The lobby reeked of antiseptic bleach and burnt metal polish, as if someone had tried to scrub every trace of panic from the walls—and still the fear clung to every corner.
Under the harsh fluorescent lights, clusters of people huddled like anxious birds, shoulders touching, voices a low, jittery hum. A dozen holoscreens lined the far wall in silent repetition:
MANA OUTBREAK STATUS: ONGOING
SPATIAL TEAR INCIDENTS: INCREASING
REPORT ALL ANOMALIES IMMEDIATELY
Their red warnings pulsed against a slate-blue background. Every few minutes the double doors at the end of the room creaked open.
A figure would stagger out, one hand pressed to a glowing crystal cradled in the other, eyes rimmed with tears and lips trembling. Or they'd step out empty-handed, chest caving in, gaze glazed and distant. Lucky. Unlucky.
I stood at the fringe of the crowd, heart steady. Emotion was a luxury; preparation was currency. I tugged the sleeve of my leather jacket straight and wove forward.
My boots clicked against polished tile. A cowering man pressed past me, nearly knocking me aside. He mumbled "Sorry," voice thin as a frayed thread, like he feared that any extra sound might crack reality itself. I didn't answer. He was already drowning in his own terror.
Six thousand credits, I thought, reciting the sum like a prayer. A year's rent down in one sweep.
At the receptionist's desk a woman in a sagging uniform typed without looking up, her eyes flicking across a screen full of names and numbers. A half-empty mug of cold coffee sat at her elbow. "Name and purpose," she said, voice flat as metal.
"Alexander Cain," I replied. "Awakening crystal. One spell imprint—Magic Bullet."
Her fingers stuttered over the keys for a heartbeat before resuming their steady tap. "New registrant? Any prior mana exposure—tears, beasts, ambient surges?" Her tone was clipped, businesslike.
I shook my head. "None."
She finally lifted her tired eyes. Most people here carried scars from chaotic encounters—shredded flesh, shattered bones, madness in their eyes. That history guaranteed profit and survival.
Outsiders like me were a bad bet. She glanced at me, then back to the screen. "Six thousand credits. Pick up at Desk C, past the washroom."
I nodded and held out my wrist. My smartwatch hovered over a scanner; a soft chime rippled through the lobby.
PAYMENT CONFIRMED.
The digits in my account balance plummeted. My chest tightened as if I'd swallowed a stone.
For an instant I saw the future—a barren room, empty hand, dead-end job—a statistic in the Bureau's grim ledger. It's fine, I told myself. I'll earn it back as a Player…hopefully. Hope was dangerous, but it was also fuel.
"Next," the receptionist called. She already had someone else on her screen.
I stepped away and followed a narrow corridor. Fluorescent tubes overhead flickered in staccato bursts. Two armed guards stood by reinforced doors, gaunt faces unreadable, rifles slung across their chests. Bullets only worked up to a point; everyone knew it.
Past the graffiti-scarred washroom door, Desk C waited behind bulletproof glass. A small placard read in bold red letters: "AWAKENING ITEMS / SPELL IMPRINTS – NO REFUNDS."
I joined the back of a quiet line—three people scuffed their boots, shifting from foot to foot: a woman in a dusty hard hat, knuckles blackened; a teenager bouncing his knees so fast his jeans pulsed; a middle-aged man scanning emergency exits like he expected the ceiling to split open at any moment.
No one spoke.
Six minutes passed. The lights buzzed overhead, and sirens drifted in from outside. Time felt stretched by tension.
Finally the clerk called, "Alexander Cain."
I stepped forward. Behind the glass, a man with hollow eyes slid two packages through a small hatch.
The first was a slim book sealed in plastic, stamped with the Bureau's crest and the title Spell Imprint: Magic Bullet (F-RANK).
The second was the awakening crystal—a pale, misty orb nestled in foam, veins of soft white light coiled within it like lightning frozen in dew. It looked mundane enough, but even from here I sensed something trembling beneath its surface: a faint pressure at the edge of my mind.
"Sign here," the clerk said, pushing a digital pad toward me.
I tapped my name. He recited the standard warning without looking up: "Do not activate the crystal outside the center. If you experience dizziness, nausea, auditory hallucinations, or—"
"—a sudden desire to tear open reality," I finished under my breath.
His eyes flicked up for a half-second. Then he blinked and his expression hardened back to neutrality. "Yes. That. Have a safe day."
I took the book and the crystal, slipping the sphere into my palm. Instantly heat blossomed against my skin, far warmer and deeper than the forums or Bureau pamphlets had ever described.
A pulse of energy rippled up my arm and the threads inside the crystal glowed brighter, as if waking from a long dream.
My vision fluttered at the edges. The distant hum of ventilation, the shuffle of feet, the murmur of voices—all faded to a hush. And then something spoke in the cavern of my skull:
[Scanning…]
[Compatibility detected.]
[Candidate: Alexander Cain]
[Trait resonance: abnormal—confirmed.]
My throat went bone-dry. The crystal in my hand suddenly felt as heavy as iron.
I kept my face impassive, though my heart hammered. The Bureau distrusted what it couldn't classify. The presence's voice returned, colder, clinical:
[Absolute Player System—initializing…]
[Unique Trait awakened: ABSOLUTE SAGE]
[Passive effect: Learning speed greatly increased across all parameters]
[Active authority detected: QUALITY UPGRADE x1]
The words carved themselves into my mind. Around me, the Bureau carried on—lines shifted, forms were stamped, guards scanned ID badges—as though the world hadn't split open inside my head.
I slid the crystal into my jacket pocket, handling it as carefully as if it might shatter. Then I turned for the exit. The glass doors parted, and a knife-sharp blast of winter cold slammed into my face.
Outside, the city wore its usual gray mask: concrete towers, crowds on every corner, sirens echoing from distant alleys. But above the skyline, the clouds betrayed a thin seam—like a rivet pulling loose in the sky's fabric.
A spatial tear. In the blink of an eye a streak of white light cleaved through it, and the rift sealed itself with a muted snap. Some Player—probably B-rank or higher—had already answered the call.
I stared at the clouds a moment longer, then let them go. That world of rifts and beasts and elite saviors wasn't mine yet. Not today.
I zipped up my jacket and headed home.