Darkness swallowed the tunnel, its damp walls slick with moisture. The air was thick—rancid, suffocating, tainted by the stench of decay. Rats scurried in the shadows, their tiny claws scraping against the stone floor. No sane person would set foot here.
Unless they had something to hide.
Two figures stood in the gloom, their voices low but sharp with tension.
"Where is the SEED?" a man whispered, his voice laced with urgency.
Across from him, another figure—Zero—remained eerily still. "You don't need to know," he said, his tone cool, unreadable. "It's already been cultivated."
The first man stiffened. "What do you mean I don't need to know?" His whisper turned to a growl. "Zero, I'm your superior. You report everything to me."
Zero exhaled slowly, his voice carrying the weight of unseen pressures. "Not this time. Orders came from the top."
A pause. The air between them thickened.
"Even though you're my superior, I have my limits too." Zero's voice dropped to a whisper. "The mission was a success. The subject is still in its growing phase. Until it's ready, my orders are clear—keep it hidden, away from all threats, terrestrial or otherwise."
A moment of silence. Then a frustrated sigh.
"You better know what you're doing, Zero."
The darkness swallowed their words, leaving behind only the faint sound of vermin scuttling in the filth.
As the shadows swallowed their voices, somewhere across the city, under the bright morning sun, another battle was being fought—one of fate, legacy, and rejection.
BANG!
The heavy door slammed shut, echoing through the vast training hall. Zane flinched. His fists clenched as he stood at the back of the queue, dreading his turn.
Eyes. Too many eyes. They drilled into him, filled with contempt. His teeth ground together. What have I ever done to any of you? He seethed, his nails digging into his palms. Curse you all. May your stares burn in hell. Just because I'm the son of that bastard, you think you have the right to judge me?
Enough.
Today, I awaken. Today, I prove I'm nothing like him.
As if his anger had summoned trouble, a patrolling guard spotted him and sneered.
"Tch. The villain's spawn is here again. Disgusting." He spat on the floor near Zane's feet.
A sharp pulse of anger shot through Zane. His body trembled. His vision blurred red.
"You dare spit at me?!" he roared.
The guard's sneer deepened. He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough for Zane to hear.
"So what if I do, you evil spawn?"
Zane's breath hitched. His rage ignited.
"I'll kill you." His voice was like steel cracking. His stance lowered, ready to lunge. "And I'll spit on your grave!"
The guard stumbled back, then turned to the crowd, his expression twisting into mock terror.
"Did you hear that? This bastard just threatened my life! He's just like his father! Let's beat him to death!"
"Yeah! Kill him!" someone shouted.
"Seventeen and already making death threats? He's a villain through and through!"
"Like father, like son!"
A sea of voices rose around him. The mob surged forward, their hatred manifesting into fists, ready to strike.
Zane's breath turned ragged. His heart pounded against his ribs. His rage built, years of torment and humiliation crashing down all at once.
"I'VE HAD ENOUGH!" he bellowed. "COME, ALL OF YOU! I'LL KILL EVERY LAST ONE!"
The mob screamed, closing in. Murderous intent thickened the air.
Then—
CLINK! CLINK!
A rhythmic chime cut through the chaos.
A figure stepped forward, staff adorned with bangles that jingled softly.
"Anger is a poison you drink yourself," the monk's voice carried, calm and steady. "Nothing good comes from drowning in it."
His words seeped into Zane's mind, like cool water dousing a flame. The fog of rage lifted. His breath slowed.
For the first time, Zane hesitated. His breath hitched as his eyes flicked toward the monk.
And then he saw them—his eyes.
A deep, knowing gaze, different from all the others. They weren't filled with hate. They weren't judging him.
Grandma… He has the same eyes as Grandma!
Did this monk not know who he was? Or… did he know and simply not care?
The monk chuckled, his voice warm. "Hesitation. Good, good! You're better than you think, kiddo."
He was dressed in a simple saffron keshari, the loose fabric draped over his lean frame. His bold, Asian features stood out against the crowd, rare in this land where white folk made up the majority, with a smaller black population.
The mob bristled.
"You yellow monkey!" a man spat. "You don't even know the crimes of his father!"
The guard jabbed a finger at the monk. "Get lost, or we'll thrash you too. No one cares about a foreigner sticking his nose where it doesn't belong."
The monk wasn't angry. Instead, he chuckled, his bright smile unfazed. "Ah, a foreigner, sure. But 'yellow monkey'? That's a little outdated, don't you think?"
The crowd sneered. The guard's face twisted with rage. "You piece of shit! Before I teach that bastard a lesson, I'll thrash you first!"
He unstrapped the baton from his waist and swung it straight at the monk's head.
BANG!
A deep, metallic gong echoed through the hall.
The air froze.
The monk stood there, completely unharmed, his bald head glistening under the lights.
The guard staggered back three steps, his hands trembling from the force of the rebound. His baton vibrated violently, as if he had just struck solid iron.
The crowd gasped, their eyes wide with shock.
The monk sighed, shaking his head. "Youth these days. Ah!" Then, turning to the guard, he asked with an easy smile, "Is your hand okay?"
The guard winced but quickly straightened up, trying to hide his trembling fingers. "I—I'm fine! Just caught off guard, that's all."
Suddenly, the air shifted.
A thunderous presence approached.
A middle-aged man wearing a long cassock strode toward them, his heavy steps echoing across the hall. He had the build of a warrior, his presence alone enough to make the mob shrink back.
As soon as he spotted the monk, his stern face softened with relief. "Master Yang! Finally, you're here. I've been looking for you everywhere."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
"Wait… isn't that Thor? The Master of Hammer?"
"Yeah! But why is he here to welcome the monk? That guy must be someone big."
"You mean Thor the Hammer? The same guy who stopped that lunatic villain Erazor's killing spree with a single electric arc?"
"I heard he got multiple promotions after taking Erazor down."
The weight of those words sank in.
Realization dawned on them all at once.
The guard's face drained of color. His fingers twitched as if he wanted to take back his actions.
The mob, who had just moments ago cheered him on, now stepped away, their backs turning on him.
Their message was clear:
You're on your own, buddy.
While the crowd marveled at the newcomer, Zane barely spared him a glance. Instead, he sneered inwardly.
Hmph. So this is the infamous Thor the Hammer? Too bad he's just a D-rank Hero. That bastard father of mine was already an elite A-rank before he even fell and became a villain.
His gaze shifted to the mysterious monk standing nearby.
And this monk… Zane narrowed his eyes. What's his Hero ranking? B? No—A. He's far too good for a mere B-rank.
The monk let out a lighthearted chuckle. "Oh, Thor! You're my lifesaver. I have a terrible sense of direction, especially in a city like this, where every street and building looks the same."
Thor—Shelby—rubbed the back of his head, looking embarrassed. "You're making me shy, sir. Please, just call me Shelby. My nickname is way overrated—too grand for a nobody like me. I mean, it's a god's name, for god's sake."
Then, noticing the heavy tension in the room, Shelby frowned. His eyes darted between the gathered people.
"…By the way, sir, is something wrong?"
A long pause followed, thick with suspense.
Finally, the monk simply smiled. "Nah. Just a small spat with a young lad."
Shelby didn't seem convinced. He sighed and gave the monk a meaningful look.
"Sir, you've come a long way from home. Let's not keep you waiting." He gestured for him to follow.
Yang nodded, ready to leave.
But just before stepping away, the monk paused.
"I believe a good lad wouldn't fight over a petty spat in the testing grounds." His voice was calm yet firm. Then, glancing directly at Zane, he added,
"Lad, channel that anger into something useful. If you pass the test, come find me at the Monastery Hall."
With that, the two turned and walked away.
The crowd watched them go.
Then, after barely ten steps, the two figures—vanished.
A hush fell over the hall.
The guard exhaled sharply, as if relieved, then glared at Zane, as though blaming him for everything. His expression was unreadable, but one thing was certain—he had learned his lesson. Without another word, he disappeared into the background.
As for the others?
They avoided Zane like the plague. Trouble followed him wherever he went, and no one wanted to get caught in it.
Zane noticed.
And he smirked.
"Yes, that's right. Keep your distance. You're all too toxic to be anywhere near me."
Then, his gaze flickered toward where the monk had disappeared, and he whispered,
"Monastery Hall… Master Yang, huh? I'll remember your kindness today."
DING!
The sharp chime of a bell echoed through the hall.
A crisp voice rang out:
"Shawn Bracewell! Candidate number 149! Bracewell, it's your turn now."
A petite youth with green hair stepped forward, his movements measured and precise.
On his back, he carried an unknown tool, wrapped tightly in linen cloth.
All eyes turned to him—the first candidate for today's awakening process.
The white mechanical doors slid open with a soft hiss.
Without hesitation, Bracewell stepped inside.
For a brief moment, the room was dead silent.
Then—the doors sealed shut.
A cold voice echoed through the hall.
"Candidate 149: Shawn Bracewell. Awakening process… initiated."
The crowd held its breath.