The first thing Aarav felt was cold.
Not the sharp bite of winter, but the kind of chill that seeped into bones and refused to leave—like the aftermath of fear. His body lay sprawled against shattered stone, lungs burning as though he had run for miles without air.
His vision swam.
Above him, the sky was no longer empty. Dark silhouettes moved against the light—armored figures, heavy boots crunching over debris, weapons humming with restrained power.
"Found another one!"
A voice echoed sharply.
Aarav tried to move. His fingers twitched, but his arm refused to respond. A deep, nauseating weakness flooded his limbs, as if something essential had been scraped out of him and never returned.
Soul backlash, a distant thought whispered.
The Sigil on his arm was quiet now. Too quiet.
A pair of boots stopped inches from his head. Someone crouched down, blocking the sun. Aarav forced his eyes to focus.
A woman stared back at him through a reinforced visor. Her armor was matte black, etched with faint blue lines that pulsed softly—technology far beyond anything from his old world. A long rifle rested easily in her hands, its barrel still warm.
Her gaze flicked to the mangled corpse nearby.
"What in the hell killed that thing?" she muttered.
Another voice replied, deeper, cautious. "No energy signatures from heavy weapons. No explosives."
A pause.
Then: "Check the kid."
Rough hands turned him onto his back. Aarav hissed as pain flared through his chest, every muscle protesting.
"He's alive," someone said. "Barely."
The woman leaned closer, her visor retracting with a soft hiss. She was older than him, maybe late twenties, with sharp eyes and a scar running along her jawline.
"Hey," she said firmly. "Kid. Can you hear me?"
Aarav swallowed, throat dry. "Y…yeah."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Name?"
"Aarav… Kael."
Something flickered across her expression—recognition, maybe pity.
"No Awakening registry," she said aloud.
"Lower sector."
That single sentence told him everything about his position in this world.
Disposable.
They lifted him onto a stretcher, movements efficient but not gentle. As they carried him away, Aarav caught one last glimpse of the monster's corpse—its skull caved in, body twisted unnaturally.
I did that.
The realization should have thrilled him.
Instead, it terrified him.
He drifted in and out of consciousness.
Sirens wailed constantly in the distance, layered with the low hum of machinery and the occasional thunderous boom—artillery fire, maybe. Each time his eyes fluttered open, he saw steel walls, medical tents, wounded people.
Teenagers.
Too many teenagers.
Some were wrapped in glowing bandages.
Others stared blankly at nothing, eyes hollow. A few sobbed quietly, hands trembling.
This was not a heroic world.
This was a slaughterhouse barely holding together.
Aarav's stretcher came to a stop inside a large medical bay carved into the base of the city wall. Medics swarmed him, scanning his body, injecting something cold into his arm.
"Vitals stabilizing."
"No visible mutations."
"Run an Awakening scan."
Aarav tensed.
A device hovered above his chest, emitting a faint pulse of light. For a brief moment, he felt the Sigil stir—an instinctive warning, like a predator lifting its head.
[External scan detected.]
[Concealment active.]
The light faded.
The medic frowned. "Nothing. No talent."
"Then how did he survive?" someone asked.
The scarred woman crossed her arms.
"Luck," she said flatly. "Or the monster was already dying."
Aarav forced himself to relax.
Good, he thought. Stay hidden.
They moved him to a recovery cot near the edge of the tent. As the medics dispersed, exhaustion finally dragged him under.
When he woke again, the tent was quieter.
The distant sounds of battle had faded, replaced by a heavy, uneasy silence. The lights overhead glowed dimly, conserving power.
Aarav stared at the ceiling, memories replaying themselves over and over—the surge of strength, the monster's skull collapsing, the intoxicating rage.
Rakshasa Aspect.
The words surfaced unbidden.
He slowly turned his head and looked down at his left arm.
The Sigil was still there.
Dark. Silent. Unmoving.
"Are you going to explain yourself," he whispered, "or is this one of those 'figure it out or die' situations?"
There was no immediate response.
Then—pressure.
Not a voice, not sound. A weight settled behind his eyes, carrying meaning without language.
[Bearer survival achieved.]
[Soul stability: 68%.]
[Warning: irreversible damage if misused.]
Aarav exhaled slowly.
"So I wasn't imagining it," he murmured.
"You're real."
The Sigil did not confirm or deny
It simply was.
Fragments of understanding trickled into him—enough to be dangerous.
The power he had used wasn't free. It hadn't come from nowhere. Something inside him had been burned, consumed, converted into strength.
And next time?
The cost would be higher.
"Figures," Aarav muttered bitterly. "I don't get the fun version."
A shadow fell across his cot.
He looked up to find the scarred woman standing there, helmet tucked under her arm. Up close, her presence was oppressive—someone used to command and violence.
"You're awake," she said. "Good."
She pulled a chair over and sat, eyes never leaving him.
"I'm Captain Lyra Voss," she continued. "United Human Authority, City Defense Corps."
That name sent a ripple through Aarav's borrowed memories.
The UHA.
The people who decided who mattered.
"What happened out there?" she asked
bluntly.
Aarav hesitated just long enough to seem natural. "I… don't remember much. There was screaming. The monster. Then pain."
Lyra studied him, searching for cracks.
"You were found less than ten meters from a Class-F Abyssal Beast," she said. "Alone. No awakened signatures nearby."
She leaned forward slightly.
"Normal people don't survive that."
Aarav met her gaze. "Guess I'm lucky."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Lyra leaned back. "Luck runs out fast in this city."
She stood. "You'll be moved to the refugee assessment zone tomorrow. Standard procedure."
She paused at the edge of the tent.
"If you're hiding something," she added quietly, "learn to hide it better. The Academy doesn't like surprises."
Then she was gone.
That night, sleep refused to come.
Aarav lay awake, listening to the quiet breathing of the injured around him, his thoughts racing.
Awakening Academy.
The words carried weight.
It was where teenagers like him—those who turned eighteen and manifested talents—were trained. Or broken. Or quietly erased.
And somehow, despite every scan saying otherwise, he knew one thing with absolute certainty.
If he stayed weak—
He would die.
His fingers curled slowly into a fist.
"Alright," he whispered into the darkness.
"Mythbound Sigil."
The runes on his arm pulsed faintly.
"Let's see how much you're really worth."
Somewhere beyond the city walls, something ancient stirred.
And for the first time in two hundred years—
The myths had begun to wake.