Chapter 1 – The Weight of Average
The carriage shuddered to a stop outside Arcadia University's gates. I didn't move.
My fingers were locked around the straps of my backpack, knuckles pale. Beyond the gates, the quad pulsed with noise and color—guild recruiters shouting over each other, voices rough as gravel; merchants hawking "F-Rank starter kits! Five copper for a harness! Ten for a potion bundle—no refunds if it explodes!" Clusters of students draped in guild colors laughed sharp as the blades at their hips. The air smelled like polished steel, enchanted leather, and fresh-cast magic—hot and electric, like a storm waiting to happen.
My stomach twisted.
"Kid." The driver's voice rasped like old hinges. "We ain't a hotel."
"Yeah." Still didn't move.
Three hours earlier, the cracked mirror in my rented room had reflected the same look I wore now: hollow-eyed, unimpressed, and running out of chances. A fresh bruise bloomed across my ribs—souvenir from yesterday's "training accident." Misjudged block. Boot to the gut. Instructor's shrug: "Should've seen that coming, Cross."
My mom's voice echoed in my skull, clean and cold as a bell: "Third time's the charm, mijo. Or it's Hunter Logistics for you."
Hunter Logistics. Hauling gear for real Hunters. Safe. Stable. A slow, suffocating death.
I tightened the strap on my secondhand explorer's harness—the one I'd blown two weeks' wages on. Stitching near the buckle already fraying. My gear laid out on the bed that morning like a crime scene: an unbalanced iron dagger ("vintage," the vendor said), two minor health potions with questionable sediment, a leaky waterskin, and three smoke pellets from a guy who flinched every time someone blinked.
Pathetic.
Other candidates would show up in enchanted armor, with guild sponsors and talents that could win wars. I had memorized spreadsheets. And the desperate, gnawing need not to fail again.
That desperation carried me into the Arcadia Entrance Arena, where the air stank of sweat, burnt magic, and fear. I hovered at the back of the line, watching candidates warm up. A girl cracked a flaming whip against the stone. A guy in Silverlight colors juggled daggers blindfolded. If one of those blades slipped, maybe I could take his spot.
"Evan Cross."
I flinched. The proctor—a scarred woman with a clipboard and the posture of a bored predator—didn't look up.
"Gate's open. Don't die."
The portal shimmered violet, buzzing like a live wire. Left corridor. Avoid the plates. Engage at range.
I stepped through.
The dungeon pocket was cold and damp. Moss on the walls pulsed green like a slow, dying heartbeat. My boots squelched on slick stone. No monsters. Just obstacles.
I can do this.
Then something moved above. Fast. Wrong.
A goblin dropped in a crouch, claws skittering. Not a dummy. Not a test illusion. Real. Yellow eyes locked on mine, pupils pinprick sharp. Its cleaver dripped something dark.
This wasn't in the exam briefing.
It shrieked, a sound like metal scraping bone, and lunged .I yanked my dagger free. Too slow. The cleaver came down—
CRACK.
White pain exploded behind my eyes. My knees buckled.
Then—Someone else was there.
Another me.
Same harness. Same dagger. Same wide-eyed shock—only his eyes weren't wild. They were cold. Still. Measuring.
"What the hell—?"
"Your clone," he said. Voice dry enough to flake apart. "Don't waste time."
The goblin snapped its head between us. The clone stooped, grabbed a loose stone, and whipped it at the goblin's skull. Direct hit. It snarled, staggered.
"Now," he said.
I moved without thinking. Blade drove into its ribs. The clone swept its legs out. We didn't plan it. Didn't have to. My panic became his precision. His calm became my drive.
The goblin collapsed. The cleaver clattered.
[Mirror System Online.][Talent Detected: Perfect Clone.][Welcome, Evan Cross.]
The words burned into my vision—final and bright, like a wax seal pressed against skin.
The dungeon faded. Back in the arena.
The clone gave my shoulder a flat pat. "You passed."
I stared. "You sound like a toaster with a personality disorder."
"Efficient." His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "Shall we?"
The proctor's voice cut through the haze. "Evan Cross. Exam complete. Dorm assignments posted."
For the first time in years, something flickered in my chest. Something dangerously like hope.
Maybe I wasn't average. Maybe I was something worse.