The gem ...it's missing."
The tapping stopped. The room felt even colder.
The man across from him, a figure known for his ruthlessness, leaned forward slightly. His eyes were unreadable, but there was a quiet, simmering intensity in them that made the soldier's stomach twist with unease.
"What do you mean, missing?" The words were soft, deliberate.
The soldier shifted, his hands clasped behind his back. "We searched his body thoroughly. His heart was intact, yet there was no sign of the gem inside."
A slow inhale. A long pause. Then, the question that sent a chill down the soldier's spine.
"Was his heart ripped open?"
The soldier's throat felt dry. "No, sir. There was no sign of forced extraction. No wounds. No incisions. Nothing."
The man exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers now curled slightly against the table. "Then explain to me," he said, his voice dangerously calm, "how a soldier, born with an ability, died without a gem in his heart."
The soldier didn't dare look away. "We don't know, sir."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
The man leaned back in his chair, exuding an air of deep contemplation, though the intensity in his expression never wavered. "Who else has seen the body?"
"Only the family of the man, myself and the retrieval unit. The body was immediately secured, and the usual procedures were followed."
The man let out a slow, deliberate breath. "And what ability was this soldier supposed to have?"
The soldier hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Mind manipulation, sir. His file stated that he was capable of altering the thoughts and perceptions of others to a limited degree."
"Was this ability ever confirmed?"
"His records indicate several documented instances of use, but…" The soldier hesitated again, then forced himself to continue. "There were no recent reports of him using his ability on the field, sir. His unit claimed that he mostly relied on strategic planning and combat skills rather than direct ability use."
The man's gaze turned sharper. "So, we have a soldier who allegedly possessed mind manipulation, yet never demonstrated it in active service. And now he is dead, with no gem in his heart."
The soldier nodded stiffly. "Yes, sir."
A beat of silence. Then the man's expression darkened. "Rubbish! "Then tell me—did he ever have an ability to begin with.
The soldier felt his spine straighten even more, the weight of that question pressing down on him like a physical force. He had considered this possibility himself, but hearing it spoken aloud made it feel even more dangerous.
"It is possible, sir," he admitted carefully, choosing his words with precision. "There have been rumors—speculation—that some individuals have entered the military under false pretenses. That certain families have used their influence to pass off non-gifted children as gene-bearers, using the family's reputation to avoid scrutiny.
The man's jaw tightened. "Are you telling me that a powerless man may have infiltrated the military under the guise of an ability he never had?"
"It would explain why there was no gem, sir," the soldier said. "If he never had a true gene to begin with, then there would be nothing to extract from his body upon death."
The man's eyes burned with something cold and calculating. He remained silent for several moments, the weight of his thoughts thick in the air. Then, slowly, he exhaled and spoke with a voice laced with restrained fury.
"The military is being so careless," he said, each word clipped and precise. "Allowing the unworthy to wear our uniform, to stand among us as equals when they are nothing but frauds who should rot in the slum."
The soldier kept his posture stiff, his eyes locked forward.
The man's fingers drummed once against the table before he stood abruptly. The chair scraped against the floor, the sound echoing in the chamber. He walked to the far side of the room, hands clasped behind his back, his mind racing through the implications.
"A soldier without a gene. A fraud hiding behind his family name," he muttered, more to himself than to the soldier. Then, his voice grew sharper again. "If this happened once, it has happened before. And if it has happened before, it will happen again."
He turned back to the soldier, his expression unreadable but his voice absolute
"I will not allow this insult to continue. The next time something like this happens, heads will roll.
The soldier stood frozen, knowing full well that this was no empty threat.
The man sat back down, his gaze locked onto the soldier like a predator surveying its prey. "Tell me," he said, voice low, "do we have a list of soldiers with… questionable backgrounds?"
The soldier gave a slow nod. "We are compiling one now, sir."
"Good," the man said. "Bring it to me. If there are more fakes in our ranks, I want them rooted out. I don't care whose bloodline they belong to. If they are weak, they do not deserve to stand among us."
"Understood, sir."
The man exhaled, the sharp edge of his anger settling into something more dangerous—cold determination.
"I will ensure this never happens again," he murmured.
And the soldier knew, with absolute certainty, that those words were not mere words; they were a promise.
But why will the military be this careless? The soldier thought to himself.
---
Back in the slum, the air in the slum was thick with unease. For days, rumors had spread like wildfire—whispers of officials coming, of an opportunity, of something big. No one knew exactly what, but the sudden presence of armored vehicles, well-dressed officials, and banners bearing the crest of the elite families confirmed one thing: the slum had caught the attention of the powerful.
At the heart of the district, an elevated platform had been hastily assembled in the open square. Soldiers, clad in gleaming armor, lined the perimeter, their presence a silent warning to the crowd gathering below. It wasn't every day the elite ventured into the slum, and certainly not for anything good.
A hush fell as a tall man, his posture rigid with authority, stepped forward. His uniform bore the insignia of the Big Seven, immediately demanding attention. He lifted a scroll, unrolling it with a practiced flick of his wrist, and began reading in a loud, commanding voice.
"By decree of the High Council, in partnership with the noble families who govern our great society, a program of unprecedented opportunity shall be extended to the people of this district. Henceforth, a selection process shall take place, offering the finest among you a chance to rise beyond these walls. Your children—if proven worthy—shall be chosen to receive an education among the elite, a chance to walk among those blessed with ability and influence."
The crowd shifted uneasily. Some murmured to each other in suspicion. Others stared in disbelief. An education? Among the elite? No one had ever offered them anything but chains.
The official continued.
"This is not charity, nor pity, but a recognition of potential. Strength is not limited to those born with gifts—it is forged in hardship. Those selected will not only receive education but training. A chance to contribute to the future of our great society. A chance to earn honor not only for themselves but for their families."
At this, a ripple passed through the crowd. Hope. A dangerous thing.
From the back, someone scoffed loudly. "So you suddenly care about us?" A few heads turned, eyes darting toward the speaker—an older man, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. "Why now?"
The official ignored him, continuing, "To ensure fairness, a Selection Trial shall be held. Only the most capable will be chosen. Tests will be conducted to determine intelligence, strength, adaptability, and potential. Those who pass shall be escorted to the academy where they will be trained alongside the finest of society."
The murmurs grew louder now. A trial? A test? Not everyone liked the sound of that.
Then, someone from the front—a woman with tired eyes and calloused hands—spoke, her voice wavering between hope and doubt. "And… and what if we refuse?"
A silence fell.
The official's face remained unreadable. "Participation is voluntary But compulsory for people aged 14. But understand this: those chosen will bring pride to their families. A future beyond these walls, beyond the labor and suffering that has bound you. Would you deny your children that?"
At that, a hush of uncertainty spread through the crowd.
At first, there was only silence. A deep, suffocating silence that stretched across the crowd like a held breath. It was as if the slum itself—every crumbling building, every dust-covered street, every weary soul—had paused to process the words that had just been spoken.
Then, all at once, the silence shattered.
A wave of murmurs spread through the gathering, growing louder by the second. Some gasped, others exchanged stunned glances, and then came the shouts—some of excitement, others of skepticism, and a few laced with outright hostility.
The Hopeful ones.
Among the crowd, a frail old woman clutched the hands of two ragged children, her eyes glistening with emotion. "Do you hear that?" she whispered, voice trembling. "A chance! A chance to leave this place!" Tears streamed down her face as she turned to her eldest grandson. "If you are chosen, you could have a future! You could eat well, learn, become someone important!" Her words carried a desperate kind of hope, one that had been beaten down for years but now flickered like a dying flame suddenly rekindled.
A young mother pressed a hand to her chest, as if trying to contain the wild beating of her heart. "My boy is strong," she said to no one in particular. "If he's chosen… if he's chosen, maybe he can escape this life."
Scattered through the slum, others shared the same hope, clinging to the promise like drowning men grasping at driftwood. Parents, weary and broken by years of suffering, dared to believe—for once—that their children might have a future beyond filth and hunger.
But not everyone saw it that way. There were the skeptical ones.
Near the back of the crowd, a gaunt man with sunken cheeks and sharp, calculating eyes scoffed. "Don't be fools." His voice cut through the hopeful chatter like a knife. "The elite never give without taking. Do you really think they suddenly care about us?" His words sent a ripple of unease through those around him.
A woman, arms crossed over her chest, narrowed her eyes at the announcement banner. "What do they really want?" she muttered. "They've never looked our way before. Why now?"
An older man with grizzled hair spat on the ground. "They call it a 'selection'—like we're cattle being picked for slaughter. Mark my words, nothing good will come of this."
The distrust ran deep, rooted in years of oppression. To many, this wasn't an opportunity—it was a trap.
Then there were the young rebels, those who had grown up knowing only anger and resistance.
A wiry boy with a scar down his cheek leaned against a crumbling wall, arms crossed, watching the scene with sharp, calculating eyes. He let out a humorless chuckle. "They're not trying to help us. They are trying to take our strongest." His voice was low but carried weight, and those around him nodded grimly.
A girl beside him—her hands wrapped in torn bandages, her face hardened by years of struggle—snorted. "Yeah. They take the best of us, train them in their ways, make them forget where they come from. And what happens when they return?" She turned to the crowd, voice rising. "They'll be soldiers for the ones who keep us in chains."
A murmur of agreement spread through their group. They were the ones who had long since given up on dreams, who had chosen to fight rather than beg. To them, this selection was nothing more than a way to steal their strongest and turn them into weapons against their own people.
The divide was between,
Hope. Skepticism. Defiance.
The slum was no longer one voice, but many. Some looked to the future with newfound dreams. Others watched with wary eyes, waiting for the inevitable betrayal. And some, fists clenched, were already planning how to fight back.
The selection had not even begun, yet already, it had changed everything.