Markus stood paralyzed at the edge of the alley, a ragged ghost haunting the threshold of a world that shouldn't exist. He was a walking disaster. A slow, rhythmic drip of crimson fell from the tip of his nose, splattering against the pavement. His shirt, once perhaps a cheap cotton blend, was now a tattered ruin—scorched by elemental fire and hanging in blackened ribbons that exposed a chest mapped with fresh, angry welts.
Pedestrians swerved around him, their expressions a mixture of polished indifference and sharp disgust. In this new world, weakness was a contagion, and Markus looked like a terminal case. He could feel the warmth of blood matting the hair at the back of his head, the dull throb of a concussion singing in his ears.
Yet, as he stared at the gravity-defying spires and the shimmering mana-trails in the sky, the pain felt distant. Secondary. The adrenaline from the beating was still humming through his veins, a frantic electric current that kept his heart hammering against his ribs.
He looked down at his hands. They were smaller, the skin less calloused than he remembered, the knuckles bruised but youthful. A slow, jagged grin split his bloody face.
"Interesting," he whispered, the word hitching in his throat.
The realization was a cold splash of water: he was a passenger in a stranger's skin. He had hijacked a life, and the sheer, chaotic potential of it made his vision swim.
Wincing as his muscles protested, he reached into the pockets of his shredded trousers. His fingers brushed against leather. He pulled out a wallet—battered and salt-stained, but miraculously still there. He flipped it open with trembling fingers.
"Tf... this guy was a bottom-feeder," he muttered, staring at the meager contents. There were no bills, only a few heavy, hexagonal coins that hummed with a faint, low-grade magical resonance. They looked like the kind of spare change one might throw to a beggar just to watch them scramble.
He pulled out a translucent plastic card—his ID.
MARKUS ONEATA. AGE: 16.
The face staring back from the card was his own, yet stripped of a decade of wear and tear. He was younger, leaner, and apparently much more of a punching bag. A hysterical bubble of laughter rose in his chest, escaping his lips as a jagged, manic sound. He started to laugh harder, a ragged, unhinged cackle that made a passing couple—dressed in shimmering silk robes—recoil in alarm and quicken their pace.
He didn't care. He was alive, he was young, and he had a clean slate in a world where people flew.
His eyes scanned the bottom of the ID. There, embossed in fading black ink, was an address. It was a street name he didn't recognize in a district that sounded like the slums, but it was a destination.
Before he could take more than three steps, the frantic rhythm of the street shifted. The sea of pedestrians suddenly parted, people pressing themselves against building walls and shop windows as if a predator were moving through the school of fish.
Two figures approached, cutting through the crowd with an air of absolute, unquestioned authority.
They were dressed in uniforms of charcoal-grey weave, reinforced with plates of blackened steel at the shoulders and chest. What stood out most, however, were their short, waist-length capes of a deep, arterial red. The fabric seemed to shimmer with a faint, internal heat, catching the neon light like spilled wine. The man was broad-shouldered with a jawline like a cliffside, his hand resting casually on a hilt that lacked a blade—only a crystal housing. The woman was lean and sharp-eyed, her gaze scanning the environment with the predatory efficiency of a hawk.
The crowd didn't just move for them; they fled their path.
"Halt," the woman said. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made Markus's boots feel like they were made of lead.
She stopped a few feet from him, her nose wrinkling in distaste at the smell of burnt fabric and copper. The man stepped up beside her, his arms crossed over his armored chest.
"Name," she commanded, extending a gloved hand. "And your ID. Now."
Markus blinked, his brain still sluggish from the adrenaline. He fumbled for the wallet he had just tucked away, pulling out the translucent card and handing it over with a slightly trembling hand.
The woman took it, sliding the card into a small device on her wrist. A blue holographic projection flickered to life, displaying Markus's face and a scrolling list of data.
"Markus Oneata," she read aloud, her eyes flicking from the hologram to his battered face. She gestured to the bloody mess of his shirt and the gash on his forehead. "You look like you've been through a meat grinder. Who did this? Was there an unauthorized use of elemental force?"
Markus looked at the crimson capes, then at the way the citizens watched them with bated breath. Dayum, he thought, the realization clicking into place. These are the heavy hitters. Police? No, something more like a private army.
"I... I fell," Markus lied, his voice raspy. He knew instinctively that snitching on the guys in the reinforced gear—the ones who knew 'Diana'—would probably get him killed before he even found his front door. "Just a disagreement in the alley. No magic. Just fists."
The man in the red cape leaned in, his eyes glowing with a faint, searching amber light as if he were looking for traces of mana on Markus's skin. After a tense silence, he grunted.
The man in the red cape paused, his boots grinding against the pavement as he turned back. His eyes narrowed, glowing with a more intense, analytical amber light. He didn't just see the blood; he saw the way the edges of the wounds were cauterized, the skin puckered in a fractal, branching pattern.
"Liar," the man rumbled, his voice dropping an octave. He reached out, his gloved fingers hovering just inches from Markus's charred shirt. "This isn't a 'fall.' There's a lingering scent of ozone here. High-voltage discharge. Lightning."
The woman's posture stiffened, her hand dropping to the crystal hilt at her waist. Lightning was a rare element, a volatile power usually reserved for those with high-born lineages or specialized training. To use it on a "gutter-born" like this boy wasn't just an assault; it was a statement of dominance.
She looked at Markus, her eyes flashing with irritation. How dare this brat lie to an officer of the Faction? "He's young, but he's hiding something," she muttered to her partner. "We aren't letting him wander off to bleed out in some slum. We'll take him to a medical ward, patch him up, and then we'll see if he's still so tight-lipped during a proper interrogation. In the meantime, pull his file. We need to notify his relatives."
Markus felt a cold pit form in his stomach. Relatives? He didn't even know who he was, let alone who his family was supposed to be.
As they flanked him, effectively placing him under arrest without saying the word, the woman's gaze swept over the surrounding citizens who were watching the scene. To them, this was the "Great Sacred Holy Faction of Benevolence" in action—providing "care" to its citizens. But Markus could see the truth in the coldness of their eyes. This faction was a gilded cage. If he had offended a high-ranking member, these two wouldn't lift a finger to help him; they'd probably finish the job. He was a low-contribution citizen, a cog in a machine that only valued him for the space he occupied. He was lucky to be here, though—in the other factions, a boy of his status would be wearing iron shackles instead of a torn shirt.
Fk, Markus cursed internally, his mind racing. I don't have time for a hospital visit and a police report. I need to get back to whatever hole this kid lives in. I need a laptop, a terminal, anything. I need to figure out where the hell I am and how the rules of this world work before I say the wrong thing to the wrong person.
But he was in no condition to fight, and certainly not against two people who looked like they could incinerate him with a thought.
"Walk," the man commanded, gesturing toward a sleek, white building that stood out against the neon grime of the surrounding district.
---
The medical ward was a symphony of cold white light and the hum of hovering machinery. The doctor, a man whose weary eyes suggested he had seen too many "gutter-born" casualties today, didn't even bother to look up from his holographic tablet as the enforcers pushed Markus into the room.
He performed a cursory scan, a blue light passing over Markus's body like a cold shiver. The doctor sighed, tapping a few commands into the air.
"Status check complete," the doctor droned, his voice devoid of empathy. "Patient: Markus Oneata. Contribution Level: Tier 5—Minimal. Account balance: Negligible." He finally looked at the enforcers, then at Markus. "Since neither he nor his family possesses the required contribution credits, I cannot authorize a Healer. We aren't wasting high-grade mana-weaving on a Tier 5 for simple burns and lacerations."
The woman in the red cape crossed her arms, nodding as if this were the most logical conclusion in the world.
"He'll have to heal the old-fashioned way," the doctor continued, tossing a small blister pack of dull gray pills onto the metal tray beside Markus. "Natural recovery. These are basic painkillers—non-synthetic, low-potency. They'll keep the edge off the lightning burns so he doesn't go into shock during your questioning. Next!"
Markus stared at the pills, a cold, sharp bitterness rising in his chest that had nothing to do with the injuries. So that's how it is, he thought, his jaw tightening. In this 'benevolent' faction, your life is measured in credits. No magic for the poor. Just sit in the dirt and wait for the scabs to form.
He swallowed two of the pills without water, feeling the chalky bitterness coat his tongue. Hmm, so we have healthcare in this faction, but it's a tiered joke. Interesting. He looked at the enforcers, his eyes dark and calculating behind the mask of pain. Just you all wait, you bastards. 'Low contribution' my ass. I'll show you what I can contribute to this world.
He didn't say a word. He let them lead him back out of the clinic and into a waiting vehicle. It wasn't a car as he knew it; it was a sleek, armored transport that hovered a few feet off the ground, vibrating with the low-frequency thrum of a localized gravity drive. Through the darkened windows, the city blurred into a neon smear of impossible architecture and flying silhouettes.
Minutes later, they arrived at the precinct—a monolithic fortress of black stone and pulsing blue security wards.
The transition was a blur of cold corridors and the rhythmic clank of boots. Now, Markus sat in a cramped, windowless interrogation room. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and old sweat. His wrists were locked into heavy, metallic cuffs bolted directly to the armrests of a cold steel chair. A single light source hovered above the table, casting long, jagged shadows across the room.
He leaned his head back, feeling the dull throb of his wounds beginning to numb from the pills. He let out a long, slow sigh that echoed against the sterile walls.
He tilted his head, watching the shadows dance. "What a beautiful new life," he rasped. "Heh."