The Great Hall loomed in absolute, suffocating silence. Every inch of the floor was crafted from obsidian so polished it held Raizal's blurred reflection like a dark mirror. At the center stood a massive stone table flanked by twelve ornate chairs. At the head sat a singular, high-backed throne—a seat built for a head, yet occupied only by shadows.
Raizal approached the table. Resting on the cold stone was a tattered, ancient book. Its cover was a map of deep scratches and faded leather. But the title on the cover was still legible in faint, ghostly letters: SIGHT IN THE DARK CITY.He picked it up, his thumb tracing the worn spine.
"A thousand times," he whispered, his voice swallowed by the vastness of the hall. "And still nothing."
He had found this book three years ago, tossed into a trash heap like a piece of forgotten history. It was shortly after the ISD had branded him a Defect and dragged him here to rot in the Restricted Sector. Most people in the slums hunted for scraps of food; Raizal had hunted for answers.
The most fascinating thing—the hook that had kept him from burning the book for warmth—was the author's madness. The writer claimed to have dreamt of the same city every night for two years: a metropolis drowned in absolute darkness, a sprawling, ancient kingdom where no human breath stirred.
Raizal hadn't kept it out of curiosity, but out of desperation. Three years ago, shortly after arriving in the Sector, he had 'glitched' for the first time. He had vanished from the grey streets and woke up in this obsidian hall. Since then, it happened randomly—sometimes a frantic escape, sometimes a sudden pull in his gut.
The Hall had become his only sanctuary. When the beatings from Max grew too bloodied, or when the weight of the Sector became a noose, he would retreat here. He had spent countless hours scouring these pages, hoping to find a map or a reason, but the book was a ruin. Only a few pages remained, and even those were fragmented, the ink fading into ghostly smears. He knew, after a bit of investigation, that a book like this didn't exist in the Sector's meager shops. This was a book of the world outside—the world that had spat him out.
He had been here just the day before yesterday, squinting at the same unreadable sentences. Now, he sat in the head chair, closed his eyes, and let the monochromatic fog—the black-and-white mist—pull him back to the waking nightmare.
"I'm back," Raizal muttered, the book heavy in his hand as he appeared in his cramped room.
He didn't waste time. He tucked the book away and ran toward Uncle Flint's store. The Restricted Sector felt heavy today. The atmosphere was thick with the salt of tears and the frantic cheers of those who had passed the initial trial. Parents clung to their children, their faces masks of terror, knowing the "Pass" was merely an invitation to a different kind of war.
When he reached the store, he froze.
Four people stood inside, their presence acting like a puncture in the room's oxygen. Their tailored, silk-thread clothes and the casual arrogance of their posture screamed Outside World.
In the center of the group stood a girl. She was hauntingly beautiful, but her eyes held a crystalline coldness that offered no warmth.
Uncle Flint let out a ragged breath of relief the moment he saw Raizal. "You're back? What was the result?"
Raizal forced a thin smile. "I passed, Uncle. They've called me for the Awakening tomorrow."
A sharp, mocking laugh erupted from one of the boys in the group. "Oh? So even this piece of trash passed? Have the standards fallen that low?"
"Keep your mouth shut," the girl snapped. Her voice was like cracking ice, silencing the boy instantly. She turned toward Raizal, her gaze measuring him with a frigid, unreadable intensity. "It's good to hear you passed," she said flatly. "Now you'll be able to attend the Distor Military Academy. If you manage to graduate, you might actually live a normal life."
As Aither Valen spoke, the horrific layers of history began to uncoil in Raizal's mind. Four years after the Judgment Day, the true nightmare had begun. Portals had fractured the sky without warning, vomiting out an alien race known as the Netherkins. Their invasion had pushed humanity to the very precipice of extinction.
When ordinary humans proved powerless against the onslaught, the Alters had emerged as the last line of defense. These Netherkins possessed supernatural powers similar to an Alter's Tide, but with a terrifying difference.
While every Distor had a unique power, the entire Netherkin race shared a single, absolute Tide: Decay. With a mere touch, they could reduce anything—living or inanimate—to grey ash. Under their contact, everything rotted instantly.
To combat them, the Distor Military was formed—an elite force entirely separate from the human military. The government had made it compulsory: at sixteen, every student was sent to the Academy for four years to learn how to balance and control their Tide. After that, they were forged into weapons for the war or released to a profession of their choice.
Raizal would cross the threshold of sixteen tomorrow. Whether that day would be a blessing or a curse was a question.
"What are you doing here, Aither?" Raizal's voice was a flat, dead line.
"My father sent me to see how many passed the trials. We're leaving now," Aither replied. Her tone was devoid of emotion. "See you."
She turned and led her group out of the store without another word.
Flint watched them go, looking bewildered. "Raizal... you know her?"
Raizal stared out the window, watching the expensive car disappear into the grey soot of the Sector. "She's the daughter of the Valen Family. Three years ago, before I was branded 'Defect' and exiled here, we were in the same school."
There was a profound bitterness in his voice. He knew exactly how much his world had shattered the day he was labeled a 'Defect'
In the darkness of the store room...
Axel was on his knees.
The bottles of soda around him were vibrating violently, rattling against the floor as if an earthquake were centered directly beneath him. His body was fracturing the laws of biology. He clutched at his throat, but his hands weren't shaking—they were flapping, his joints becoming liquid.
A sound escaped him—a deep, gutteral growl that no human throat could produce. Blood seeped from his jaw as his lips began to tear at the corners. His skin turned a sickly, translucent white.
Beneath his frayed shirt, his spine cracked and buckled. His eyes rolled back into his skull, leaving only white orbs threaded with glowing red veins. From the holes in his shirt, wet, sticky appendages of raw meat erupted. They grew with impossible speed, tipped with nails as sharp as obsidian blades. The meat-tendrils lashed out blindly, gouging deep, jagged furrows into the storage room walls.
Axel slammed his head against the floor, over and over. Blood sprayed. He was turning. He was becoming a Mutant.
But then... a sudden, suffocating silence.
Axel slammed his fists shut, his nails burying themselves into his palms until they drew blood. He took a ragged, shivering breath. Slowly, the meat-tendrils retreated into his back. The torn jaw snapped back into place with a sickening pop.
He wiped the blood from his face, his eyes returning to normal—but the light in them was gone. They were hollow.
"Axel! Hurry up, boy! Did you find the bottles?" Flint's voice called from the front.
Axel grabbed the crate, his voice a flat, dead drone. "Coming... I found them."
He stepped out into the light, leaving behind the gouged marks on the wall—the silent proof that a monster was living inside his skin.