Air in the muster hall was cold enough to see your breath, a deliberate feature of the Awakening Institute.
Discomfort, the instructors claimed, was the first step to vigilance.
A hundred trainees stood at rigid attention, a sea of grey combat fatigues on the precipice of their new lives. On the raised podium, Instructor Borin stood.
His gaze, like chips of flint, swept over the assembled faces—young, eager, terrified.
When he spoke, his voice was more than heared, it chilled their bones.
"Most of you will die today."
A collective, sharp intake of breath rippled through the crowd. A girl to Kaisen's left whimpered softly. A few students glanced at each other, eyes wide with a fresh, chilling fear.
Near the front, a cluster of more muscular, confident trainees merely smirked, their arrogance a flimsy shield against the pronouncement.
Kaisen stood straight, his arms crossed tightly behind his back, his expression neutral. Internally, a dry thought formed.
'Yeah no shit, you're sending us to fucking hell'
This grim ceremony was the Yearly First Assessment, the day the Institute's theoretical coddling ended and the real-world curriculum—written in blood and monster ichor—began.
For months, the newly Awakened had practiced their abilities in controlled gyms, studied rift-theory in sterile classrooms, and learned first aid on compliant dummies.
Today, that ended.
Today, they would be shipped out to a live rift, a tear in the fabric of reality, to face the creatures that poured forth from the void.
The assessment was simple: clear the rift under the distant supervision of the instructors, or die trying.
It was the ultimate sorting mechanism, determining who had the potential to become a true defender of humanity, who would merely gain a traumatic experience, and who would be… well, gone.
Each batch was assigned a rift located within a Deadzone, a region of the world so corrupted by repeated rift activity that the very land was poisoned, twisted into a blight-choked nightmare.
"When I call your name," Borin's voice snapped them all back to the present, "you will move to your designated transport vehicle. Hesitation will be noted as cowardice."
The roll call began.
Names echoed in the hall, each one a verdict. Kaisen let himself blend into the background, his posture perfect but his presence minimal.
He observed the reactions, the micro-expressions, the silent prayers.
The weak prayed to be paired with the strong, and the strong prayed to be paired with the even stronger.
Kaisen was no different, being put in a batch with strong people was the only increase in one's chance of survival.
'Whatever gods are listening, just this once...do right by me—give me a good batch.'
As the list progressed, a social hierarchy was painted in stark relief.
When a high-ranked student's name was called—a B-Rank will or, on one occasion, another A-Rank—a wave of relieved murmurs from the batch would follow them.
They were prayed over like divine spirits, their presence seen as a talisman against death.
After all, they were blessed with the will of high-ranking gods, possessing not just excellent potential and growth, but also the formidable abilities of those gods as well.
In contrast, when a student with a low ranked will was named, particularly a D-Rank, a different kind of murmur followed—a mix of pity from the onlookers and scorn from the batch members.
Those with lower-ranked wills, chosen by the low-ranking gods, were seen as worthless with no potential or worthwhile ability.
Someone with a D-Rank will could never be more than a Level 20 Awakened, while an A Rank's level could peak in the hundreds.
Then came the first major batch announcement. "Batch Seven. Transport Four. Lyra Kess."
A wave of awe swept through the hall. All eyes turned to a young woman who stepped forward gracefully.
She possessed an A-Rank will, and her reputation preceded her. Lyra Kess was known for a fighting style that was less brawling and more a deadly dance, a combination of swift, precise combat and a strategic brilliance that belied her age.
She didn't look at the crowd, her calm, focused gaze fixed on some point in the middle distance.
"Thalen Vire," Borin continued.
The murmurs exploded into open chatter. Another A-Rank.
Thalen Vire was Lyra's opposite: charismatic, physically imposing, with a smile that could charm the instructors and a raw power that had overwhelmed countless rivals in the training rings.
He swaggered to the front, flashing a confident grin at his peers.
The remaining names for Batch Seven were called—all C-Ranks, solid, above average, capable fighters. The consensus was immediate and whispered among all gatherd:
"Two A-Ranks in one batch? That's insane. It has to be rigged! They'll clear the rift before we even get our boots dirty."
Kaisen listened to it all, an impartial observer. Still praying he somehow made it to a strong batch.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Instructor Borin's eyes scanned the dwindling list and landed on him.
A flicker of something—pity? annoyance?—crossed the instructor's stony face.
"Kaisen."
The reaction was instantaneous. A chorus of gasps and not-so-subtle whispers.
"Wait… that F-Rank is still around?"
"I thought he washed out months ago.Switched to carpentry or something."
"Gods,what a roller-coaster for Batch Seven. They got two A-Ranks and… that."
"Maybe he's the sacrifice to appease the rift monsters."
Kaisen ignored them. He had practiced this moment. He stepped forward, his back straight, his face a mask of neutral acceptance.
The stares were like physical blows, but he'd learned to let them glance off an internal armor forged in years of mockery.
He fell in line with the rest of Batch Seven, feeling Thalen Vire's disdainful gaze burning into the side of his head.
'Survival isn't about popularity—it's about not dying today.' Kaisen thought to himself.
Within minutes, the assigned batches were loaded into hulking, slate-grey armored transports.
The vehicles were mobile fortresses, their interiors smelling of ozone, oil, and cold sweat.
The atmosphere inside Batch Seven's transport was quiet.
The C-Ranks looked relieved, almost jubilant, buoyed by the presence of their two powerhouses.
Lyra sat in a corner, her eyes closed as if in meditation, completely detached from the nervous energy. Thalen, however, held court.
He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, a smirk playing on his lips as his eyes landed squarely on Kaisen.
"So," Thalen said, his voice dripping with false camaraderie. "The legendary F-Rank. Here's the deal. Stay out of the way. Don't slow us down. Try to keep up, and for the love of the gods, if you see something pointy and toothy, try not to trip and feed yourself to it."
A few of the C-Ranks chuckled nervously, eager to align themselves with the "alpha" of the group.
"Yeah, F-Rank, we can't carry your corpse too!" another added, puffing out his chest.
Kaisen said nothing.
He simply looked out the reinforced window slit as the Institute's gates receded, giving way to the blasted landscape beyond.
He didn't need to retaliate. He needed the lot to survive, and if enduring their words was all it took, then he could do that much.
A crackling intercom voice broke the tension.
"Entering Deadzone perimeter. Activate personal breathers. Now."
There was a synchronized click as small devices were secured over mouths and noses.
Kaisen fastened his own, the filtered air tasting metallic.
He looked outside, and for the first time, a genuine chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning traced its way down his spine.
This was the Deadzone.
The world here was wrong. The trees were twisted into agonized shapes, their bark a sickly purple-black. The ground was cracked and barren, except for patches of glowing, corrosive moss.
In the distance, shadowy, misshapen forms—corrupted beasts that had transformed from the blight—lurked at the edge of perception.
The sky was a perpetual, bruised twilight.
After a jarring ride over broken terrain, the transport shuddered to a halt. The rear ramp hissed open, revealing their destination.
There, hovering a few feet above the ground, was the rift.
It was a vertical tear in the world, a wound that bled dark energy. Sharp edges of reality framed a swirling vortex of deep violet and black.
Oily, black smoke coiled upward from its core, and within the chaos, flashes of red lightning arced with violent intent.
"Alright, move out! Weapons ready!" an instructor barked from the safety of the lead vehicle.
Fully armed and armored, Batch Seven stepped into the oppressive silence of the Deadzone.
Thalen Vire immediately took charge, his voice ringing with confidence. "Relax, everyone. Scanners peg this as a low-ranked rift. Probably just a few Gutter Imps and a Corrupted Hound or two. Stick close to me and Lyra, follow our instructions, and we'll clear this before lunch. Easy."
He strode confidently toward the shimmering tear, not waiting for a consensus.
Lyra followed, her movements economical and silent.
The C-Ranks, emboldened, fell in step. Kaisen hung back at the rear, his own cheap training sword feeling woefully inadequate in his hands.
One by one, they stepped through the rift. The sensation was like being plunged into ice water and then dragged through a field of static electricity.
The world twisted, colors inverted, and for a heart-stopping second, Kaisen felt his consciousness break.
Then, his boots hit solid, uneven ground.
They were in.
The rift's interior was a stretch of space that defied physics, a landscape of jagged rock formations, trees and a blood-red sky.
The guttural growls were louder here, echoing from all directions.
Thalen was still talking, pointing out potential avenues of approach.
"Lyra, you take the high ground on that ridge. The rest of you, form a defensive perimeter around—"
A warm, coppery spray splashed across Kaisen's face, blinding his left eye.
He blinked, his vision flashing red. He wiped the fluid away with a trembling hand, his mind struggling to process the scene before him.
It happened without warning. A blur of motion, too fast for the eye to track. It wasn't an Imp or a Hound. It was a mass of shadows, claws, and raw, screaming hunger.
There was a wet, tearing sound, horribly final.
Where Thalen Vire had stood, a charismatic prodigy, there was now only a fine mist of blood settling on the dark rocks.
A single, shredded piece of his grey uniform fluttered to the ground.
[ You are now in the presence of a Berserker ]