Micah kept checking his phone.
Again. And again. And again.
His thumb slid across the cracked screen, tapping the side button to light up the display. 11:28. Then 11:29. Then 11:30.
Every minute stretched longer than the last. Every second dragged its claws across his nerves, scratching at the fragile calm he tried to hold. He didn't even notice the hoodie billowing around him or the wind whipping hair into his eyes anymore. He only noticed the numbers. Only noticed the time.
At first, it had been once every ten minutes. Then every five. Then every thirty seconds. Now, he couldn't even let the screen dim before pressing it awake again, as though a desperate stare could bend time forward.
It wasn't just impatience. Not really.
It was fear. Pure, sharp, stomach-turning fear. And anticipation. The kind that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. The quiet, impossible knowledge that when the numbers struck twelve… everything would change. His life, his body, his very soul. Rewritten. Or erased.
He glanced away from the phone for a moment, letting his gaze drift across the neon-drenched city. From this rooftop, the skyline stretched like jagged teeth, sharp silhouettes clawing at the sky. Skyscrapers crowned with artificial halos of light, giant digital boards flickering endlessly. Heroes frozen in triumph, frozen in power. Some wielded swords wrapped in fire, others carried rifles etched with glowing runes, others simply glared down at the world with eyes that could slice steel.
Every one of them was a reminder. A warning. A testament to what humanity had clawed into existence. And what was waiting for him.
Micah's lips twitched, but it wasn't a smile. Just bitterness.
For an outsider, these boards were nothing. Cheap, blinding propaganda. Just another lightshow in the city night. But everyone knew better.
Everyone knew what lurked inside those towers. Everyone knew the lies wrapped in glass and steel, the false promise of safety. And everyone knew what waited beyond the stars. Monsters older than time, predators that saw planets as hunting grounds and civilizations as livestock. The universe wasn't a puzzle for them. It was a playground.
Humans? Humans were still toys.
Once, long ago, longer than anyone alive remembered, the truth had been even crueler. Being human didn't matter. Souls weren't stitched into the fabric of fate. Humans weren't threads in the vast tapestry of creation. They were outside the weave, unnoticed, unvalued. Bottom feeders. Less than cannon fodder. Just echoes with no voice.
In the cosmic hierarchy, humanity sat at the very bottom. Weak, fragile, useless. Bones that broke easily. Lifespans too short. Minds inventive, sure—but pitiful when compared to the towering intellects of other races. Humans were an error that somehow, stubbornly, survived.
Life had never been fair, the philosophers had said before everything changed. Fairness was a myth, a dream whispered in the dark. For humans, luck mattered more than strength. More than intellect. More than destiny. Survive, and maybe, just maybe, the universe would notice.
But the cosmos didn't care about luck. The cosmos had its laws, carved in blood and starlight. Any race that grew too bright, too significant, earned the right to fight for its place. And humanity? Somehow, through struggle, madness, and endless suffering, it had managed it.
From pets to playthings to candidates. One hesitant, terrified step into the endless arena of true existence.
But how? How could a fragile species like humans rise at all?
Others were stronger. Some were smarter. Entire civilizations born already wielding Obscura—the backbone of the universe, the ink of gods, the marrow of stars, the very essence of miracles. To wield Obscura was to touch creation itself.
Humans had none. Not a drop.
What did they have?
The answer was brutal, beautiful, and terrifyingly simple: they turned war into art.
Swords, spears, bows, guns, bombs, tanks—millions of instruments of destruction, each sharper, faster, deadlier than the last. Humans poured fear and brilliance into killing. They made survival an obsession, weaponry a craft. And the cosmos noticed.
The universe responded.
It created the Trial of Will and Might.
For nearly four centuries, every human—male or female, rich or poor—was bound to it. Fifteen years old, and your soul was summoned. A weapon would call to you. Judge you. Resonate with you. Bind to you—if you passed.
Fail, and your soul shattered. Sometimes death came first. Sometimes worse—you survived but became empty, hollow, nothing but a body with vacant eyes and lost voices.
Micah's fingers curled around the hoodie strings. He had memorized every whispered story, every warning, every fragment of lore. And now, he was waiting. Waiting for the clock to strike midnight. Waiting to be summoned.
He had accepted it. One way or another, he would face it. One way or another, he would die doing what he wanted.
The odds were brutal. He was weak. Physically, he couldn't compare to his peers. Academically, he had skipped lessons where details of the trial were taught. He knew fragments, not the whole.
But Micah wasn't stupid. He had learned not to trust whispers. False information could kill faster than ignorance. He would not risk everything on lies.
The last hour dragged like an eternity. Every second rumbled louder than his heartbeat. Every gust of wind across the rooftop felt like a threat.
"Calm down, Micah," he muttered under his breath. "You can do this."
His chest heaved. His breath trembled.
"You have to do it. Your only chance."
He shoved his headphones over his ears, cranked the volume until the bass drowned the city. Music thundered through him, washing over the fear. He let the rooftop wind lash against his skin, cold and unforgiving.
Far below, in the familiar streets of his old home, shadows stirred.
A woman stepped into the lamplight. Her hair caught the glow, a cascade of brown waves. Her hazel eyes were sharp, cutting. Lips full, perfect, but carrying the weight of command. Her coat was fur, heavy and deliberate. Her black robes fell sleek and severe, elegance wrapped in frost.
Beside her, another woman in a tailored suit stood rigid, professional, unmoving. Behind them, a giant of a man filled the space, two meters of sheer threat.
Impatience radiated from the first woman. Her heel tapped once, twice. Then she pressed the doorbell.
The door cracked open. Albert, Micah's false father, appeared. His smile was thin, brittle.
"Welcome, ma'am," he stammered.
"I don't have much time, Albert," the woman said, her voice sharp as a whip. "Where is my son?"
Albert froze. Stammered. "Y-you see, ma'am… he… he left a few days ago. We haven't been able to contact him."
For a heartbeat, the woman trembled. Then composure snapped back. Ice in her veins. "What do you mean, 'left'? I left him here for safekeeping. And now he's gone?"
Karmen's voice floated from inside, weary and apologetic. "We did our best, ma'am. But he started running with the wrong crowd. Leaving home. Days at a time. Track his phone—we always kept a tracker installed."
The woman's gaze flicked to her secretary. "Martha. Track it. Now."
Martha's fingers flew across her glowing smartwatch. Seconds later: "Madame, I have a location."
Relief flashed in the woman's eyes, but it was sharp and fleeting. Her glare returned to Albert. "This isn't over."
He bowed, throat dry.
She swept into her car. The tall man in the driver's seat, Martha beside him. The vehicle lifted into the air, streaking toward their target.
Ten minutes later, they stopped at a shabby storefront.
The bell chimed as they stepped inside. Dust stirred. Silence pressed down.
An old man shuffled from the back. "How can I help you?"
Martha thrust a photo forward. "Did this boy come here today?"
The old man's eyes darted to the giant behind her. Swallowing hard, he studied the photo. "I… I don't know. Someone similar came in today. Not the same boy."
The woman stepped forward. "Explain."
"A few hours ago," the man said, voice small, "a boy almost identical—hair, eyes—but… different. Sold me an old phone. Paid for a fake ID. Thin. Starving. Like he hadn't eaten in years."
Windows rattled. Dust fell. The air vibrated.
Martha's eyes widened. The woman's hazel irises burned blue with raw, unstoppable power.
She raised the photo. "This picture… it's fake."
"Do you know the name on the ID?" she demanded.
The man shook. "I… I don't. He filled it himself. I don't know the name. Or number."
Her fist clenched. Knuckles cracked. Rage shimmered like heatwaves.
"Martha. Use the satellites. Find him. Now. And find out why they sent fake pictures of my son!"
Martha disappeared. The woman turned to the window, pressing her palm to the glass.
"Mike… where are you? If only I'd been faster… even your sister won't forgive me if something happens."
The car rose into the night, cutting toward him.