The gate shimmered, a jagged wound in reality spilling faint wisps of mana into the air. What had been logged as an E-Rank had surged mid-raid, mutating into a C. For the rookies caught inside, it had been a death sentence.
For the Hunter Association strike team, it was nothing more than a payday.
An A-Rank stepped through first, silver Association crest stamped across his chestplate. His voice was steady as he gestured his squad forward.
"E spiked to C," he said, calm as if reciting a grocery list. "Mutated mobs, mutated boss. Stragglers first, then the big one. Priorities are mutated cores—leave the scraps for Logistics."
A dozen hunters fell in behind him, black-and-gray Association combat suits nearly identical, badges glowing faintly with rank. B-Ranks carried themselves with casual confidence, weapons humming with mana. The C-Ranks lugged storage cases, ready to pack cores the second the fighting stopped.
"This is hardly a crisis," one B-Rank muttered, brushing pine needles from his visor.
"Overkill pays," the A-Rank replied without looking back. "Association wants the mutated cores intact. That's why we're here."
The strike team moved deeper into the pocket dimension — a forest sprawling beneath a pale false sky. Twisted wolves prowled out of the underbrush, eyes glowing, claws sharper from the spike. They lunged. The hunters answered with flares of steel and mana, cutting them down in under a minute.
Another pack. Another slaughter. The hardest part wasn't the fighting—it was the walking.
The boss was bigger, grotesque with warped muscle, but it didn't last much longer. "Anchor it, burn it down," the A-Rank ordered, and his team obeyed. In less than five minutes, silence reclaimed the clearing.
The A-Rank lowered his blade. "Sweep done. Bag the cores."
C-Ranks crouched over carcasses, knives flashing as they pulled glowing crystals free. The B-Ranks stretched, trading idle remarks as if they'd just jogged a mile. The A-Rank glanced once more at the remains, then flicked his hand. "Good enough. Let's move. Medics will handle the rest."
One by one, the strike team filed out, vanishing through the gate.
Moments later, new figures entered — medics in lighter Association gear, white-trimmed armor marked with the medical cross. They unfolded stretchers and body bags with clinical rhythm, spreading out across the forest floor.
"Bodies first," one said briskly. "Resources after."
Where hunters saw monsters as profit, medics saw the fallen as paperwork. Zip, tag, lift, load. Another day's work.
Near the roots of a pine, one medic knelt. "Got another. Young. Barely eighteen."
The boy's combat suit was intact — standard issue, the kind given to new Academy entrants. A cheap Association sword lay by his side. His trainee badge still hung at his collar.
The medic checked vitals, sighed. "Doesn't even look injured. What do you think it is?"
"Mana overload," his partner replied, opening a body bag with a flick. "Gate was E when he stepped in. Spike juiced it to C, field dumped too much mana into his system. Circuits fried. Happens fast."
The first medic clicked his tongue. "Shame he didn't mutate. He might've jumped ranks."
That got a sharp laugh. "Mutation? Please. That's lottery odds. You've gotta be built different to survive that kind of surge. This one? Just average."
The zipper closed. Straps tightened. Orion Carter was hoisted onto the stretcher, faceless in death, another form for the Association to file.
They carried him back toward the gate.
The moment the stretcher crossed the threshold, the air shuddered. Mana flared violently, instruments crackling, the medics stumbling in shock.
"What the hell?!" one barked. "Surge? Out here?"
The other's eyes widened. "Mutation?"
Before the word settled, the body on the stretcher lurched. Carter's chest heaved, lungs dragging in a desperate gasp. His eyes snapped open.
The flare collapsed as quickly as it came, mana stabilizing into a faint trickle. Too faint for mutation.
"…Not a mutation," one medic whispered. "But close enough to revive him?"
"Impossible," the other muttered, fumbling for tools. "Overload kills. It doesn't reverse itself."
Another medic leaned close, shining a light into his eyes. "Kid, can you hear me? What's your name?"
Light stabbed into his vision. Voices pressed from every direction, hands tugged at his face, his arms, his pulse. His throat burned, but sound scraped out anyway.
"…Orion," he croaked.
The medics froze. "Orion Carter?"
But he wasn't listening. His breath caught, his mind stumbling over the sound of his own voice. He had spoken.
Memories crashed over him — years of decline, relentless and cruel. It had started at puberty, small at first. Shaking hands. Stumbling legs. His body betraying him piece by piece. By sixteen, he was slow and clumsy where he had once been strong. By eighteen, the chair had become his prison. By twenty-two, even that was gone.
The bed. The endless bed.
He had wasted away in that sterile room, nerves shutting down one after another until he couldn't lift a hand, couldn't shift a finger, couldn't form a single word. The world had shrunk to blinks and stares — his only proof he still existed.
And then, in that final year, even his eyes had betrayed him. He had fallen asleep because his lids refused to stay open, terrified he would never wake again.
He had fallen asleep knowing he might never speak another word.
And now—now his name had slipped out. Raw and broken, but real.
His chest shook, his eyes blurred. The shock hit him like a tidal wave.
His voice worked. His body worked.
For the first time in a decade, he was free.
***
Hours later, Orion found himself alone in a quiet Association infirmary.
The medics had prodded, scanned, and questioned him until their curiosity burned out, then finally left him to rest. Now the only sound was the faint hum of monitors and the soft rustle of sheets as he sat at the edge of the bed.
He had walked under their eyes. Stretched. Breathed. Answered. Proved he was alive. But this was the first time since waking that no one was watching.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, staring at his reflection in the dark window opposite. A pale face. A wiry frame. His trainee uniform folded neatly on the chair beside him.
"Orion Carter," he murmured, tasting the name. Not his, not truly. But the memories were now a part of him — an eighteen-year-old, freshly admitted to the Hunter Academy, a natural awakening so weak it was practically a joke.
He closed his eyes, sifting through the fragments Carter had left behind: the Academy's structure, the ranking system, the rules of mana and gates, the whispered tales of Constellations. Enough to understand this world, though not enough to master it.
A low laugh slipped from his throat. "So this is the weakest awakening… and yet even this body feels stronger than mine ever did."
It wasn't real strength. His arms were thin, his stamina shallow, his mana little more than a faint hum under his skin. But compared to the prison he had escaped — the wheelchair, the hospital bed, the silence — this was freedom.
His fingers curled into a fist, slow and deliberate. He could feel the faint current of mana threading through this body's circuits. Weak, but undeniable.
"Mana exists," he whispered, almost reverent. The words lingered on his lips, heavy with awe. "I can feel it."
His pulse quickened. Not obsession, but curiosity sparking like kindling.
"How do I get stronger?" he asked the empty room, the thought closer to a vow than a question.
For the first time in a decade, Orion smiled. The future wasn't something to endure, it was something to chase.
The air shimmered in front of him, and a status screen appeared. Bronze in color, as if it were bleeding into the world itself, words formed across its surface:
"How do you like it?"
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