I didn't sleep that night.
Not because I was scared.
Because I wasn't.
And that terrified me more than anything.
My hands had stopped shaking. My body no longer ached like before. I felt… light. Hungry. Awake.
I kept staring at my palm.
That same palm I'd used to choke the boy yesterday. The same palm where black veins now pulsed under my skin like they had their own heartbeat.
It wasn't magic. It didn't feel holy or clean like the priests described.
This felt wrong.
*Alive*.
Like something had taken root inside me—and it was growing, feeding.
On what, I wasn't sure.
But I liked how it made me feel.
I felt like I mattered.
---
At dawn, I went to the training fields behind the slums. No one came here. Too poor for proper gear. Too hopeless for dreams.
But I came.
I had nothing to lose.
I picked up a broken wooden staff from the ground and began to swing. I didn't know proper stances, not really. Just what I'd seen in old broadcasts and street fights.
But something guided me.
My body moved faster than before. My breath stayed steady. My grip felt perfect.
And each swing sent a faint *pulse* up my arm, like the cursed blood inside was *watching* me. Judging. Testing.
I kept training until my arms went numb.
Until the sun was high.
Until I heard footsteps behind me.
"Oi. Trash."
I didn't turn.
I knew the voice.
Leka.
Gang brat. A little older than me. Smelled like smoke, always picked fights with people who couldn't hit back.
"You deaf now?" he stepped closer. "I heard you sucker-punched two boys yesterday. Thought maybe you grew a pair."
I still didn't turn.
"Maybe I should knock the arrogance out of you."
That did it.
I turned.
Not fast. Not slow.
Just enough for him to see my eyes.
He flinched.
But then he forced a laugh. "What the hell is wrong with your face, freak?"
I didn't answer. I dropped the staff. Let him come.
He pulled out a knife.
Figures.
The first slash came toward my stomach. I didn't even think. My hand shot out and caught his wrist.
Black smoke leaked from my fingers again.
His eyes widened.
"What the—"
He dropped the knife and screamed.
I didn't let go.
I wasn't choking him.
I was *feeding*.
Draining him.
Not his blood. Not his life.
His *strength*.
I could feel it entering me. The energy. The reflexes. The way his legs had moved. The way his hands used to be fast.
All of it was now *mine*.
And he was empty.
He collapsed to the ground, twitching.
I finally let go.
My own fingers were smoking now. Not from heat—but from something older. Something ancient. Something that whispered to me.
> *"More."*
That word again.
More.
More of what?
More enemies?
More pain?
More strength?
---
I didn't know what I had become.
But I knew what I wasn't.
I wasn't weak anymore.
---
Word spread fast in District 9. A few of the gang kids stopped making eye contact when I passed. One ran the other way.
It felt good.
Too good.
I wasn't used to being noticed. I wasn't used to fear.
But something about it tasted sweet.
The first time you're seen—it's like breathing after being buried alive.
---
That night, I went to the mirror again.
My eyes were sharper now. Golden rings inside black sclera. My hair had grown darker. And the veins on my arms glowed faintly, like cracks in burned wood.
"Who the hell are you?" I whispered to the mirror.
The mirror whispered back.
> *"The heir of ruin."*
I stumbled back. "What?!"
But the voice didn't repeat.
The mirror went still again.
---
The next day, a letter arrived at our door.
No, not a letter.
An invitation.
To the Academy.
That didn't make sense.
E-ranks don't get invited.
Only those with gifts. With promise.
My father opened it, read the seal, then dropped it like it had burned his fingers.
"You did something," he hissed. "Did you bribe someone?"
I didn't reply.
He grabbed my shirt. "Don't play dumb. They don't send these to garbage."
I pushed his hand off.
His eyes went wide.
I had never done that before.
He didn't say anything after that.
Neither did I.
---
The next morning, I packed my bag.
It wasn't much. Just rags, an old pair of boots, and a rusted blade I found behind the furnace.
No goodbye.
No one cared.
Not even me.
I left for the Academy alone.
---
The city's upper district was a world I'd never walked in. Clean streets. Floating carriages. People with magic tools and gold emblems on their robes.
They looked at me like I smelled wrong.
Like I didn't belong.
They were right.
But I kept walking.
---
The Academy gates were massive. Black stone. Shaped like wings. Guards in armor that looked like dragon scales stood on both sides.
They stopped me.
"Name?"
"Coker."
The guard raised a brow. Checked the list.
Then frowned.
"You're… the last one invited?"
I didn't answer.
He opened the gate slowly, as if unsure.
"Try not to die," he muttered. "Half the newbloods don't last the month."
---
Inside, the courtyard was massive. Statues of heroes lined the walls. A fountain floated in the center—literally hovered midair with blue fire beneath it.
Dozens of students were already gathered. Laughing. Talking. Comparing skills.
I stood alone.
Some glanced at me.
One girl stared longer than the rest.
She had silver hair. Pale skin. A sword on her back.
She didn't smile.
She didn't look away.
Then she walked toward me.
Just like that.
No hesitation.
She stopped a few feet away.
"You don't smell like the others," she said.
"What do I smell like?"
"Rot," she said.
Then she smirked. "I like it."
Before I could reply, a bell rang.
Everyone turned toward the large staircase.
A voice echoed from the speakers.
> "Newbloods. Welcome to your first day. Today… you bleed."
Everyone grew quiet.
> "You will fight. You will fall. And if you survive, you will rise."
Then the ground beneath us began to shift.
Stone tiles moved. Forming circles. Arenas.
I was already stepping forward.
The voice came again in my head.
> *"Bleed first. Or be forgotten."*
I stepped into the ring.
My fingers tingled.
And for the first time…
I wanted to fight.
Not to win.
But to *devour*.