Azrael entered quietly, doing his best not to attract attention. He was likely the last to arrive before the introductions began.
Fortunately, most of the young men and women were already caught up in conversation and paid him little mind.
The first thing that came to his attention was the pristine condition of the place. It was well lit, not like the places he had grown accustomed to reside. The air was pleasant to the lungs, just like the one outside, without any hint of dust or harmful particles.
His dark eyes narrowed as he scanned the people gathered.
'Just like I suspected,' he thought, expression unreadable.
Nearly every Chosen present was beautiful—fair-skinned and with well-developed bodies. Part of it was due to the system, the rest from the intense training they'd gone through. Their physiques were well-defined, muscular, with little fat. That much was obvious, even beneath the expensive attire some wore.
'Still, none can even hold a candle to Seyra, I guess that is the difference between power.'
He stepped forward, merging into the crowd. Was he supposed to make allies? Maybe. It could help in the future. But he'd never been the type to get along easily with others.
Case in point: even during gathering missions with literal criminals, they had found it unpleasant to interact with him, so what would these privileged young Chosen possibly feel?
Unsure if engaging in conversation was worth it, he opted instead to observe them. A few things stood out.
First, groups were already forming divided by the most damning and influential factor in human society: wealth.
There were the obviously rich, their clothes practically screaming privilege. Azrael had never seen people wear actual gold and silver on their clothing before.
Without question, they were the most influential group in the gathering. And it wasn't just their money that made them threatening, they carried power too. Coming from well-off families meant they'd received countless lessons, likely giving them an edge.
'Seyra said this military school rivals the Elite one built for the great clans,' he recalled. 'So what are they doing here? Aren't they supposed to be attending the one with the highest status?'
Then, it clicked. 'If my instinct is right, they're not here by choice. They've probably been rejected from the Elite school. This one might've been their only option left.'
A dark smile crept upon his face, suddenly he didn't see them as that much of a threat anymore.
Next were the "normal-looking" ones. They didn't wear anything flashy and clearly came from middle or modest backgrounds. Azrael himself probably fell into this group. Seyra had provided him with decent enough clothes, after all.
Lastly, there were the loners. Not separated by wealth—but by a clear disinterest in mingling with their brothers and sisters.
'Wait, aren't I one of them right now?'
He shook his head.
'Whatever. If I need to make friends, I can do it later.'
With that decided, he waited for the ceremony to begin.
Luckily, he didn't need to wait long as the faint echo of footsteps resonated in the whole hall.
The footsteps themselves weren't extraordinary, yet it forced the chatter that was going on to silence in an instant.
An older gentleman appeared on stage, tall, with white hair and a short beard to match. What caught Azrael's attention most was the large scar running from the man's lip to his right eye, completely white.
'He is partially blind,' Azrael analyzed.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, young ones. It's always an honor to stand before the future hope of mankind,"
His one good eye scanned the Chosen—not just to put them on edge, but likely using the skill [Inspect] to gauge their stats.
Azrael wasn't worried. Seyra had told him that when [Inspect] was used on humans, only their Purity Rank would show. No one would know that he had both a Corruption and Purity Rank.
Just as he suspected, the man didn't pay him any special attention. His gaze moved briefly from one Chosen to the next.
When he finished, a warm smile crossed his face. "My name is Arthur Gray, and I am the principal of this military school. It's good to meet you all."
'Powerful,' Azrael noted. Despite the principal's calm demeanor, Azrael could tell this man could kill everyone here with a flick of his finger.
He scanned the faces of the other Chosen. Many of them were wide-eyed with awe, joy, and respect. Understandable. This was likely the strongest human they'd ever seen.
But one of them didn't share that admiration. Azrael's gaze darkened. It wasn't out of disrespect to the old man—it was toward humanity itself.
The man before them was a true powerhouse in his own right.
And yet, this man that could kill every young person gathered here with a flick… would be powerless against it.
When Judgment Day comes, he as well as every human in existence would be powerless under the rule of the ultimate evil… ultimate power.
Arthur was powerful indeed, but he hadn't even reached one tenth of the power Azrael desired.
"I can see it in your eyes," Arthur chimed, "That hunger, that drive the desire to climb higher."
He chuckled, "That is a good look all of you have."
The words themselves weren't particularly profound. But coming from him, they sparked something in the Chosen. Their eyes lit up with renewed determination.
"Still," he added, cutting through the hopeful mood like a blade through butter, "don't get ahead of yourselves just because you were Chosen. I have no doubt many of you are already dreaming of challenging the moon—but you are far from ready."
His eye darkened, the smile draining from his face, "At the end of the day, you're still just Marked. You haven't even cleared a Rift with a Feral Danger Level. In other words, you have potential, but not proof of power."
He paused, staring at the faces of the Chosen — the ones that were offended by his words, the ones that radiated fear, and the ones that remained unfazed.
'Curious,' the man mused, continuing.
"In these cursed times, where humanity struggles against the Corruption you are meant to be our hope. But the sad reality is most of you will perish before reaching the level where you can make a true difference."
The smile on his face returned.
"But fear not," he said, raising one palm, five fingers extended.
"Because our military school rivals the Elite one made for the great clans, we have a higher survival rate than most: a staggering five percent!"
Silence descended into the room, the Chosen realizing how little of a chance they had to succeed.
But the man didn't let them linger in doubt. His voice boomed once more through the hall,
"Welcome to the Moon Breakers—where legends are born."