Morning breaks weirdly quiet over the city. Three days of people vanishing into black vans, three days of rumors spinning faster than the news can catch them, three days of families pretending not to panic. That silence finally snaps.
By 9 AM, the front gates of Saint Verdant Campus look like a dam about to burst.
Mothers holding photos. Fathers holding their tempers. Students with cardboard signs and shaky hands. Neighborhood uncles with that "I'll burn this place down if I have to" face. Even teachers are standing at the back, pretending they're only supervising — but their eyes say everything: We're scared too.
The crowd pushes forward, voice by voice, turning into a roar.
"BRING THEM BACK!"
"WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO KNOW!"
"WE SAW THE VANS — WHERE DID YOU TAKE THEM?"
Somewhere in the crowd:
Cyrus' classmates.
Kaito's gaming buddies.
All of them terrified because their friends didn't come home last night.
People aren't stupid — everyone felt something during the earthquake. The static in the air. The dizziness. The weird dreams after. So when students started fainting… glowing… attracting metal… bending shadows… of course rumors exploded.
But the government stayed silent.
And today, silence is the enemy.
A metallic clang rings out as someone throws a water bottle at the line of riot shields. The police don't move, but the tension snaps tighter. News drones hover overhead. Phones everywhere are recording. The atmosphere is powder waiting for a spark.
A middle-aged woman steps to the front, tears streaking her cheeks.
"KINDLY tell me if my son is even ALIVE!" she screams at the officers. "Just alive! That's all I'm asking!"
Her voice cracks — and that's what breaks the crowd.
People surge forward. Officers brace. Shields rise.
And the moment the clash is about to explode—
The sky flickers.
A huge transparent holographic seal ignites above the campus, the emblem of the National Safety Directorate rotating like a god's eye looking down. The crowd freezes.
A broadcast booms across the air, deep and firm:
"CITIZENS. PLEASE REMAIN CALM."
"THE GOVERNMENT WILL NOW RELEASE A STATEMENT."
People go dead silent. Phones rise like a forest of glowing branches.
A man in a grey suit and sharp eyes appears on every floating screen.
Director Rael Varma.
A name most have never heard, but will soon fear.
"Three days ago," he begins, voice too steady, "an anomalous seismic event occurred. It was not a natural earthquake. It was a global bio-energetic pulse."
Murmurs ripple like shockwaves.
Rael continues:
"This pulse has… altered the biological structure of humanity. Many of you have already seen signs. Strength. Telekinesis. Elemental manifestations. These are not hallucinations. They are real. They are permanent. You are now what ancient archives once called—"
A pause.
He lets the word fall like a blade:
"Paragons."
The crowd gasps.
"But," he presses, "these abilities can be dangerous. Volatile. Unstable. Some individuals awakened prematurely and were taken into containment for evaluation and safety — theirs, and yours."
That's when the crowd explodes.
"SO YOU KIDNAPPED THEM?!"
"LIARS!"
"YOU THINK WE'LL LET THAT PASS?!"
"What evaluation—what safety?!"
People push. Officers yell warnings. Rage cracks open like a storm.
Rael raises a hand, unbothered.
"We will begin releasing non-threat-level Paragons… once divisions and classifications are completed."
That word hits like a punch.
Divisions.
Meaning categories.
Meaning ranks.
Meaning some people will be considered… dangerous.
Before the crowd can process it, he says:
"Tomorrow morning, all campuses — including yours — will undergo Paragon Division Testing. Failure to participate will be treated as a national security threat."
Phones drop. Voices die.
Students stare at each other, pale.