Before the War — Selection Day
"Andrei!"
A voice cut through the noise.
He turned, scanning the crowd until he found her.
A familiar figure stood just beyond the shifting bodies—long cerulean hair catching the light, eyes just as sharp as he remembered.
His expression brightened instantly.
"Ms. Lyra, my darling—how are you?"
He closed the distance quickly.
Lyra didn't smile.
She stared at him instead.
Flat.
Unimpressed.
"Don't embarrass me in public."
Andrei froze.
Then, without hesitation—
Dropped to his knees.
"I've brought shame upon my dear Lyra… I should end my life at once."
She flinched.
"W-what?! No—don't do that!"
He slowly looked up, eyes wide with exaggerated hope.
"So you do care for my well-being?"
Lyra turned away sharply.
"…You can go die after all."
Andrei stood, brushing himself off with a small huff.
"Hmph. Cold as ever."
Around them, the crowd buzzed with quiet conversation—nervous energy, anticipation, curiosity. Dozens of candidates gathered in the open plaza, all waiting for the same thing.
Selection.
"Everyone."
The voice wasn't loud.
But it didn't need to be.
The crowd fell silent almost instantly.
At the center stood a man who hadn't been there a moment ago—or at least, no one had noticed him.
Ash-gray hair. Tired eyes.
Still presence.
"W-when did he—"
"Was he already there?"
"I believe I have your attention."
His voice was steady. Controlled.
"My name is Silas Ash."
A slight pause.
"I'll be overseeing this year's examination."
He glanced across the crowd once.
Measuring.
"As you all know, our world is divided into three regions."
He raised a finger.
"The White Region."
Another.
"The Neutral Region."
A third.
"And the Black Region."
Murmurs stirred.
Familiar words—but heavier when spoken like this.
"You are here to become Specialists."
His gaze hardened slightly.
"Your role is simple."
"To enter the Black Region…"
"And reduce what it produces."
A brief silence followed.
"Why do we take that risk?"
He answered before anyone could think to ask.
"Because what comes from the Black… spreads."
Slow.
Certain.
"If left alone, it does not stop."
He exhaled.
Then—
Dropped to the ground, sitting casually.
"Anyway."
A small wave of his hand.
"You'll learn the rest later."
The shift in tone was abrupt.
Intentional.
"We're skipping ahead."
"To the aptitude test."
The crowd stiffened.
"When your name and registration number are called, move to your right. Enter the building."
He pointed without looking.
"You'll be evaluated, ranked…"
A pause.
"…and those who fail will go home."
Silence returned.
He stood again.
"Let's begin."
"Candidate 1 — Veril Pastel."
A girl stepped forward.
Steady.
Focused.
She disappeared into the building.
Moments later—
She returned.
No expression.
"Candidate 28 — Elias Viridan."
One by one—
They went in.
Came out.
No one spoke about what happened inside.
"Candidate 65 — Andrei Scarlet."
The crowd shifted.
Whispers followed him as he stepped forward.
"That's him…"
"From the Scarlet House?"
"Then that girl earlier—"
"Cerulean House…"
Andrei ignored them.
As usual.
Inside—
The air was cooler.
Quieter.
Controlled.
"This way, sir."
A burly man guided him forward.
At the center of the room—
A dark sphere.
Smooth.
Unnatural.
"Place your hand inside."
A woman's voice. Soft.
Measured.
Andrei raised an eyebrow.
Then complied.
The surface gave way.
His hand sank into it—
Then locked.
A slight pause.
"Relax, sir. There is no danger."
The woman's fingers moved across a console.
The device hummed.
Something pulled.
Not physical—
But deeper.
Then—
It stopped.
Moments later, he stepped out.
Unharmed.
Smiling faintly.
Lyra approached immediately.
"Well?"
He shrugged.
"I won't ruin it for you."
A small grin.
"But… it's not what you expect."
"Candidate 70 — Lyra Cerulean."
She stepped forward without hesitation.
Inside—
The same room.
The same sphere.
"Place your hand inside, Miss."
She did.
The surface accepted her instantly.
"Now—gather your hue."
Lyra closed her eyes briefly.
Focused.
Then—
Light.
A cerulean glow surged from her arm, flowing into the sphere—bright, controlled, refined.
The machine responded.
Stabilizing.
Measuring.
Recording.
"Thank you."
She withdrew her hand.
Unshaken.
Outside—
The process continued.
Candidate after candidate.
Until—
Silas stepped forward once more.
"Results are in."
Assistants moved through the crowd, distributing small metallic emblems.
Gold.
Each one marked.
"These are your Specialist badges," Silas said.
"The gold insignia identifies you as rookies."
He paused, letting them examine them.
"But if you look closely…"
His gaze sharpened.
"You'll notice differences."
Murmurs spread.
"Tier Three."
"The lowest."
"Tier One."
"The highest."
He raised a hand slightly.
"Do not misunderstand."
"This is not a measure of your worth."
A brief pause.
"It is a measure of your current output."
His voice lowered.
Sharper now.
"If you remain where you are…"
"You will die where you stand."
Silence fell again.
"Improve."
That was the only instruction that mattered.