Morning arrived at District Twelve without ceremony.
Light spilled over the rooftops, washing the streets in pale gold that couldn't quite hide the cracks.Neon signs buzzed weakly against the sun, delivery drones darted between apartment towers, and the scent of frying oil drifted from the noodle stalls already doing brisk business.
It was a city that looked fine on the outside.
And in a way, maybe it was. Thirty years after the Gate tore open the sky, humanity had learned to coexist with the impossible. Monsters were background noise now — just another evening headline squeezed between politics and celebrity gossip.
The Vanguards, humanity's new protectors, had become minor celebrities. Their faces lit up billboards.
Awakening videos flooded the net — teenagers tearing open their Tokens and screaming as light enveloped them, hoping for something powerful enough to make them worth noticing.
For most people, it was the age of possibility.
For Hugo Cole, it was just another shift at the convenience store.
He stood behind the counter, half leaning against the register, half asleep. The hum of the refrigerators had a hypnotic quality — a low vibration that filled the silence between transactions. A broken ceiling light flickered above him, its irregular pulse marking the seconds of his life one tired flash at a time.
The clock on the wall read 10:52 a.m. His shift ended at eleven.
Eight more minutes of existing.
The bell over the door chimed, brittle and faint. A middle-aged man shuffled in, eyes half-lidded, expression set to default irritation. He grabbed a soda from the fridge and dropped it on the counter.
"Two fifty," Hugo said automatically.
The man handed over some coins, didn't look up, and left without another word.
Another customer. Another ghost in the endless rhythm of days.
Hugo watched him go, then turned his gaze toward the glass doors. Outside, people hurried along the sidewalks — faces blurred by the morning sun, each one chasing something that probably wouldn't last.
Students in uniforms.
Low-level Vanguards with weapons slung casually across their backs.
Street vendors hawking half-price "Eon Alignment Charms" to those desperate enough to believe in luck.
The world was alive, burning with the strange beauty of people pretending everything was under control.
He wished he could join them.
"Hey, Hugo!"
The voice came from the back. Lily — the morning shift replacement — stepped out, adjusting her apron and flashing a grin that shouldn't have been legal at this hour.
She was the kind of person who could find optimism in a fire drill.
"You're done for the day, right?"
He nodded, tugging off his apron and folding it with mechanical precision. "Yeah. Freedom in about three minutes."
Lily leaned against the counter, ponytail bouncing. "Did you take your Token already?"
"Yeah."
Her grin brightened instantly. "Oh, nice! You'll get something high, I can feel it. You've got that… mysterious underdog vibe."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Obviously."
He shrugged. "I'll take your word for it."
Lily laughed — an easy, genuine sound that didn't belong in a place that smelled like mop water and expired ramen. "Good luck, Hugo. If you end up a famous Vanguard, don't forget about us small folk."
He gave a lazy wave, halfway between a goodbye and a yawn, and pushed the door open.
"See you tomorrow!"
"Hopefully not," he murmured.
Outside, the afternoon had cooled, wind brushing past the storefronts with a faint chemical tang — a mix of car exhaust, dust, and the subtle electric aftertaste that always lingered after a Gate incident.
The streets thrummed with life. Vendors called out deals, a kid zipped past on an old hoverboard, and a couple argued by a holographic news terminal showing last night's breach. The footage was shaky — a Gate widening near the western district, tendrils of darkness curling outward before a squad of Vanguards sealed the area.
"Guess the spawn rate's getting worse," Hugo muttered.
He passed the same spot fifteen minutes later: yellow tape, cracked concrete, the faint smell of ozone. A crater the size of a car marred the sidewalk.
For a moment, he stared — lost in thought. Then he kept walking.
There wasn't much point thinking about things you couldn't fix.
The city thinned as he moved south, towers giving way to smaller buildings that looked perpetually tired. Rusted balconies. Laundry swaying in the breeze. A woman arguing with a landlord over rent. A man dozing under a flickering streetlight.
Home was a single-story house wedged between two larger ones — a leftover from before the rebuild. Its fence leaned, defeated by gravity.
He pushed open the door.
"Mom?"
Silence.
He sighed, kicking off his shoes and heading down the narrow stairs to the basement — his personal sanctuary, if you could call it that. Dust motes drifted in the sunlight slicing through the small window. The air smelled faintly of detergent and stale dreams.
A cake sat on the desk, slightly lopsided, one candle planted off-center. Beside it, a handwritten note:
Happy 18th, honey! Will be back late tonight. Love, Mom.
He dropped his bag, grabbed a towel, and took a quick shower upstairs. The water pressure was miserable, but it beat smelling like discount noodles.
When he came back down, the light outside had softened — that amber hour between day and evening. His desk was cluttered with the usual: an old computer, a cracked phone, and the silver Token lying in the middle like it owned the place.
He sat on the edge of his bed.
Eighteen years. People said your life started here — that the Token decided who you'd become.
Whether your Resonance aligned with the flow of Eon strongly enough to let you cultivate something meaningful, to grow stronger, become a Vanguard one day.
The system had built new gods out of ordinary kids.
But Hugo wasn't holding his breath.
He turned the Token over in his hand. It shimmered faintly, reflecting the fading light. Sleek, official, unremarkable. Like it had seen a thousand disappointed faces before his.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered.
He tore it.
The material came apart easily, dissolving into light that rippled across the room. A translucent interface flickered before him, lines of text blooming in pale blue.
[Scanning…]
[Host identified: Hugo Cole]
[Analyzing internal resonance field…]
He felt his heartbeat quicken despite himself.
Maybe—
[Resonance Detected…]
[Tier Evaluation Complete.]
[Resonance Rank: D-Class]
[Cultivation Potential: Initiate Realm — Minor Stage.]
The interface blinked once, then faded.
Hugo sat in silence.
A soft laugh escaped him — small, dry, without joy. "Of course."
A D-Rank Resonance.
You could cultivate, sure — but slower than everyone else, weaker than everyone else, destined to plateau before ever touching real power.
His mind conjured the image of his mother's hopeful smile, turning brittle when she'd hear about it.
"Sorry, Mom," he murmured. "Guess we're stuck where we are a bit longer."
He leaned back on the bed. The ceiling paint was peeling, the hum of the refrigerator upstairs faint but steady — the soundtrack of mediocrity.
It wasn't anger he felt, not exactly. Just the familiar ache of unmet expectation. Like he'd been running toward something for years, only to realize the finish line was a mirage.
He closed his eyes, intending to sleep the day away.
But then —
A faint static crawled through the air.
He opened his eyes. The interface, which had vanished moments ago, flickered back to life, its lines distorting like a corrupted video file.
"…What now?"
[Re-scanning…]
[Thread located…]
[Beginning procedures…]
The words pulsed in erratic rhythm, bright enough to cast shadows on the walls. Hugo sat up, pulse ticking faster. The temperature in the room dropped — not drastically, but enough to make his breath mist faintly.
'A second scan?'
[Placing anchor…]
The sound changed — the air hummed, deep and low, vibrating in his bones.
He stared, heart hammering. "This wasn't part—"
The interface spasmed, the letters stretching and warping.
[Randalf the Lich Monarch is requesting permission to enter.]
"Ehh?"
The room felt suddenly enormous, every small sound amplified — the drip from the pipe, the faint buzz of electricity, the whisper of wind through the window.
Hugo's throat went dry as his brain struggled to comprehend the text.
"…Who?"