Jack woke to the blare of his phone alarm, heart already hammering like it knew what was coming. He lay still, staring at the cracked ceiling of his bedroom, the weight of the day pressing down. Today was the Natural Calling—the test that would decide if he was a Hunter, a Specialist, a Worker, or a Nobody. He exhaled hard, trying to shake the nerves clawing at his gut. It didn't help.
He rolled out of bed, the cold floor stinging his bare feet, and glanced at the faded poster on his wall: a Hunter in black tactical gear, silver blade raised over a snarling werewolf. *Become the Shield.* Corny as hell, but it still lit a fire in his chest. He wanted that life—to fight back, to make the monsters pay for what they'd taken. Dad's face flashed in his mind, bloodied and still, after that botched supply run two years ago. Jack clenched his fists and headed downstairs.
"Jack?" His mom's voice came from the kitchen, strained. She was frying eggs, her back to him, shoulders tense.
"Yeah, Ma." He grabbed a piece of toast, more to keep his hands busy than because he was hungry.
"Big day," she said, not turning around.
"Yep." He took a bite, the bread dry in his mouth.
"You don't have to be a Hunter, you know. Specialist, Worker—those are good lives. Your dad—"
"Dad was a Worker, and he's dead." The words came out sharper than he meant, and he softened his tone. "I'm not him, Ma. I can do this."
She faced him, eyes weary. "Just… come home safe."
He nodded, throat tight, and slipped out the door before the moment got heavier.
Marcus and Daniel were waiting at the corner, Marcus tapping his foot like he might sprint off any second, Daniel leaning against a lamppost, his massive frame making it look like a toothpick.
"Yo, you look like death," Marcus said, flashing a nervous grin.
"Feel it too," Jack muttered. "Let's go."
They walked in silence, the early morning air sharp, the sun barely up. The testing center loomed ahead—a gray, windowless bunker that screamed *no bullshit allowed*. Kids crowded the entrance, some hyping themselves up, others looking ready to bolt. A girl with neon-blue hair stood off to the side, calm as ice, like she'd already aced the thing. Jack envied her.
A Hunter stepped out, a woman in her thirties with a Dandelion patch on her sleeve—low rank, but still a Hunter. Her name tag read *Sanchez*. She was lean, wiry, with scars crisscrossing her knuckles. "Alright, listen up!" Her voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "I'm Hunter Sanchez, Dandelion rank. You're here to prove you've got what it takes. Most of you don't. The Calling will tear you open and show what you're made of. No hiding. Let's move."
To make her point, she casually grabbed a steel pole leaning against the wall—probably part of some scaffolding—and bent it into a U-shape with one hand, her movements effortless, like folding a straw. The crowd gasped, and Jack's jaw tightened. That was Dandelion-level strength, the bottom rung of Hunters, and it was still superhuman. She tossed the bent pole aside, the metal clanging, and smirked. "Don't waste my time."
They filed into the warehouse-like testing area, the air thick with sweat and nerves. The space was divided into stations: racks of weights, a sprint track, an obstacle course, and more. Posters lined the walls—*Protect Humanity. Be the Shield.*—but Jack barely noticed. His eyes were on Sanchez, who moved with a predator's grace, her boots silent on the concrete.
"Physical trials first," Sanchez announced, vaulting onto a platform ten feet high without a running start, landing like it was nothing. Another casual flex—her agility was unreal, and she wasn't even trying. "Strength, speed, agility, endurance, combat. Everyone goes. Fail too many, you're done. Let's see what you've got."
The strength station was first, a gritty setup with barbells on one side and heavy punching bags on the other, each rigged with sensors. Sanchez stood nearby, arms crossed, watching like a hawk. "Two parts: lifting and striking," she said. "Show me power and control.
The lifting area had racks of barbells, starting at 100 pounds and going up in 50-pound increments. Everyone got a turn, no exceptions, from the jocks to the scrawny kids who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else.
Daniel went first, cracking his neck like he was about to bench press a car. He started at 200 pounds, hoisting it like it was nothing, then moved to 300, 400, 500. At 550, his legs shook, veins popping, but he locked it out, grinning. "That's it?" he panted. Sanchez raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
Jack stepped up, heart pounding. He wasn't Daniel, but he'd spent enough summers hauling lumber to know his limits. He cleared 150 pounds easily, then 200, 250, 300. At 350, his back screamed, but he pushed through. He tried 400, got it halfway up, and dropped it with a clang. "Shit," he muttered, shaking out his arms. Sanchez scribbled on her clipboard.
Others took their shots. Ellie, a wiry girl with a ponytail and freckles, gritted her teeth and maxed at 200 pounds, her frame trembling but steady. Tom, a stocky kid with a buzzcut, hit 300 before bowing out, red-faced. Sam, a lanky boy with glasses, struggled at 120 but finished, earning a quiet nod from Sanchez. Lila, a nervous girl with a habit of tugging her sleeves, managed 100 pounds, her arms shaking but her jaw set. Even the kids who'd likely end up Nobodies pushed through, some barely clearing the bar, others surprising themselves.
Sanchez stepped forward, grabbing a 600-pound barbell like it was a toy. She deadlifted it one-handed, held it aloft for a second, then set it down without breaking a sweat. "That's what you're aiming for," she said, not even breathing hard. The crowd went silent, awed. That was Dandelion-level power—entry-level for a Hunter, but leagues beyond normal.
The striking test used heavy bags with force sensors. Three strikes—jab, cross, hook—and trainers judged power and form.
Daniel went full beast, his fists slamming the bag so hard it nearly tore off the chain. The sensor beeped: 800 pounds of force. "Slow down, big guy," Sanchez said, but her tone had a hint of approval.
Jack pictured a werewolf's snarling face and let loose. His jab was sharp, the cross harder, and the hook made the bag swing. The readout blinked: 450 pounds. Solid, not spectacular. His knuckles throbbed, but he felt alive.
Ellie's strikes were quick, precise—350 pounds, her small fists a blur. Tom's were messy but heavy, hitting 500. Sam managed 150, wincing but following through. Lila's jab barely registered at 100 pounds, but she finished the set, eyes down but fists clenched. Every kid stepped up, from the cocky ones like Nate, who hit 400 with a smug grin, to the quiet ones who just wanted to survive the day.
Sanchez demonstrated, stepping to a bag and delivering three strikes so fast they blurred. The sensor screamed: 1,200 pounds. The bag split, sand spilling onto the floor. She shrugged. "Oops. Get used to it, kids."
The sprint test was a 40-meter track painted on the concrete, timers flashing at the end. Participants ran in heats of five, shoes squeaking, the air thick with tension.
Marcus was in the first heat, practically vibrating. The whistle blew, and he shot forward, a streak of motion, crossing in 4.2 seconds. "Damn, kid," Sanchez said, jotting a note. She jogged alongside the next heat, matching their pace effortlessly, then accelerated past them in a blink, stopping at the end like she'd teleported.
Jack ran next, pushing until his lungs burned. He hit 4.8 seconds—decent, not great. Ellie clocked 4.6, her ponytail bouncing. Tom lumbered at 5.1, his bulk slowing him. Sam tripped at the start but recovered for 5.5. Lila ran jerky but finished at 5.3. Nate, the gel-haired guy, hit 4.4 and strutted like he'd won the Olympics. Everyone ran, their times a messy spectrum of effort.
The agility course was a beast: hurdles, cones, a narrow beam, and a 10-foot climbing wall with a rope. Speed and precision mattered.
Marcus flowed through, leaping hurdles and weaving cones like he was born for it. He wobbled on the beam but scaled the wall in 1 minute, 20 seconds. "Easy," he said, breathless but grinning.
Jack attacked it, clearing hurdles but clipping one. He teetered on the beam, arms flailing, and scrambled up the wall, finishing at 1 minute, 45 seconds. Not his best.
Ellie moved like water, hitting 1 minute, 30 seconds. Tom tripped on a hurdle, cursed, and clocked 2 minutes. Sam surprised everyone, darting nimbly for 1 minute, 50 seconds. Lila hesitated at the wall, slipping once, but finished at 2 minutes, 15 seconds, tears in her eyes as she landed. Everyone tackled it, some shining, others scraping by.
Sanchez ran the course herself, a casual demo. She vaulted hurdles, spun through cones, walked the beam like a tightrope, and climbed the wall in 45 seconds flat, no rope needed. "That's the bar," she said, dusting her hands. The crowd stared, jaws slack.
Endurance was a plank hold—elbows down, body rigid—until you dropped. Sanchez demonstrated, holding a plank while balancing a 50-pound plate on her back, chatting like it was nothing. "Keep going," she said, dropping the plate after five minutes without a quiver.
Jack settled in, core burning. Two minutes. Three. At five, his abs screamed; he collapsed at six. Daniel lasted seven, dropping with a thud. Ellie held eight minutes, calm as ever. Tom tapped out at five, Sam at four, Lila at three, her arms shaking but her face fierce. Every kid tried, some lasting seconds, others minutes, all pushing their limits.
Combat was a three-minute spar against a trainer, padded up, testing skill and nerve. Sanchez paired off with a kid first, dodging his punches like they were in slow motion, then landing a tap that sent him sprawling—all without breaking a sweat. "That's Dandelion-level," she said, helping him up.
Jack faced a scarred trainer who moved like a snake. He dodged a jab, landed a hook, and took a rib shot that stung. "Time!" the trainer called. "Good instincts, kid."
Marcus danced around his opponent, landing quick hits. Daniel bulldozed his, technique rough but brutal. Ellie countered with sharp precision, Tom absorbed hits like a tank, Sam weaved and tapped, and Lila threw one shaky punch before turtling up. Every kid fought, their efforts raw and varied.
The mental tests were in a sterile room with tablets flashing puzzles and scenarios. Jack struggled through ethical dilemmas and resource allocation questions, his answers rushed and half-baked. Marcus frowned at his screen, overthinking, while Daniel looked ready to smash his tablet. Everyone worked, some flying through, others stalling, but all finished.
The simulation plunged them into VR: a village under werewolf attack, smoke and screams everywhere. Jack's virtual self had a silver sword and gun. He fired to draw the beast, dodged its claws, and lured it under a collapsing cart, finishing it with a sword to the heart—though a virtual claw clipped him, pain flaring. Everyone faced the sim, some freezing, others fighting, their responses as varied as their physical trials.
In the waiting area, Jack slumped beside Marcus and Daniel, all three drained. "How'd you do?" he asked.
Marcus shrugged. "Aced the mental, bombed agility. You?"
"Physical was solid, mental was a mess."
Daniel grunted. "Hope they need someone to lift shit."
Names were called. When "Carter, Jack" rang out, his stomach lurched. He walked to the verdict room.
A stern woman in a lab coat eyed him. "Jack Carter. Physical: strong in combat and strength, average speed and agility. Mental: weak strategy, high decisiveness. Simulation: exceptional instincts, borderline reckless."
He braced himself.
"You're a Hunter. Your instincts are primal—a gift, but dangerous without control. Report to the Academy in two weeks."
He grinned, relief flooding him. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet," she said, no smile.
Outside, Marcus was a Hunter too, his speed sealing the deal. Daniel got Specialist—weapons tech. "Not what I wanted," he admitted, but Jack clapped his shoulder. "We need you, man."
As the Hunters gathered for orientation, Sanchez led them, casually juggling a 50-pound weight like it was a tennis ball. Jack watched, heart racing. That was the world he was stepping into—a world of monsters, and humans who fought like them.