"Welcome, one and all, to the Hall of Stars, the birthplace of Stars. We are gathered here today to honour our past and celebrate our future."
The voice that addressed us was as cool and smooth as polished marble. It belonged to the No. 1 Zenith: The Glacial Heroine, Aurora. Famous for her devastating ice constructs and a personality so monotonous it could tranquilize a charging beast. If boredom were a person, it would be her, without a shadow of a doubt. But you didn't hear that from me.
She was flanked on stage by the other Number Ones, a living pantheon.
To her right: No. 1 Catalyst, Titanium. A mountain of a man in burnished steel-like armor. At first glance, a terrifying, stoic statue. The stories, though, painted him as a gentle giant—if your definition of "gentle" included atomizing monster hordes in record time. His fanbase, I'd heard, was largely built on sighs and swooning.
To her left: No. 1 Aegis, Beastial. He stood with a practiced, aggressive posture, his gaze scanning the crowd like a challenge. The media often sidelined him for flashier Catalysts and Zeniths, which reportedly fueled a vicious competitive streak. He cared deeply about his image, outperforming everyone in gate raids. I just thought he did it to feed an ego the size of a small moon.
And slightly behind them, almost fading into the stage's backdrop: No. 1 Prism, Myst. A figure shrouded in soft, shifting light. Nothing was known about them. No interviews, no clear photos—every image ever taken was an indistinguishable blur. Was it a side effect of their power, or a choice? The public, obsessed with front-line fighters, rarely bothered to ask.
Aurora droned on about Hall protocols and decorum. No one was listening. Whispers and muted conversations created a low hum in the cavernous space. I couldn't blame them. I'd seen her speeches on TV; they had the energetic vibe of a technical manual being read aloud.
The hall itself was a giant's palace. Vaulted ceilings lost in shadow, walls of gleaming white stone that swallowed sound, and massive windows letting in bars of severe, angular light. The air was cool and carried a faint, sterile scent, like a laboratory. Packed into it were over a hundred thousand students from across the country, a sea of identical uniforms shifting with restless energy. A swarm of reporters lurked at the edges, cameras flashing like persistent lightning bugs. When I'm a hero, I thought, they're numero uno on my avoid-at-all-costs list.
"...and may the stars of our past show us the way towards the future." Polited, automatic applause rippled through the hall. I clapped without hearing a word she'd said for the last ten minutes.
"We will now proceed with the presentations of our fallen stars," Aurora announced, her gaze turning glacial in a way that had nothing to do with her powers. It swept over the crowd, and an actual, physical chill slithered up my spine. Every whisper died instantly. "All are required to participate. My colleagues will guide you to the auditorium."
We were herded like sheep through vast archways. The sheer scale was disorienting. In the auditorium, the mixing was complete; I found myself sandwiched between two strangers from other schools. I immediately shut down, focusing on the massive screen, wishing for Camy's grounding, eye-rolling presence.
The presentation began. The same one broadcast every year. The First Gate. The panicked, futile resistance. The staggering death toll—64% of humanity, a number so vast it felt hollow. Then, the emergence of the first heroes, a flicker of hope in the darkness.
My hands grew clammy. This was the part I always braced for.
The narration turned to the early, chaotic battles. "Abilities were not yet classified or understood," the sonorous voice said. "All who manifested power were sent to the front lines."
No, I thought, a cold knot forming in my gut. Not all. Just the ones who couldn't say no.
The screen showed archived, grainy footage: a hero with a soft, glowing aura—a Prism—throwing up a shimmering barrier to protect fleeing civilians. The barrier flared under monstrous assault, flickered, and shattered. The figure was swallowed by dust and debris.
"Countless brave souls fell due to this lack of understanding," the narrator continued, his tone diplomatically mournful.
A hot, sharp pressure built behind my eyes. Lack of understanding. What a clean, sterile phrase. It wasn't a lack of understanding. It was a calculated sacrifice. They sent the supports, the healers, the buffers—the ones whose powers weren't built for sheer destruction—into the meat grinder because they were deemed expendable. And when the war was won by the survivors—the tough Aegises, the devastating Catalysts, the adaptable Zeniths—the story was rewritten. The fallen Prisms weren't martyrs; they were just "the weak links." Their failure was remembered, not their courage.
The world loved the victors, the ones who could punch and blast their problems away. The media glorified them, perpetuating the cycle. If you couldn't deal death with flair, you were background noise. A sob story.
If people valued anything else… he might still be here. He'd be sitting beside me, squeezing my shoulder as I got worked up. He'd see me become a hero.
A single, traitorous tear escaped, tracing a hot path down my cheek.
"Hey. Are you okay?"
The voice, intrusive and concerned, came from my left. I jerked, swiping hastily at my face. It was the guy next to me, leaning in with a frown of genuine worry.
"Um, yeah. Fine. Why wouldn't I be?" My voice came out tighter than I intended.
He pointed vaguely at his own cheek. "You're, uh..."
Dammit. "Oh. That. It's nothing. Just... allergies. Or something." I stared rigidly ahead, broadcasting 'conversation over.'
"Are you sure? Seemed like the presentation got to you." He was persistent, this one. A "golden retriever" energy radiated from him—all earnest enthusiasm.
"I get emotional during these things, okay?" I snapped, then instantly felt guilty. He was just being kind. I took a breath. "It's... a lot. I'm fine now."
His face lit up, misunderstanding my retreat. "Oh! So you're a big hero fan too?"
God, give me strength. "Yeah. You could say that."
"Me too!" His grin was blinding. "Since I was a kid! My idol was Lightning God: Zeus. Held the No. 1 Catalyst spot for a decade! That's the dream, right? To be that strong, that legendary."
Since my escape attempts had failed, I surrendered. He wasn't bad, just overflowing with a passion I recognized in myself, the one I usually hid from everyone but Camila. I found myself relaxing, nodding along as he chattered about stats and famous raids.
"So," he asked, turning the spotlight on me. "Who's your favorite?"
"I don't really have one," I said, which was the truth. How could I pick a favorite, when the one who mattered most never got a ranking, never got a spotlight, only a vague mention in a mandatory memorial? "Too many great ones to choose from."
"Fair point! Man, this is almost over, right? I'm so fired up for the test!" He stretched, his uniform pulling over noticeably athletic shoulders. I realized I'd never even asked his name. Leo? Leon? It was already slipping away.
I glanced at the screen. The narrator was delivering the final, solemn words over a scrolling list of names. "Should be just a few more minutes."
The lights in the auditorium slowly brightened. A new, electric tension replaced the somber mood. Officials began moving with crisp efficiency at the exits. The murmuring crowd shifted from reverent to restless.
My new acquaintance was buzzing in his seat. "This is it! Time to see what we're made of!"
I didn't answer. The memory of the tear on my cheek was cold. The ghost of a lost hero was a weight on my heart. The dismissive words of Penny on the bus echoed: "You'd be a Prism."
As we stood to be filed out toward the testing chambers, I clenched my fists until my nails bit into my palms. The vague hope of the morning had crystalized into a desperate, fierce resolve.
The simulation would see everything—my memory, my fear, my anger, my endless, striving want.
I would get a good ability. A strong rank. I would succeed.
No matter what.
I'll do it for you.