Chapter 1 Thumb-Sized Flame
The fireball sputtered like a dying lighter, a pathetic puff of flame barely the size of a thumb. The training chamber, a vast hall of polished steel and enchanted wards, fell into suffocating silence before the laughter erupted.
"Is that it?" someone sneered from the sidelines. "My grandmother's candle burns brighter than that."
Another voice, nasal and cruel, chimed in, "Did you even channel power properly, or was that just static electricity? Look, I think I saw a spark."
I ignored them. Mostly. It was hard to pretend they weren't there when every laugh jabbed like a needle under my skin. The fireball flickered, lost its shape, and popped into nothing. In the corner of my vision, where only I could see it, a faint blue counter hovered for a moment: [2/10]. Then it faded, invisible to everyone else.
The invigilator, a tall, rigid man in a sharp black coat, strode forward, his expression caught somewhere between anger and pity. His voice cracked through the room like a whip.
"How dare you," he spat, enunciating each syllable as though my existence was a personal insult. "How dare you think you could get into this institution with such a half-assed ability. Your very presence here is an affront to the Hunter Society."
I opened my mouth to speak but stopped. What was there to say? He wasn't wrong.
The fireball had sputtered into existence for less than three seconds.
I stared at my palm, still faintly warm. I didn't really think much, coming here. It was… well, considering the tropes, it had felt like the logical option. A kid in a strange new world? Of course you go to the academy-esque setting. Of course you train. Of course you become strong. That's how it worked, right?
But I wasn't some protagonist with hidden potential. I was just me. Some idiot who got trucked literally, and woke up in an alternate 21st century full of hunters and cryptids.
I'd been warned, too, that I wasn't allowed to use an ability in public places. But here, in this training chamber, I could. That was why I signed up for this entrance trial. I was ridiculously excited to learn I could summon fireballs, so I just… couldn't help it.
When the fireball fizzled out, I felt the system in my head ping softly. [3/10]. The counter always kept track. Every time I completed a fireball, even the sad, pathetic ones, it tallied up. It was the work of my so-called [Fireball System], the one thing that awakened in me after my death and reincarnation.
Not that I cared much about the situation itself. New world, magic monsters, society structured around hunters… none of that truly registered. I was just excited I could cast fireballs. I mean, who wasn't fascinated by fire?
The invigilator's sharp voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
"Enough," he barked, eyes cold as frost. "Leave. Get out of my sight. And don't come back. You're wasting everyone's time."
I clenched my fists. "Wait," I said, my voice steady despite the heat crawling up my neck. "Let me try just a bit more!"
The counter chimed again as another tiny fireball flickered and died. [4/10].
"Give me six more tries," I said, forcing my voice to stay steady even though my cheeks burned under the weight of everyone's stares.
The invigilator pinched the bridge of his nose like I was a headache given human form. "Six more? Kid, even if I gave you six hundred, that pathetic spark of yours wouldn't impress anyone."
The laughter from the other examinees rose again, harsh and sharp like broken glass grinding against pavement. Someone in the back shouted, "Maybe if we cheer for him, it'll grow!" Another chimed in, "Or maybe it's just stunted, like the caster!"
I ignored them.
The fireball fizzled to life in my palm again, no larger than an ember. The counter blinked in the corner of my vision. [5/10].
I clenched my teeth and went again. [6/10].
By the time I finished the tenth, sweat beaded across my forehead. The little ball of fire glowed steadily in my palm, brighter now, and more stable. It didn't flicker like it had when I first stepped into this hall.
I stared at it, not saying a word as the others muttered behind me, their voices like a dull buzz. Somewhere between the second and eighth try, I stopped hearing their jeers. It was just me, the fire, and the quiet hum of power running through my veins.
But even as I stood there, basking in my tiny victory, reality crept back in. When I finished it finallym what's next? What would I even do after getting kicked out of here? Work some dead-end part-time job? I was seventeen. Maybe someone would take me as a cashier or a janitor. Or hell, maybe I could land a spot in a hostess club if I faked some confidence and learned to smile pretty. Or stand-up comedy… yeah, that'd be a riot. 'Guy dies, gets trucked into another world, and can barely light a match.' Real knee-slapper material.
This world wasn't exactly forgiving to nobodies like me. I'd learned that much since I got here. A few weeks of frantic observation and quiet eavesdropping had given me the basics: humanity had already burned through World War III and somehow survived. The aftermath had reshaped the planet into one massive supercontinent. Technology sat comfortably at a 21st-century level with smartphones, cars, trains, all familiar, but the entertainment scene was… empty. No endless feeds of recycled garbage disguised as content. No streaming services dropping series every week to keep people pacified. Honestly, thank god for that. The silence was refreshing.
Still, I think I would miss the memes. And the movies. And the familiar chaos of Earth's media. The fireball hovered in my palm, finally stable, warm against my skin. The counter blinked again. [10/10] shifted to [0/100].
Then the words appeared in my vision, crisp and clear.
[Fireball Level 2]
I grinned despite myself. Level two. It was nothing impressive, not compared to the people in this room who could probably summon lightning storms or call down pillars of ice, but it was mine.
By the fifth fireball since reaching Level 2, his patience snapped.
"Enough," he barked, his voice echoing through the hall. "Pack your things and get the hell out. You're done wasting my time, and you're done wasting everyone else's oxygen."
The steady flame winked out as my concentration broke. Nonetheless, I continued.
"Are you deaf, you useless brat? Stop wasting my time!" His voice carried through the training hall, sharp and cutting, but I blocked it out, focusing on the hum of energy crawling up my arm.
Another surge of power, and another tiny burst. The fireball hovered, weak but steady, before dissolving with a soft hiss.
I smiled faintly.
That was when a hand clamped onto my shoulder, yanking me backward so hard my teeth clacked together.
"You're done here," the invigilator snarled, dragging me toward the exit. "Get the hell out of my Academy. Don't ever set foot here again, you hear me? You're an embarrassment to the powers be, to hunting, and to yourself."
The doors slammed behind me, leaving me standing on the marble steps with my counter frozen at [12/100] and the faint smell of burnt power clinging to my skin.
I should've been angry, humiliated maybe. But instead, I felt… satisfied. A little, anyway.
Man, I just wanted to burn stuff. Always had. Back on Earth, in the orphanage, the adults used to look at me like I was some freak every time I stared too long at a candle flame or when something "accidentally" caught fire. Maybe they were right. Maybe I was strange.
Meh. Nevermind. I hoped I'd never see any of them again.
I left the Wordsworth Academy of Hunting as evening draped itself over the city, the sky glowing with fading streaks of red and violet. The streets were quiet, the stone-paved avenues stretching out into the distance, lined with neat rows of shops and vendor stalls closing for the night.
I didn't head straight into the city proper. Not yet. Instead, I stayed near the outer training grounds, in a little abandoned lot behind the Academy walls. No one was around, so I practiced, summoning and dismissing fireballs, one after another.
[13/100]. [27/100]. [42/100].
Each one burned a little brighter, and lasted a little longer.
By the time a security guard found me and barked at me to "scram, kid," my counter sat neatly at [58/100], my power feeling raw but alive.
I trudged down the main road until the Academy faded behind me, swallowed by the evening lights of the adjacent city proper. Here, the streets were louder, buzzing with chatter, the hum of engines, and neon signs flickering against cracked concrete walls. One of those signs caught my eye:
HELP WANTED — BARBACK
I stopped under the flickering neon letters, staring at it like it might explain itself. What the hell was a barback, anyway? Some kind of bartender? Or maybe a janitor with a fancy name? Didn't matter. Work was work.
The bar's door creaked as I pushed it open. The air inside was thick with the smell of alcohol and the faint hum of soft jazz on an old speaker.
Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man, his hair slicked back, his expression set in that practiced scowl of someone who had seen it all and hated most of it. He was wiping a glass with a rag that had definitely seen better days.
His eyes flicked up at me, sharp and assessing. "Minor," he said flatly, voice gravelly. "No minors allowed in here during evening hours. Out."
"I'm here for the job," I said quickly, before he could toss me out too.
The scowl broke, replaced by a grin so bright it caught me off guard.
"Well, why didn't you say so, kid?" he said, setting the glass down. "Welcome to the Dean's List."