The city was a charnel house, a place of death and destruction. Screams, agonies, pain, tears, and lamentations filled the air, like a cloud of death suffocating anyone exposed. The deadly assault had left behind scars, indelible traces, marks that would never heal. And in this chaos, he stood, eyes wide open to the horror, heart crushed by the pain.

In that charged moment, he scanned the room. There she was—his heart's compass. The thought of her danced in his dreams. For her, he'd plunge into darkness, even if it meant facing death's icy grip.

When her moment arrived and she exhaled her final breath, his heart clenched like a vice. Would he crumble under the weight of that loss? The air felt thick, almost suffocating.

In his pain, he screamed with all his strength, as loud and far as he could, before his vision blurred, and he lost all control, giving free rein to his rage and fury. When he regained his senses, he found himself in a landscape of desolation, a devastated land, without souls or plants, without life, for miles around.

This sight did not seem to afflict him much; in fact, it was the opposite. Just like the monster that had taken his beloved's life, he too had just snuffed out the lives of countless beings, most of whom had no part in his woes.

As often said, the most dangerous wound is the one we inflict on ourselves, and he knew this all too well. Terrified by what he had done, he was doing his best to justify his actions, affirming he acted as he had to. But no matter how much he tried, it was the most vital point of decay, agony for him every time he thought about it, feeling an undue burden had been imposed upon him, one he had never asked for.

Despite his attempts, however desperate, to justify his deeds, the weight of his crimes—for indeed, there were crimes in having decimated tens if not hundreds of thousands of lives—grew heavier and heavier, driving him into madness if not outright insanity.

Tormented by this second personality that had emerged from his subconscious and knowing he could never regain control without accepting his deeds—a thing he was seemingly unwilling to do—he realized there was only one solution left.

With it, he hoped the living across the eight continents would forgive his actions and rebuild a world devoid of the decadence, vices, and horrors that had driven him, who had once counted himself as a good man, to lose his composure and unleash his fury on the world, the ultimate victim, leveling an area so vast he could not even estimate its reach, annihilating all that lived within it.

He did not hope to redeem himself, something he would be incapable of now and probably ever. He considered this decision necessary so that the living, if there were any, could finally put an end to these tragic events and focus on rebuilding a better world instead of launching a vendetta to avenge their loved ones. These reactions he understood all too well, knowing what one is willing to do for those they love.

Beyond appearances, he took a deep breath, stiffened his entire right hand, and plunged it into his chest, right at his heart. This decision was not taken on impulse, as a distant observer might think, given the wide smile he wore and the incomprehensible words he murmured. Although he did seem truly to have lost his reason, this decision was deeply considered and approved by his inner self, even if it was hard to distinguish where he stood at that moment, being himself thoughts and subconscious.

When his heart gave out from the pain, he did not scream. Why cry out for his suffering, when so many others had endured far more? A drop of blood escaped, slowly sliding down his chin, crashing onto the ravaged ground. He soon joined it by dropping to his knees, out of breath and determined that this place would be the end of his existence on Terra. Suddenly, he collapsed onto the ground and released his final breath.

Nickolas woke up abruptly, drool dripping from his mouth and splattering onto his notebook.

He didn't immediately realize where he was. He straightened up in the chair he was sitting on, making his desk rattle noisily, and his emerald green eyes scanned what lay before him. With one swift look, he caught a sea of eyes fixed on him—teenagers, if they could be called that—all clad in identical white uniforms.

Their faces danced with what he perceived as mockery. Just ahead, a middle-aged woman stood, her jet-black hair neatly pinned in a bun that framed her perfectly. In the background, he saw a blackboard smeared with mathematical formulas and instantly grasped the situation he was in.

While Mrs. Simson was explaining a part she claimed was important and sure to come up in the next math exam, he'd had enough and decided to take a brief rest to clear his head before attempting to cram in the complicated formulas the good lady was determined to explain.

Unfortunately, fate had turned against him, and he had ended up sleeping deeply in the middle of class. Although he had never managed to score an average in this subject, he had always strived not to cross certain lines—the very ones he had just shattered.

As he quickly wiped his mouth with a brief swipe of his sleeve, Mrs. Simson, standing before him, gave him a withering look—the same look the whole class knew, which meant you were in for a rough time if you survived it. Playing the last card he seemed to have left, he looked up at her with pleading eyes, giving a faint apologetic smile.

Though his poor display of accepting his fault lasted only a moment, it was enough to make all the students burst out laughing. For a few moments, laughter filled the room, until Mrs. Simson turned around, and her gaze imposed silence on the entire class.

Knowing he was doomed, Nickolas shifted his gaze to the desk to his right, the one belonging to his best friend Dante. He was a boy with red hair, a face speckled with freckles, glasses perched on his nose, and an incredible physique. He had hidden his head under his desk and was looking at Nickolas, laughing quietly.

Nickolas felt a twinge of irritation rising and had now completely turned toward him. He aimed a punch right at him. But just as he was about to throw it, Mrs. Simson, who had turned back around, caught him mid-air and dragged him by the arm, from the fourth row out of six in the middle row, all the way to the back door of the classroom.

Near the door, while he was still shooting a confrontational look at his friend Dante, his eyes landed on the person sitting in the first row of the row by the door. She was turned toward her desk, chatting and laughing with her friend sitting behind her. Her long auburn hair flowed down her slender shoulders, tucked behind her left ear as she always did.

She had large brown eyes framed by well-shaped eyebrows, her fine nose lifted above equally fine lips, giving her an air of great elegance. To Nickolas, she embodied perfection itself.

At the threshold of the classroom, his gaze met that of this person—Maddison Sinclair, the girl he was in love with—before he disappeared behind the door that closed on him. In the hallway, he briefly glanced at the door marked "3-A" that had just shut in front of him, still thinking of Maddison's elegant face.

He was pulled from his reverie by Mrs. Simson, who, having released her grip for a second, grabbed him by the shirt and practically dragged him by the collar. Almost panicked and especially surprised, he asked,

"Where are you taking me, ma'am?"

"Where else do you want to go? We're heading to the principal's office! You can perhaps explain to him all the progress you've made in mathematics that allows you to sleep during class," she replied.

Panic-stricken, he struggled, but in vain. She didn't loosen her grip by an inch. She dragged him down the hallways, turning left, then right, and another right. After a few minutes of very uncomfortable walking for Nickolas, who was being dragged, they reached a massive black wooden door with patterns carved into it. Mrs. Simson knocked twice and entered after a voice from within responded, sounding more like a low growl than anything else.

Once opened, the door led into the most dangerous area of the entire school: the principal's office. Barely decorated, with only a few pieces of furniture scattered around—like a cabinet on the left wall, a couch and armchair around a small table on the right, and at the back a desk facing a chair—the principal's office was bathed in light coming from the window with raised shutters behind the chair. Seated at the desk, filling out some papers, the man there raised his head upon their entrance and fixed his ever-disapproving gaze on Nickolas.

He was a short, stout man, his face covered with a brown beard. After introducing him to the principal and explaining why he was there, Mrs. Simson, so to speak, abandoned Nickolas to his fate. Once she had closed the door, the principal, who still hadn't said a word, gestured for him to sit down, indicating an empty chair across from him. Taking a seat, Nickolas threw a quick glance over the principal's desk. He first noticed the nameplate prominently displayed, reading "Principal Morgan."

Mr. Morgan spoke in his deep voice, "So, Mr… Steele, is it? It seems you've decided that sleep takes precedence over your studies and would prefer to sleep rather than attend to your classes. Is that correct?" The tone of these words left no room for any other interpretation: it was a reprimand.

"Well, actually, sir," he stammered, "I didn't mean to fall asleep… I was just resting when…"

"Oh, I completely understand!" interrupted the principal. "You were resting, and you fell asleep without realizing it, didn't you?" What he had just said was entirely true, but the way he said it was heavily nuanced. Nickolas replied,

"That's exactly it, sir."

Unfolding his arms from the desk, Mr. Morgan leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath before continuing. "Mr. Steele," he said more seriously than before, "you're in your final year. Do you understand what that implies?"

Nickolas didn't answer, but the principal didn't even notice. He was already continuing, "I remember your file. A good student—except, of course, in mathematics, where things don't go so well. This brings me back to my question. Do you truly understand what it means to be in your final year, Mr. Steele?"

Still silent, Nickolas seemed lost in deep thought, but the nervousness apparent in his gestures grew more obvious. Pressing on, the principal continued, "You're in your last year, and your grades are quite good.You have the opportunity to enter any university of your choice after high school." He paused.

"The exams are in barely three months, and you don't even bother to attend class, preferring to sleep. Do you think this is the right attitude for your younger classmates, who likely look up to you as a role model?"

This last question was posed, unlike the others, in a sharp, no-nonsense tone. This time, it was no longer a rhetorical question, and Mr. Morgan indeed expected an answer, looking intensely into his eyes. Nickolas quickly lowered his eyes, an admission of guilt on his part, and swallowed audibly.

Nervousness had entirely overtaken him, and the principal's words mentally terrified him. Disoriented and bewildered by the situation he was in, he searched desperately in his memory for a plausible answer that would convince the principal, but he couldn't find anything, unable to think.

Probably sensing how on edge he was, the principal softened his expression and took the kindest tone he could manage, though it still sounded harsh and without warmth to Nickolas. "It goes without saying that this time, yet again, you've made a negative impression. However, given your grades and your family, I'll let it slide this time. But come back to this office for this reason again, and you'll regret that I didn't give you the punishment you should receive. That will be all—you may go."

Still leaning back in his black leather chair, he made a small hand gesture, indicating the way out. Nickolas noisily got up from his wooden chair, muttered some thanks, and headed for the exit. Closing the door to the terrifying principal's office, he didn't hide his satisfaction and relief.

After this moment of confusion, as he described it, he needed to pull himself together right away. He inhaled deeply, letting tension slip away. His face settled into its familiar calm mask. With his hands buried in his pockets, he sauntered down the corridor, radiating effortless cool.

But wait—did a whisper of doubt just sneak in? What had he really glimpsed in that bizarre dream before his abrupt exit? With all his critical thinking, he tried to examine in detail what he remembered and what it might mean. Deaths, suffering, desolation, guilt, and his suicide—that was all he recalled.

But in the mindset he was in, he began to wonder if he was really the 'main character' in that dream. Still lost in his thoughts, he arrived in front of his classroom door. He gathered himself, stopped abruptly, and then suddenly changed direction, continuing down the hallway toward the staircase.

Climbing the stairs, he thought about his school life. Only three more months, and high school would be over. This prospect didn't thrill him, but he didn't have any complaints either. He was almost certain he would get into the university he was aiming for, which wasn't even that demanding.

His grandparents, with whom he had been living since his parents' disappearance, hadn't taken the news that he wanted to choose a public university very well. However, he had managed to convince them, even though his grandmother Josette often praised the merits of well-known private universities.

He climbed the stairs without hurrying, one then two levels, and the door he turned the handle on at the last landing opened onto a vast rooftop where the sun shone brightly. He closed the door behind him and looked for a shady spot, which he quickly found and settled in. Lying down, his hands behind his head, eyes fixed on the sky, Nickolas let himself drift into the memories of a fleeting dream.

"But what on earth could that mean?" he wondered. After ten minutes of swirling thoughts, he concluded that these dreams were probably the result of his sleepless nights spent binge-watching movies. Relieved to have dispelled that cloud of confusion, he regained his calm.

He let himself be carried away by the gentleness of the quiet and the caress of the breeze. The gentle breeze, blowing slowly and scattering the small leaves it carried in its wake, was the only sound emanating from the rooftop for about two hours, as Nickolas was so deep in thought that it seemed like he was fast asleep.

Suddenly, a bell rang, tearing him from his reverie—it was the noon break. Nickolas furrowed his brows in annoyance, for he already knew what was about to happen. No sooner had the bell rung than a crash shattered the silence. The rooftop door swung wide open.

Footsteps pounded every corner before slipping toward the back, where he had been lounging. It was a rebellious-looking female figure who, furiously, headed toward him. Nickolas knew who it was, but he pretended not to notice. Approaching from his right side, she kicked him as soon as she was within reach, which he dodged by rising to his feet.

Now sitting, his eyes, which hadn't opened in two hours, met those of the young girl in front of him. Her hazel eyes radiated a fierce and proud look. She glared at him, still furious. Then, her expression seemed to soften into one of confusion and pity. She raised her arms in a pleading gesture:

"I knew you'd be here. Will you ever stop skipping?" she said dramatically.

"Since when do I have to answer to my sister?" he replied in a monotone.

"Since I started first year. Isn't it obvious?" she said. It looked as though she was truly shocked.

"And since when does my life interest a first-year student?" he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye.

"Well, for reasons I don't understand, almost all the first-year students, except for the delegates and the troublemakers, have taken you as their role model.

Lazy but still smart, that's what they say about you." Then, putting her hand over her mouth and turning her gaze away, she said with a giggle, "Even despite your math grades."

This last remark hit Nickolas like a dagger to the heart. The moment he opened his mouth to respond, Dante arrived. Paying no attention to the conversation, he rushed over and collapsed beside his friend. Pretending to only notice her now, he looked up and said to her in a very detached tone:

"Oh, hey Scarlett! What a beautiful day, isn't it?"

She gave him a sharp look, turned on her heel, and walked away. Once she was gone, he turned to Nickolas and said:

"Hey Nick! You really don't mind that I have my eye on her? She's your sister, after all."

"No, not at all. You can do whatever you want. And so can she," he replied, turning his gaze away just like his sister had earlier. "Even though you have no chance."

Hearing this, Dante put him in a harmless arm lock, then the two of them lay down laughing. They fell silent and gazed at the vast blue sky in front of them. It was Nick who broke the silence:

"About your choice, are you sure about it? Don't you want to go to university like everyone else? Won't your parents be upset? Are they aware?"

"Ah!" he sighed. "I told them last night. They were really upset. But it's what I want to do more than anything."

"Still! The Sanctuary? You could have chosen the Citizen Defense Forces. There you could at least take it easy. In that place, you're definitely going to die."

"Don't insist, my mind is made up."

"And what about your mastery? Isn't that essential?"

"Maybe I'm not on the level of a master, but I can't complain. Look." He raised his hand and made a sort of green smoke appear, not very dense, but it seemed to move in rhythm with his hands. Then, the smoke appeared to be absorbed by Dante's arm, and his arm turned a shade of green.

He suddenly looked stronger and more vigorous. Sensing Nick's growing interest, Dante decided to show him a little trick. He picked up a small stone beside him, flicked it with a small tap, and sent it flying miles to the south.

The object made a sort of "bang" when it was launched, which surprised and amazed Nick. They stayed silent for a moment, then Nick spoke:

"As I like to tell myself, when life gives you lemons, add a little 'Steele' and make lemonade," he said with the most serious expression.

Dante stared at him for a moment before bursting out laughing in his deep voice, soon joined by Nick, who laughed as well. Then, Nick asked him, in a tone more like his usual self:

"You good?"

A little taken aback by the question, Dante blushed slightly and stammered:

"O-Yeah, don't worry. But..." he started.

"Yes?"

"I was thinking... you could come with me."

"What?" Nick exclaimed, suddenly sitting up. He gaped at his friend, disbelief etching his features. Was he really losing his marbles? For a heartbeat, he was frozen in shock. Then, like a light bulb flickering on, understanding dawned.

Dante had kept looking at the sky up until then. Nick lay back down beside him and thought for a while, before breaking the silence in a casual tone:

"Alright, why not. I've never really wanted to go to university either. It'll be a good experience."

"Thanks, man," Dante said with a breath, his voice filled with emotion. "I'll make it up to you," he added, once he had collected himself.

"Don't get too excited, man. My mastery is terrible. I'm probably going to get rejected before I even get in."

"No way!" Dante exclaimed. "The great genius admitting defeat before even trying? I must be in a parallel world, for sure," he added, making dramatic gestures with his arms, as if on stage.

At that moment, a second figure appeared at the doorframe. Nick immediately recognized her. She was the one he had exchanged a glance with just before being thrown out of the room.

Thinking back to that moment, he blushed deeply and looked away, embarrassed, as she approached them with her graceful walk, the complete opposite of Nick. Maddison, or Maddie as those who knew her called her, greeted them with a quick wave of her hand.

When she reached them, she suggested they go have lunch. After a brief moment of recovery, Nick and Dante agreed and headed to the cafeteria.

As they descended the three floors separating them from the ground floor where the cafeteria was located, they talked, as usual, about everything and nothing. To be precise, only Dante and Maddie spoke, with Nick merely trailing behind, offering the occasional grunt when necessary.

From time to time, he glanced at Maddie surreptitiously, examining her flawless features and wondering how a creature could be born so perfect. Lost in his contemplation, Maddie turned around and caught him staring, causing him to blush and quickly look away.

However, she kept her composure and continued the conversation as if nothing had happened, not wanting to alarm Dante or make things awkward.

When they reached the ground floor, they headed toward two swinging doors, which opened to reveal a massive cafeteria with dozens of tables and even more chairs available. The Academy didn't hesitate to provide the best for its students. It was only natural for a school of its magnitude.

Upon entering, a few dozen heads turned toward them, clearly in admiration. And they had every reason to. Nick, the reluctant genius, Dante, the sports phenomenon, and Maddison, the master. Together, they represented the pinnacle and ideals of the academy.

The Aurora Academy, named after its founder Elena Aurora, was an old institution founded during a time when governments decided to train the men and women who would lead and defend the country. Not limited to national borders, its influence, reach, and prosperity extended across the globe, with branches on all eight continents.

Founded more than two hundred years ago, it had always fulfilled its mission brilliantly, and governments were grateful for its existence. Seeing its incredible success, many other institutions like it were established and now held a significant place in modern society. Like all the others, it taught all the usual subjects, with an additional focus on mastery, which represented one's potential and ability to control the Ora.

They crossed the hall and went to their usual table, which had been reserved for them by the academy. Sitting down, they began to eat while continuing their conversation, in which Nick, of course, did not participate. Only a few minutes had passed when a sudden, crippling migraine struck him.

He thought it was just a small discomfort, so he continued eating without alarming his friends. But the pain, like a wild beast, became unbearable. His spoon crashed into his plate, like a distress signal. This noise caught the attention of his two friends, who looked at him with surprise.

Realizing this, he muttered an excuse and stood up. Stumbling, he walked as best he could toward the exit, which drew the attention of some younger students. The pain felt like a fist squeezing him, refusing to let go.

Once in the hallway, he couldn't hold it in any longer and let the pain explode, releasing his frustration. The pain swelled, a dark tide ready to swallow him whole.

He shut his eyes, searching for clarity, but agony was his unwelcome companion, seeping into every cell. He stumbled toward the showers, hoping for relief, but his vision spiraled, blurring reality into a surreal haze. What was real anymore?

Because of the pain, he became unable to think clearly, which caused him to panic. He closed his eyes to focus on one problem at a time. Unfortunately, this action was reckless, as he collided with several people on his way, before bumping into one in particular.

He opened his eyes reflexively in search of the unfortunate person, but she had already disappeared. In a split second, too fast for him to react, his vision seemed to play tricks on him, as everything around him began to oscillate, at an increasingly faster rate.

Then, the spatial elements changed abruptly, and what he saw in their place sent a chill down his spine.