As they entered the gymnasium, the scene that unfolded was almost surreal. At the center of the chaos, a tired man sat atop a coffin, nonchalantly scrolling through his phone as if the surrounding pandemonium meant nothing. His pale skin was shadowed by deep bags, yet he had an oddly handsome face. A black glove adorned his right hand, his messy, dirty-blonde hair framing piercing, deep blood-red eyes. He wore a trenchcoat—its cut unexpectedly feminine.

  Nearby, a boy with vibrant pink hair and equally vivid crimson eyes glared at his twin sisters. His fanged grin appeared every time he shouted. The sisters, with long white hair and striking yellow eyes, danced around him playfully—one clutching a handmade demon doll, the other an angel doll—each an odd accessory in the tumultuous environment.

  Off to the side, a red-haired boy with jet-black eyes and a pair of small horns sat absorbed in a book, his disinterest in the surrounding mayhem evident. Not far away, a boy with muted gray hair, small cat ears and dark sunglasses leaned on a walking cane, exuding a calm that sharply contrasted with the disorder. Against a wall, a purple-haired girl with matching purple eyes slumped, her posture languid and surrounded by a dark, sickly aura.

  Then, as if drawn by an invisible force, Iris’s gaze landed on the final student—a boy with striking orange hair and vivid cyan eyes. Angelic wings spread gracefully from his back, and a long scar stretched across his neck, accentuated by a black cross marking on the right side of his face. In that moment, an undeniable pull gripped Iris, as if fate itself had woven an invisible thread linking them. His steady gaze met hers, and in that instant, she knew that this boy—Maxwell Lumiar—was no ordinary classmate. He was the other player in the cruel, unpredictable game that destiny had cast her into.

  “Hello, Ivan—I’m glad you could join us,” Jonathan said with a warm smile as he greeted the newcomer.

  “Where’s my gambling buddy Markus?” Ivan replied with a chuckle. “I was hoping to make a few bets with him.”

  Wallace entered the room, shaking his head as he joined the conversation. “The only reason you say that is because my brother is a horrendous gambler. He couldn’t win a coin toss even if it were weighted in his favor.”

  “Oh, come on, younger Valentine,” Ivan teased with a sly smile. “Don’t ruin my fun.”

  “My brother takes this week off every year—he’ll be completely absent during the event,” Wallace said flatly.

  “Very annoying,” Ivan said, his eyes glinting with danger. “So, does the younger Valentine wanna make a bet with me?”

  Jonathan clapped his hands together, a mischievous glint in his eye. “How about this: if Wallace can beat you in a fight, you’ll do as I say when I say. But if he loses, he becomes your… subordinate.” His smile widened at the opportunity.

  Wallace’s face flushed as he yelled, “What do I get out of this bet?”

  Jonathan leaned forward conspiratorially. “I’ll destroy that video from the Christmas Party—the one you had the Bookkeeper swear to never show anyone. I’m the only one holding a copy. If you win, I burn it for good.”

  Wallace’s eyes narrowed, then a reluctant grin spread across his face as he extended a hand. “You have a deal,” he declared, shaking Jonathan’s hand with determined force.

  “If I’d known that video had so much leverage, I’d have used it as blackmail ages ago,” Jonathan chuckled.

  “No mercy, Ivan!” Wallace growled, a spark of fury in his eyes.

  Ivan merely shrugged, his tone commanding as he barked, “I’m not worried about a healer. Students, step back—this is going to be a perfect demonstration of how to fight an Awakened.” With that, the group moved toward the bleachers.

  “Rules?” Wallace asked as he prepared himself.

  “Simple,” Ivan replied. “No fatal blows, no combat artifacts. Everything else is legal.”

  A mischievous smile tugged at Wallace’s lips as his earring flared a bright blue. With practiced ease, he produced a riot shield and a baton. Without hesitation, Wallace charged forward, the baton swinging in a furious arc toward Ivan. Ivan casually dodged, his hands in his pockets until one finger emerged, morphing into a razor-edged blade that slashed at Wallace’s neck. In a heartbeat, Wallace’s healing surged, mending the attack as if it were nothing more than a fleeting scratch.

  Then, in a gruesome display, the skin on Ivan’s right hand burst open, revealing a sharp, bone-crafted claw. The bones twisted and contorted unnaturally, lashing out like a living weapon as Ivan’s claw tried desperately to find its mark. Wallace raised his riot shield just in time, deflecting the vicious strikes. With a sneer of contempt, he struck Ivan’s face with his baton—a blow intensified by his healing power. The impact fused the healing energy into the baton, and smoke began to wisp from Ivan’s face as the false skin was ripped away, exposing the raw, skeletal structure beneath.

  “Ivan Osborne—Codename: The Lich—a monster who hides behind fake skin to appear human,” Wallace declared, the words laced with bitter triumph as he landed another crushing blow.

  In a flash of anger, Ivan peeled away the remaining layers of his counterfeit flesh, his skeletal form emerging in stark detail. His clawed hand twisted as if it could extend at will, aiming a stabbing assault at Wallace from every direction. But Wallace was ready; he dodged deftly as Ivan’s bone claws grew unnaturally long, reaching out like serpentine blades.

  Channeling his healing power deeper into his baton, Wallace unleashed a devastating surge that obliterated the glowing claws, reducing them to scattered, smoldering fragments.

  Wallace’s lips curled into a satisfied smile as he slipped a small ring, engraved with a horse design, onto his finger. Instantly, his speed surged, and in the blink of an eye, he appeared behind Ivan. With lethal precision, Wallace swung his baton in a swift, brutal strike, severing Ivan’s legs from his body. Without pausing, he stepped on Ivan’s back, baton poised menacingly near his head.

  “Bastard,” Ivan muttered under his breath, careful to keep his voice low so the students wouldn’t hear.

  “Looks like I win, you potty-mouthed skeleton,” Wallace taunted, his tone dripping with triumph. However, in an explosive moment, bone blades erupted from Ivan’s body—a macabre display of his power. The sharp, twisting claws flickered around his clothing, making sure not to tear his coat, some slicing through Wallace as he quickly healed the wounds. The sudden flurry of attacks forced Wallace to drop his shield.

  “Die,” Ivan snarled, summoning a void of pure darkness and madness in his hand. A chorus of anguished screams echoed as the room fell silent in fearful anticipation. For a moment, the collective memory of Ivan’s darker nickname—his reputation as the Looming Sky that Devours Screams—flashed before everyone’s eyes as thick vines wrapped around him, binding him in nature’s grip.

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  Jonathan’s gaze hardened as he stepped forward. “I believe that counts as a fatal attack—you lose. I own you now,” he declared, his voice cold and commanding.

  “No! I want a rematch!” Ivan bellowed. “You can’t end this because you think my attack could have killed him. One more round!”

  Jonathan’s patience snapped; with steely precision, he drove two thick vines straight through Ivan’s empty eye sockets. “You’re scaring the kids—that counts as a loss here,” Jonathan pronounced, his tone final.

  Glancing around the battered room, Jonathan addressed the gathered students with a wry tone. “I hope you all enjoyed that little exhibition match. Now, everyone, please gather around while I explain the Joint Training Event.” With a casual flourish, he sent Ivan crashing into a wall with his vines.

  “The first-year Beta Facility students have arrived here for a week-long training event,” Jonathan continued, his voice laced with dry humor. “Dorms have been arranged, and I’m sure you’ll find them much nicer than what you have in your own facility.”

  A hand shot up. Jacob’s curious eyes fixed on a peculiar sight. “What exactly is the Beta Facility? How come that guy has wings?”

  Jonathan smiled knowingly, pointing to the quiet reading boy, Rook. “The Beta Facility’s goal is to create artificial Awakened by fusing the DNA of animals and monsters with human orphans. We call these individuals Meta-Humans. Take Rook, for example—he’s been fused with a kraken and a changeling. He can transform his body into writhing tentacles and even alter his appearance at will.”

  As Jonathan spoke, Rook’s right hand morphed into a vibrant green tentacle that waved at the class before he returned to his book. The room buzzed with a mix of awe and apprehension, setting the stage for the battles and revelations yet to come.

  “I’d like for you all to get to know each other,” Jonathan announced with a broad smile, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he addressed the assembled students. “By the end of the week, you’ll be split into groups for a small competition. Each group will consist of four—a pair from the Alpha Facility and a pair from the Beta Facility. And for odd numbers, don’t worry—we’ll form a slightly larger team.”

  Iris glanced at Charles, her curiosity piqued. “Will we get to choose our partners?” she asked softly, seeking a hint of hope amid the uncertainty.

  Jonathan shook his head, his smile unwavering. “Nope. I have you paired with Anya, Maxwell, and Cynthia.”

  Anya’s lips twisted into a blunt smirk as she interjected, “You do remember we tried killing each other yesterday, right? I know you’re probably old, but I doubt your memory is failing you.”

  Before Jonathan could retort, Anya coughed—a small, unsettling spurt of blood tinted green by the lingering mold he controlled. Her voice caught in her throat for a moment. “What were you saying?” Jonathan prompted, fake concern flickering across his features.

  “N-nothing,” Anya stammered, quickly forcing a bright, fake smile. “Working with Iris is fine—she’s my best friend in the whole world.”

  Jonathan’s expression softened as he continued, “The competition is straightforward. You’ll each face off against an A.E.G.I.S. agent. Whichever side lands more hits wins. For instance, you four will be up against me. Just because you’re in my facility doesn’t mean I’ll go easy on you.”

  At that moment, Cynthia—the girl with striking purple hair—began to cough violently. “Um, could I go to the bathroom, please?” she asked, her voice wavering.

  “Sure, go ahead,” Jonathan replied, his tone calm. “We’re just about finished here. You all have the rest of the day off, so take this chance to get to know each other.” He then turned and strolled over to Ivan, leaving the students to mingle in the charged air of anticipation and camaraderie.

  Maxwell stood silently by the window, his eyes following Cynthia’s swift exit. Something about the way she had left gnawed at him—a calculated, efficient departure that carried an unsettling weight. He tried to brush it off, but his hypercognition refused to let the unease fade.

  Outside the gym, Cynthia’s steps quickened as she made her way to the bathroom. With each hurried step, her heart pounded and her stomach twisted with nausea. By the time she reached the sink, she collapsed against the cool counter, gasping for breath. Her reflection in the mirror revealed a ghostly version of herself, pale, haunted, and broken.

  Without warning, blood-red tears began to stream down her cheeks. The crimson droplets blurred her vision as a searing pain split through her skull, each throb threatening to shatter her mind. Clutching the edges of the sink, she tried to steady herself.

  “Not again… why is this happening?” she whimpered, her voice barely a whisper lost in the sterile silence.

  Then, as if summoned from her darkest nightmare, a figure emerged in the mirror—a young boy, roughly her age, with short purple hair and hollow purple eyes that burned with cold malice. In his hand hung a severed head, grotesque and out of place, while his lifeless lips curved into a twisted grin. Dressed in a crisp black button-up and matching pants, he hovered a few inches above the tiled floor, as if he didn’t belong to this world.

  The boy’s voice, cruel and venomous, echoed through the bathroom. “This is your curse, monster. I’ll torment you—slowly—until you break, until you die.” His laughter, chilling and devoid of warmth, sent shivers down Cynthia’s spine.

  Her breath caught. “Why, Caleb? Why are you doing this to me?” she pleaded, desperation strangling her voice as she searched the mirror for answers that could never come.

  Caleb’s severed head seemed to rise on its own, drifting closer as his pale hands reached out, curling around her throat. With an unyielding grip, his touch squeezed tightly, a silent promise of excruciating pain. “You know why, you monster,” he sneered, each word a dagger twisting deeper into her guilt and fear.

  Overwhelmed, Cynthia’s knees buckled, and she collapsed onto the cold tile floor, gasping for air as the grip on her throat faltered. In a heartbeat, Caleb and his horrifying presence vanished, leaving her in suffocating silence.

  Trembling on the floor, Cynthia pressed her face into her knees, sobbing in quiet terror. Normal tears mixed with the remnants of blood, and between shuddering breaths, she managed a broken whisper, “Why… why won’t this end?”

  For what felt like an eternity, she remained motionless, too afraid to move, praying that no one would disturb her in her vulnerable state.

  Moments later, Cynthia was hunched over the sink, her face ashen and her hands trembling with a residual shock. Her eyes, glassy with pain, suddenly widened in alarm as the blind boy, Noah, entered.

  “Hey! What are you doing here? Get out—this is the girls’ room!” she snapped, her voice quivering between strength and vulnerability.

  Noah stood still, his expression calm yet focused, as if he could sense the unspoken turmoil around her. “Why do I smell blood on you?” he asked quietly, his tone soft but undeniably firm.

  Cynthia flinched and hastily wiped her face, her eyes darting away. “It’s nothing. I’m fine. Just… go away, Noah,” she muttered, though her voice betrayed her exhaustion and inner pain.

  “There’s a lot of blood,” Noah insisted gently, not moving an inch. “Is it your blood?”

  For a long, tense moment, Cynthia's shoulders tensed before she finally exhaled shakily. “Yes… it’s mine. But I’m fine—I’m just not feeling well,” she whispered, barely audible.

  Noah’s brow furrowed with concern, but he kept his distance. “I’ll stay with you, at least for a little while. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, but… I’ll listen if you do.”

  Frustration mingled with a fleeting defiance in Cynthia’s eyes as she shot back, “This is the girls’ room, idiot.” Her tone sharpened as she tried to regain control, “Just get out.”

  Realizing his misstep, Noah’s face flushed with awkward embarrassment. “Oh… sorry,” he mumbled, turning quietly and stepping out of the room while closing the door behind him. Leaning against the wall in the hallway, he listened for any sign that Cynthia might need him, his heart heavy with worry.

  After a few moments, the door creaked open and Cynthia emerged. Though her face remained pale, there was a tentative composure in her expression. Her eyes met Noah’s—guarded, but carrying the soft vulnerability of someone who had shared too much pain.

  “Just… don’t tell anyone about this, okay?” she said in a hushed tone, her voice stripped of its usual edge. “I’m going to my dorm. I’ll… I’ll see you later.”

  Noah nodded, his features softening with understanding. “I won’t tell anyone. But… if you need anything, I’ll be around.”