The rain had thinned to a drizzle by the time Aston stumbled out of the alley.
His body screamed with every step, breath burning, ribs raw. The streets stretched like veins of filth and shadow — puddles reflecting dull lantern light, rats darting between piles of trash.
He leaned against the wall for balance, forcing one leg in front of the other. No one stopped him. Here, a bleeding boy was just another sight in the Outer District.
By the time he reached the crumbling apartment he somehow knew as home, his arms shook from exhaustion. The door stuck, then gave way with a groan.
Inside, the room was small — one window, a straw mattress, a crooked table. The smell of damp wood and rust filled the air.
Aston sank onto the mattress and sat still, trying to catch his breath. The sound of dripping water echoed somewhere behind the walls. For the first time since waking, he let the weight of it all settle — the new body, the strange world, the stolen life.
He closed his eyes, flashes of memory bleeding through — the boy's short, grim life; the endless hunger; the school that mocked the weak. And the date burned into his mind- One day left for him to reach 18 years old,- the day of the Awakening Ceremony.
....
Morning came gray and heavy.
Aston woke to the sound of rainwater dripping through the cracks in the ceiling. The slums never slept; they only changed shape between night and day.
He pushed himself up, every muscle aching. The air smelled of smoke and rot. Outside the window, the streets were already moving — people shouting, vendors arguing, children running barefoot through puddles. Life scraped by, one coin, one breath at a time.
The Outer District stretched out like a wound that refused to heal. Broken houses stacked on one another, bridges of rusted metal, gutters choked with trash. The further you went in, the less the sunlight reached.
He stepped outside, pulling his jacket tight. The road was mud and ash, the ground slick beneath his boots. Aston walked in silence, hands shoved deep in his pockets, following the cracked stone road that led toward the Outer District Martial School.
A few figures walked ahead of him — thin, ragged boys and girls about his age, each with the same hollow eyes and cautious gait. Their uniforms were mismatched scraps of gray cloth, patched too many times to count.
Aston kept his distance. The boy whose body he now wore hadn't had friends. Here, friendship was a luxury — another thing the poor couldn't afford.
The road climbed a short hill before leveling out into the open square where the school stood. The building loomed like a ruin — walls cracked, roof half-collapsed, its gate leaning on one hinge.
Aston stared at it for a long moment.
Inside the courtyard, maybe thirty students had gathered. Thirty — out of thousands who lived in the slums. The rest were too busy scavenging, fighting, or dying.
He could feel their eyes on him as he entered — suspicion, indifference, pity. No one spoke. Everyone here understood that todays ceremony would decide who kept living and who faded back into the mud.
Aston took his place among the others. A few students whispered to one another, their voices sharp and low — trades, rumors, maybe desperate hopes of passing the ceremony.
The teacher stood in front of them, his coat fluttering in the wind. His voice was steady, but tired — the kind of voice that had delivered this same speech too many times.
"Listen well," he said. "Those who awaken today will be transferred to the Middle District for training. If your talent is good enough, you'll join the Hunter Corps, guilds or martial families. If not, there's still work — guards, clerks, traders. Life will change for you."
He paused, gaze sweeping over the gathered faces.
"And if you fail to awaken…"
The silence that followed said the rest.
Aston stood near the back, hands clenched inside his pockets. Around him, the others shifted uneasily, some whispering prayers, others just staring at the ground. The altar looked ancient — gray stone veined with faint blue light that pulsed like a heartbeat.
The teacher continued. "Most awaken with Common Cards. Some with Uncommon or Rare. Those are blessings enough. Don't dream of higher ranks. Power like that doesn't come from luck — it comes from gods who don't look our way."
Aston's jaw tightened. The boy's memories told him the truth — in the Outer District, almost everyone who awakened did so with Common Cards. Most were useless for combat: cleaning, repair, light crafting. The kind of power that kept people alive but never let them rise.
That's why the slums stayed the same.
That's why beasts still prowled the walls.
The Outer District bordered the wilderness — broken land crawling with feral creatures that slipped through the cracks at night. Every few weeks, one made it past the guards. When that happened, people died.
"Form a line," the teacher ordered. "Touch the altar when your name is called."
One by one, the students stepped forward. The process was simple — touch the stone, close your eyes, and wait for a sign. Some stones glowed faintly, signaling an awakening. Most stayed dull.
A boy went first. The stone flashed pale gray, then dimmed. The teacher nodded. "Common rank."
The boy's shoulders sagged with relief anyway. He had awakened. He would live.
The next student failed. Then another. Then another.
Aston watched in silence as names were called, one after another. The air grew heavier with each dull result. Some cried quietly; others stood still, eyes hollow.
Finally, his name came.
"Aston Cavill."
He stepped forward. The ground seemed to tilt beneath him. His heart hammered once, twice. He raised his hand and pressed it against the stone.
A pulse moved through him — sharp, sudden, alive. Light flared beneath his palm, white at first, then deepening to blue. His body stiffened.
Then the stone flashed once, and words shimmered faintly above it — pale letters forming from the light.
[Common Card: Holy Priest]
The glow faded. Silence followed.
Aston stood there, frozen. His fingers curled into a fist before he forced them to unclench. A bitter laugh almost escaped his throat, but he swallowed it down.
A Common Card.Of all things — Holy Priest.
The teacher scribbled his result without much interest. "Common. Support class." He didn't even look up. "Next."
Aston stepped aside mechanically, mind spinning.
Cards were divided into two broad paths: Combat and Support. Combat cards — Warrior, Paladin, Mage — defined the world's rulers. Mages especially stood at the top; those chosen by the divine were guaranteed power, a place in the Middle District, and often sponsorship from noble families.
Support cards were another story. Healers, Archers, Priests — all considered secondary. Useful only when attached to stronger teams.
And the Priest? The lowest of them all.
Even healers had permanent skills. Priests, on the other hand, relied on divine prayers — temporary blessings granted only if a god chose to answer. Most never did. Without that favor, a priest was just another mouth to feed.
Aston's jaw clenched. "Of all the things…" he muttered under his breath.
He felt the weak hum of the card settle into his soul, the spiritual link forming like a dim spark. There was no surge of strength, no divine whisper, no transformation — only emptiness.
He cursed inwardly. So this was his second life. A dying man on Earth, now reborn only to be branded useless again.
As the next student approached the altar, the teacher's voice droned in the background, calling names, marking results. But Aston barely heard it.
....
When the last student stepped away from the crystal, the teacher clapped his hands once, the sound sharp in the silent hall.
"That concludes the Awakening," he said, his voice rough from years of repetition. "Now— for those who've received your first card, it's time to form your divine contract."
He motioned to the students still standing before the altar. "Summon your cards. Offer a drop of blood. If the gods are listening… you'll know."
Aston looked around.
Out of nearly forty students, only thirteen stood. The rest watched from the back, hollow-eyed and silent. Failure meant another year of waiting — or worse, a lifetime in the slums.
Of the thirteen, eleven bore combat sigils glowing faintly on their wrists — warriors, paladins, one lucky mage. Two bore the pale marks of support.
Aston was one of them.
He exhaled slowly and extended his hand. With a thought, light flickered at his palm — the card materialized in a faint shimmer, simple and unadorned. [Holy Priest – Common]. The golden border looked faded, as if even the heavens had grown tired of blessing such a title.
"Now," the teacher said, his voice echoing through the hall, "those who have awakened, summon your cards. Offer your blood and await your call. If a god answers, your path begins."
The students trembled with a mix of fear and hope. For most, this moment decided everything — where they would live, how long they would live, and whether the world would ever remember their names.
Cards shimmered into existence, flickering with faint light — some dull, some brilliant.
Aston's own appeared in his hand, the glow almost reluctant. [Holy Priest – Common]. The letters might as well have been a curse.
He bit the inside of his thumb and let a single drop of blood fall onto its surface. The crimson bead sank into the parchment-like glow, disappearing without a trace.
Around him, the others began to react.
The first was a tall boy with cropped black hair and sharp eyes — Ryon Vale, one of the stronger students. His card flared with violent blue light.
"Ha!" he shouted, half in disbelief, half in triumph. "The God of Thunder has chosen me!"
Lightning cracked around his arm, dancing across his skin like living veins. His laughter echoed through the hall as students stepped back, shielding their eyes.
The teacher nodded approvingly. "Combat type — Mage-- uncommon, Thunder Class. Excellent."
Another scream drew attention — this one from a red-haired girl trembling as her card blazed gold. "T-The God of Strength! I— I can feel him!" she cried.
The ground vibrated slightly beneath her feet, dust falling from the rafters.
"Warrior Class," the teacher murmured, his tone impressed.
One by one, the room filled with divine light — white, blue, red, violet. Names of gods were whispered, shouted, cried out in joy.
"The Goddess of Fire has accepted me!"
"The Lord of Blades— he's watching me!"
"I… I can hear her voice! The Moon Mother!"
The weak wept, the bold roared. The air thrummed with power — with promise.
Aston stood still among them.
His card stayed dim, the faint gold glow fading into gray. The blood he'd offered vanished as if swallowed by the void. No whisper came. No warmth. Nothing.
The teacher glanced his way briefly, pity flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the others. "Good! Maintain focus — those chosen, stabilize your marks! Feel the divine thread anchoring your soul!"
Aston said nothing. He could almost laugh.
then---
The light around him flickered. Not bright — but sharp. Cold.A thin tremor ran through the floor as Aston's card gave off a single, pulsing hum — like a heartbeat echoing through metal.
He froze. The noise wasn't divine. It was… mechanical.
A whisper rose in his mind — faint, synthetic, yet threaded with something ancient.
[Detected that the Host has initiated a Divine Contract.][Searching for compatible link…][Warning: No compatible deity found.][Initializing fallback protocol…][System "Divine Wheel" has recognized Host authority.]
[Contract Initiated]
Aston's breath hitched.
The world seemed to dim around him — sound fading, light warping. He saw nothing, yet somehow everything; endless wheels turning in the dark, each inscribed with patterns that bled into one another like living runes.
A voice — not quite male, not quite female — echoed faintly through the void.
[Welcome, Bearer of the Divine Wheel.][Initializing synchronization: 3%... 7%... 15%...].....
"Seriously… a system?" he whispered under his breath, voice trembling between disbelief and awe.
Aston stared at the faint blue window flickering before his eyes. The letters weren't handwritten or divine — they were clean, digital, mechanical. Like something out of the games and web novels he used to read back on Earth.
He looked down at the card still hovering over his palm — the faint black sigil on its surface pulsing softly, like a heartbeat.
The teacher turned toward him again, suspicion flickering across his face. "You," he said curtly. "What happened back there?"
Dozens of eyes turned to him. Some in awe, most in confusion. A few in envy.
Aston blinked hard, steadying his breath. The blue window still hovered faintly before his vision—lines of glowing text waiting to be read.
[Synchronization complete.]
Aston met his eyes calmly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips."Nothing, sir,"...
He looked down, forcing his tone calm. "I… was chosen," he said finally.
The teacher's brow furrowed. "Chosen? By which god?"
Aston hesitated for only a second before answering, voice low and measured."A minor one," he said. "The… God of Light's Servant. I think his name was Elyon. The voice wasn't clear."
That name came to him instinctively, almost too easily — maybe borrowed from one of the fantasy novels he used to read.
The teacher seemed to relax slightly, nodding. "A lesser deity then. Hmph. You're fortunate to have received a response at all, even from a small god."
Around him, a few students chuckled under their breath."A priest, huh?" one muttered."Figures he'd get some no-name spirit.""Better than nothing, I guess."
The teacher clapped his hands. "That concludes the ceremony! Those who awakened, report your classifications to the guild representative tomorrow. If you were chosen by a god you now have the right to register as a 'Chosen One' or apply for training in the Middle District."
The students erupted in chatter and excitement. Some celebrated, others cried.
Aston stood in silence, still staring at the faint mark left on his card. It pulsed once, softly — like a sleeping heart.