It was the last day of school, and the students were filled with excitement and anticipation for the future — soon, they were going to enter Military School.
But even on the last day, a certain student with a lean build, curly black hair, and worn-down specs wrapped in tape was thrown to the floor.
"You level 1 piece of crap. When are you going to learn your place?"
The student lying on the ground was none other than Quinn Talen.
A small crowd formed. No one stepped in. One girl who had tried to help muttered, "Ugh, why did I even bother? I thought he was a Level 2 ability user."
The rest of the students giggled, at his pathetic state.
Quinn got up quietly, gathered his things, and headed back to his apartment.
The TV was on, playing the news — something about the rising Dalki–human tensions — but to him, it was just another background noise, something to fill the silence.
Quinn was an orphan. His parents fought in the First Dalki War but never returned. The apartment he lived in was funded by the government, and the allowance he received barely covered the basics.
When he was still a small boy, a man from the military came to his door and handed him the only thing his parents had left behind — a strange crimson book with fang-like symbols on the cover. At first, Quinn had been excited. Maybe it was an ability book. But that hope quickly vanished when he found out he couldn't even open it.
He sat at his desk and looked at the strange book again.
"Test 112. Hydrochloric acid. Let's see how it goes."
He slowly poured the liquid from the test tube onto the book. Nothing. No reaction.
He poured the rest, but still — nothing happened. He examined the book carefully and jotted down the results in his notebook. No damage. No marks. Nothing changed.
Frustrated, he threw it at the wall.
"My damn fate... Why did I ever think it would change?" he muttered, staring at the book.
Over the years, he tried dozens of experiments — even burning it. Still, the book remained unchanged.
Diverting his attention, He picked up the lens from his broken specs — it had popped out during the bullying — and pressed it back into the frame. Luckily, it stayed.
Lying on his bed, Quinn felt a lump in his throat with tears filling his eys
"Useless... everything about me, I should have never been born." he thought.
The next morning, he got up early, packed all his things — what little he had — and the last item left was the crimson book. He hesitated, sighed, then placed it in the bag.
"I guess this is your destiny too... to be passed down, generation after generation," he muttered.
A loud knock on the door startled him. He dashed over and opened it.
Standing outside was a large, bald man in a black military uniform, his chest covered in medals. The name stitched above his chest read: Sergeant Griff.
"Boy, time to vacate your room. The vehicle's been waiting outside for five minutes."
"It's time for you to head to Military School," Griff said.