Sezel's stomach churned, a nauseating cocktail of dread and adrenaline. Krono had just…vanished. Panic flared in his mind. He spun, his crimson eyes frantically scanning the empty ring.
Where did he go? Did he just ascend to a higher plane of existence or something?
He gritted his teeth, the sound scraping in his own ears. The space Krono had occupied held nothing but still, dead air. Sezel's pulse was a frantic, hammering beat against his ribs.
He dropped, a sudden, instinctual crouch that brought his knuckles brushing against the packed earth. A heartbeat later, a gust of wind ruffled his hair, a spectral caress from where his head had just been.
From Krono's earlier, laughably one-sided matches, Sezel had noticed the pattern.
A gust of wind followed Krono's every attack—an aftereffect of fast speed. The only way to survive was to anticipate, to move before the attack even landed. But anticipation only gets you so far.
But the next moment, everything spun. The ground fell away, or he was lifted—the sensation was too disorienting to parse. It took his mind a second to realize he was in the air, already falling down with his back facing the ground.
'Tch..' he gritted his teeth, trying to spin around, but his body was still just a human body and a human can't spin his body in a free fall of such short distance. He went limp, keeping his back arched, letting head and heels hit the packed earth first.
Krono appeared above him, a blur of motion, his expression one of polite disinterest. He's not fighting me, Sezel realized with a jolt. He's... tidying up.
But Sezel was not one to go quietly. well, Fuck he thought, the words a cold, sharp shard of defiance in the face of inevitable defeat.
He rolled, a violent twist of his hips, and drove his heel toward the hollow behind Krono's knee.
The golden-haired boy remained motionless, his eyes fixed on Sezel. A faint, almost bored smile touched his lips, a look that screamed, Weakling.
Sezel's kick connected. A bolt of pure, white-hot agony shot up his leg, as if his bone had shattered against steel.
He convulsed, clutching his foot, a silent scream trapped in his throat. Krono simply placed a hand on his chest and gently, almost apologetically, pushed him to the ground.
Raelion's whistle, a shrill note, marked the end of the duel. Sezel had lost. Again. He had always lost in his life. Yet this felt something different, a needle of unintentional envy piercing his heart.
A hollow laugh echoed in the desolate landscape of his thoughts. What was I expecting? A Rank 0 versus a Rank 5? It was never a fight.
Maybe the Golden Fable had given him some hope, but it was useless for the most part because, as long as it stands, it was beyond Sezel's grasp. He didn't even properly know how to use it.
The class ended soon. No one was able to stand against Krono, with the exception being a boy with large black hair, a Rank 4 Slayer, who gave Krono a hard time. That fight lasted five whole minutes. The outcome was never in question.
**
Days bled into weeks, weeks into a monotonous, soul-crushing month. The routine was a relentless grind: theoretical classes in the morning, where he learned about the myriad ways he could die, followed by ruthless practical classes with Raelion, where he got to experience them firsthand.
His only solace was the cafeteria, where he would heap his plate with lavish fare, exotic meats, vibrant fruits—and shovel it down with his now-customary cup of coffee.
He was a quick learner. He'd mastered reading their language, but speaking it was another matter entirely. His attempts at conversation had been disastrous, a cringe-inducing ballet of misunderstood words and awkward silences.
One time he had tried talking to a group of four newbie slayers from his class, the introductions went smoothly, but then after a while, they all started to give him the look that clearly read "Pervert"
He only got to know later that he was talking about panties. And then he decided, I will not talk to anyone. Like anyone was going to talk to him.
During the two months, he had failed, spectacularly and repeatedly, in using Spirit Energy.
Then evenings followed training with other students in the garden. And then, in his sterile room, he scrolled his assessment device, a mobile phone by another name, until sleep claimed him.
He'd tried revealing it once, but his throat sealed, breath choked, and he woke gasping on the floor.
The ability he couldn't even reveal.
Tonight, a storm raged outside, a perfect reflection of the tempest in his soul. He stood by the open window, the wind and rain lashing at his face.
Lightning split the sky, illuminating the world in a stark, colorless flash.
Two months ago, I would have been shivering in a gutter somewhere, he thought, a bitter, ironic smile on his lips. "The world is a cruel place," he said, his voice a low rasp against the thunder. "The rich get it all, while the poor suffer." He gritted his teeth at the harsh reality of the world.
He was alive. He had food. He had a roof over his head. But, It wasn't enough. His sister's face, etched with a suffering he had escaped, was a debt he could never ignore. 'I will save you,' he vowed, his voice a fierce, determined whisper. 'Just wait—your big brother will take you out of that miserable life.'
Suddenly, his assessment device buzzed, a frantic, insistent summons. An emergency message.
[All Slayers are requested to immediately go to the reception.]
Sezel recognized the summons. Something similar happened a few weeks ago while he was sleeping. It was the opening of another gate.
The last gate that opened was a B-Rank.
The expedition of 100 Slayers was sent inside, only 40 came back. All others were gone—some died, some were murdered by other Slayers, and some were lost, their whereabouts unknown. Who knew.
Sezel followed the instructions and joined the hurried exodus, boots echoing in the dorm's corridors. The reception hall was a cavern of anxious faces.
Just like last time, some of them would be chosen to be a part of the expedition and only one or two would return.
He wasn't part of the expedition last time, and with the skills he had, there was no chance he was going to be picked for one. He was just a Spector.
The grand screen at the front of the hall came to life, its cold light washing over the assembled crowd. Text appeared, stark and white. Sezel's gaze traced the words, and his breath caught. His eyes widened—not in fear, but in a kind of grim, fatalistic clarity.
This... This is fucked up. he gritted his teeth, but who cared.