"Ninety-three, ninety-three, ninety-three…" A young man muttered under his breath as he slumped on the cold metal bench in the crowded waiting hall. His pale fingers tapped nervously against the edge of the seat as he whispered the number repeatedly, his voice blending into the dull hum of the room.
"I should've just written it down," he thought to himself, his frustration bubbling to the surface. If he had, perhaps he wouldn't need to repeat the number like a broken record, desperate not to forget. The sharp pain in his head throbbed with every word, growing worse despite his efforts to maintain focus.
"Cough!" He turned his head, covering his mouth with a silk handkerchief. He grimaced as he pulled it away to reveal a dark clot of blood staining the pristine white fabric. With a quiet sigh, he tossed the soiled handkerchief into the trash bin beside him. A necklace with a broken, dark purple gemstone dangled from his neck, swaying slightly as he moved.
"What a waste," he muttered. The handkerchief had cost more than he cared to admit, but at this point, it didn't matter. If he was destined to die, what use was a silk handkerchief? He pressed his fingers against his temples, the chant continuing under his breath. "Ninety-three. Yes, ninety-three…"
Death was inevitable now—he had already resigned himself to it.
He could either waste away here in the Sun city or die in the Dark lands.
His eyes drifted to the boy sitting on the far end of the bench. The young man couldn't have been more than sixteen, yet his appearance was haunting. Blood poured freely from his eyes, soaking his face and hands despite his frantic attempts to wipe it away with a rapidly dampening handkerchief. A gaudy ring adorned his trembling finger, glinting faintly under the fluorescent lights. The rest of the waiting crowd had inched away from him, their expressions a mixture of pity and revulsion. Though, most of them had blood-stained handkerchiefs in their hands as well.
Kenan exhaled shakily, his fingers moving to the broken stone pendant around his neck. He had once prayed he would never awaken, but now, the signs were undeniable. The ache in his head, the ever-pouring blood, the fleeting clarity—it was all evidence of the inevitable transformation. Awakening was less a gift and more a curse, binding its victims to a fate worse than death.
Remaining in Sun City as a transcendent undergoing the awakening process was as good as signing his own death warrant. Newly awakened individuals couldn't endure the sun's relentless glare; the pain was unbearable, the symptoms maddening. Each one of them was required to venture into the Dark Lands—a harrowing trial that could either grant full awakening or ensure their demise in the jaws of unknown beings.
The irony was bitter. Only by traversing the monstrous horrors of the Dark Lands could they return to Sun City, fully awakened and free of the sun's hateful curse. Yet most never made it back. For those like Kenan, the choice was grim: die in agony beneath the sun's light or perish at the hands of the terrors that roamed the darkness.
His fingers tightened around the pendant as he let out a weary sigh. The thought of the monsters lurking in the Dark Lands made his chest tighten with dread.
"Number ninety-three, please come in!"
The announcement jolted Kenan from his spiraling thoughts. He looked up, the woman's voice cutting through the haze in his mind. It was his turn.
Dragging himself from the bench, he shuffled toward the door of the small office, every step heavy with exhaustion. The room smelled faintly of disinfectant and ink, the air stifling. He sank into the leather chair opposite a woman who barely glanced at him, her glasses perched precariously on her nose.
"Kenan Marlowe, nineteen years old," she began in a monotone voice, her pen poised over a clipboard. "Please list your symptoms."
"Insomnia," Kenan started, his voice hoarse. "Hypersomnia… unbearable pain… lack of concentration…"
"Brain fog?" she interrupted without looking up.
"Yes."
"Anything else?"
"Bleeding… from my nose, eyes—"
"Bleeding from every orifice. Hemorrhage," she interrupted yet again, pushing her glasses up her nose.
Kenan frowned, the clinical detachment in her tone was rather unsettling.
"Any other symptoms? Anything that might hint at your potential ability?"
Kenan hesitated since nothing seemed to point at the ability he could unlock. "Aside from the headaches and… short-term memory loss, nothing else."
The woman clicked her tongue softly, her pen scratching across the paper. "Your test results indicate you're fine… medically," she said, finally lifting her gaze to scrutinize him. Her sharp eyes took in his ghostly pale skin, the dark circles carved beneath his sunken eyes, and his fragile, almost skeletal frame. He looked as though a gentle breeze could shatter him. But his ghastly appearance didn't surprise her at all, every body that walked through that door looked just like him, anyway.
"How many fingers am I holding up?" she asked, raising her hand.
"Three," Kenan replied dully.
She nodded. "Now count down from seven."
"Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one."
"How many fingers was I holding up before I asked you to count?"
Kenan blinked, his mind scrambling for the answer. He glanced at her hand and stammered, "...Four?"
The woman sighed. "Your condition is deteriorating rapidly. You'll need to leave for the Dark Lands as soon as possible." She paused, her voice softening slightly. "You should have registered as soon as you started noticing this symptoms.
"..." Kenan remained silent. All through the first two months, he had hoped that it would be nothing more than an illness, even an incurable one would've been better than awakening.
"With your symptoms, there's a high chance that you'll become a Mentis transcendent—assuming you survive the awakening process."
Mentis. The word lingered in Kenan's mind like a dark cloud. Transcendents with powers tied to the mind—illusionists, hypnotists, manipulators of thought. They were rare and extraordinary but cursed with one glaring flaw. The Dark Lands bred madness, and Mentis transcendents were its easiest prey. Most never lived to see their full potential, consumed by the madness as soon as they awaken.
Kenan slumped back in his chair, his head pounding. If he could endure the Dark Lands, if he could survive the awakening, the power to create illusions could earn him a better life. But those were monumental "ifs."
"You're permitted to leave immediately," the woman continued, handing him a sleek mechanical bracelet. "This is a biosync. It monitors your vitals, and we'll be notified once your heart stops. Don't take it off. It'll also inform you of your ability once you fully awaken, as well as identifying the level and type of monsters you encounter."
Her gaze softened briefly. "I advise you to leave soon, Kenan Marlowe. You may not survive this week in the Sun City."
As she spoke, a familiar warmth trickled down Kenan's nose. He touched his upper lip, his pale fingers coming away stained with blood.
"Right."