The gates had been around for years. Long enough that they were in our high school history books, their original explorers and scientists buried beneath the ground, just another lesson to memorize before a test.
When they first appeared, people lost their minds. Mass panic, global hysteria—no one knew what the hell they were or where they led. They ripped into existence without warning, jagged openings in space showing up all over the world, flashing across news broadcasts on repeat.
And, of course, human curiosity meant people went inside.
Most never came out. The few who did? They weren't really there anymore. Their bodies made it back, but their minds had shattered. They were shipped off to asylums, tucked away behind padded walls, babbling about monsters—creatures pulled straight from nightmares. Things with too many eyes. Too many teeth. Darkness that moved like it was alive.
At first, no one believed them. Until the monsters stopped waiting for invitations.
It started in a small American town. We covered the incident in high school during our gate and dungeon safety unit—a class that was supposed to teach us how to avoid ending up dead. Or worse.
Back then, no one had officially awakened yet. So when a loudmouth conspiracy nut started blaming the gates on the government—some kind of mind-control stunt, he claimed—people either laughed or ignored him. Then, one finally opened in his town.
He dove in headfirst, all confidence and swagger. Ten minutes later, he stumbled back out—panting, sweating, dripping blood.
And he wasn't alone.
A creature emerged behind him, towering over his trembling frame. An overgrown praying mantis, but worse—bigger, sharper, hungrier.
For weeks, no one believed the footage. Even with videos, even with news reports, people convinced themselves it was some elaborate hoax. A prank. A scam.
Until the mantis showed up in the next town. With friends.
The American military was deployed. It took months to put the creatures down, months to evacuate and quarantine the town before the gate finally snapped shut. By then, more gates had begun appearing all over the world. There was no pattern. No logic. Scientists tried to make sense of them, but nothing stuck.
So, they did the only thing they could.
They told people to stay the hell out.
Of course, not everyone listened.
Even after the government locked down known gates, reports of strange noises and sightings kept trickling in. For years, people lived in fear, waiting for the next attack. No one had a solution. No one had a plan.
Then, the first person awakened.
It happened in Vietnam. A girl was walking to school when her body suddenly seized up, light flaring from her eyes. Witnesses said she collapsed, heat radiating from her skin until no one could touch her. She stayed like that for five minutes—longer than most awakenings take—until the glow faded, her body relaxed, and a mark appeared on her collarbone.
The first of three possible marks, later classified as the paths of the awakened.
Elementalists had a marking like a compass, each point representing an element—fire, earth, air, water. Some awakened with dual affinities. A rare few had light or shadow. The class was considered weak at first—until an elementalist bonded with a sprite inside a dungeon. A partner. Something not even mages could control.
Mages had a different marking, one resembling a magic circle, filled with ancient runes no scientist or researcher could decipher. Unlike elementalists, mages could wield all elements, though never as finely attuned. They became healers, fighters, and strategists inside dungeons.
Then there were fighters. The simplest of the three. Their mark? Two crossed daggers, their orientations unique to each person. Fighters relied on pure strength, endurance, and skill—swords, bows, stealth tactics. They were the first to charge in, the last to retreat.
I never paid much attention to the classifications. Especially after I awakened.
As an elemental, fighters didn't interest me. None of it did. I never cared about getting certified as a hunter, never wanted to join a guild like my classmates. They couldn't wait to throw themselves into dungeons, dreaming of riches and glory.
Me? I wanted nothing to do with it.
I knew the stats. A hunter who did well in a dungeon could be set for life. A hunter who didn't could lose it.
After high school, most of my classmates got their certifications. Some joined small guilds. The test wasn't even hard—just a ranking assessment to see what level of gate you were allowed to enter. Low ranks were turned away from higher-level dungeons to prevent unnecessary deaths. Not that it always worked.
Dungeons were valuable because of what they held inside. Hunters fought for materials, rare loot, things that made braving the danger worth it. So, guilds formed. If you joined one, you were guaranteed entry into gates every month. The higher your rank, the better your odds.
Not everyone chose to be a hunter, though.
Awakened mages became scientists or doctors. Elementalists found work as firefighters, marine biologists, geologists. Fighters opened gyms or taught combat classes. And then there were those whose awakened abilities were so weak, so pathetic, they might as well have been normal.
People like me.
Sure, I never needed an umbrella in the rain. I retained water better than most. I felt more comfortable near fountains or on stormy days.
But beyond that?
I was just ordinary. And I was more than happy to keep it that way.
The last thing I wanted was to get caught up in gates, dungeons, or any of it.
I glanced down at my palm. A single water droplet hovered above my skin, pulled from my own body. It should've been fascinating—should've meant something.
Instead, it turned my stomach.
Someone brushed past me, jostling my shoulder. The droplet broke apart.
I sucked in a sharp breath, clutching my books tighter as I stumbled forward. The crosswalk light flashed white.
I hurried on, eyes forward, jaw tight.
I couldn't be late for work.