[POV: Mike]
A sound like tearing glass cuts through the plaza.
The monkey shrieks and launches straight at him.
Its claws rake across his coat before anyone fully reacts, dragging him down onto the stage.
"Help! Help—please!"
He screams while the monkey bares its teeth inches from his throat, limbs striking wildly, almost ripping into him if not for the blur that moves faster than I can track.
Dean Colt reaches them in an instant.
No Guardian summoned.
No visible ability.
Just raw speed.
He catches the monkey mid-lunge by one arm, pivots, and slams it against the stage hard enough to stun it before pinning all four limbs with terrifying precision. Rope appears from one of the assistants almost immediately, but Colt already has the creature immobilized by the time they arrive.
The monkey thrashes, shrieking.
Colt ties it down himself, movements efficient and practiced, then hands it off to staff as though restraining failed dimensional creatures is no more difficult than folding laundry.
"Sanctuary transfer," he orders calmly. "If not accepted, release in the outer wilds."
The boy on the floor is crying openly now, shaking harder than the monkey did.
"My monkey… please… Sable didn't mean it…"
His voice cracks.
He looks devastated, not injured enough to explain that level of grief.
Probably because losing the contract means losing the bond he thought he already had.
Dean Colt crouches beside him, scar catching light as his expression softens just enough to matter.
"Try again next time," he says. "A failed contract is not the end."
The boy wipes his face badly, still staring after the restrained creature.
"But he was with me for months…"
"I know," Colt replies. "That does not always mean the soul agrees yet."
The staff leads the monkey away.
The crying does not stop immediately.
Around us, the ceremony continues anyway, because life here always keeps moving even when someone's world momentarily cracks.
Hope presses closer to my neck and whispers into my mind with absolute certainty.
"You see? I did not fail because I am magnificent."
I look down at her white feathers and quietly smile.
"Sure," I think back. "Let's go with that."
One by one, names continue to be called, parchment burns, soul links form, abilities appear, fail, or fizzle into nothing dramatic. The crowd keeps reacting in waves depending on whose turn it is, cheering louder for surnames people recognize, whispering when rare creatures appear, or pretending not to stare when something goes wrong.
Then Dean Colt calls Rena's full name.
That is when I learn she lied to me.
Not a harmless exaggeration either.
A full betrayal of statistical truth.
She is the top ranker.
Top!
Not middle cluster. Not somewhere above average. Not "barely did okay." Top of the entire aptitude batch. Son of a bitch. Bottom cluster my ass. I stare as she walks toward the stage with that same mildly bored expression, Sarge tucked under one arm like this is no different from carrying groceries.
She absolutely let me believe we were equally doomed.
Probably so I would not feel bad.
Or maybe she just enjoys watching me discover things late.
If I did not know her better, I would think she was looking down on me. Then again, seeing her there, I cannot even feel annoyed for long.
She is rising.
Actually rising.
And honestly, good for her.
Even her monster is common. That somehow makes it worse for everyone else because it means talent really is talent. She is just built different. Unlike me, she places her blood mark high, touching her forehead after pressing the parchment, choosing the secondary soul housed in the brain.
Head contract.
Secondary soul emphasizes cognition, sensory integration, and tactical synchronization. Less raw growth than the heart, but often favored by Tamers who rely on precision. The parchment ignites around her and Sarge.
At first it looks ordinary, and then Sarge suddenly glows.
The light intensifies so fast the entire stage turns pale blue.
People stop whispering.
Even Dean Colt seems surprised by the development.
Hope stiffens against my neck.
The little rabbit's body lifts from Rena's hands as silver-blue light wraps around him, fur lengthening, ears sharpening, tiny paws stretching with visible soul-fire threading through every contour.
Evolution.
A true rank-up.
It only happens when a Guardian's soul breaks through a threshold.
Guardian ranks are straightforward enough: F, E, D, C, B, A, S.
Seven total.
Most juvenile creatures arrive around E or D depending on species and development. For evolution to trigger during first contract, the creature must already be at the peak of a rank. Meaning Sarge had been sitting right at the edge of D all along.
The contract pushes him over.
Into C!
The glow fades.
The rabbit that lands in Rena's arms is still recognizably Sarge, but leaner, fur carrying faint frost-blue gradients beneath the white, eyes brighter, longer ears edged with pale crystalline sheen.
A Frost Blue-eyed Bunny now.
That changes everything immediately. A newly contracted C-rank Guardian means Rena qualifies beyond beginner standards. No Fifth Order waiting line. Straight to Fourth.
Hope clicks her beak inside my thoughts.
"Overrated. Excessively dramatic for a rabbit."
I almost laugh aloud.
It is still strange hearing her use words like that with complete confidence, as if contract knowledge and attitude arrived together.
The crowd erupts before I answer her.
Some jealousy is obvious filled with tight smiles, stiff shoulders, and muttered comments, but excitement overwhelms it. Even those who clearly hate seeing someone else stand out cannot fully suppress the thrill of witnessing an evolution in person.
People cheer.
Several clap openly.
A few younger candidates look at Rena like she has already crossed into legend.
Dean Colt inspects Sarge briefly, one hand hovering near the creature's head before nodding.
"Congratulations," he says into the microphone. "Frost Blue-eyed Bunny. Successful evolution and successful contract."
From where I stand, I cup my hands and shout, "Nice one, Rena!"
She glances my way and rolls her eyes, though I catch the smallest smile before she turns back. By the time the ceremony officially ends and the plaza starts thinning, the city already has a new story to spread.
Rena walks me home.
She is strange like that.
Not hurried despite all the people who clearly want to talk to her now. Not chasing attention even after becoming the day's center of it. Sarge pads beside her rather than being carried, his new form moving with more confidence than before. Every few seconds he glances at me with open suspicion.
I still do not understand what I did to offend him.
Rena breaks the quiet first.
"So what's your plan now?"
I keep my hands behind my head, Hope balanced there because she insists my shoulder is currently beneath her standards.
"I'm still thinking about it."
That answer comes easily enough.
Technically not entirely true, but easy.
Sarge stops walking just long enough to glare directly at me, nose twitching like he wants to challenge me personally.
I look down.
"What is wrong with him?"
"He doesn't like your face today," Rena says.
"He did not like my face earlier either."
"Maybe your face has range."
Hope chirps indignantly at Sarge, who immediately narrows his eyes harder. There is definitely hostility there. No clue why.
After another few steps, Rena exhales and says, "Mr. Colt invited me to his squad."
That makes me stop walking.
"What?"
She stops too, turning half toward me.
"He said the Circle has room for one probationary fourth-order placement this season."
"That's huge," I say before I can even pretend restraint. "You should do it."
It really is huge. A Second Order invitation is not something people hesitate over. Training, resources, reputation, field experience? This are doors most Tamers spend years trying to reach, and now it's in front of her.
Rena's mouth tightens into a pout.
"You sound awfully eager to shoo me away."
"That is not what I meant."
"It sounded like it."
"I meant it is a ridiculous opportunity."
She keeps pouting for two more steps, then finally lets it go.
We keep talking after that. Nothing dramatic. Bits of ceremony gossip, comments about who nearly fainted, complaints about how one rich kid tried to summon sparks and burned his own brows.
She laughs more than usual.
That surprises me enough that I notice it.
She really does seem to enjoy this, walking slowly, talking longer than necessary, and delaying every natural point where she could have turned elsewhere. By the time we reach the orphanage gates, evening light has gone amber across the walls.
Rena stops and just stands there looking at me.
I shift slightly under the silence.
"What's the problem?"
"There's no problem," she says too quickly, then looks away for half a second before adding, "Goodbye, Mike. We should meet again."
I nod.
"Yeah."
She turns and walks off before I can say anything else.
I watch her go, something quiet settling in my chest that feels heavier than the contract did for entirely different reasons.
Of course I am not ignorant of what sits beneath that pause.
I know.
At least enough to know.
Is it cruel not to answer something unspoken?
I honestly do not know. I am young enough that every choice still feels like guessing future regret. What I do know is that entertaining that possibility feels dangerous in a way I do not trust. My luck has never favored attachments that expect permanence.
If anything, guilt sits sharper, because I lied.
I already know what comes next.
Hope nuzzles my ear through the contract link.
"You still have me," she says with smug certainty.
"That is true," I answer quietly.
I do not go through the front gate. Instead I circle the side wall, wait until the alley is empty, then climb and drop quietly into the orphanage grounds. The route is familiar enough that I barely think about it. My small pack is already hidden where I left it behind the old storage shed, filled with clothes, crackers, two books, knife, spare cord, and a coin pouch.
Everything I own fits easily under one arm.
I have no intention of staying here any longer.
Because despite years inside these walls, this place never became home.
White hair.
Red eyes.
Too pale, too strange, too easy to name.
Devil.
Ghost.
Bad omen.
The bullying was rarely physical enough to leave marks adults noticed. Words are cleaner weapons. The orphanage director is probably the only person here I hold genuine affection for, and even that feels quieter now than it should.
I never learned how to belong with kids my age.
Maybe I never tried hard enough.
Hope hops onto my bag and tilts her head.
"Where to next?"
I sling the pack properly over my shoulder and look toward the road beyond Tempest's outer district.
"Manson City-State," I say, confident enough that the name feels like opening a door. "Let's go and make it big."
…
..
.
[POV: Rena]
"Hah… in the end, I was unable to say it."
Rena kicks a pebble down the road, watching it skip over the uneven pavement before rolling into a crack near the curb. The afternoon light stretches long across the street, turning everything gold in a way that feels annoyingly calm compared to the storm still sitting inside her chest.
Sarge walks beside her, tiny paws moving with clipped irritation, his fur bristling as if he personally took offense at what had happened.
His voice enters her mind in sharp, indignant bursts through their telepathic link.
"That male is catastrophically blind. Entirely deficient in visual judgment. A fool of microscopic proportions. To fail to recognize your obvious beauty suggests his intellect is no better than a drifting amoeba."
Rena glances down at him, caught off guard by the sheer weight of his vocabulary.
Sarge continues without mercy.
"If he possessed even primitive instinct, he would have noticed the sincerity of your affections instead of standing there with the awareness of damp soil. Honestly, I have encountered larvae with superior perception."
A sigh escapes her.
"Are you done insulting him?"
"Not remotely."
His ears twitch with offended dignity.
"Still, there is no strategic value in grieving over a plebeian who lacks functioning discernment. There will assuredly exist someone in this world capable of appreciating what stands before him. Someone superior to that cellular accident."
That last phrase nearly makes her laugh despite herself.
She stares at him longer than usual.
"I didn't know you had words like that."
Grandpa had warned her that letting Sarge watch television unsupervised would "create consequences." At the time, she had assumed he meant noisy habits or odd phrases.
Apparently, he had meant this.
They stop when her home comes into view.
A car waits outside. It's sleek, polished, and expensive enough that even from a distance it looks out of place beside the worn road and aging fence. Its dark body reflects the sunlight like glass. Near it, Grandpa stands with Mr. Colt.
The older man's hands rest behind his back while Mr. Colt speaks with visible respect.
"Professor, I still owe much of what I know to your published work," Mr. Colt says. "Your contributions to monster behavioral science shaped half the field before I even entered service. I'll do everything I can to make a fine tamer out of her."
Grandpa exhales through his nose.
"Being a tamer doesn't suit that girl's temperament," he mutters, though not harshly. "But if this is her sincerest wish, then I don't have the right to stand in the way."
Only then do they notice her.
Grandpa coughs immediately, a very deliberate sound, then gives her an awkward smile that makes it obvious he knows exactly how suspicious this looks. He has clearly been arranging things behind the scenes.
Rena already understands that refusing Mr. Colt's invitation is impossible. It's not because she lacks choice, but because rejection here would insult Grandpa's effort, and by extension, the memory of parents she barely remembers.
All she knows comes from stories: famous tamers, respected names, dead long before she could form clear memories of their faces.
That history matters, but not enough to decide her future alone. She has never been naive enough to chase a profession simply because she wants to stand closer to the ghosts of her parents.
No, the reason lies elsewhere.
A larger reason.
A dream too large to explain in simple words.