The wind carried whispers he couldn't understand.
Yuji Kazehaya was fifteen now. Tall, silent, and worn beyond his age. He walked alone through the cracked alleys of Sector 4, the lowest rung of the Zeyrus capital. The skies above were the same as always—smothered by industrial fog—but the stares below were worse than any storm.
People didn't just ignore Yuji. They avoided him like he was a walking disease.
A mother held her daughter tightly as they passed him. "Don't look," she hissed.
The child peeked anyway. Her innocent gaze lingered on Yuji's pale hair and tired silver eyes—until her mother dragged her away like he was cursed.
Yuji said nothing. He never did. There was nothing left to say.
He used to ask why people hated him. He used to reach out, hoping someone—anyone—would speak the truth. But after years of silence, suspicion, and fear, the answer had become clear.
He didn't belong.
And no one would ever tell him why.
A rusty train screeched by overhead. Its passing wind scattered torn paper and ash across the ground. He stepped over the ruins of a shattered streetlamp and turned down a street where his name had once been carved into the wall—before someone scratched it out with a blade.
Yuji Kazehaya doesn't exist here.
He kept walking.
The city of Zeyrus was divided into towering vertical sectors—each one cleaner, richer, and more protected the higher it went. But Sector 4, the gutter where Yuji lived, was left to rot. The government sent occasional rations and broadcasts, but never answers.
He passed a group of boys his age, laughing and loitering around a vending terminal. Their smiles vanished when they saw him. One whispered something. Another laughed darkly.
"Freak."
Yuji didn't flinch. He didn't even look at them. But he could feel the heat of their glares burning his back like open flames.
"Why's he still alive anyway?"
"Should've finished the job back then."
"What job? He's just a ghost."
Words like that used to hurt. Now, they echoed off empty walls inside him.
But no matter how much they hated him—no matter how much they made him feel less than human—Yuji held onto one goal. One thread of hope.
He would join the ADM Corps.
If he could wear the black ring of an official Corps soldier, if he could earn their gear, their power, their recognition—maybe he could be something other than a mistake.
Maybe then, the whispers would stop.
He walked to the edge of Sector 4, where old walls met new checkpoints. Beyond the rusted fences stood Sector 3—the Academy District. Students in training uniforms moved through the gates like they had purpose. Like they belonged.
Yuji stepped up to the reinforced gate. A scanner blinked red, then green. His ID passed. Somehow. Probably only because no one thought he'd last more than a week.
The guards didn't speak. Just stared. One of them spat near his boot.
"Don't get too comfortable, Kazehaya."
Yuji said nothing. His boots echoed as he entered the Academy District. New roads, clean walls, banners waving with the sigil of Zeyrus: twin dragons coiled around a spinning core.
Posters lined the path toward the main tower:
> "JOIN THE ADM CORPS – DEFEND YOUR CORE – DEFEND YOUR NATION."
He stopped for a moment beneath one of the screens. A recruitment video played—showing elite soldiers using raw elemental power: ice daggers, wind tornadoes, blades of fire and lightning.
But none of them were born with those powers. That much he knew.
They all relied on something else: the ADM Gear. A ring. A device. A limiter. A weapon.
Yuji looked down at his hand. Beneath the tattered glove, he felt the cold metal of his ring. He took the glove off slowly.
The ring wasn't standard issue.
It was dull gray, unmarked, and colder than stone. No matter how many times he touched it, it never responded. Not once.
He didn't even know where it came from. He'd had it since the day he woke up in that burned-down village with no memories.
Other students had colorful bands etched with engravings. Their rings glowed faintly—reacting to their will, their energy, their training.
Yuji's ring? It was dead.
He tried once, months ago, to sync it. The machine technician couldn't even detect its signature.
But still, he wore it.
And still… deep inside… he waited.
A soft wind swept through the courtyard, blowing his white hair across his face. He closed his eyes. Somewhere in that wind, he thought he heard a voice. Not words. Just a feeling.
The wind knew him.
And maybe one day, the world would too.
Even if it meant breaking everything in the process.
From high above, beyond the banners and clouds, a cloaked figure lowered a monocular scope and whispered into a comm crystal:
"Target sighted. Kazehaya has entered the tower. Authorization pending. Orders?"
---
Just as Yuji began walking toward the academy's registry, a deafening horn echoed across the sky. He stopped. The air shifted. The giant iron gates of Zeyrus—the nation's Grand Gate—slowly began to open.
Crowds rushed to the plaza. Within moments, the streets flooded with thousands of people—shouting, clapping, cheering.
A line of figures marched through the opening. Uniforms as black as shadow, cloaks fluttering in elemental wind. Their rings shined with radiant light, each step synchronized with power.
ADM Corps soldiers had returned.
The people clapped wildly, throwing petals in the air. Screams of joy erupted:
> "Heroes of Zeyrus!"
> "Protectors of the Core!"
> "Angels of Ice and Wind!"
Yuji stood on the edge of the crowd, unnoticed, untouched, uninvited.
He watched them all—every soldier proud and praised.
But amid them, walking behind the others, his posture silent, his gaze colder than frost—was a boy who didn't smile. Didn't wave. He carried no ego.
Only presence.
His silver-blue eyes pierced the crowd like daggers of judgment.
And in that sea of faces, only one didn't seem like the others.
Beyond the system itself—beyond titles, commands, and medals—
he was Ryen Sylvan.
END OF CHAPTER 2