At five, he competed with classmates to see who could pee the farthest.
At seven, just entering elementary school, he beat up every classmate into tears.
By twelve, on graduation day, he and Rina and a few friends pretended to be homeless and begged on the street to celebrate. A kind person called the orphanage hotline.
Parents nearly went mad.
Stories like that were endless.
Until a year ago, when he suddenly started drawing manga—with all those intense, passionate scenes—too embarrassing to admit.
Damian Vale became known as the "bad kid" in town.
His daughter kept hanging out with him every day—how could that be?
Liam Carver was deeply exhausted.
"What were you two doing when I got back?" He pulled out a cigarette, but Rina snatched it before he could light it.
"Looking at material. About Aberrant and Transcendent." Damian Vale answered truthfully.
"Hm?" Liam's gaze hardened as he looked at his daughter. "You took it? You've got guts."
Rina shrank back, then tried to act playful. "Dad, there was a tape recorder, and I was watching. It'll be fine."
Liam's expression softened, becoming serious. "So what did you take?"
"Just some explanations on Transcendents and the Shadow Layer. Absolutely nothing else," Rina promised.
"You're spoiled," Liam glared at her, then glanced at Damian. "Do you know why students aren't allowed to read this stuff ahead of time?"
"Not really," Damian answered, though he had some guesses.
"If a person's heart harbors fear, despair can drag them into the abyss. Some knowledge isn't meant for everyone."
Damian Vale didn't quite grasp it.
Liam continued, "Not everyone has the strength of will. Even a crack can give Aberrants an opening."
"That's why before the official Combat Evaluation, they test physical capacity and mental resilience—to make sure someone qualifies and can handle the supernatural world."
"The path of the extraordinary is fraught with peril. Even with therapy, people still lose control each year. I wouldn't recommend this material to those not going for Combat Evaluation."
"Isn't participation mandatory this year anyway?" Damian smirked. "No escaping it. And it wouldn't hurt to know more."
"Enough. Don't sweat it too much," Liam said.
At that moment, his communicator buzzed violently.
"Hello?"
"Captain Liam, urgent Shadow‑Layer mission!"
"Got it. I'm on my way." He swallowed a few mouthfuls, stood up, and put on a stern expression.
"I'm heading out—Damian, stay put. If I catch you messing around again, I'll drag you back to The Dawnhall."
With that, Liam Carver stormed out.
"Uncle Liam's the same as always," Damian sighed.
"Case calls keep coming; he can barely finish dinner before heading out again."
Once Liam left, Rina relaxed and returned to eating, but then Damian's earlier behavior came to mind. Her eyes snapped wide, and she slammed the table. "What were you doing back there? Trying to make my dad misunderstand?"
"He's overthinking it," Damian shot back.
"I'm so mad!" Rina swept across the table, yanking at Damian's cheeks.
He jerked back, and soon they were wrestling. Rina's face flushed red as she screamed insults, "You jerk pervert!"
Dinner over, Damian left her place and wandered outside the complex. He planned to read more reference material and learn about his own changes—until Liam came home early.
Knowing Liam, he'd probably confiscate all of it.
Leaving the complex, Damian headed down the road to a supermarket.
In ten days it would be New Year's. Shelves were already stocked with cookies and decorations, and customers were asking prices.
Posters from The Dawnhall were over counters and shelves—an image of Watchers in uniform, flames behind them, with the slogan "Branwick is protected by The Dawnhall."
Damian grabbed a bottle of soy sauce and vinegar, headed to checkout, and his phone rang.
"Damian, can you get a carton of eggs and one of milk? That's it, actually."
Of course—it was feminine products. He thought and grabbed two boxes of contraception supplies too—just in case.
Carrying a big bag, the glass bottles clinked as they moved. A cold wind crept in through his coat, giving him a chill.
One month until school began.
Early on, his shadow's training effects were strong—but now they were fading. Training alone wouldn't suffice.
With a month left, he had no idea how strong he could get. Damien sighed deeply.
That ghost at the entrance to his complex wasn't among the stronger Aberrants. Those would've been dealt with by The Dawnhall long ago.
Still, he'd spent three days just reducing that one's health bar by 6%—about 2% per day…
And he'd seen far scarier ones in the Shadow Layer.
A century had passed since the apocalypse; Aberrants had invaded.
Countless warriors had given their blood and lives to secure today's Safe Zones—but beneath that peace lay a hidden darkness.
This year, participation in Combat Evaluation was mandatory—pass the qualifications, and you'd step into the supernatural world.
Apparently, the leaders wanted to expand enrollment.
No doubt it wasn't a random policy.
Was it frontline manpower shortages? A lack of new strength?
Who knew.
Walls along the streets were plastered with banners: "Drive out Aberrants, protect Veylund."
He paused, pupils shrinking.
To his right was his complex's entrance—no ghosts in the Shadow Layer.
To his left, about a hundred meters away:
[Health: 24%]
[Health: 14%]
Two health bars floated in his sight.
One belonged to a young Watcher in a blue-black uniform, his left leg broken, riddled with holes, skin etched with terrifying black veins. He limped, leaning on the wall, eyes hollow—horrifying.
Behind him, two kids hugged each other unconscious.
He recognized him.
They lived in the same tower—never spoken, only seen.
Now here they were.
Opposite, a tall, skinny ghost with no legs, leaking inky blood. Its right arm a lethal scythe blade; its left a monstrous claw, bigger than Damian's head.
The ghost's health read [24%], the Watcher [14%].
At that intersection, the boy stood frozen.
His name: Alex Smith.
Twenty-five years old, a clerk at The Dawnhall.
Specialized in pollution studies—detection and containment.
He'd interned there since sixteen.
Today, he was returning home after a day's work…
When a grotesque hand snatched up two kids from the street, dragging them away!
This Aberrant could pull people into the Shadow Layer?!
Alex's mind blanked—no time to call it in—he dove forward, only to be sucked into the Shadow Layer too.
Aberrants usually came from the Shadow Layer into our world. Never the other way.
He unleashed tremendous power, kicking the ghost's arm to free the kids—and his body trembled in shock.
He was just a clerk.
Off duty, with no protective gear—thrown into the Shadow Layer unprepared!
His power fit for combat, but his willpower was not. Prolonged exposure meant severe contamination awaited.
After years as a desk-bound clerk, his fighting skills had mostly vanished.
He wasn't the ambitious youth he used to be.
"Fuck."
He grit his teeth, eyed the kids, and activated his watch.
It radiated faint light.
"Take this."
He threw it to them: a brief shield for the mind, emitting a rescue signal. But in this place, rescue wasn't guaranteed.
He tossed it and hoped for survival.
Alex looked back at where they came in—where there should have been a portal—but now only a smooth wall.
The exit was gone.
He refocused on the monster before him.
In the Shadow Layer, vision was limited—seven or eight meters, then pitch black.
The creature before him stood tall, limbs fluid and powerful, its giant scythe blade razor-sharp—undeniably at least Mid‑Tier One.
At eighteen he entered university, master in year one, hunted unranked Aberrants in year two. His final exam was to kill a Low‑Tier One.
He'd always believed hard work would break barriers…
But he failed.
Now he was just a clerk at The Dawnhall.
The ghost chewed its prey in silence, the edges of its mouth dripping with fresh blood.
"Four eyes, four limbs, semi-beast form… what monster is this?"
Alex observed, searching for an opening.
He tightened white cloth around his fists, eyes cold.
Meat chunk dropped from the ghost like the snap of a signal.
They charged.
The giant scythe scraped his scalp. He bent low and launched a heavy right hook into its abdomen, followed by a rising left jab to its jaw.
That familiar feeling returned—Alex's lips twitched upward, but his smile froze.
The ghost's abyssal palm swatted his arm aside.
A monstrous body looming over his 1.75 m height.
His arm throbbed in pain.
He stumbled. His brain thought faster than his body could move.
He wasn't the fighter he'd been.
Anger flared—he charged again.
They traded blows; mere contact with that blade meant flesh tearing. Several near-decapitations…
Every hit hurt him in return.
He felt it—contamination from the Shadow Layer eating him away in spurts.
He couldn't drag this on.
The ghost paused as Alex's eyes filled with swirling black mist—its ability: Blind.
Not very strong—but with enough willpower, a combat trainee might master it.
Too bad Alex hadn't passed.
Every time a Transcendent used power, contamination increased. As a clerk, he'd used his powers almost never.
So today… taking no risks meant dying.
Alex raised his arm and threw a textbook punch, aiming squarely at the ghost's chest.
The impact nearly numbed his own arm.
The ghost staggered, trying to strike back, but once again fell into blindness.
A thin black pattern crawled up Alex's neck.
With both the Shadow Layer's natural corruption and the side effects of his own ability combining, just two uses were enough for him to feel his body screaming in protest.
That's the curse of low aptitude.
Bam!
This time, the ghost adapted more quickly to the blindness. Whether it was flailing or calculated retaliation, its next strike landed squarely on Alex's chest, sending him flying backward like a ragdoll.
The sheer weight of nearly a ton of force crashed into his body. Even with Transcendent strength, his chest caved inward from the blow.
"Guh…"
A spray of blood erupted from his mouth, mixed with fragments of shredded organs. His face turned pale.
Mid-Tier One was far stronger than Low-Tier.
"Goddamn it…"
The ghost lunged forward again. Alex didn't have time to think. He drew in a sharp breath—
Then threw his fists forward, refusing to dodge, refusing to fall back.
Blood splattered in all directions—some bright red, some blue-black.
They clashed, again and again, in a brutal exchange.
Just bare fists and flesh—but he'd already smashed large parts of the ghost's body into ruin.
Not that he was much better off.
Squelch.
The ghost's scythe-arm pierced through his shoulder, then ripped outward, tearing off a massive chunk of flesh. The follow-up punch hurled him through the air like a broken doll.
Blood dripped from his fingertips. His vision blurred.
Alex raised his head, his face smeared in gore.
He'd stepped into the Shadow Layer knowing full well—there was no way out.
His only option was to kill this ghost. Then maybe—maybe—he could find someone from The Dawnhall to drag him out.
But under normal circumstances, that was nearly impossible.
His chest heaved. He stood still, silent.
His fingers trembled. Pain from the shredded muscles kept crashing against his brain like waves. And now, nausea began to rise.
A bitter smile curled on his lips.
Mid-Tier One…
That's all this thing was.
Any combat student worth their salt could flatten an Aberrant at this tier with one hand.
Yet here he was, getting shredded just to stay alive.
At fifteen, he watched Aberrants slaughter his family.
At eighteen, he chose the path of Combat Evaluation.
At twenty, he was forcibly removed from the combat track.
At twenty-one, he joined The Dawnhall as an intern—just a desk job. He's been there ever since.
The war between humankind and the Aberrant had raged for over a century.
There was no peace. No glorious resistance.
Only retreat, loss, and more death.
Alex looked up, eyes locked on the darkened sky.
When clouds block out the sun… who still sees hope?
Death… was the default for a Transcendent.
He gave a soundless laugh, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small blue pill.
He popped it into his mouth without hesitation.
The black veins in his eyes darkened, thickening until they swallowed the whites of his eyes completely.
Unstable, ominous-looking energy markings crawled across his body like a curse.
A familiar surge of power came roaring back from the depths of his battered frame.
I've always been ready to die.
But I'll carry out my duty first.
His face twisted with a grim, feral grin.
"Trash. Round two… starts now."
"Even if I die, I'll take you down with me!"