world—that even without anima, even with low spiritual power, they still mattered. That they were worth something.
But to prove that… he needed power. Eren didn't care what kind. All that mattered was training. Pushing his body past its limits. Breaking himself down and rebuilding stronger. Whatever the cost, the result had to be worth it.
It had to be.
High above, hidden among drifting clouds, Alastor Kinsway watched the orphanage below.
His presence was silent, concealed by layered spells and practiced restraint. From this vantage, the compound looked small. Fragile. A cluster of lights against the encroaching dark.
After the break-in at the Zangrest Library, he had volunteered himself for the investigation. The anomaly hadn't been ordinary. The traces of anima left behind were distorted—foreign in a way that made his skin crawl. Following that signature had led him here, to Haumea.
An industrial giant of the Global Union.
Second only to the Lumerion Empire in anima resources, Haumea was among the wealthiest nations in the world. Its cities were filled with Mages and Mundanes alike. But prosperity came with a price. The nation was plagued by Maleficants, drawn in by the dense concentration of negative energy that clung to its streets and underbelly.
Alastor knew this land well. Years ago, during the year he took off after Namer Academy, he had traveled the world searching for purpose. Of all twelve nations within the Global Union, Haumea had left the deepest impression on him. This was where his ancestors had once lived—before the Third World War, before the Great Migration scattered their bloodlines across the continents.
Staring down at the orphanage, Alastor narrowed his eyes.
Something here mattered.
He just hadn't decided yet how—or why.
Alastor drifted through the night sky, skywalking above Atwell Orphanage.
It was a familiar sight to him—centers like this existed all across the world outside the Lumerion Empire. Orphanages built for Animaborn children, taken in either by the state or by religious institutions when their families couldn't—or wouldn't—keep them. Some of these children would eventually aim for the Hunter Association. Others would settle into government positions, maintaining infrastructure, defenses, or anima-based systems that kept their nations running.
Those who became Hunters, however, were rewarded with far more than prestige. They were granted citizenship in Lumerion, the Holy Land and spiritual heart of the Lumerian faith. Atwell Orphanage, though, was far from impressive. The structure was an old repurposed church, long past its prime. The roof sagged in places, cracked tiles exposed beneath tattered repairs. Hairline fractures crept along the stone walls like scars that never quite healed. Compared to the pristine academies and state-funded sanctuaries Alastor had seen elsewhere, this place felt… worn. But not abandoned.
Lived in, he corrected.
Alastor's attention shifted to the scanner hovering near his wrist. The anomalous anima signature he'd been tracking had grown steadily weaker the closer he came. Now it was barely perceptible—too faint for even his refined internal senses to follow reliably. He was forced to rely on magitech. The device pulsed softly, translating spectra beyond normal perception—reading fluctuations in anima layers invisible even to seasoned cultivators. Without it, the trail would have vanished entirely.
The signature had first led him to a public school. There, he had observed two boys. Students. Teenagers. And a fight. One of them was an Elementalist, capable of condensing anima into fire around his fists. A crude but common technique—nothing beyond what any trained Elementalist could manage. His anima reserves were unimpressive, thin and unstable.
The other boy, however…
That was different.
The second boy possessed no anima at all.
Not a trace. Not a flicker. No circulating essence, no latent spiritual conversion, not even the faint internal glow that most mundanes possessed. In a world where anima permeated everything, where even the unawakened carried residual spiritual awareness, the absence was startling.
Alastor found himself pausing midair.
The boy wasn't tall—average height, broad-shouldered—but his stance during the fight told a clear story. This wasn't instinct or luck. The boy had been in fights before. Many of them. His posture was disciplined, economical, lethal. Trained. The Elementalist relied solely on his anima. No footwork. No structure. No understanding of momentum.
The Mundane boy dismantled him. Alastor watched as the boy slipped past fire-wrapped strikes with speed that bordered on absurd, his movements clean and precise. He didn't overpower the flames—he avoided them. Closed distance. Struck where it mattered. Alastor felt the impact of those blows even from afar.
The kid's raw physical strength was enough to punch through the thin anima barriers the Elementalist threw up in panic. No battle aura. No enhancement spells. Just muscle, technique, and will. Impressive. But limited. Against a true Mage with refined control, the boy wouldn't last long. Alastor dismissed the thought just as quickly. It was a shame the Elementalist hadn't known a body-strengthening technique—it might have evened the odds.
Still, the outcome had already been decided. Alastor returned his focus to the anomaly. The strange anima signature hadn't been centered on the Mundane boy. It followed the other one. The second child—the quiet one.
Light brown skin. Calm presence. He was enveloped in a sheath of remarkably stable anima, so smooth and controlled it nearly blended into the world around him. The density alone made Alastor narrow his eyes. That level of anima wasn't normal. It was as though the world itself favored him.
That realization shifted everything. If the anomaly was trailing them, then the boy was likely being watched by something else as well. Maleficants were drawn to intense emotions and dense anima concentrations—and this child radiated both potential and restraint.
Which meant Alastor stayed. He waited through the night, concealed among drifting clouds, watching for the inevitable manifestation. But nothing came. The streets remained quiet. No distortion. No emergence. No entity.
Hours passed.
Alastor exhaled slowly, fatigue settling into his bones. He hadn't slept in far too long, and boredom crept in alongside exhaustion. With a faint sigh, he dismissed the scanner and turned to leave—
And then he saw movement.
A figure dropped from a third-floor window of the orphanage. It wasn't the anima-blessed boy. It was the Mundane one. The kid landed silently, knees bending to absorb the impact as if gravity were a mild inconvenience. He wore a tracksuit and carried a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He paused, scanning the compound carefully, checking angles, shadows, exits.
Making sure no one had seen him. Alastor watched, mildly amused. The behavior was painfully familiar. It reminded him of his sister—sneaking out under cover of night, defying rules with practiced confidence, never once asking permission. Alastor smiled faintly.
Interesting, he thought.
Then the world shuddered.
Alastor felt it the instant the boy cleared the orphanage gates. A ripple ran through the ambient energy of the city—subtle, but unmistakable. The strange anima he had been tracking flared, flickering like a dying ember suddenly fed fresh air. And then it moved.
Straight toward the boy.
Alastor reacted at once, gliding forward, keeping pace from above as unease tightened in his chest. What the hell is going on? The anomaly—Maleficant or something far stranger—was locking onto a target that made no sense.
The boy had no anima. Nothing to consume. Nothing to feed on. The questions piled up, but Alastor forced them aside as he followed the boy through the district. His thoughts kept circling back to the break-in at the Azural King's Library—a sanctum protected by layered holy spells, defenses so absolute that even his sister couldn't have forced her way through them.
And yet someone had. Not only breached the library, but stole something from it. Now that same distorted anima was here. In Haumea. Trailing a random kid in a backwater district of Pele City.
Why?
What possible connection could this boy have to the Azural King… to the Zangrest family?
Alastor's mind drifted to the missing Azural King himself—former Captain of Division Five of the Global Hunter Association. Patriarch of the Zangrest bloodline. Eighteen years ago, he had vanished without a trace.
No clues. No message. No Will.
The chaos of the Halley Incident on Namer Island—the catastrophe that claimed ten thousand lives—had buried any chance of a proper investigation. Even the Zangrest family had been left in the dark. But one fact remained undeniable: the Azural King's Divine Weapon had never returned to the bloodline. Which meant only one thing.
He was still alive. Alastor exhaled slowly. Something was unfolding—something old, dangerous, and deeply entangled with forces that should have remained dormant. He needed answers. First, he needed to inform his sister. He lifted his hand to initiate contact—then stopped. He'd been so focused on the boy that he'd failed to notice where they'd ended up.
Rows of warehouses stretched out before him, squat industrial buildings stacked shoulder to shoulder like sleeping beasts. Cranes loomed overhead. Rusted rails cut through the concrete. But at the center of the district stood one structure that drew the eye immediately.
A large building.
People were funneling toward it in small groups, disappearing through side entrances with practiced ease. Alastor's gaze sharpened as he noticed the barrier surrounding it—a double-layered construct, crude but effective, designed to keep sound and presence contained. His attention snapped back to the boy. The kid slipped inside without hesitation.
Alastor followed, entering the building unnoticed. He didn't know what he expected to find—
But it wasn't the roar of cheering that hit him like a wave. Shouts. Laughter. Rage. The sharp, coppery stench of blood hung thick in the air.
So that's what the barrier was for, Alastor realized. Not defense—but secrecy. To keep the noise from reaching the authorities.
The atmosphere inside crackled with electricity—raw, feverish excitement. A crowd packed tightly around a circular metal cage at the center of the warehouse. Inside it, two figures were tearing into each other with brutal abandon, fists and bodies colliding in a savage rhythm.
Only two light projectors illuminated the space, blasting harsh white beams downward onto the cage. Beyond that narrow pool of light, the audience melted into shadow—faces half-seen, eyes gleaming, voices howling for violence. Alastor blended seamlessly into the crowd.
Whatever this place was…
The boy had come here for a reason.
"Who ya gonna put your quid on—Castello or Onyanko!"
The speaker's voice cut through the warehouse as he wove through the crowd, shouting odds and snatching up coins and chits with greedy speed. Alastor had heard of places like this—illegal cage fights tucked into forgotten districts, where martial artists and low-tier Mages tested themselves for money, reputation, or desperation.
Despite their secrecy, the wider world knew they existed. Many professional MMA champions had started in pits like this. Scouts from international leagues and underground teams frequented these dens, hunting for raw talent worth polishing. Strength forged here was ugly, brutal—and effective.
Is this why the boy came? Alastor wondered. Is this where he spends his nights?
From what he had seen, the kid was undeniably skilled. His technique was clean, efficient, disciplined. But against seasoned MMA fighters—men who blended combat training with Magic power—Alastor wasn't convinced.
Then he stiffened.
Wait.
Where was the boy? And more importantly, where was the strange anima? It was gone. Vanished so completely that even the scanner gave no response.
"And what a knockout!" the announcer roared. "Onyanko continues his reign as this district's undefeated champion!"
Alastor had seen the finishing blow—a vicious ripping hook into the liver, delivered with brutal precision. Castello had folded instantly, his body refusing to respond as pain overwhelmed him. The medics dragged him from the cage on a stretcher, his match decisively over.
Cage fights weren't real combat—not like what Hunters faced. Here, there were rules. Boundaries. No killing. In the field, none of that mattered. But within the cage, it was still brutal. Fists. Elbows. Anima-assisted strikes. Martial discipline colliding with raw aggression. Only the tough survived.
"Is there anyone who wishes to challenge the reigning champion?" the announcer called out.
He was a gnome—a short, broad man in a rumpled brown suit, his jaw hidden beneath a thick, curly beard. His eyes swept the far side of the cage where the fighters gathered. No one moved. Their gazes stayed fixed on Castello's unconscious form.
"No one?" the announcer pressed, dragging out the moment. "Is Onyanko to continue his glorious reign? Thirteen wins. Zero losses. Is there truly no one who can stop—"
"I will."
The voice was calm.
Too calm.
The announcer blinked. "Wait—wait! We have a challenger!"
The overhead projector swung, its harsh white beam cutting through the darkness—
And landed on the boy Alastor had been following.
He stood among the fighters, transformed. The tracksuit was gone, replaced by a simple black shirt and black pants. His hands were wrapped in worn bandages. He looked smaller than most of the men around him—but the air around him felt still. Cold. Centered.
Is he insane? Alastor thought.
From the strike Onyanko had delivered moments ago, Alastor could tell the champion was no amateur. The man radiated Magic strength—high for a non-awakened Mage. Against someone like that, the kid shouldn't stand a chance.
And yet—
The boy's eyes were steady.
Unfazed by the laughter. Unmoved by the boos as the crowd realized who he was. Fighters parted instinctively as he walked toward the cage.
"Well, well, well!" the announcer crowed. "Would you look at that! The ring's favorite punching bag—the brat with not a speck of anima—Eren Walker, versus our reigning champion, Onyanko!"
Unlike Onyanko, Eren received no cheers.
The warehouse erupted with bloodlust. Stomping. Shouting. Demands for violence.
"What do you say, champion?" the announcer shouted. "Care to give the people one last finisher?"
The fight was already being treated as a foregone conclusion.
Onyanko raised his arm, soaking in the noise. He was massive—nearly seven feet tall, dark-skinned, muscles swollen and reinforced by the steady circulation of anima through his Spirit circuits. He still had a lot of magic power for a fight. Alastor understood why he ruled this place.
"Well, folks," the announcer laughed, "looks like we've got ourselves a little appetizer after that thrilling main course!"
Eren stepped into the cage, careful not to tread on the bloodstained mat. He settled into a stance—arms raised, elbows tight, legs grounded and balanced. The jeers grew louder. Obscenities flew. Alastor ignored them. Something was wrong. This wasn't the same presence the boy had shown during the schoolyard fight. Then, he'd been explosive—controlled but aggressive. Now, there was something else layered beneath the surface. Something dangerously familiar. The hairs on Alastor's arms stood on end. He scanned the crowd instinctively, half-expecting to see his sister.
She wasn't there. That was when realization struck him like ice down his spine. The pressure he felt—the faint but unmistakable sense of authority— It wasn't coming from anyone else. It was coming from the boy himself.
Eren Walker.
****
Eren had always been fascinated by the world of MMA—Mystic Martial Arts. He followed every broadcast obsessively, never missing a heavyweight championship bout, memorizing fighters' styles, strengths, and flaws. The brutality never bothered him. The blood. The chaos. The very real risk of death. To Eren, it was exhilarating. Honest. A place where power spoke louder than pedigree.
If becoming a Hunter had ever proven impossible, MMA would have been the path he chose without hesitation. Unlike the Hunter Association, MMA didn't discriminate. It didn't matter whether your strength came from enchanted tools, anima, martial refinement, or some strange, unique ability. If you could fight, you were welcome.
Eren had found this place by accident on his sixteenth birthday. One punch. That was all it took. A promoter's bodyguard had gotten mouthy, and Eren had dropped him before anyone could react. The sleek, well-dressed man overseeing the event had seen potential immediately and invited Eren to compete in one of his underground matches. Eren had trained relentlessly, heart pounding with anticipation.
And then he'd been told to throw the fight. Let someone else win. Keep the odds profitable. Play the role. It went against everything he believed in. Against the core of who he was. But he needed the money—needed it for the orphanage, for food, for clothes, for everyone who relied on him. So he lost. On purpose. And from that day forward, for two long years, he became the joke of the cage. The "Magic-less brat" who showed up, fought hard, and always fell in the end. A reliable punching bag to pad other fighters' records.
But not tonight. In the coming months, Eren would either earn his place at Namer Academy—or he would use this moment to carve his name into the MMA world by force.
He couldn't do that as the laughingstock of this pit. So he had prepared.
Across the cage stood Onyanko, the reigning champion. The man who had brutalized Castello moments earlier. Eren studied him carefully. He couldn't sense anima—not even a flicker—but instinct told him everything he needed to know.
This man was strong. Strong enough that defeating him would leave no room for denial. The bell rang. Onyanko smirked, deliberately opening his guard as if daring Eren to try. Like the boy couldn't possibly exploit it.
Eren surged forward. His movement was sharp and controlled, power detonating from his legs as he regulated every ounce of force. He unleashed a triple kick, each strike snapping with precision and intent. Onyanko reeled back, the impact ringing through his skull. He recovered quickly—experience saved him—but surprise flickered across his face. The brat was fast.
Too fast.
Onyanko shifted into a defensive stance just as Eren closed in, abandoning kicks for a relentless combination of punches. The assault came like a storm—clean, efficient, unbroken. Onyanko had no room to counter.
This was bad.
His anima barrier strained under the sheer physical force. Cracks spread through his defense, shock traveling up his arms with every blow.
What kind of martial art is this? Onyanko thought, panic creeping in. He had never encountered a style that produced such power without anima reinforcement.
If this continued—
He might lose.
Fear surged.
And without thinking—without understanding why—Onyanko shouted, instinctively invoking a defensive spell.
Blue Shield.
A circular disc of shimmering blue light snapped into existence in front of Onyanko just as Eren drove upward with the finishing uppercut he'd been lining up. His fist struck the barrier with a metallic clang, the impact jarring his bones as though he'd punched solid steel. The blow died there—stopped cold, never reaching its mark.
Damn.
Eren had planned to end it cleanly. One decisive knockout before Onyanko could do anything reckless, exploiting the brief opening he'd forced. But champions didn't hold their titles by accident. Onyanko recovered far faster than Eren anticipated, twisting his body and using the recoil of the shield to shove Eren off balance.
Then came the counter.
Eren felt the kick slam into his back before his mind fully registered it. Instinct took over—his arms snapped up to block—but the force still sent him flying. His body crashed into the cage wall with a thunderous impact, metal rattling as pain exploded through him. The roar of the crowd faded into a dull hum.
Damn it.
He'd underestimated a heavyweight champion.
The sense of danger snapped him back into focus. Ignoring the pain, Eren rolled aside just as Onyanko's fist smashed down where his head had been. A flash of white light erupted on impact, the blow tearing a crater into the floor as concrete shattered and sprayed outward.
Eren surged forward, unleashing a rapid series of four-directional punches—each driven at full output—slamming them into the blue shield. The barrier rippled violently. Onyanko's face tightened as Eren's knuckles scraped across the surface, and that expression told him everything.
The spell was draining him.
Good.
Eren pressed harder—
The shield collapsed.
Onyanko lunged at the same instant, his shoulder slamming into Eren's chest. Eren tried to answer with a right jab, but Onyanko caught his arm, forcing it down. His other fist curved toward Eren's face, anima igniting around it, heat searing the air.
Eren reacted instantly.
He stepped in, cutting the angle, his foot sliding forward as his arm snapped up in an outside block—shearing off the momentum Onyanko was building. The champion's eyes widened in surprise as Eren flowed into a throw, hooking his leg and ripping Onyanko's balance away.
But Onyanko refused to go down easily.
He clamped onto Eren's right arm and swung his leg hard, aiming to send him back into the wall again. Eren's body flipped through the air—but he twisted mid-rotation and landed cleanly, boots skidding across the mat as he regained his stance.
He barely had time to turn.
A flash of white light tore across his right leg.
Pain flared as blood splashed onto the mat. Onyanko stood with his arm outstretched, heat rolling off him in waves. He hadn't planned to use combat spells against a Mundane fighter—but the boy in front of him had forced his hand.
Eren Walker was no ordinary kid.
Magicless or not, his strength rivaled that of a Hyperborean—beings famed for superhuman power and battlefield dominance. Treating him like anything less than a genuine threat would only lead to defeat.
Eren hissed through clenched teeth as blood ran down his leg. Somewhere, the announcer shouted about the first blood being drawn. The crowd erupted.
Eren barely heard them.
That white light—that spell—was familiar. He'd seen Ash use it before. Seen countless MMA fighters rely on it when things turned serious. A defensive spell, then an offensive one. Eren grinned. So the champion had finally acknowledged him.
This wasn't like his other fights. This wasn't bullying, or survival, or proving a point. This was a true battle—against someone stronger, more experienced, more dangerous than anyone he'd faced before. And the pain? It was intoxicating.
Onyanko stared at him in disbelief. He'd fought countless MMA fighters in the south, where brute-force Mages were far more common than refined Mages—but none of them had made him feel this way. There was something around the boy. A presence. A nascent aura so faint that most in the building wouldn't notice it.
Onyanko doubted even Eren himself realized what was happening. He recognized that look in the boy's eyes. He'd seen it before—in fighters who lived for combat. Men who chased the ecstasy of the clash itself.
This one's a battle maniac, Onyanko thought. Still unrefined—but dangerous.
He thrust his fists forward, firing off a barrage of condensed anima blasts—the same cannon-like strikes he'd used earlier.
Eren was already moving.
He leapt, twisted, and sprinted through the chaos, evading the white flashes as they detonated against the floor, chunks of cement blasting into the air. Without hesitation, Eren snatched a handful of debris mid-motion and hurled it back.
Onyanko dodged each piece cleanly, already advancing—timing his steps perfectly to meet Eren at the point where he would land.
His arm drew back, anima blazing.
The fight was far from over.
Shock Seal.
Onyanko's palm drove into Eren's gut.
The moment of impact was silent—then the anima detonated inside him. A violent ripple tore through Eren's body, scrambling his senses as if his nerves had been yanked loose. Blood sprayed from his mouth. His insides felt like they were folding in on themselves, organs twisting, breath crushed from his lungs.
He couldn't move.
Couldn't think.
Couldn't even scream.
Onyanko didn't hesitate. Punch after punch slammed into him—brutal, methodical blows. Eren couldn't block or dodge. The seal locked him in place, pinning him to the moment as his body absorbed the punishment. He felt his lips split. Felt his brow swell as bone and flesh protested. Each strike drove him closer to darkness.
Then Onyanko stepped back. Eren knew what was coming. The finisher. The same rippling hook that had dropped Castello—condensed anima, full force, no restraint. Onyanko twisted his hips and unleashed it straight into Eren's gut. Eren braced himself for the blackout. For the emptiness.
Instead—
He flew. His body smashed into the cage wall with a deafening clang, metal screaming as it bent inward. Pain flared—but not the annihilating agony he'd expected. Not even close. Eren blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Am I still conscious?
Across from him, Onyanko stared in disbelief. The champion's expression was frozen somewhere between shock and confusion, as if reality had failed to follow the script.
Eren pressed a trembling hand to his abdomen. What he felt beneath his shirt made his eyes widen.
…I tanked it?
A laugh almost bubbled up—then died as instinct screamed at him.
Move. Now.
This was it. If he hesitated, he'd lose. If he wanted to win, he had to risk everything. Eren drew in a slow, steady breath. Then another. He grounded himself—feet, hips, spine—aligning his stance, tightening every muscle, compressing every ounce of strength his body could produce. He let go of restraint.
One second passed.
Then—
He vanished.
Onyanko felt the shift in the air an instant before he lost sight of Eren. His anima surged reflexively as he reinforced his defense—not enough for a spell like Blue Shield, but enough to brace himself.
It wasn't enough. The punch came from nowhere. The impact was cataclysmic. Onyanko was ripped off his feet and launched clean out of the cage, his massive body sailing across the warehouse before crashing into the far wall where spectators had been seated moments earlier. Stone fractured. People scattered. The champion collapsed in a heap, unmoving.
Silence. Then chaos. Onyanko—thirteen wins, zero losses, reigning champion of the Lakane District—had been knocked out by a Mundane boy.
"—I don't believe it!" the announcer shouted, voice cracking. "Onyanko! Undefeated! Thirteen wins and no losses—has been taken down! What in the hell just happened?!"
For a heartbeat, no one spoke.
Then the warehouse exploded. Cheers replaced jeers. Shock turned into raw, electric excitement. The crowd roared—not for blood this time, but for the impossible thing they had just witnessed. Eren Walker stood alone in the cage, chest heaving. And the world had no choice but to look at him.
****
For a brief moment, even Alastor lost track of Eren's movement.
The boy's final burst of speed was so abrupt, so absolute, that Alastor's perception lagged behind it. By the time his senses caught up, the damage was already done—and Eren Walker had been declared the victor.
As the crowd roared and chaos spread through the warehouse, Alastor replayed the fight in his mind.
He had already judged the boy to be a skilled combatant for his age—exceptional, even. Compared to the youths of the Great Families, Eren's fundamentals were frighteningly refined. His physical strength was on par with a Hyperborean's baseline, but that alone didn't explain the outcome.
It was the speed.
Not just raw velocity, but reaction time, timing, acceleration—his ability to decide faster than his opponent could respond. That edge had carried him through the fight.
And then there was the final blow. To the untrained eye, it looked like a normal punch. Brutal, yes—but mundane. To Alastor, it was anything but. That strike had been magic. No anima construct. No spell pattern. No refinement cycle. Nevertheless, it was magic. For a fleeting instant, Alastor had sensed a surge of power radiating from Eren—an unfamiliar waveform that vanished the moment the punch landed. But it had been real.
Magic Power. Weak. Nascent. Barely formed—but undeniable.
Alastor frowned.
That should have been impossible. In this world, there were two recognized paths of cultivation: Magic Cultivation and Martial Cultivation. But both relied on anima at their foundation. Anima was refined into spells or condensed into a battle aura. Eren Walker had no anima. And yet—
Alastor shifted from his vantage point, positioning himself along the route leading to the changing rooms. He observed Eren closely as the boy walked past.
The injuries were gone. The gash on his leg—healed. The swelling on his face—gone. His breathing steady. His stride unbroken. Rapid recovery, too.
Interesting, Alastor thought.
"Nice fight," he said casually as Eren passed him.
Eren turned instinctively, ready to reply—
But Alastor Kinsway was already gone.
The space where he had stood was empty.
Eren frowned, certain he'd heard a voice. After a second, he shrugged it off and entered the changing room, slumping down onto a bench. His whole body trembled with exhaustion now that the adrenaline was fading.
He'd won.
The gamble had paid off.
Eren stared at his hands, disbelief and exhilaration tangling in his chest. He was completely spent—his stamina drained to the bone. That final strike had taken everything he had. It was the first time he'd ever used Max-Speed Strike on a living opponent.
The technique forced his body to output beyond its normal limits, compressing more than a hundred percent of his muscular power into a single moment by synchronizing charge, acceleration, and impact. He'd never been sure it would work against a mage. But that wasn't what troubled him now. Slowly, Eren reached beneath his shirt and pulled out the object that had saved him from Onyanko's finishing blow.
A book.
His breath caught.
He recognized it immediately—and that made no sense at all. It was the same shabby black book he'd seen earlier by the riverbank. The one Ash had flipped through. The one Ash had thrown into the river. Yet here it was. Eren opened it. Blank.
No title. No markings. No text. Just clean, white pages from cover to cover. Neither thick nor thin—utterly unremarkable. And yet it had been inside his shirt. And it had blocked a heavyweight champion's anima-infused finisher. If not for it, Eren knew he would have been the one lying unconscious in the cage. Should he throw it away? He hesitated. It was just a book. A book that had saved his life. Eren let out a quiet breath and smiled faintly.
"Guess you're sticking with me," he murmured.
He tucked the book carefully into his gym bag and stood—only to freeze as the door creaked open.
Onyanko walked in. Fully healed. Eren's muscles tensed instantly, expecting rage, a demand for a rematch, maybe violence. But Onyanko didn't look angry. He didn't look bitter. If anything, he looked… amused.
"Oh—so it's you, Walker," Onyanko said, surprise flickering across his face. "Didn't expect to see you again so soon."
There was a distinct lilt to his voice, a subtle accent Eren recognized immediately. Southern. Nri Empire. It was a place Eren had always wanted to visit—an empire rumored to rival even the Holy Empire of Lumerion in power and influence, one of the titans among the thirteen nations of the Global Union.
"I'm just grabbing my things," Eren replied. After that, he planned to collect his winnings from the manager. Hopefully, this time the purse would be worth the bruises.
"That was a hell of a fight," Onyanko said with a grin. "If I'd known you were a Hyperborean, I'd have been a lot more careful."
Eren blinked. "Hyperborean?"
Onyanko caught the confusion immediately and laughed. "In the southern continent, Martial artists are just as common as Mages. Most of them carry Hyperborean blood. That strength of yours—it feels familiar." He shook his head, amused. "That's why I left the Nri Empire. Too many monsters. I wanted to make a name for myself somewhere else. Never thought I'd run into one of you in a magic-heavy country like Haumea."
His laughter was easy, his defeat already forgotten.
"Sorry to disappoint," Eren said honestly, "but I'm not a Hyperborean."
Onyanko paused, genuinely surprised. "You're not?"
"No," Eren said. "I'm human."
It was the truth. His strength had always confused him, too. Mother Ruth had even run an ancestry test years ago. Pureblood human. No exotic lineage. No latent bloodline.
Which made his abilities all the stranger.
Onyanko studied him for a long moment, then hummed. "Interesting."
Eren quickly shifted the conversation. "So—you're really from the Nri Empire?"
"Yeah," Onyanko said, opening his locker and pulling out his things. "Though it's been a while." He hesitated, then looked back at Eren. "You know… It's always been my dream to become a heavyweight champion. My manager said scouts from the major leagues were watching tonight."
He let out a short laugh. "Guess losing to you didn't help my chances."
Then he met Eren's eyes. "Tell me—do you want the championship belt?"
Eren hesitated.
He knew how the system worked. Getting noticed by the right clubs was the fastest way into the upper echelons of Mystic Martial Arts. With his performance tonight, scouts would absolutely be watching him now.
But that path…
"No," Eren said firmly. "I have no intention of becoming a professional MMA fighter."
Onyanko stared at him. "Seriously? With that talent, you could make it into the big leagues—even without anima."
"Then what do you want?" Onyanko asked. "You must have a dream."
Eren didn't hesitate this time.
"I do," he said simply. "I want to become a Hunter."
For a moment, Onyanko could only stare. Then Eren turned and walked away, leaving the former champion standing there in stunned silence.