A flash. Then sound.
Salem blinked, and suddenly, he was no longer in the ruins of his village.
He now stood in the middle of a massive train station—one unlike anything he had ever seen. Towering ceilings of glass and steel stretched endlessly above. The floor gleamed like obsidian, and bright sigils floated in the air like digital spirits. All around him, over a thousand people milled about, speaking in dozens of languages, representing countless races, dimensions, and ages.
And Salem had spawned right in the thick of it.
Voices swirled like a tornado of sound—loud, urgent, excited. Some were nervous, others proud. The crowd buzzed with anticipation and tension, their chatter swallowing the vast chamber in noise.
Then—BOOM.
A loud explosion of sound, like thunder cracking through metal, silenced everything.
Not a soul moved. Not a whisper lingered.
A voice, raspy and old, echoed from every direction at once. It was both booming and unsettling.
"Welcome, all—old and newcomers. I am Greyson. And I will be happy to serve as your test proxy. You may refer to me as Proxy Grey. For the next three specs—if you're lucky—you will belong to me. At any point you fail, you will be… set free, and eligible to try again in one mil. Now that the introductions are out of the way... Please board the train immediately."
Just like that, the voice cut out.
Everyone looked around in confused silence. There was no train in sight.
Then—
FWOOOM.
In a blink, a long obsidian train with glowing red trim materialized at the platform. Its steel doors flung open with a hiss.
At the center, flanked by two massive hellhounds wreathed in fire, stood a man.
He wore a black top hat, a polished monocle, a black tuxedo with white gloves, and leaned elegantly on a black cane. His smile was sharp, too wide, and far too still.
"Well," he said with a velvet rasp, "I won't force anyone to enter… But the train will depart in five minutes. And whoever has not entered… will be failed."
That was all it took.
The entire crowd surged like a wave. People pushed, shouted, and sprinted toward the open doors.
Salem didn't move at first. His eyes narrowed, studying the old man and the flaming beasts at his side.
This was it.
The beginning.
He took a breath—
—and stepped forward.
Inside the Train
There were no seats. No compartments. Just a wide, open interior with glowing red lights, polished black floors, and walls lined with faintly pulsing sigils.
But it wasn't cramped.
Despite the sheer number of passengers, the train was massive—so vast it made no logical sense. There was room to move freely, stretch, or even run. Walkways curved through the open space like arteries in a living machine. Here and there, floating orbs of light hovered, illuminating different sections with soft, color-shifting glows.
People found space in clusters or wandered quietly, taking it all in. The train itself seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions, as if it had no real end.
Salem found a quiet corner near a glowing panel on the wall. Around him, some people whispered, others fiddled with weapons or charms. A few stared straight ahead, determined or terrified.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out the trinket from the chest. It was a small silver pendant shaped like a twisted spiral. Pressing the center had brought him here.
But the real gift had been what lay beside it.
The letters inside—that old chest buried beneath the ashes of his home.
His mother's handwriting.
The first note was smudged with ash but still legible.
You are not who you think you are.
You have a birthright, but there are those who wish to keep it from you and would go so far as to kill you.
You must leave this small dimension and become a patroller, but first you must learn about the world and how it works.
He pulled out the second.
There are four types of abilities, four types of classes, and a world of discrimination you've never seen.
Fighter—martial artists and weapon masters, with physical ability superior to others. Weak to Psychic. Strong against Mage.
Mage—can use all basic elements, but are limited to mastering only one. Weak to Fighter. Strong against Summoner.
Summoners—can call spirits or animals to fight, or borrow their power. Weak to Mage. Strong against Psychics.
Psychic—wield mental powers. The more they learn, the harder it is to control. Weak to Summoner. Strong against Fighter.
He swallowed and unrolled the final one. But he seemed to only focus on one part.
If you can remember nothing I've taught you, at least remember this:
YOU. ARE. LOVED.
Salem lowered the note.
No tears this time.
Just confusion.
He wondered what it meant to be loved.
Outside the windows, dimensions swirled and folded—sky melting into sky, forests blooming in seconds, and stone towers collapsing into new terrain.
This world was much bigger than he ever imagined.
He tucked the final note away, unsure if it comforted him or made him feel even more alone.
But this was only the beginning.
Whatever came next…
He was ready.
And then suddenly—
His concentration broke.
A voice, soft and distant, whispered inside his mind.
"Help… please help…"
He snapped his head up.
The voice hadn't been meant for him. But somehow… it had reached him all the same.
He scanned the crowd. That's when he saw it.
Four participants had surrounded two others. One was a boy, around Salem's age, with light brown skin and oddly bright gray hair. The other was a much younger girl with orange-brown curls and wide, frightened eyes.
Something stirred in Salem's chest.
A memory.
A voice.
"You're not going to help?" Ava had asked him once.
His eyes darkened.
He didn't want to care. But he did. And that made him furious.
Anger rose from deep within. And with it—a swirl of dark magic cloaked his body, black and rippling like a shadowed flame.
He stepped forward.
"Look, just give us the girl," one of the assailants demanded.
The gray-haired boy stepped between them, eyes fierce.
"You can't just do what you want. She doesn't want to go with you."
The assailants laughed.
"She doesn't have the right to refuse," one sneered. "As a lowborn, she should be on her knees thanking us for the offer."
One of the assailants reached toward Grace and suddenly clutched his head, letting out a sharp scream.
"What the hell? My nerves—what did she just do?!"
The assailant's eyes went wide, veins pulsing in his forehead. He dropped to his knees, gasping like something had squeezed his brain from the inside.
Grace shrank back in fear.
"I-I didn't… mean to…"
"Are you deaf, or just plain stupid?" the boy shot back. "She's not going with you!"
He grabbed the girl's arm and turned to leave.
That's when the four assailants moved to strike.
But before they could—
Chaos.
A fiery nunchuck cracked against the assailant's ribs, a ripple of flame spiraling from the impact.
A boy with blue hair didn't move at first. Then a flick of his wrist sent a jagged bolt arcing into the air—fast, precise, mercilessly zapping another into the wall.
Salem's dark-magic-coated foot shattered the jaw of the third.
And the fourth?
A black scythe hovered an inch from his throat, its blade humming with purple-black aura.
A single drop of blood ran down the edge.
"Take another step," said the scythe wielder calmly, "and your head might fall."
The assailant froze, stunned. Trembling.
"Just kidding," she smiled, and slowly pulled the blade away.
The man ran.
"I leave you alone for one second," said the nunchuck girl with a sigh, "and you're already getting picked on."
The gray-haired boy laughed softly.
"It can't be helped," he said. "They happened to know who she is."
He turned to Salem and the others.
"Thanks for the help. I'm Amir. This little one is Grace. And the she-beast with the flaming nunchucks is Lily."
Lily's nunchuck smacked Amir on the back of the head.
"Watch it," she said, grinning.
The scythe wielder bowed politely.
"I'm Charlotte. Feel free to call me Char."
"Kai," said the lightning wielder with a nod.
All eyes turned to the cloaked figure still radiating dark energy.
"And I am Salem," he said quietly, voice cold and stoic.
Their eyes met.
And just like that—
The journey had begun.