"All you need to do is stand in front of the mirror. If your reflection appears, congratutions—you've awakened. For those who don't, don't despair. It's not the end of the world. Many have achieved greatness without awakening," said a man with thick white hair, addressing a crowd of teenagers cd in ash-gray uniforms.

  The teenagers' faces were solemn, some etched with nervousness, others with quiet determination. The air was thick with tension.

  The man's sharp gaze swept over them before he barked, "Remember this: Elites are the pilrs of society, the protectors of order, and the guardians of mortals against the monsters that emerge from the pnes."

  "Draven, you're first," the man called, his tone softer now.

  A boy with jet-bck hair, electric blue eyes, and sickly pale skin stepped forward from the corner of the room. His expression was unreadable, a mask of calm over the storm raging within.

  The crowd watched in tense silence as Draven approached the towering mirror, its surface free of reflections even under the dim light. He stopped a meter away, and instantly, the mirror erupted in a blinding purple fsh that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

  Draven blinked, his heart pounding, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. When his vision cleared, the mirror remained unchanged—pin, and utterly devoid of any reflection.

  The room was silent, the kind of silence that pressed against your ears and made your chest ache.

  Draven's lips trembled, but no words came. He unclenched his fists and let out a hollow ugh.

  "Not awakening isn't the end, son. There are other paths to greatness," the man beside him said gently, pcing a hand on Draven's shoulder.

  Draven turned to him, his lips curling into a bitter smile. "I know that," he said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the storm within. "Thanks, Mr. Andrew."

  Because he knew the truth. For others, not awakening meant disappointment. For him, it meant death.

  With that, Draven shoved his hands into his pockets and walked away, the crowd parting silently as he passed. No one spoke. No one dared. They all knew it could just as easily have been them.

  Mr. Andrew sighed and called out, "Next!"

  The tension in the room thickened after the first failure, but Draven was already gone.

  As he reached the door, a sudden cheer erupted behind him. He gnced back and saw the next person bathed in a radiant purple light, tears of joy streaming down his face.

  Draven shook his head and stepped outside, leaving the crowd behind.

  The morning sun greeted him, its soft rays brushing against his skin. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and let the warmth wash over him.

  His mind raced, pns forming and dissolving as he tried to steady himself.

  Eight months ago, he had started feeling a creeping weakness. The diagnosis from the doctor had been grim: a virus was slowly draining his life. There were two treatments—a hypothetical vial costing five hundred million credit units, or becoming an Elite and breaking through to the second rank to purge the virus during evolution.

  Now, with only four months left, the first option was impossible. The second had just slipped through his fingers.

  "I shouldn't be surprised. I already expected it," he mumbled softly.

  He exhaled sharply, his eyes snapping open, the cloudiness repced by steely resolve.

  "Pn B it is," he whispered. "I always hated it—the risk, the madness... But what choice do I have? Better to die trying than to die waiting."

  He hailed a cab and rode to the downtrodden part of the city, where crumbling buildings stood like forgotten relics. Warning signs and heavy machinery dotted the area.

  Draven stepped out and walked deeper into the area until he reached a dipidated building. He pushed the creaking door open and stepped inside. The room was bare, save for a ft bed and a bag in the corner.

  He moved to the bathroom, pried a tile loose from the wall, and pulled out a hidden box. After repcing the tile, he returned to the main room and opened the box. Inside y a neatly folded map and a dusty diary.

  When he unfolded the paper, it was covered in chaotic scribbles that might have been mistaken for a child's doodles—but he knew better. It was a map. Nodding to himself, he opened the diary, its pages filled with notes, sketches, and desperate pns.

  'Let's hope I survive this,' he thought.

  The map led to a pce rumored to hold the legacy of a powerful Elite—the Blue Pne. When Draven had first learned of his impending death, he had begun pnning for this very scenario. The Blue Pne was his st hope, but it was also a death trap. Monsters of every rank roamed its depths, and while it only allowed humans of the first rank—the Transient rank—to enter, even the weakest creature there could kill him in an instant.

  But what choice did he have?

  He left the house and took another cab to a store that sold basic necessities.

  "Good morning," Draven greeted the salesgirl at the counter, pcing a long dagger, three bottles of bright red liquid with 'Berserker Z1' written on it, a crossbody bag, a climbing rope, and a sealed nylon package on the counter.

  The girl raised an eyebrow but scanned the items. "Fifty thousand credit units," she said.

  Draven transferred the money, grabbed the bag, and headed home.

  Later that afternoon, he made one final purchase from the bck market, meeting a masked figure in a shadowy alley to collect a small, unmarked bottle.

  Back at home, he stared at the thick, dark red liquid swirling inside the bottle—Berserker Z2, the hyper-evolved version to Berserker Z1. He had poured his st fifty thousand credits into this gamble, a desperate move born of sheer necessity. Just the thought of what it would do to him made his skin crawl.

  Berserker Z1 had been bad enough—pushing human strength to its absolute limit for a single hour, followed by a full day of paralyzing aftereffects without taking another one. But Z2 was something else entirely.

  It grants strength just beyond the peak of human capability, though still shy of Elite-level power, for 24 hours. The cost, however, was unthinkable: a lifetime of madness. No wonder the council had banned it. Yet here he was, staring at the bottle, knowing he might have no other choice.

  Now, he was ready.

  'Let's pray it goes as pnned.'