The air was thick with anticipation.
For days, the slum had been buzzing about this moment—the day when the officials would arrive, choosing teenagers for a fate unknown. Everyone had heard the stories, but the truth was… no one actually knew what happened after selection.
Did they train? Did they fight? Did they even survive?
The only certainty was that once chosen, they never returned.
And now, that time had come.
---
The slum's largest open structure—the Selection Hall—stood in the center of the settlement.
It was a massive space, more of a shelter than a hall, with nothing but a towering roof supported by thick, rusted iron pillars. No walls. No barriers.
Nothing separated those inside from the onlookers outside.
And that was intentional.
The officials wanted everyone to witness this event. They wanted everyone to see what would happen. To see who was taken, who was left behind, and what resisting the selection meant.
Every eligible teenager, aged fourteen to eighteen, had been gathered beneath the roof.
Hundreds of them stood in disorganized rows, their backs rigid, their hands clenched, eyes darting nervously as they whispered among themselves.
The slum had no formal rulers, no government, no leaders. But on this day, the officials were in control.
And they were coming.
The villagers—parents, younger siblings, elders, and even those too old to be chosen—gathered around the hall, forming a dense crowd. Some clutched their children's hands, others stood silent, faces pale with unease.
Then, suddenly…
A gust of wind.
It wasn't normal wind.
It came without warning. It did not pass through the streets like a breeze. It rushed in all at once, like a massive invisible force had just dropped from the sky.
Every torch, every candle, flickered violently.
Then went out.
A heavy, unnatural silence followed.
And then—they were there.
The officials.
They hadn't walked in.
They hadn't arrived on horseback or through the village gates.
They had simply appeared.
Tall. Cold. Silent.
There were about twenty of them, all dressed in black uniforms with silver insignias gleaming under the dim sky. Their boots barely disturbed the ground beneath them as they moved—gliding like shadows.
The air around them felt wrong. Heavy. Suffocating.
And in the front of them all—stood him.
Commander Rael.
He was the top official for this selection process.
His presence alone sent an icy chill through the gathering.
His posture was unshaken, his eyes sharp and unnervingly piercing. His uniform had gold accents, a clear mark of his rank and, of course, his name.
He said nothing at first.
Instead, he scanned the faces of the gathered teenagers, as though he could see through them, as though he already knew everything about them.
Then, he moved.
Not a word.
Just a single step forward.
Then—he clapped.
A single, sharp sound.
It rang through the open hall like a whip.
---
"Make 4 straight lines," Rael said to the teenagers standing inside the hall.
The children immediately complied and immediately sectioned themselves to form four straight lines.
The moment Rael's hand lowered, the other officials began moving.
The first officer stepped toward the first row of teenagers.
There was no explanation.
No instructions.
They didn't ask for names.
They didn't ask for consent.
They simply grabbed the first teenager's hand.
The boy flinched, but the officer didn't let go.
For a moment, he held it there—fingers pressing against the boy's wrist, as if searching for something beneath the skin.
The moment passed.
The officer let go.
Then he moved on to the next teenager.
One by one, the process continued.
A hand was grabbed. A pause. A release. Move to the next.
But not all pauses were the same.
Some lasted barely a second—a quick grip, then release.
Others… lingered.
Some teenagers were held longer. Some were looked at twice before being released.
And some… the officer's grip tightened just slightly before moving on.
The slum people watched.
Tension built like an unbearable weight.
Everyone had heard rumors about this process.
Some said the officials could sense abilities. Some said they could see into your blood, into your soul.
But no one truly understood how it worked.
And no one dared to ask.
Then Kaelen's turn came.
He hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath.
The official in front of him was tall and pale, his uniform crisp, his gloves spotless.
Kaelen barely had time to react before his wrist was seized.
It was ice-cold.
Not just the glove—the touch itself.
The officer's grip tightened.
A pause.
Longer than the others.
Too long.
Kaelen felt something pressing into him.
Not physically, but internally.
Like something unseen was pushing into his mind, into his bones.
The officer's brow furrowed.
He let go.
Then—he grabbed Kaelen's hand again.
Another pause.
This time, his eyes narrowed slightly.
Another moment.
Then—nothing.
He let go. The truth is that whenever he held the hands of the people, he receives their emotions and what they feel about the selection. As well as their level of loyalty and humility.
But when he held kaelen, he could feel three energies asif he was holding the hands of three people. And all of them were willing to go. Although he didn't quite understand what was happening, he had to move on.
He Dismissed him.
Kaelen staggered back, pulse hammering.
No one else noticed what happened. The officials moved on as if it was nothing.
But Kaelen knew.
Something had happened.
And the officer who touched his hand knew too.
The moment the last hand had been touched, the hall was drowned in an eerie stillness.
The officers took a step back, forming a line, their black uniforms stark against the dull, dust-covered ground.
Commander Rael—tall, unshaken, absolute—stood in front of them, his posture so still it was almost unnatural.
Then—
A parchment appeared in his hands.
No one saw where it came from.
No one had written anything.
But there it was—unrolled, creased, old yet untouched by dust.
And written upon it—
Are names.
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.
The slum's people had expected a process of selection.
They had not expected a list to appear out of nothing.
Somewhere in the mass of teenagers, someone shuddered.
Somewhere in the sea of onlookers, a mother's breath caught in her throat.
Somewhere in the deepest part of Kaelen's mind—
A voice whispered.
"If your name is called, there is no going back."
Rael's fingers tightened around the parchment.
His gold-adorned uniform gleamed under the flickering torches.
Then, without lifting his head—without a single shred of hesitation—
He spoke.
"Sena Torvald."