The Hunters Association tower didn't just dominate the skyline; it seemed to absorb the very light around it, a monolithic spear of glass and steel piercing the morning sky.
I'd walked past its shadow countless times, a nameless face in the crowd, always looking up at its impossible height with a dull ache of longing.
Today, I didn't look up. Today, I walked toward its entrance, and the shadow it cast felt like a cloak settling on my shoulders.
I adjusted the collar of my black hoodie, a flimsy shield against the imposing grandeur, and pushed through the doors.
The lobby was a cathedral of power. Polished marble floors gleamed underfoot, reflecting the light from massive digital screens that covered the walls.
They flashed with highlights of famous dungeon dives, interviews with smiling, armored celebrities, and scrolling bulletins of high-rank quests.
The air hummed with low conversation and the confident stride of boots.
Hunters were everywhere. Some were encased in gleaming, custom-fitted armor that whispered of wealth and high-level raids.
Others wore practical, scarred combat gear that spoke of experience.
I moved through them, an unarmed ghost in a black hoodie, my footsteps silent on the plush carpet.
The woman behind the central registration desk was as polished and imposing as the building itself.
Her black blazer was razor-sharp, her dark hair pulled into a severe bun.
She looked up as I approached, her gaze cool and assessing, missing nothing.
"Name?" Her tone was curt, efficient. A woman who valued time above all else.
"Allen Quovar." I slid my ID across the smooth obsidian surface of the counter.
Her eyes flicked to her screen, fingers flying across a holographic keyboard.
I could see the faint reflection of data scrolling in her pupils.
There was a slight, almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes as she read.
Age: Twenty. Awakening: Recent.
"You're here for registration. Follow the hallway to your right. Assessment Room 3."
She handed back my ID, her expression giving nothing away. No judgment, no curiosity. Just procedure.
I followed the hallway, the noise of the lobby fading behind me.
The air changed, smelling faintly of ozone and sterilized metal, the scent of power being measured and cataloged.
The doors were heavy, soundproofed, each labeled with a bold, white number.
Room 3 hissed open as I approached. Inside was a stark, white chamber, blindingly bright.
A man in a crisp, gray technician's uniform stood waiting, a clipboard in one hand and a wand-like scanner in the other.
His face was a mask of professional neutrality.
"Allen Quovar?"
"Yes."
"Step forward, please. Awakening verification first."
I stepped onto a circular platform set into the floor.
The technician raised his scanner. It hummed to life, emitting a soft, blue light that washed over me from head to toe.
It felt like a cool breeze, raising the hairs on my arms.
"Ability, Lightning," he muttered, confirming the data on his clipboard. He didn't look up at me. "Late bloomer. Age twenty."
The words were just facts to him. Data points.
But to me, they were the story of my failure, now suddenly and inexplicably rewritten.
He gestured with his clipboard toward a reinforced door on the far wall.
"Combat assessment is next. You'll face a series of simulated entities. The goal is to demonstrate control and tactical acumen. Not raw power." His tone suggested that raw power was probably all someone like me had.
I just nodded and pushed the door open.
The chamber beyond was vast and dark, the walls and ceiling a seamless, matte black that seemed to swallow the light.
The air was still and cold. A voice, synthesized and genderless, crackled from an unseen speaker.
"Ready when you are, Allen. Engage when the light turns green."
I took a deep, steadying breath.
This was it. The moment of truth.
I closed my eyes for a second, reaching inward.
The hum was there, a boundless ocean of energy waiting for my command.
It wasn't a struggle to draw on it; it was like deciding to breathe.
I opened my eyes. Tiny, eager arcs of blue lightning sparked to life around my clenched fists, crackling in the oppressive silence, casting jumping, sharp shadows around the room.
The light turned green.
The dark walls shimmered, and the air distorted.
Three figures materialized from the gloom, holographic goblins, their forms glitching slightly at the edges, but their snarls and the menace in their glowing red eyes felt utterly real.
They charged, crude clubs raised.
Time didn't slow down. It simply became clear.
I didn't think. I moved.
My body was a live wire. I sidestepped the first lunging strike, the club whistling past my ear.
My hand shot out, not with a wild blast, but with a focused, precise tendril of lightning.
It struck the goblin's chest with a sound like tearing silk, and the creature vanished in a shower of dissolving pixels.
Another was on my left. I dropped, sweeping its legs out from under it with a crackle of energy.
Before it could hit the ground, a second, sharper bolt from my fingertips erased it from existence.
The third came from behind. I spun, the motion fluid, my body thrumming with power.
I didn't even need to strike. I simply raised a palm, and a web of lightning erupted, enveloping the creature, overloading its simulation until it fizzed and died.
It was over in seconds. The room was silent again, save for the faint sizzle of ozone and the sound of my own breathing.
It hadn't been a fight. It had been a demonstration. An announcement.
The intercom buzzed.
"Assessment complete. Report to the registration desk for your ID."
I walked out of the chamber. The technician in the white room looked up from his clipboard.
His neutral mask had slipped. His eyes were wide, his mouth slightly agape.
He gave me a small, jerky nod as I passed.
It wasn't just respect I saw in his eyes. It was a flicker of fear.
Back at the registration desk, the severe woman was waiting.
She held a single, sleek black card between her perfectly manicured fingers.
It was matte, with a simple silver emblem etched into its surface.
She didn't just hand it to me; she presented it.
"Congratulations, Mr. Quovar," she said. Her voice was different. Softer. There was a new, calculating light in her piercing gaze. "You're officially a registered Hunter now."
I took the card. It was cool and surprisingly heavy in my hand.
This small piece of plastic was a key. A passport. It was proof.
"Thank you," I said, my voice steady.
I slid the card into my pocket, feeling its weight against my thigh.
It felt like an anchor, finally tethering me to something real.
I wasn't a bystander anymore.
The thought was a bolt of lightning all its own, bright and terrifying and glorious.
I turned and walked back through the cathedral lobby, and this time, my footsteps felt like they belonged.