They say numbers don't define a person.
That's a lie.
In this world, a single number decides where you live, what you eat, and whether your name is remembered—or forgotten.
I learned that at eighteen, standing barefoot on the cold marble floor of the Evaluation Hall.
The stone beneath my feet was polished to perfection, yet it felt cold enough to seep into my bones. Around me stood millions of candidates—some tense, some confident, all pretending this moment wasn't deciding the rest of their lives.
Then my name was called.
The hall went quiet.
Not the awkward kind.
The dangerous kind.
I stepped forward, each footstep echoing louder than it should have. The crystal descended, its light sinking into my skin, my bones, my breath.
Time stretched.
Then the numbers appeared.
Class Assessment Complete.
Warrior — 96 (?)
Weapon Maker — 14
Healer — 9
Strategist — 18
Mage — 3
The numbers lingered in the air for a second longer than they should have.
Then the crystal pulsed.
Once.
Twice.
A sharp sound cut through the hall.
— ANOMALY DETECTED —
The words did not announce themselves.
They forced their way onto the display.
Hairline cracks spread across the crystal's surface. Light leaked through them, unstable, uncontained. The system wasn't rejecting me.
It was failing to finish.
And then the crystal broke.
Not with an explosion.
It shattered into fragments of light, dissolving into the air before they could touch the floor.
Silence followed.
No numbers.
No crystal.
Just me, standing alone in the center of the hall.
Later, they would say the equipment malfunctioned.
That it was a rare error.
That nothing unusual had happened.
But I knew the truth.
The number had been measured.
What came after it… couldn't be.
And then the crystal broke.
I wasn't alone.