I woke up gasping.
Not the gentle return to consciousness you'd expect from a state-of-the-art neural simulation. No, this was a violent, full-body jolt—like being thrown into freezing water after a fever dream. My eyes snapped open, and I immediately wished they hadn't.
The sky was wrong.
Above me stretched a canopy of bruised purple and angry crimson, shot through with veins of sickly green lightning that pulsed like a diseased heartbeat. The air was thick and heavy, carrying the metallic tang of blood and ozone. In the distance, I could hear sounds that didn't belong to any animal I knew—wet, tearing sounds, like something enormous was being slowly ripped apart.
I scrambled to my feet, my heart hammering. Where the hell was I?
The simulation. Right. This was the simulation.
The thought should have been comforting. It wasn't. Because whatever the hell this place was, my brain had decided it was real with a conviction that made my hands shake.
I was standing in what might have once been a city square. Now it was a graveyard of twisted metal and shattered stone. The buildings around me leaned at impossible angles, their windows gaping like empty eye sockets. Fires burned in the distance, casting long, dancing shadows that made everything look like it was moving.
Okay. Okay. Think.
I forced myself to take a breath. The air tasted like ash, but I could still breathe. That was something. I patted myself down—still wearing my uniform, though it was now torn and streaked with grime. No injuries. No obvious equipment.
Just me, my wits, and a nightmare playground.
A soft chime echoed through the ruins, and a holographic interface flickered to life in front of me. Its glow was jarringly clean against the decay around me.
____________
WELCOME, CANDIDATE CH-7781.
OBJECTIVE: GATE INCURSION SIMULATION
PLEASE SELECT YOUR APPROACH:
1. EXPLORE AND LOCATE THE EXIT
Recommended for: Candidates with survival instinct, pattern recognition, and situational awareness.
2. DEFEAT 15 HOSTILE MONSTERS
Recommended for: Candidates with offensive capability, combat training, and aggression.
3. LOCATE THE GATE CORE AND DESTROY IT
Recommended for: Candidates with leadership potential, tactical thinking, and high-risk tolerance.
____________
I stared at the options, my mind racing.
Option 3. That was the hero option. That was what a Catalyst would do, charge straight for the heart of the problem, blow it up, and come out looking like a badass. That was the dream. That was what I'd been telling myself I wanted since I was old enough to understand what a Gate was.
My finger hovered over the selection.
But something stopped me.
I thought about the Rouge District. About the times I'd walked home through streets that looked just like this—not from Gate attacks, but from neglect. Abandoned buildings. Crumbling infrastructure. The kind of place where you learned to keep your head down and your eyes open, because the loud ones were always the first to get eaten.
I thought about the online forums I'd haunted for years, devouring every scrap of information about Gates, about monsters, about the strategies that kept people alive. Not the flashy stuff—the real stuff. The things nobody put in the hero highlights reels.
The exit is always the safest bet. It's not glamorous, but it means you survive to fight another day.
I selected Option 1.
The interface flickered and vanished. A new objective appeared in the corner of my vision, almost like a heads-up display.
OBJECTIVE: LOCATE EXIT POINT. SURVIVE.
Great. Simple. Just find the way out of a nightmare dimension filled with things that wanted to eat me.
I started walking.
The first thing I noticed was the silence.
Not a true silence—the distant sounds of destruction still echoed, and the wind made a mournful sound through the wreckage. But there was an absence of smaller sounds. No birds. No insects. Nothing scurrying in the shadows.
That was bad. In the Rouge, you learned that silence meant predators were nearby.
I ducked into the shadow of a collapsed wall, pressing myself against the cold stone. My eyes scanned the street ahead, cataloging every possible hiding spot, every potential threat.
Three blocks ahead, something moved.
I froze. My breath caught in my throat as a shape lumbered out from behind a toppled building. It was vaguely humanoid, but wrong in ways that made my skin crawl—too many joints in its limbs, a head that seemed to be constantly rotating, skin that looked like cracked and weeping stone.
I knew what it was. I'd seen the sketches in the survivor forums, the grainy footage that circulated on the dark web.
Gargoyle-class. Low-level threat individually, but they almost never traveled alone. They were scouts, drawn to movement and sound. If you saw one, it was already too late to run—its pack would be circling.
I pressed myself flatter against the wall, slowing my breathing until it was barely a whisper. My heart was screaming in my ears, but I forced myself to be still. To be nothing.
The Gargoyle paused. Its head swiveled, scanning the street with a slow, mechanical motion. For a moment, I thought it had seen me.
Then it turned and shambled away, disappearing behind another building.
I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My legs were trembling. My hands were shaking. But I was alive. I was still alive.
Okay. That was close. Too close. Need to be smarter.
I pulled out my phone—still miraculously functional, though the screen displayed a distorted, flickering interface. The map feature was scrambled, but the compass worked. I oriented myself, picking a direction that seemed to lead away from the densest concentration of destruction.
Then I started moving again, quieter this time. More careful.
The next hour was a masterclass in survival.
I moved through the ruins like a ghost, using every trick I'd learned from a lifetime in the Rouge. I stayed in the shadows, never taking the direct path. I listened for sounds before I looked for threats. I trusted my instincts when they screamed at me to stop, to hide, to wait.
I identified three more monster types along the way:
Shriekers — small, fast things that moved in packs. Their cries could disorient you, make you lose your sense of direction. I avoided them by staying upwind and moving when the wind was loud enough to mask my footsteps.
Crawlers — low to the ground, with too many legs. They were attracted to heat signatures. I found a collapsed shop with a functioning fridge, used the cold air to mask my body heat, and slipped past while they were focused on a different part of the ruin.
A Wraith — that one nearly got me. I'd been getting cocky, moving too fast. I rounded a corner and there it was, a shimmering figure of pale light that drifted through the wreckage like smoke. I'd read about Wraiths—they were drawn to strong emotions, feeding on fear and panic. The moment I saw it, my heart rate spiked, and it turned toward me with a slow, hungry deliberation.
I ran. I didn't stop running until my lungs burned and my legs screamed. I ducked into a building, hid in a closet, and stayed there, forcing myself to think about nothing. Calm. Empty. Boring.
It worked. The Wraith passed by, and I was still alive.
Not bad, Shinohara. Not bad at all.
I found the exit two hours later.
It was a massive archway at the edge of the ruined city, pulsing with the same sickly light as the sky. Beyond it, I could see a shimmering distortion—the gateway back to reality. I could feel it calling to me, promising warmth and safety and the end of this nightmare.
I almost ran toward it.
Then I saw what was standing in front of it.
The world went cold.
It was massive—easily 10 feet tall, a mountain of muscle and chitin and teeth. Its body was a nightmare of angles and spines, covered in a carapace that seemed to absorb the light around it. Its eyes were pits of blazing flames, and when it turned toward me, I felt something inside me break.
I knew this monster.
I had seen it before.
The memory came like a flood, unstoppable and cruel. I was seven years old again, clutching my mother's hand as the Gate opened in the center of the Rouge District. The sky had split open, and from the wound had poured horrors that I'd spent the next decade trying to forget.
My father had been there. He'd thrown up a shield—a shimmering barrier of pale light—around a group of civilians. He'd told us to run. His voice had been calm. Go. I'll catch up.
He never caught up.
The monster—this monster—had torn through his barrier like paper. I'd watched it happen from a distance, my mother's hand clamped over my mouth to keep me from screaming. I'd seen my father's light flicker and fade. I'd seen him fall.
And now it was standing in front of me again.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. The years of carefully constructed walls came crumbling down, and I was seven again, small and helpless and watching the only hero I'd ever known die.
A sob tore out of my throat. Hot tears streamed down my face. I was shaking, trembling so hard I could barely stand. The monster turned toward me, its dark eyes locking onto mine. It knew me. It remembered me.
I tried to run. My legs wouldn't move.
I tried to fight. My hands were useless.
I tried to be brave. I couldn't.
I was Cho Shinohara, seventeen years old, and I was crying in front of the thing that had killed my father.
Some hero I was.
____________
"Energy signatures are stable across all pods," Technician Ravi reported, his fingers dancing across the holographic interface. "We're seeing elevated activity in the K-2 through K-7 ranges—promising candidates. A few outliers in the D range as well."
Blanche nodded, her eyes scanning the streams of data. "Manifestation rates?"
"Up fourteen percent from last year," another technician chimed in. "And we're seeing a significant increase in A and B-rank classifications. The training reforms seem to be paying off."
A murmur of approval rippled through the command center. This was the good news—the kind of data that made all the sleepless nights and bureaucratic headaches worth it.
"Any S-ranks yet?" Blanche asked, her tone carefully neutral.
The room went quiet.
"Not yet," Ravi admitted. "We've processed ninety-eight percent of candidates. No S-rank manifestations."
"That's..." Blanche frowned, tapping her chin. "Unusual."
"Last year we had eight," another technician added. "The highest recorded number in the country. The statistical probability of zero S-ranks this year is—"
"Negligible," Blanche finished. "I'm aware."
Aurora watched from her position at the center of the room, her expression unreadable. "Continue monitoring. S-ranks often manifest later in the process—their energy signatures require more time to stabilize."
"Yes, Director." The technicians returned to their work, the tension slowly dissipating.
Blanche turned back to her own console, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency. She pulled up the master energy readout—a cascade of colored lines representing each candidate's manifested power. Greens and blues dominated the display. A few promising orange and red peaks. Nothing reaching the deep purple that would indicate an S-rank.
Strange, she thought. Very strange.
Then she saw it.
A spike on the readout. Sharp and sudden, rising from nothing. It was in the lower-mid range—B-rank, perhaps—but it was growing.
"Who is this?" Blanche demanded, pointing at the anomalous line.
Ravi pulled up the candidate data. "CH-7781. Cho Shinohara. Seventeen. Resident of the Rouge District."
The energy spike continued to climb. B-rank became A-rank. A-rank became A-plus. The line was practically vertical now, a straight shot upward that defied every known pattern of manifestation.
"His neural scans are..." Ravi trailed off, his face going pale. "He's having a trauma response. Acute. The simulation is triggering a full-blown panic attack."
Beastial, lounging in his corner, snorted. "The kid's overreacting. The simulation doesn't actually hurt them. Tell him to get over himself."
Titanium stepped closer, his brow furrowed. "That's not normal fear," he said, his voice low and serious. "Look at the neural patterns—this is a trauma-induced response. He's encountered this specific stimulus before. In real life."
"So what?" Beastial scoffed. "Every kid's had a close call. They don't all start crying."
"His energy signature is still climbing," Blanche said, her voice tight. "This isn't—this shouldn't be happening. Once an ability manifests, the energy plateaus. A ceiling is established. But this one..." She pointed at the screen. "There's no ceiling. It just keeps going."
The room went still.
"How high?" Aurora asked, her voice a blade of ice.
Blanche swallowed. "It's already breached S-rank boundaries. And it's still climbing."
A low hum filled the room—the sound of the simulation core straining against something it wasn't designed to contain. Sparks flew from a nearby console. The lights flickered.
"We need to shut it down," Blanche said, her professional composure cracking. "Now. Before it—"
She didn't finish the sentence. A sudden surge of energy ripped through the room, blowing out a row of monitors. Technicians dove for cover.
"The automatic shutdown!" Ravi shouted. "It's not responding!"
Blanche's hands flew across her console. "I can't—there's too much interference. I can't send an EMP wave—the other students are still connected. It would fry their brains. And I can't enter the system directly—"
"How long?" Aurora demanded.
"I don't know." Blanche's face was pale. "Ten minutes. Maybe less. If we can't shut it down, the simulation core will—"
It didn't need to be said. Everyone in the room knew what a catastrophic failure of this magnitude would do. The Hall of Stars would be reduced to rubble. Everyone in it, dead.
"Follow me," Aurora ordered. "All Number Ones. We're shutting this down manually."
---
The journey to the simulation chamber was a blur of motion.
Aurora led the charge, her ice forming a path through the warren of corridors. Titanium followed close behind, his massive frame moving with surprising speed. Myst was a shadow in the periphery, silent and watchful. Beastial brought up the rear, his arms already shifting into the scaled, clawed forms that marked his transformation.
The doors to the chamber refused to open automatically. The system was too compromised.
"Move." Beastial pushed past the others, his scaled arms slamming against the reinforced metal. The door buckled, groaned, and finally wrenched open with a sound like a dying animal.
Inside, the chamber was chaos.
Most of the pods were dark, their occupants safe—for now. But one pod at the center of the room was blazing with light, a violent corona of crimson and cyan energy that pulsed and writhed like a living thing. Sparks flew in random directions, scorching the walls and floor.
"That's him," Blanche's voice crackled through the comms. "You need to stabilize the energy signature. Now."
Beastial charged in without hesitation. The energy lashed out, catching him mid-leap and slamming him into the far wall. He hit with a sickening crunch, leaving a large dent in the reinforced metal.
"Beastial!" Titanium roared. He threw up a shield, a shimmering barrier of force that protected the other pods from the barrage of sparks.
"Focus on the other candidates," Aurora commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos. "Protect them. I'll handle this."
She stepped forward, her hands raised. The temperature in the room plummeted. Frost spread across the floor and walls. She encased the pod in ice, building layer after layer.
The energy broke through. The ice shattered, the fragments melting before they hit the ground. The power was too strong, too raw.
Aurora didn't flinch.
She closed her eyes and activated her ability. Repression. The same power she used to control her own emotions, to maintain her icy composure. She pushed it outward, reaching for the panicking boy in the pod. Suppression. Calm. Stillness. Peace.
The energy pushing her back was immense, a wall of power that should have been impossible. But Aurora was the Number One Zenith. She had been through worse.
She pushed back.
Slowly, inch by inch, she forced the energy to retreat. The violent corona dimmed. The sparks ceased. The pod's glow faded from a blazing inferno to a gentle pulse.
And then it was over.
The room went quiet.
Aurora let out a slow breath. Her hands were shaking—she noticed it with distant surprise. It had been years since she'd felt genuinely strained.
"Well," Beastial muttered, pulling himself out of the wall with a grimace. "That was something."
Titanium was already at the pod, peering through the glass. His expression softened.
"The boy," he said. "He's unconscious."
The pod's lid slid open with a hiss, revealing the figure within. Cho Shinohara lay still, his breathing shallow. His navy blue hair was streaked with glowing cyan and crimson, the colors pulsing faintly in time with his heartbeat. Glowing markings traced intricate patterns across his caramel skin, slowly fading into darker patches like fading embers.
"What the hell did we just witness?" Beastial asked, his voice uncharacteristically serious.
Aurora didn't answer. She was staring at the boy, her mind racing.
No ceiling. Limitless potential. An energy signature that had broken every known boundary and nearly destroyed a facility designed to contain the most powerful heroes in the world.
"Who is he?" she murmured.
Myst materialized beside her, their gasmask obscuring any expression. But their voice, when they spoke, was quiet. Intrigued.
"I don't know," they said. "But I think we just found our S-rank."
Aurora shook her head slowly. "That was more than S-rank. That was something I've never seen before."
She looked at the unconscious boy, at the fading markings on his skin, at the impossible power that had nearly destroyed everything.
"What are you, Cho Shinohara?"