On the raised podium, Instructor Borin spoke:
"Be prepared. Most of you will die today."
The trainees' breaths hitched.
A girl to Kaisen's left whimpered softly. A few students exchanged fearful glances, and a fresh, chilling dread flickered in their eyes.
Near the front, a cluster of muscular, confident trainees smirked. But that arrogance was just a flimsy shield against what they'd just heard.
Kaisen stood straight, his arms locked behind his back, his face unreadable.
Inside, a dry thought surfaced.
'Yeah, no shit. You're sending us to hell.'
This was the Yearly First Assessment—the day the Institute's coddling ended, and the real-world curriculum began, taught in blood and monster ichor.
For months, the newly Awakened had practiced their abilities in safety—controlled gyms, classroom simulations, and neat little lessons in rift theory. They'd patched wounds on dummy corpses and played hero under fluorescent lights.
That ended today.
Today, they'd enter a live rift. No safeguards. No second chances.
The task was simple: clear the rift under the instructors' distant supervision… or die trying.
It was the perfect sorting mechanism. It decided who could truly defend humanity, who would leave broken and traumatized, and who would never come back at all.
Each batch would be assigned a rift in a Deadzone—a region so twisted by repeated rift activity that the land itself was poisoned, warped into a blight-choked nightmare.
"When I call your name," Borin said, snapping everyone back to the present, "you'll move to your assigned transport. Hesitation will be noted as cowardice."
The roll call began.
As names echoed through the hall, Kaisen stayed perfectly still, blending into the background. His posture was textbook, his presence minimal.
He watched faces tighten, jaws clench, lips move in silent prayers.
The weak prayed to be paired with the strong.
The strong prayed for someone stronger.
He wasn't any different. Being put in a strong batch was his only chance at living through this.
'Whatever gods are listening, just this once… do right by me.'
As the list went on, the social hierarchy revealed itself.
When a high-ranked student's name was called—a B-Rank or higher—the room murmured with relief. Their peers treated them like walking talismans, the embodiment of safety. Blessed with the wills of powerful gods, they were seen as untouchable.
When a low-ranked student was named—a D-Rank or worse—the tone shifted. Pity. Scorn. Resigned laughter. Those chosen by weaker gods were as good as dead.
Then came the first major announcement.
"Batch Seven. Transport Four. Lyra Kess."
The room stilled, then erupted into gasps.
All eyes turned toward a young woman stepping forward with quiet confidence.
An A-Rank.
Lyra Kess—the prodigy of the Kess family. Known for precision combat, strategic brilliance, and a level-headed calm that unsettled her rivals. She didn't meet anyone's eyes, just stared ahead, expression carved from focus.
"Thalen Vire," Borin continued.
The murmurs exploded.
Another A-Rank.
Thalen Vire was Lyra's opposite—loud, magnetic, towering. The golden boy who smiled like he owned the air. He strolled forward with a grin sharp enough to cut through the tension.
The rest of Batch Seven was filled with C-Ranks—solid, capable fighters. Above average. Reliable.
"Two A-Ranks in one batch? That's insane," someone whispered. "They'll clear the rift before the rest of us even start."
Kaisen listened, his hope shrinking into a quiet wish.
Then, Borin's eyes landed on him.
For a brief second, something flickered across the instructor's face—pity, maybe, or irritation.
"Kaisen."
The reaction was instant.
Gasps. Whispers. A ripple of laughter trying to hide its cruelty.
"Wait, that F-Rank is still around?"
"I thought he quit months ago."
"Gods, what a twist. Two A-Ranks and… him."
"Guess someone has to feed the monsters."
Kaisen ignored them. He'd trained for this—how to keep his face calm, his steps measured.
He walked forward, every stare like a slap, but his armor wasn't made of steel. It was made of years of mockery, hardened and dull.
He joined the batch. Thalen's disdain was a physical thing, like heat on the side of his face.
'Survival isn't about popularity,' Kaisen reminded himself.
Minutes later, the batches were loaded into hulking, slate-grey transports.
---
The interior reeked of oil and sweat.
Batch Seven sat in silence, the C-Ranks visibly relaxed in the presence of their twin prodigies. Lyra sat cross-legged, eyes closed in calm detachment.
Thalen, of course, couldn't resist the sound of his own voice.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on Kaisen.
"So," he said, the word dripping smugness, "the legendary F-Rank. Here's the deal. Stay out of the way. Don't slow us down. If you see something with teeth, don't trip over yourself and feed it."
A few C-Ranks laughed—awkwardly, too eager to please him.
"Yeah, F-Rank," another chimed in, puffing up. "We can't carry your corpse too!"
Kaisen said nothing. Just turned to the reinforced window, watching the Institute fade behind them.
He could take their words. He'd taken worse.
If swallowing his pride was the price of survival, he'd pay it a thousand times.
---
A voice crackled through the intercom.
"Entering Deadzone perimeter. Activate personal breathers. Now."
Clicks filled the transport as masks locked into place.
Kaisen fastened his own. The air tasted metallic, sharp enough to sting.
Outside, the world twisted.
The trees were contorted, their bark purple and pulsing faintly. The soil was cracked and blackened, glowing faintly in sick patches. In the distance, shadowy beasts prowled the horizon, shapes that defied logic.
Even the sunlight looked wrong—thin and grey.
After a brutal ride over fractured earth, the transport ground to a halt. The rear hatch hissed open.
The rift loomed before them.
It wasn't a gate or a doorway—just a wound. A vertical tear bleeding violet and black, framed by jagged edges of reality itself.
Dark smoke coiled upward, and deep inside, flashes of red lightning thrashed like veins.
"Move out! Weapons ready!" barked an instructor from behind the safety line.
Batch Seven stepped into the silence of the Deadzone.
Thalen Vire immediately took command, his confidence booming through the comms.
"Relax, everyone. Scanners mark it as a low-ranked rift. Probably just some Gutter Imps or a Corrupted Hound. Stick close, follow me and Lyra—we'll be done before lunch."
He grinned, already walking toward the rift. Lyra followed without a word.
The C-Ranks fell in line.
Kaisen stayed behind them, his cheap training sword heavy in his hand.
One by one, they stepped through.
Crossing the rift felt like being plunged into ice water and dragged through static. The world inverted—light bled into darkness, gravity shifted, and for a heartbeat, Kaisen thought his mind had cracked.
Then his boots hit solid ground.
The rift's interior stretched endlessly. Rocks twisted upward like teeth, and the sky bled crimson. Growls echoed all around them, too many to count.
Thalen was still speaking, pointing toward a ridge.
"Lyra, you take the high ground. The rest form a perimeter around—"
A spray of warmth hit Kaisen's face.
He blinked, his vision flashing red.
When he wiped at his cheek, his glove came away wet.
Thalen Vire was gone.
Where he'd stood was only mist—fine, red, and settling. A single scrap of uniform drifted to the dirt like ash.
Something in the shadows moved.
[ You are now in the presence of a Berserker ]