My name is Stivastin—just Stivastin.
I was a Special Grade Evolved, though I was barely aware of the term. Until the age of nine, my world was the Saint Lucia's orphan asylum near the coast, one of 132 miserable souls trapped in an enforced nightmare. My parents—whoever they were—died on February 11th, 2098, when the second Yellow Portal ripped open, sixty years after its initial appearance. I was born three months after the devastation of my home village by the Mimiks, somehow surviving the carnage to be deposited at Saint Lucia's.
The place was a bleak monument of false charity: cold, perpetually gloomy, and governed by uncaring, indifferent staff. I learned early that survival demanded violence. There were no heroes, only the promise of more misery. For us, every subsequent year past the age of five felt like a slow death sentence, watching the hope of a happy family dwindle before our very eyes. The open houses were a grotesque zoo exhibit—we were measured, poked, and prodded, more cattle than children. We were graded on the impossible: the cleanliness of our skin when we were never properly washed, the fullness of our health when we never had a full stomach, the cuteness of our faces when dressed in rags and dirt.
Inevitably, adoption was rare. The lucky few who left often returned, their new families quickly realizing the depths of the damage inflicted by the asylum. Those who turned fifteen were either pushed onto the streets with a stale crust and a bottle of water, or, in rare, miraculous cases, woke up bearing The Proof.
White pupils. The most beautiful gift a cruel God could bestow. It marked you as one of the chosen, the Evolved. In my nine years, it had happened only a few times. I remembered the first: an elder named Sterling. I watched him depart, his eyes glowing with that unearthly white, and I found myself praying—not the annoying, rote drivel they forced us to recite morning and night—but a selfish, desperate plea for that sign.
By nine, I had already carved out a quiet reputation: don't mess with Stivastin. I wasn't stronger or faster than the older boys, but no one matched my ferocity, my sheer resolve to kill. For me, every fight was existential. I understood that a single surrender made you a daily pit stop for torment.
Though I was often left bashed and bloodied, I ensured every blow was returned twofold. For that, I was largely left alone. Why bother with a rabid animal when plenty of others had already accepted their fate in this pit? Survival was the only currency, a cruel game secretly encouraged by the chamber mistresses who ran the establishment.
Saint Lucia's, like most of its kind, was not run by true altruists, but by men who understood that faked philanthropy, state-sponsored and legal, could be far more lucrative than any criminal enterprise. They were the scum of the world, dressed in the robes of compassion. In the eyes of society, they were simply people who cared for children.
I kept my prayers constant, my head on a swivel, and my fists permanently ready. Then came April 13th, 2107. My prayers were answered early.
During the morning headcount, Mistress Savle, the middle-aged elder in charge of my group, took one look at me and went absolutely ashen. She fled the chamber as if she'd seen a Mimik in the flesh. The other children quickly backed away, their fear battling with a fierce, unmistakable envy in their eyes. Their eyes.
I bolted. Straight to the communal bathroom, the only place with a mirror. Moving alone was forbidden, punishable by two days without food, but I didn't care. I needed to see.
I was right. My original pupil colour was gone, replaced by an ethereal, pulsating white. I froze on the small, crappy chair the younger kids used, studying the otherworldly glow. I was confused—this was supposed to be years away, if ever. My heart hammered against my ribs, yet I refused to blink.
Footsteps erupted outside, people were surging toward the bathroom. I looked up to see the Headmaster leading the charge, Mistresses flanking him, including a shamefaced Savle, while the chamber kids peered in from the doorway. Standing on that chair, looking down at these terrified adults, I felt a dizzying surge of elevation. It was my time to look down on people.
I didn't know then that being a Special Grade was not about being stronger, only rarer—a random mutation that bypassed the fifteenth birthday rule. But procedures were in place. Soldiers from the Empire's capital were dispatched, accompanied by a representative of the nobility and a member of the Brotherhood of Light.
Three days. I spent them in isolation, shunned by the children and even the staff. It was a win: better food, and the beautiful reprieve of solitude, no longer needing to scan my environment with every bite. I fantasized about my future ability. Was it affected by personality? Genetics? Or was it simply random divine distribution? And who were the Brotherhood of Light?
I slept soundly, and every night, I remembered to thank the Creator for his blessing. Mistress Savle was the only visitor, uncharacteristically meek, rigidly avoiding my eye line.
On the third morning, they arrived. Grim soldiers in black and gold armor escorted me to the dining hall. Two men stood side-by-side at the far end. The soldiers bowed to the taller man and positioned me before them, then retreated to guard the entrance. I recognized the armor from newspapers: soldiers of His Majesty, the Emperor.
Of the two men, the one on the left was a bored-looking fellow with black hair and a neatly trimmed beard. The one on the right was swathed entirely in a brilliant, almost blinding yellow robe, his lower face covered by the same material. He truly reminded me of a lemon.
The lemon-robed man began speaking, his voice nasal and severe.
"We are here today to awaken and verify a Special Grade, case number SG.7. Standing witness is Lord Harlam Avesta, son of Numa, First Hand of His Majesty, Emperor Seth, Son of Heaven and divine ruler of the East Asian Empire. Performing the awakening from the sacred Brotherhood of Light, Kazahaya First Grade."
He took a shallow, theatrical breath. "One named Stivastin, age nine, received the Proof of Evolution on the morning of April 13th. Boy. Is this information correct? Answer yes or no."
I know you know my name, lemon.
"Yes," I replied, my voice thin.
"Without further delay, let us begin. Boy, turn around and lower your head."
I obeyed, palms sweating, my heart now a drum in my chest. I felt a cold, rough hand settle upon the crown of my head, followed by words in a language I didn't recognize—ancient, guttural. The cold of the touch was startling, trickling like ice water down my spine. Then the heat came, not in a gentle wave, but in a pressurized surge. Every cell in my body seemed to refresh. The feeling was pure, indescribable euphoria, until the heat concentrated, rushing to my eyes. It became intensely uncomfortable for a second, then vanished.
"It is done. The binding ritual is complete."
I took that as my cue, opening my eyes. They were watery, stinging, and I blinked several times.
I glanced to my side and saw one of the cheap wooden chairs we used for our infrequent meals. I blinked again, focusing on the cheap wood. The chair exploded. Not with a bang, but in a sudden, violent disintegration, shattering into nothing but fine, swirling particles of dust.
CRASH!
I was pushed down with shocking force, my head slamming into the cement floor.
"CLOSE YOUR EYES! DO NOT MOVE!" The shout was Kazahaya's, pure panic ripping through his ceremonial tone.
I was too scared to even inhale, breathing in dust and grit from the ground. A hand gripped my neck, pinning me firmly.
"Enough, Kazahaya. Release the boy."
The voice was Harlam Avesta's. Cold, resonant, and utterly dominant.
"My Lord, it is his eyes..." Kazahaya sputtered.
"I understand, Kazahaya. Now get off him." The voice was closer now, and I heard a muffled shove.
"Stivastin," Harlam commanded. "Turn around, but keep your eyes closed. Do it now."
Dazed and dizzy, I performed a clumsy half-turn, focused only on the sounds around me. I knew, without a doubt, that I had destroyed that chair.
"Take deep breaths. Try to calm your mind. Your ability is still active."
I obeyed, taking several deliberate, rattling inhales. My heart slowed, the shaking in my hands subsided. His voice was oddly comforting in its authority.
"Good. Nicely done, kid. Now, just in case, keep your head fixed on the floor and open your eyes."
I opened them. I could see my own bare feet, and next to them, the polished boots of Harlam Avesta. He stood dangerously close. We held the position for a tense silence, but nothing else happened.
"Excellent," Harlam chuckled, the sound dry and appreciative. He patted my head lightly. "That's one powerful ability you've been given."
"Kazahaya," Harlam called, "what does your analysis say? Does this power even have a name in your scripture?"
"No data, my Lord. First appearance... no name detected," the lemon-robed man answered, reading from a sleek terminal on his wrist.
Harlam laughed, a sound of genuine, cynical amusement. He looked down at me, his eyes gleaming.
"Then we shall name it. Oculi Exitium." He paused, letting the Latin hang in the air. "Stivastin, raise your head."
I slowly met his gaze. As I did, the outer rings of his eyes turned a vivid, luminous blue for a split second, then vanished with a blink.
Harlam Avesta smiled, a broad, happy expression that didn't quite reach his cold eyes.
"My name is Harlam Avesta, and from this day until my last, I will be your father."
With those insane, breathtaking words, my life as an Evolved began.