Raith blinked against the light, hand raised on instinct—but the brightness didn't hurt.
It felt heavy. Warm. Like standing under the pressure of something ancient and watching.
Then the glow began to thin.
A figure stepped through—calm, upright, casual as if he'd just strolled in from another dimension with time to kill.
Not old. Not fragile. The man looked like he could punch through a mountain without getting dust on his shoulders.
Golden hair flowed down to his back in messy layers, and his face was striking, with sharp angles, a smirk that felt both amused and tired.
He wore a dark combat suit beneath a long red cloak, and despite the stillness of the air, the fabric moved like it had its own mood.
Raith tensed as the man approached. There was no hostility in his presence, but there was power. The kind that didn't need to prove anything because the proof was in the silence between footsteps.
The man stopped a few paces away, giving Raith a once-over like he was checking for dents.
Then he grinned. "Well. Took you long enough."
His voice sounded… normal.
Raith frowned. "Where am I?"
The man spread his arms. "Between the mess and the meaning. Or if that's too poetic—let's just call this the loading screen."
"…What?"
He winked. "Exactly."
Raith's brow furrowed. "Did you bring me here?"
"Nope. You walked in all on your own. Like a moth to a mystery."
Raith was confused. The man answered everything without answering at all.
The man started pacing again, hands behind his back. "You're still holding back," he muttered. "Still stiff. Still afraid of your own power."
"Wait—how do you know about my Force?"
"Of course I am." The man nodded. "Don't you think you're wasting the power?"
"I'm trying not to destroy my body."
"Yeah, and look how boring that's been."
Raith didn't respond. Somehow, it was true. Super Strength, but the one he could display was nothing.
The man sighed dramatically. "The way you're using it now…" He waved a hand toward Raith's Mark. "That's like… not even one percent of what you're capable of."
Raith was stunned to hear that.
Right after, the man's eyes glowed. "Barely 0.7%. I checked."
Raith glanced down. The Mark on the back of his hand glowed golden, steady, and unnatural.
"Not even one percent. Then what was all that pain for?" he muttered in disbelief.
"And yet," the man continued, "you're still clenching like a rookie afraid to swing."
Raith looked up. "Who are you? What do you want from me?"
The man stopped pacing, then shrugged. "Honestly? I'm just the messenger. I want nothing from you. You're the one with the weird golden Mark and the God Mode settings starting to boot."
"God Mode?"
The man grinned. "Yep."
Raith stared at him. "What does that mean?"
"You'll figure it out. Maybe. Probably while screaming."
"Helpful."
"I try."
The man tilted his head, expression easing a little. "But since you're here, I can assist you a bit."
Raith waited. He chose not to ask because the man didn't really answer.
"In the Shatterveil," the man said, voice a touch lower now, "you'll feel something. Like a pull. Follow it."
"Follow it to what?" Raith asked, despite being confused about how the man knew that he was going there later.
The man stepped closer. His voice dropped to a murmur. "Find the thing that matches your Mark. It won't look obvious. But it's there."
Raith's hand tingled.
"What is it?"
The man shrugged. "Don't know. Might be a relic. It might be ruins or… it might be a piece of who you used to be."
"That doesn't—"
"You'll know when you find it," he said, cutting him off. "Just don't take too long. You don't have much time."
Raith's shoulders tensed. "What does that mean? Don't have much time for what?"
The man gave him a half-smile, like he was in on the punchline of a joke the world hadn't told yet. "You'll get your answer… at the Shatterveil."
Then, casually, he added, "By the way. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
The man blinked, then sighed dramatically and rubbed his face. "Ugh. Seventeen? Seriously?"
"Why does that bother you?"
"Kid, you should be throwing mountains by now." He sighed like he was the one doing all the hard work.
It was clear that he was disappointed.
Raith just stared at him.
"Well, no point being disappointed," the man said with a sigh.
He then started walking back into the light. "Hurry up, kid. Unlock your potential or die trying. But maybe don't do the dying part. Would really mess with the plan."
"What plan?"
But the man only waved without turning.
The golden light pulsed. And then, Raith snapped awake.
He was in his dorm again. Kev snoring. Dane was still staring at the ceiling.
"What was that…" he muttered.
Dane looked at him and asked, "Did you say anything?"
"Sorry. Just a random thought," Raith replied.
"You sure you're okay?"
"Yeah. Never mind me. Going back to sleep now."
Dane said nothing. He just casually glanced at Raith. The glow on Raith's hand was gone. But the warmth remained.
And in Raith's mind, one word echoed—annoying, heavy, and impossibly loud.
God Mode.
Raith exhaled, hand curling over the Mark.
He didn't know what was coming. But whatever it was… it had already started.
***
The next morning came cold and quiet. No alarm. No shouting. Just the sound of wind dragging dust across Ashwake Yard.
Squad C-707 gathered near the edge of the grounds, black uniforms pressed, boots laced. There was a different kind of tension today—not the nervous kind before a test, but the heavy silence that came before stepping into something unknown.
Raith stood with his arms folded, eyes on the horizon. Liria was already there when he arrived, calm and unreadable as always. Cael paced a tight circle. Vanna yawned twice and tried to hide it. Demitri stood still, posture stiff.
Then Ivara walked in like she'd never left.
Same black combat suit. Same crimson eyes. The same calm that made people straighten up without meaning to.
"Good," she said, stopping in front of them. "You're all here."
She didn't bother with pleasantries. Just got to it.
"Listen carefully," she began. "We're heading out in ten. A transport is waiting near the camp's entrance."
No one said anything.
She went on, "Shatterveil is roughly thirty minutes from the South Gate. Straight shot by a vehicle. We'll dismount at the nearest checkpoint to the field."
Vanna raised a brow. "Wait, that close?"
"Close enough for comfort," Ivara replied. "Far enough that you'll still feel like you left the world behind."
Raith remembered. He knew exactly what she meant. He had been there just a few days ago.
Ivara raised her right arm in front of her and then dropped five matching bags to the dirt, one for each Cadet.
Raith bent down and picked it up. Canvas, tightly bound, heavier than it looked.
"Inside," Ivara said, "you'll find dried rations, medicine, emergency flare, portable scanner, spare undershirt, and a force-patch in case someone gets stupid."
Cael checked his bag and muttered, "Efficient."
Vanna glanced up. "Wait a minute... How did all these bags come out?"
Ivara held up her hand.
A dull bronze ring sat on her middle finger. Plain. Worn. The kind of thing you wouldn't look at twice.
Then she tapped it once.
A brief shimmer flickered across its surface, like light skipping over etched symbols.
"Dimensional storage ring," she said.
"Wow. That's amazing." Vanna squinted. "What's inside?"
Ivara's lips tugged faintly—half amusement, half warning. "Enough."
No one pressed further.
Raith adjusted the strap across his shoulder, the bag settling against his back with a soft thud. Beneath it, the Mark on his hand pulsed faintly, quiet, but gold as ever.
He could feel the Mark on his right hand again. Still quiet. Still gold.
But it was ready to explore the Shatterveil and accomplish the task given by the man.
Whatever waited in the Shatterveil—he wasn't just going to find it.
He had to.
Author's Note:
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