[January 21st, 2088 (Wednesday morning)] - [Sector 13's Multipurpose Stadium > Sector 13's Time Square > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth]
The morning sun hung above Sector 13-01 like a cold coin of gold, bright enough to shine, but weak enough that the snow still clung stubbornly to the sidewalks and rooftops.
It was January 21st.
And in Mega-Ark City 01, that meant only one thing.
Profession Day.
A day that came every year like a ritual.
Like a verdict.
Like a gate opening.
Across the entire Radiant City—across all twenty-one sectors—public squares had been transformed into recruitment grounds. Holographic banners floated high above the streets, projecting clean, polished text in rotating Dominion-approved fonts:
BLOOM DOMINION – PROFESSION DAY
FOR THE GLORY OF THE RADIANT EMPRESS
YOUR FUTURE BEGINS TODAY
The message was impossible to ignore.
Because this wasn't just a career fair.
It was the Bloom Dominion deciding where its children belonged.
Where they would be useful.
Where they would be spent.
Sector 13-01's Time Square was packed to the brim.
Parents stood shoulder-to-shoulder with thick winter coats and steaming cups of coffee. Teenagers—some barely sixteen, some still fifteen but close enough to qualify—clustered together in nervous groups.
Some laughed too loudly.
Some stared too quietly.
Some looked like they hadn't slept.
And some… wore the false confidence of people who didn't yet understand what they were walking into.
The entire plaza pulsed with noise.
Boots crunching snow.
People shouting names.
Merchants advertising snacks and hot drinks.
Drones hovering above the crowd like watchful insects.
Even small local stall owners had set up shop near the stadium entrance, taking full advantage of the swarm of bodies.
A man with a portable grill sold sizzling meat skewers.
A woman sold Dominion-themed keychains and "GOOD LUCK" charms with the Radiant Empress' symbol.
Another stall sold thick cups of hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and cinnamon, priced absurdly high because desperation always paid well.
-
The stadium itself stood like a concrete giant at the edge of the square.
Cold.
Grey.
Dominion-built.
A place designed not for sport, but for sorting.
The gates weren't open yet.
But everyone was already gathered around it, as if standing closer would somehow improve their odds.
Holographic signboards floated above the crowd in organized columns, rotating through the professions available:
Civic Infrastructure & Maintenance
Resource Engineering & Manufacturing
Dominion Science & Medical Division
ArkNet Cybernetic Programs
Security & Enforcement
Wall Defense Corps
Marauder Support Logistics
Exploration Division
Military Academy Try-Out
Each title appeared with polished light… but behind the light was an unspoken truth.
Some of those paths led to a stable life.
Some led to a long life.
And some led to the fog.
To the screaming dark beyond the walls.
To the place where the Bloom Dominion's enemies lived.
And where its heroes died.
-
Mana Caster girls were easy to spot.
They stood out naturally.
Some radiated confidence, dressed in customized coats with mana-thread embroidery. A few had floating talismans, small orbiting charms, or faint glows flickering at their fingertips—subtle flexes of power, like peacocks showing feathers.
They spoke about Sororitae candidacy.
About Arcana compatibility.
About which academy division had the best instructors.
The boys were different.
Most of them were quieter.
Tense.
They didn't glow.
They didn't shine.
They didn't have the natural social protection that mana gifts brought in the Dominion's matriarchal hierarchy.
But they still stood there.
Some with clenched fists.
Some with nervous laughter.
Some with desperate eyes.
Because for many boys, Profession Day wasn't a celebration.
It was the one day the world decided whether they would be a man with purpose…
Or a man who stayed disposable.
And somewhere in that crowd…
=
=====
=
The edge of Sector 13-01's Time Square had turned into an improvised marketplace of hope and opportunism.
Right near the flow of the crowd, parked slightly crooked between two vendor stalls, sat a familiar sight:
The "Ripley Mobile."
A converted minivan that had clearly survived more chaos than most vehicles ever should, now expanded outward with a collapsible tent frame, folding tables, and a hand-painted blackboard sign that read:
Maison Bella Cafe (Profession Day Special)
Below it, neatly chalked prices listed hot drinks and pastries—simple, slightly higher than normal due to demand, but still reasonable enough to attract passing families, students, and nervous candidates trying to calm their nerves before the stadium gates opened.
Steam rose in gentle waves from kettles and thermos flasks.
Coffee.
Tea.
Hot chocolate with marshmallows.
Fresh pastries wrapped in paper bags that crinkled softly with every handoff.
Mom moved behind the counter with practiced ease, smiling the same calm, steady smile she always wore when the world was loud.
Aunt Alura leaned casually against the side of the stall, sipping something warm and caffeinated, watching the crowd like she was judging their life choices in real time.
Sophie and Daisy handled the front with surprising coordination—taking orders, handing out drinks, and managing change like they'd been doing it for years.
And despite the chaos of Profession Day, the stall had become a small anchor of familiarity in the overwhelming crowd.
A place people naturally drifted toward when the pressure got too loud.
At one point, Mom glanced toward her daughters while wrapping a cup of hot chocolate.
Her tone softened, but her eyes sharpened slightly with maternal focus.
"Sophie. Daisy."
Both girls straightened instinctively.
"Yes, Mom?" Sophie answered.
Daisy nodded quickly, already alert.
Mom tilted her head slightly.
"You're sure you're ready for your Sororitae candidacy test?"
There was no doubt in her voice—only confirmation seeking.
Sophie didn't hesitate.
"Yes," she said confidently. "I've been reviewing Arcana theory and mana flow stabilization every night."
Daisy chimed in immediately after.
"And I've been doing regulation exercises! Like breathing control, and energy cycling, and the balance stuff!"
She made a small proud gesture with her hands, as if demonstrating invisible mana currents.
Mom studied them both for a moment longer.
Then nodded once.
"Good."
A pause.
Her expression softened slightly.
"Don't rush it when you're inside. The test isn't just about power. It's about control."
Sophie and Daisy both nodded seriously this time.
"Yes, Mom," they said in unison.
Alura squinted at the stall's side, scanning the crowd with mild irritation.
"…Okay. Where's Niero?"
Mom, mid-pour of hot chocolate, glanced around.
"He was just here a second ago."
Alura leaned forward, peering behind the minivan like she expected him to be passed out from nerves.
"And did he wear his special sportswear? The one that doesn't make him look like a delinquent?"
Before Mom could answer—
Niero stepped out from behind the Ripley Mobile.
Deadpan.
Silent.
Standing there like a criminal suspect who just got dragged out of an alley.
He wore a long oversized shirt, and on the front was a printed image of his two sisters' faces—both exaggerated into angry, chibi-like expressions.
Underneath it, in bold red letters:
BACK OFF
And instead of proper athletic shorts, he wore long baggy pants, loose enough to look like he was about to drop a mixtape in 1998.
He looked less like a military academy candidate…
…and more like an indie gangster rapper who didn't know what decade he lived in.
Sophie and Daisy beamed with pride like they just crafted a masterpiece.
Mom stared at him.
Alura stared harder.
Mom slowly asked, voice flat with disbelief:
"…What are you wearing?"
Niero let out the deepest sigh a teenage boy could possibly produce.
"My dumbass sisters replaced my gym clothes."
Sophie crossed her arms.
"It's for your safety."
Daisy nodded aggressively.
"Yeah! For your protection!"
Niero blinked at them.
"…From what?"
Sophie pointed vaguely at the crowd like she was warning him about wild predators in tall grass.
"From women."
Daisy added with full seriousness:
"Predatory girls! They'll stare at you like meat!"
Niero deadpanned harder.
"Wow. I'm so blessed to have such supportive sisters."
Both girls nodded proudly, like they deserved medals.
Mom looked like she wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
Niero grabbed the hem of the shirt.
"Listen. I'm not some helpless prey animal."
And before anyone could stop him—
he pulled the oversized shirt off.
For half a second, the world froze.
His toned body was revealed under the cold winter air, lean muscle, defined arms, and a very obvious six-pack carved by months of brutal training.
Not bulky.
Not bodybuilder.
But the kind of athletic build that screamed:
"This guy gets buff for fun."
A moment of silence.
Then—
Several girls near the stall turned their heads.
A few stopped mid-step.
Some blinked.
Others didn't even pretend to hide it, eyes lingering like sharks smelling blood in water.
One girl whispered something to her friend and both giggled.
Another openly stared like her brain rebooted.
Daisy screamed first.
"PUT IT BACK ON!!"
Sophie lunged like a trained Sororitae-in-training, grabbing the shirt and yanking it over his head with frantic fury.
Niero stumbled backward as both sisters practically assaulted him with fabric.
"HEY—WHAT THE HELL—"
Daisy pulled the shirt down like she was sealing a dangerous artifact.
Sophie shoved him behind the counter like she was hiding a national treasure.
Mom immediately snapped her head toward the gawking customers, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
"Move along," she said with a sweet smile that carried the subtle threat of violence. "This isn't a show."
A few people awkwardly coughed and turned away.
Others pretended they were only interested in pastries.
Alura, meanwhile, had been laughing so hard she almost spilled her drink.
She leaned against the stall, wheezing.
"Oh my Empress… you idiot…"
But then—
a group of high school girls stepped forward, bold as sin, holding their smartphones up.
One of them smirked.
"How much for a peek?"
Another giggled.
"We can pay. Just five seconds."
Alura's expression dropped instantly.
Like a switch flipped.
Her face went from amused aunt…
to war veteran who's seen hell and is ready to send someone back there.
She slammed her hand on the counter.
"He's UNDERAGE, you degenerates!"
The girls froze.
Alura grabbed a tray of fresh croissants.
And began throwing them like grenades.
"GET OUT!!"
Croissant after croissant flew through the air.
One hit a girl's shoulder.
Another bounced off a phone screen.
The group shrieked and ran away, half laughing, half terrified, clutching their heads as pastry shrapnel rained down on them.
-
Behind the Ripley-Mobile, Niero was practically being escorted like a hostage.
His oversized shirt was stretched over him like a poncho, baggy and humiliating, while Sophie and Daisy clung onto his arms—hugging him tightly as they dragged him away from the stall.
"YOU'RE ACTUALLY SUICIDAL," Daisy hissed, glaring like she was scolding a criminal.
Sophie nodded furiously.
"You exposed your body in the cold AND in public. You could freeze to death and get eaten alive by horny women!"
Niero grimaced.
"…That is not how biology works."
"It is how WOMEN work!" Sophie snapped.
Niero groaned.
"I can't do a physical exam wearing this stupid thing. It'll snag, it'll drag, it'll—"
"GOOD," Daisy said instantly. "Then you'll be forced to keep it on!"
Niero's eye twitched.
Before the sisters could tighten their grip and begin an argument about "male safety protocols," Mom's voice cut through them like a blade.
"Sophie. Daisy."
Both girls froze.
Mom pointed toward the stall.
"Help your aunt. And get ready. You'll need to enter the stadium soon."
The sisters looked betrayed.
"But—"
"No buts."
They reluctantly shuffled away, still glaring back at Niero like they were leaving a lamb among wolves.
Niero raised both hands at them sarcastically.
"Bye. Thanks for the kidnapping."
Daisy pointed at him.
"DON'T TAKE IT OFF AGAIN."
Sophie added.
"We'll be watching."
Then they marched away.
Mom rubbed her forehead, exhaling.
"…Empress give me patience."
She glanced at Niero with that look mothers had when they wanted to lecture but were too tired to start.
"Even if Sophie and Daisy are being ridiculous…"
She leaned in slightly.
"…you were also being stupid."
Niero scoffed.
"What? I just took my shirt off."
Mom's eyes narrowed.
"In a crowded public square. In winter. With teenage girls staring like starving hyenas."
Niero opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
"…Fair."
Mom sighed, then turned around and opened one of the storage boxes inside the minivan. She rummaged through neatly folded clothes, towels, spare aprons, and emergency supplies.
After a moment, she pulled something out.
A folded sleeveless polyester shirt.
Black.
Simple.
But across the chest was a clean blue marking shaped like a sharp 'V', almost like a stylized insignia.
She placed it in Niero's hands.
"This is mine," Mom said. "Old training shirt. Hand-me-down. Still in good condition."
Niero stared down at it.
His fingers tightened around the fabric.
The blue V seemed… strangely vivid.
Not flashy.
Not magical.
But something about it made his mind catch.
Like a memory trying to surface.
Like a scent from childhood.
Like déjà vu sharp enough to sting.
Mom kept talking—something about it being durable, good for movement, better than that ridiculous poncho-shirt—
But her voice slowly dulled.
Niero couldn't stop staring.
The V.
That symbol.
It felt…
familiar.
Not in the "I've seen it before" way.
In the "I somehow recognize it" way.
A low hum of sensation crawled up his spine.
A strange warmth in his chest.
His heartbeat subtly changed rhythm.
For a brief moment, his thoughts became distant, as if he was staring at something that didn't belong in this world.
Something old.
Something buried.
Something that had been with him long before Sector 13.
Long before the Maison Bella Café.
Long before Emmy Ripley.
Snap.
Mom's fingers snapped right in front of his face.
Niero jolted, blinking rapidly.
Mom frowned.
"…Niero? What's wrong with you?"
He swallowed, forcing a smile.
"Nothing. I'm fine."
Mom studied him carefully, not convinced.
"…You're zoning out a lot lately."
Niero looked down at the shirt again, then quickly folded it tighter in his hands like he was hiding it from himself.
"Just… nervous," he said.
Mom's eyes softened slightly.
She reached out and patted his shoulder.
"Well. Wear that. It fits. And it won't get you mobbed."
Niero nodded.
"…Yeah."
But even as he nodded, his eyes lingered one more second on the blue V.
He grabbed his gym bag and started stuffing in his regular clothes—his swapped-out tank top, his proper sports shorts, even his hoodie—just in case.
Then he pulled the new outfit on.
The black sleeveless shirt slid over his torso cleanly, snug but not restrictive. The fabric felt tougher than normal sportswear, almost like it was designed for combat training rather than school athletics.
And that blue V across his chest…
It sat perfectly centered, sharp and bold.
Mom handed him knee-length sports shorts next.
"Wear these. Proper mobility."
Niero changed quickly.
When he stepped back out, Mom gave him a quick up-and-down look, then nodded with approval.
"…Fits you like a glove."
Niero frowned slightly.
"It feels weird. Wearing clothes you used to wear."
Mom waved it off like it meant nothing.
"It's unisex training gear, not my wedding dress."
Niero let out a small breath of amusement, but his eyes drifted back down to the V.
His fingers lightly brushed the fabric.
That sensation returned again—faint, like a quiet echo in his bones.
Mom noticed his expression instantly.
She narrowed her eyes.
"You're zoning out again."
Niero blinked.
"No, I'm not."
Mom didn't buy it.
"…Is it that limitation thing again?"
He opened his mouth to deny it.
But the words didn't come out right.
"…No," he said.
Then softer, almost reluctantly:
"…Maybe."
Mom's expression softened.
She stepped forward and hugged him tightly—firm, warm, protective, like she was trying to press courage into his ribs.
"Niero," she said quietly, "remember what I told you."
He listened.
"To surpass your limits… it takes willpower. Faith in yourself."
She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
"But it also takes timing. You can't force the moment. You'll only know when it comes."
Niero nodded slowly.
"…Yeah."
Mom smiled a little.
Then her tone shifted.
"Alright."
She clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Enough of this gloomy face."
Niero blinked.
Mom leaned in with a mischievous grin.
"Where's that arrogantly confident attitude you had when you were fighting me?"
Niero scoffed.
"You mean the attitude that got me cratered into the floor?"
"Yes," Mom said instantly. "That one."
Niero exhaled, then straightened his posture.
His shoulders squared.
His jaw set.
His eyes sharpened.
"…Yeah. You're right."
Mom's smile widened.
"That's my boy."
Then she pointed at him like a commander giving orders.
"Pack your regular clothes. Put on your winter jacket. It's time."
Niero swung his gym bag over his shoulder.
Then he looked at her.
"…Thanks, Mom."
Mom blinked, caught slightly off guard.
"For what?"
"For believing in me," Niero said honestly.
Mom stared at him for a moment.
Then she reached up and gently ruffled his hair, despite him trying to lean away.
"You may not be at my level," she said.
"But you've already proven you have what it takes."
Niero's chest tightened slightly.
Not from fear.
Not from pain.
But from something else.
Something solid.
Something burning.
He nodded once.
Then he turned back to the minivan to pack his stuff before going to the stadium entrance.
=
=====
=
The stadium entrance was loud in a controlled, procedural way—voices bouncing off polished metal walls, the shuffle of boots on reinforced flooring, the occasional mechanical chime of registration gates updating.
Above it all, holographic signage floated in steady rotation:
BLOOM DOMINION – PROFESSION DAY INTAKE
IDENTITY VERIFICATION – SECTOR 13-01
PROCEED TO DESIGNATED QUEUE
Inside the lobby, the flow of people was tightly organized. Five parallel queue lanes for boys on one side, five for girls on the other. Even without needing to be told, the imbalance was obvious—girls outnumbered boys heavily, almost overwhelmingly, reinforcing the Dominion's skewed demographics in real time.
Niero glanced briefly at the lines.
Then at Sophie and Daisy.
Then back at his own side.
"…Yeah. That checks out," he muttered.
Sophie punched his arm lightly.
"Don't look depressed already."
"I'm not," Niero said flatly. "I'm observing statistical reality."
Daisy leaned in.
"That sounds like depression with extra steps."
Before he could respond, Mom clapped her hands once.
"Alright. Huddle."
The three siblings immediately stepped in close, instinctively forming a loose circle near the entrance flow, slightly off to the side where they wouldn't block the queue movement.
Mom stood in front of them like a coach before a match.
No apron now.
No café tone.
Just Emmy Ripley—firm, focused, grounded.
She looked at each of them in turn.
"Sophie. Daisy. Niero."
Her voice softened just slightly.
"This is Profession Day."
Behind her, the crowd continued to move like a current.
"You're not here just to pass a test," she continued. "You're here to decide what kind of future you're stepping into."
Sophie stood a little straighter.
Daisy nodded hard, eyes shining with excitement.
Niero listened quietly, expression steady—but attentive.
Mom pointed lightly at each of them.
"Focus."
She tapped Sophie's shoulder.
"Mana control. Efficiency. Don't waste output."
Sophie nodded quickly.
Then Daisy.
"Composure. Don't panic if things feel overwhelming. Keep your rhythm."
Daisy saluted immediately.
Then Mom looked at Niero.
There was a brief pause.
"…And you."
Niero raised a brow slightly.
Mom's tone sharpened just a little—not harsh, but serious.
"You already fight like someone who refuses to lose."
Niero didn't respond.
"But don't let that turn into recklessness."
That landed a bit more quietly than the rest.
Mom stepped back half a pace.
"Stretch. Breathe. Stay aware. And when your number is called—go in like you already belong there."
A faint grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.
"Because you do."
For a moment, Niero didn't say anything.
Then he exhaled.
"…Yeah."
Sophie cracked her neck.
Daisy bounced on her heels.
"Let's go win this," Sophie said.
Daisy added, "Let's go become Sororitae!"
Niero rolled his shoulders once.
"…Let's just survive it first."
Mom chuckled softly, shaking her head.
"Same thing in this world," she said.
Then she stepped back fully, pointing them toward their respective queues.
"Go."
And just like that, the huddle broke.
Three different paths.
Same starting line.
Niero slowed for half a step when Mom leaned in close again, her voice dropping low enough that it barely carried past the ambient crowd noise.
"Hey," she said, sharper now, more precise. "One more thing."
He glanced at her. "Yeah?"
Her expression wasn't joking anymore.
"In your case," she said, "aim for Bs and Cs."
That made him stop completely.
"…What?" Niero blinked once. "You literally just told us to go for the win."
Mom didn't flinch.
"I meant effort," she corrected. "Not exposure."
Niero's brow tightened.
"That doesn't make sense."
Mom exhaled through her nose, like she expected this exact reaction.
"You already outperform most boys in MAC-01 in raw physicality," she said. "And that's before we even factor in your… other stuff."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward him—measured, careful, aware there were things she wasn't naming out loud.
"If you walk in and score straight As across physical, mental, and ability categories," she continued, "you won't just 'pass.' You'll get flagged."
Niero frowned.
"Flagged for what?"
Mom's answer came without hesitation.
"Attention."
That word hit heavier than it should have.
She continued anyway.
"Higher-ups. Recruitment. Asset classification. Genetic interest. Social-tier leverage." A pause. "And people you don't want noticing you at all."
Niero's expression darkened slightly.
"So you're telling me to deliberately underperform."
"I'm telling you to be useful, not visible," Mom said calmly. "There's a difference in this world."
He looked away for a moment toward the registration lanes, where boys were already being scanned, assigned numbers, processed like moving data points.
"…That's basically holding myself back."
Mom stepped closer and gave him a firm smack on the upper back—light enough to be encouragement, heavy enough to snap him out of his spiral.
"Call it what you want," she said. "Just don't be stupid about it."
Niero let out a short breath through his nose.
"…You really know how to motivate a kid."
"I raised you," she replied immediately. "That's my job."
A beat passed.
Then she softened just a fraction.
"You're not here to prove you're the strongest thing in the room," she added. "You're here to make it through the system without the system deciding what you are before you even get a choice."
That landed differently.
Niero didn't respond right away.
Then he nodded once.
"…Fine."
Mom studied him for a second longer, making sure it wasn't just compliance.
Then she gave a small approving hum.
"That's my boy."
She stepped back, already turning toward her own path.
"Now go queue. Don't make it obvious you're thinking too hard."
Niero scoffed lightly under his breath.
"I wasn't."
Mom didn't even look back.
"Liar."
And just like that, they separated—Mom heading toward the café's side responsibilities and support area, while Niero merged into the boys' queue lane, sliding into line with the rest of Sector 13's sixteen-year-old candidates.
-
The queue moved faster than it looked from the outside.
One moment Niero was half-absorbed in his SmartCom game—thumb flicking through a quick loop of taps and cooldowns to pass time—then the line lurched forward and he was suddenly next.
A soft chime sounded from the counter.
A Mechanoid stood there behind the registration terminal.
Its body was humanoid in structure—clean synthetic plating, subtle joint seams—but its head was unmistakably a retro-style monitor, rounded at the edges like an old television set. Static flickered faintly across the "screen-face" before resolving into a cheerful digital expression.
"Good day, candidate!" it greeted brightly, voice smooth but slightly synthetic. "Welcome to Bloom Dominion Profession Day intake. How are you feeling today?"
Niero blinked once.
"…Fine."
"Wonderful!" the Mechanoid replied, as if that was the most statistically ideal answer possible.
A holographic panel unfolded in front of him—clean, floating blue interface with Dominion insignia in the corner.
CANDIDATE REGISTRATION FORM
Fields appeared automatically, waiting for confirmation or correction:
-
Name: Niero Ripley
Date of Birth: 21st May 2072
Citizenship ID: MAC01-1155-720521
Citizenship Tier: TBA
Prior Academic Institution: St. McWeston All-Boys High School
Metatalent Classification: Psionic – Enhancement Type
-
Niero glanced at the last field briefly.
No hesitation. No correction.
Just a calm confirmation tap.
The Mechanoid's screen-face brightened slightly, as if pleased.
"Registration complete. Candidate Niero Ripley is now officially enrolled in Profession Day evaluation cycle."
A small mechanical arm extended from the counter, producing a thin wristband-like tag and a laminated race number to be placed on his chest and back. The display on it pulsed once:
157 – NIERO RIPLEY
The number locked in.
"Please proceed," the Mechanoid said politely, gesturing toward a corridor entrance. "Follow signage to the preparation changing rooms. Lockers are assigned by race number. After preparation, proceed to Stadium Gate Alpha for evaluation commencement."
Niero took the band and slipped it on without ceremony.
"Got it."
He turned slightly toward the indicated doorway.
Beyond it, he could already hear it—the low, distant hum of the stadium proper. Systems powering up. Crowd density increasing. Structured chaos waiting to unfold.
For a brief moment, he paused.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Just awareness of the scale of it.
Then he exhaled once and started walking.
Niero didn't waste time.
A few quick motions—locker shut, gym bag stored, winter layers folded—and he was left in only the new sleeveless polyester shirt and knee-length sports shorts.
The fabric clung comfortably to his frame.
Not bulky.
Not showy.
Just enough to reveal what months of brutal conditioning had carved into him—lean muscle, defined shoulders, visible core lines. Not the exaggerated mass of a bodybuilder, but the kind of physique that looked functional. Built for impact. Built for speed.
He grabbed the laminated bib from the locker bench and slapped it onto his chest, securing the straps with practiced efficiency.
157
NIERO RIPLEY
MAC01-1155-720521
It felt strange seeing his identity reduced into a clean printed number.
But at the same time…
It felt official.
Real.
He stepped out of the changing room corridor.
And the stadium opened up before him.
The roof was sealed shut—no snowfall, no wind cutting through—only artificial lighting from above, bright and clinical. The massive arena was divided cleanly down the middle by towering partitions and security rails.
Left Side: MALE CANDIDATES
Right Side: FEMALE CANDIDATES
Even from this distance, Niero could tell the female side was far more crowded.
Not surprising.
Not in the Bloom Dominion.
The male side had fewer bodies, but still plenty—hundreds of boys scattered across warm-up zones, stretching mats, hydration stations, and equipment checkpoints.
Niero's eyes swept the crowd.
There were all types.
Some boys looked athletic and sharp-eyed, clearly trained.
Some looked like they barely exercised, shoulders slumped, faces pale with dread.
Some were bulky and muscular, probably from labor work or genetics.
Some were skinny and nervous, glancing around like prey animals surrounded by predators.
And some… looked forced to be here. Like they'd been dragged by family expectations, government pressure, or the reality of citizenship tiers.
The stadium air buzzed with tension.
Every laugh sounded too loud.
Every conversation felt like it had a knife hidden inside it.
Niero walked forward, scanning for a directory screen or info booth—something that could tell him the test order, the checkpoints, and what to prepare for.
But as he moved through the crowd, he felt it.
Eyes.
Turning.
A few boys looked at him with plain curiosity.
A few stared with quiet appraisal—measuring his shoulders, his stance, his calm expression.
One or two narrowed their eyes with subtle jealousy, as if his presence offended them.
Not because of his shirt.
Not because of his face.
But because his body looked like proof of something they didn't have.
Training. Power. Confidence.
Niero kept walking like he didn't notice.
But internally, he did.
And he remembered Mom's warning.
Don't stand out too much.
Unfortunately…
It was already too late for that.
-
Niero stood before the massive holographic information board, its interface floating like a translucent glass wall. Bright color-coded lanes marked each test section, each station labeled with Dominion efficiency.
His eyes narrowed as he memorized everything.
Not just the test categories…
But the layout.
The order.
The distance between checkpoints.
Even the emergency exits and medical stations.
Old habits from Mom's survival lectures.
Vuldyr's voice echoed softly in his head.
> ["At your current parameters… you could achieve A-rank performance in every physical metric. Even without full Nova-Spark output."]
Niero exhaled slowly.
"Yeah… but Mom said don't."
> ["Correct. Achieve controlled performance. Maintain Bs and Cs. Enough to qualify, not enough to become a spectacle."]
He clicked his tongue.
That was going to be harder than it sounded.
Because holding back wasn't just about "being weaker."
It was about acting.
And Niero hated acting.
Still… he forced himself to focus on the board.
TEST 01: PHYSICAL FITNESS TEST
A raw brutality exam.
The Dominion didn't care about feelings here.
They cared about numbers.
100-meter sprint
Grip strength
Weight lifting
Jumping test
Punching power test
Reflex / agility test
Niero's lips curled slightly.
This was basically his daily warm-up routine.
If he went full output, he'd probably break their equipment.
Or worse…
Break the expectations ceiling and paint a target on his back.
TEST 02: WRITTEN EXAM
His eyes drifted down the list.
Prior academic results verification
Math, science, history
Strategy logic
Decision-making
Situational response
Ethics and morals
Niero almost scoffed.
This is easy.
This wasn't even a test.
This was a formality.
If he wanted to, he could probably finish early and still score higher than most candidates.
But again…
He remembered Mom's warning.
Too smart = too visible.
TEST 03: PSYCHOLOGICAL & METATALENT EVALUATION
And then…
His expression changed.
His eyes lingered.
This part of the board was intentionally vague. Minimal description. No details. No clear rubric.
Just bullet points.
Psychological screening
Metatalent evaluation
That was it.
No mention of tools.
No mention of methods.
No mention of "how."
Niero felt his shoulders stiffen slightly.
This wasn't a physical test.
This wasn't a written test.
This was the Dominion looking inside people.
Digging into them.
Measuring them.
Categorizing them.
Labeling them.
And Niero didn't like that.
Not even a little.
Because his "Psionic Enhancement" excuse was already fragile.
His Stargod System wasn't just a secret.
It was a walking anomaly.
A living contradiction.
Something that would absolutely trigger Dominion interest if discovered.
His eyes narrowed.
"…Yeah. That's the ominous part."
Vuldyr's voice turned quieter, more serious.
> ["Correct. This is the only segment with a high probability of exposure risk."]
Niero swallowed once.
The stadium noise felt distant for a moment, like the world faded into the background.
His heartbeat stayed calm.
But his instincts…
His instincts were screaming.
Because he wasn't worried about failing.
He was worried about being seen.
And deep down, Niero understood something terrifying.
The Bloom Dominion didn't care if you were strong.
They cared if you were useful.
Or if you were dangerous enough to be controlled.
He clenched his fist slowly.
Then released it.
"Alright," he muttered. "Bs and Cs… don't stand out… survive the day."
His gaze locked onto the board again, burning the test layout into his mind.
Then he stepped away from the information station.
And walked toward the first checkpoint.
=
=====
=
Niero followed the flow of boys toward the medical tent, the line moving with military efficiency.
A large holographic sign hovered above the entrance.
[ DOMINION MEDICAL PRE-SCREENING ]
ANTI-DOPING COMPLIANCE CHECK
FAILURE = IMMEDIATE DISQUALIFICATION
Inside, the atmosphere felt less like a clinic…
and more like a processing station.
White partition walls formed narrow lanes, each leading into a small booth. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and recycled ventilation.
A male nurse—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a Dominion medical uniform—barked calmly like a drill instructor.
"Next!"
One by one, the boys stepped into the booths.
Some looked confident.
Some looked nervous.
Some looked like they were already regretting every life choice that led them here.
Niero's turn came.
He stepped into the booth and the curtain snapped shut behind him.
A small counter extended out from the wall, with a sealed sterile sample cup and a digital scanner pad waiting.
He exhaled.
"…Seriously. This is how it starts."
He did what he had to do.
Filled the cup.
Then stepped out and handed it to the nurse.
The nurse didn't even look at him. He simply slid the cup into a sleek biometric scanner—its surface glowing blue as it analyzed the contents down to the molecular level.
A holographic window flashed:
URINE ANALYSIS: IN PROGRESS
HORMONAL LEVELS…
STIMULANT DETECTION…
NANO-ENHANCER DETECTION…
METABOLIC ANOMALY CHECK…
MANA-STIM SUBSTANCE SCREEN…
PSIONIC AMPLIFIER RESIDUE…
Niero's eyes narrowed at that last line.
"Psionic amplifier residue?"
So the Dominion was definitely aware that "Psionic enhancement drugs" existed.
The scanner beeped.
RESULT: CLEAR
STATUS: PASS
The nurse nodded once.
"Proceed."
Niero stepped forward, but his attention snapped to the side—
A commotion.
Two Dominion security officers in gray-black armor had a boy by the arms. The kid was pale, shaking, and trying to speak through stuttering breaths.
"I-I didn't—! It's not—!"
The nurse didn't even raise his voice.
"Positive stimulant profile. Disqualified."
The boy's feet dragged uselessly against the floor as he was hauled away, his face twisting into panic.
"PLEASE! I NEED THIS—!"
The curtain closed behind him.
Gone.
Just like that.
Niero stared for half a second.
Then turned away.
No sympathy in his eyes.
Only cold understanding.
This wasn't school.
This wasn't sports.
This was the Bloom Dominion filtering out the weak, the desperate, and the foolish.
Vuldyr's voice whispered in his mind.
> ["Note. Anti-enhancer scanning includes psionic stimulants and mana-reactive substances. Their technology is more advanced than projected."]
Niero walked onward, calm but alert.
"…Good to know."
He tightened his gym bag strap and stepped out of the medical tent into the open stadium floor.
Ahead, rows of testing lanes stretched across the arena like a battlefield grid.
A loudspeaker boomed overhead, emotionless and commanding:
"ALL CANDIDATES WHO PASSED PRE-SCREENING, REPORT TO PHYSICAL TEST STATION ONE."
Niero rolled his shoulders once.
His eyes sharpened.
"Alright," he muttered.
"Let's get this over with."
=
=====
=
[100-METER SPRINT TEST]
The moment Niero stepped onto the sprint lane, the stadium noise faded into background static.
Nine boys lined up.
Different builds. Different faces. Different reasons for being here.
But all of them had the same look in their eyes—
hunger.
A tall male feline beastfolk referee strode in front of them.
A cheetah.
Lean, long-limbed, his spotted tail flicking lazily behind him. His Dominion uniform fit like it was tailored for speed alone. Even the way he stood radiated predatory athleticism.
He raised a starter pistol.
"ON YOUR MARK."
The boys lowered into position.
Niero crouched.
Hands on the cold track surface.
Bare feet gripping the ground through thin running shoes.
His heartbeat wasn't fear.
It was anticipation.
His muscles felt like tightly coiled cables.
Every breath felt electric.
"GET SET—"
Niero's eyes narrowed.
His world shrank into a tunnel.
Only the finish line existed.
BANG!
The pistol cracked.
And the world exploded.
All nine launched forward like bullets.
Niero surged ahead with terrifying acceleration—his body moving on instinct, legs pumping like pistons, arms cutting air like blades.
The months of training with Mom…
The endless hours in Ego-Space…
The beatdowns…
The pain…
All of it had forged him into something faster than a normal boy had any right to be.
The wind tore against his face.
The track blurred beneath him.
For a split second, he felt like he wasn't running—
He was flying.
Then he noticed it.
To his right—
An African boy, taller and longer-legged, sprinting with clean technique and raw athletic grace.
The boy's breathing was controlled.
His posture perfect.
And—
He was edging ahead.
Niero's blood ignited.
His competitiveness flared like a wildfire.
Oh hell no.
His Nova-Spark stirred instinctively.
Not enough to glow.
Not enough to expose him.
But enough to tighten every fiber in his legs.
He pushed.
Harder.
Faster.
His footfalls struck like thunder.
The distance between them shrank.
Then vanished.
Niero pulled level with him.
Their shoulders almost aligned.
Their eyes flicked sideways, just briefly—
The African boy's expression sharpened.
A spark of rivalry.
Then—
Vuldyr's voice cut into his mind like an emergency siren.
> ["WARNING. HOLD BACK. YOU ARE EXCEEDING SAFE PERFORMANCE PARAMETERS."]
Niero's pupils tightened.
His mind snapped back to reality.
Mom's warning echoed in his head:
Bs and Cs. Don't draw attention.
His pride screamed at him to crush the other boy.
To prove himself.
To win.
But his survival instinct—trained by Emmy's brutality—overruled his ego.
Niero gritted his teeth.
"…Damn it."
At the last stretch—
he forced himself to ease off.
Just a fraction.
A controlled loss.
Enough to make it believable.
The African boy surged ahead, crossing the finish line first.
Niero crossed barely behind him.
The stadium sensors beeped.
A holographic time display popped up above his lane:
CANDIDATE 157 – NIERO RIPLEY
100M SPRINT TIME: 11.5 SECONDS
RATING: B
Niero stood at the end of the lane, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Not because he was tired.
Because he was furious.
He could feel it in his bones.
He could've done better.
He could've hit a time that would've made the Dominion officers stare.
He could've gotten an A.
He could've won.
Instead, he had deliberately lost.
The African boy looked back at him, grinning with pride, clearly believing he'd genuinely beaten him.
Niero forced a polite nod back.
Inside, he was grinding his teeth.
Vuldyr spoke again, calmer now.
> ["Good. That was the correct decision."]
Niero exhaled through his nose.
"…Yeah."
He stared at the glowing B above his name.
His ego hated it.
But his mother's voice lingered in his head like law.
Sometimes, winning wasn't about crossing the finish line first.
Sometimes—
winning was about staying invisible long enough to survive.
Niero rolled his shoulders and walked toward the next station.
His body was warm now—blood pumping, lungs steady, muscles loose and responsive. The kind of physical "ready state" he usually only felt deep into Mom's brutal sparring sessions.
But here?
He couldn't unleash it.
He had to pretend.
And it was driving him insane.
=
=====
=
Grip Strength Station
A mechanized grip tester sat on a steel table, with a digital screen hovering above it.
The examiner, a stern-looking woman in Dominion sports uniform, nodded at him.
"Candidate 157. Squeeze until maximum."
Niero wrapped his hand around the handle.
It felt flimsy.
This thing isn't even calibrated for someone like me…
He squeezed.
His forearm tightened.
Tendons flexed.
He felt the device resisting… then beginning to whine slightly, like it didn't like the pressure.
He immediately loosened.
Just enough.
The screen flashed:
55 kgf
GRADE: C
The examiner raised an eyebrow, impressed but not alarmed.
"Not bad."
Niero forced a small smile.
Inside, his pride was screaming bloody murder.
That's it?! Fifty-five?! I could crush this thing into scrap metal!
=
=====
=
Weight Lifting Station
A rack of weighted bars sat under a reinforced frame.
The test wasn't for showmanship—just raw output.
The male instructor called out.
"Deadlift. Clean lift. No jerking. No assistance."
Niero stepped up.
The bar was heavy, yes.
But compared to the claymores his mother dropped on him like meteorites?
It was a joke.
He took his grip.
Centered his feet.
Then lifted.
Smooth.
Controlled.
Like he was picking up a grocery crate.
The bar rose cleanly, no shaking.
The sensor beeped.
170 kg
GRADE: B
Some of the boys nearby stared.
A couple muttered under their breath.
That was already above average for a sixteen-year-old.
Niero's ego surged.
His spine wanted to straighten.
His chest wanted to puff up.
But he forced himself to act casual.
He set the bar down carefully and stepped away like it was nothing.
Inside, his mind snarled.
I could've done more.
I could've done so much more.
=
=====
=
Jumping Test Station
A long jump lane stretched out, with holographic distance markers floating above the track.
The examiner waved him forward.
"One attempt. Best distance counts."
Niero took a few steps back.
His legs felt spring-loaded.
His Nova-Spark resonance tingled faintly in his muscles, begging to explode.
He ran.
Then launched.
For a brief moment, the air felt weightless.
He landed with a hard skid, feet scraping.
The sensors calculated instantly.
2.5 meters
GRADE: C
Not terrible.
Not amazing.
Perfectly average for a fit boy.
Perfectly safe.
Niero clenched his jaw.
He turned away before anyone could see his expression.
Because the truth was…
he could've jumped farther.
Farther than what would've been believable.
=
=====
=
Niero slowed his pace and drifted toward the refreshment booth near the edge of the stadium floor.
A long table was set up under a white Dominion tent, staffed by two volunteers and a medic drone that hovered silently like a watchful hawk. Rows of paper cups, electrolyte packs, and trays of plain buns were laid out like rations.
He grabbed one cup of electrolyte drink and a bun.
The bun was cold and dry.
He bit into it.
Chewed.
And immediately his brain judged it.
Mediocre. Mom's bread would've been softer. Better crust. Better texture. This tastes like military sadness.
He swallowed anyway, washing it down with the electrolyte drink. It tasted like lemon saltwater.
Not unpleasant.
Just… functional.
Niero leaned against a nearby barrier rail, watching candidates jog past him toward the next stations. Some looked excited. Some looked terrified. Some looked like they wanted to throw up.
His breathing was steady.
His heart rate was calm.
His body was barely even tired.
He should've felt confident.
And he did.
But his thoughts kept circling back to the same thing.
The third test.
The first two test sets were simple.
Physical Fitness Test?
He could pass. Easily.
Written Exam?
He could ace it in his sleep.
But the third…
Psychological Screening and Metatalent Evaluation.
No details.
No criteria.
No sample questions.
No public explanation.
Just a cold, vague label that felt more like a trap than an exam.
Niero took another bite of the bun, eyes narrowing slightly.
Then he spoke in his mind.
"Vuldyr. Tell me about the third test."
A faint pulse of light flickered in the corner of his vision—his system responding.
Vuldyr's voice came softly into his thoughts.
> ["I have tried, Niero."]
> ["ArkNet provides almost no information on that portion of the evaluation."]
Niero frowned.
"Nothing? Not even rumors?"
A pause.
Then Vuldyr answered, more cautiously.
> ["There are fragments. Speculation. But the Dominion intentionally keeps it vague."]
> ["It is likely a spontaneous evaluation. Something adaptive."]
Niero's stomach tightened.
He finished the bun and wiped crumbs off his fingers.
"So it's basically an ambush test."
> ["Yes."] Vuldyr replied bluntly. ["A controlled one."]
She continued:
> ["The Dominion uses it as a security measure."]
> ["To prevent information leaks."]
> ["To prevent candidates from training specifically for it."]
> ["And to detect… undesirable psychological patterns and dangerous Metatalent."]
Niero's expression hardened.
He could already imagine what that meant.
They weren't just looking for strength.
They were looking for obedience.
Stability.
Loyalty.
People who wouldn't break.
People who wouldn't betray.
Or worse—
people who wouldn't become monsters themselves.
Niero stared at the far end of the stadium, where a sealed hallway entrance was guarded by Dominion personnel in black uniforms.
He didn't know why, but he felt like that hallway was where the third test waited.
Like a mouth.
Like a throat leading into something deeper.
He took another sip of the electrolyte drink.
Cold.
Sharp.
Then he exhaled slowly.
Whatever it is… I'll deal with it.
Vuldyr's voice softened slightly.
> ["Be cautious. That test is not about how hard you can punch."]
Niero's eyes narrowed.
"…Yeah."
He tossed the empty paper cup into a bin.
And pushed himself off the rail.
Niero stiffened.
Not from fear.
Not even surprised.
It was that instinctual irritation—the kind that crawled up your spine when you heard a voice you didn't want to hear again.
A lazy male voice drifted behind him like cigarette smoke.
"...It's been a long time we get to meet each other, boy."
Niero's eyes narrowed before he even turned.
He already knew that voice.
He turned his head slowly.
And there he was.
Agent Takeshi Armitage, of Bloom Dominion's Anti-Anomaly Agency.
Standing a few steps away like he belonged here.
A scruffy Japanese-European man in his thirties, hair combed back with gel, five o'clock shadow, and a grin that looked like it was permanently glued to his face. A trench coat hung over his shoulders like a cheap movie cliché—but beneath it was unmistakable.
The sleek, skintight bodysuit of the Bloom Dominion's Anti-Anomaly Agency.
M.A.R.S. Suit.
Even under the noise of the stadium, Niero could hear it faintly.
A low mechanical hum.
Like a beast quietly breathing.
Takeshi's gloved hand rested on the hilt of his sheathed katana, the weapon's frame not entirely metal, not entirely technology—something mechanicalized, engineered for killing things that shouldn't exist.
His posture was loose.
Relaxed.
But the way his shoulders sat, the way his stance was planted…
He wasn't relaxed because he was careless.
He was relaxed because he was confident nothing here could threaten him.
The kind of confidence only someone with real blood on their hands could have.
He stepped forward casually and patted Niero's shoulder like they were old friends.
Takeshi chuckled.
"Damn… didn't expect you to get so buff. You're sixteen, right? What're they feeding you in Sector 13?"
Niero's jaw clenched.
He didn't like the contact.
He didn't like the familiarity.
And he especially didn't like how this man acted like Radiant Day had been some friendly little coincidence.
Niero brushed his shoulder slightly, as if wiping away invisible dust.
"…Why are you here?"
Takeshi lifted both hands in mock innocence.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he said, voice laid back. "Profession Day's a big deal. Gotta support the youth. Future soldiers. Future Marauders."
Then his grin widened.
"And hey… if you get in, I might get a recommendation bonus."
Niero stared at him.
His face went flat.
Deadpan.
"So I'm a money bag to you."
Takeshi laughed like Niero just told a good joke.
"Kid, I need money for food and booze. The Empress's light doesn't pay my bar tab."
He leaned in slightly, eyes sharp behind the casual humor.
"And besides…"
His voice lowered, still smooth.
"…you and I already have history. Would be rude not to check in."
Niero felt his stomach tighten.
That "history" wasn't friendly.
It was the alley.
The acrylic keychain.
The way Takeshi's eyes had looked at him that day—
like he'd already started filing Niero into a category.
Not as a boy.
Not as a civilian.
But as something that needed watching.
Niero's eyes stayed narrowed, locked onto Takeshi like a guard dog watching a snake.
Takeshi gave a slow sigh, leaning back slightly as if offended by the audacity of suspicion.
"Oi, oi. Don't look at me like you're about to laser my handsome face off."
Niero didn't blink.
"…Why are you even here?"
Takeshi spread his arms, casual.
"Just soaking in the vibes."
Niero took another sip of his electrolyte drink, unimpressed.
"Vibes? You mean sweat, adrenaline, and crippling masculinity?"
Takeshi burst out laughing, loud enough to turn a few heads.
"HAH— okay, okay, fair."
Then his tone softened, less joking, more observational.
"But nah. That's not what I mean."
He looked around the stadium at the hundreds of candidates stretching, running, flexing, arguing, and psyching themselves up.
"In a society like this…" Takeshi said, "…most boys don't even bother. They take the easy path."
He ticked it off casually.
"Kept man. Trophy husband. Pretty boy influencer. Cafe worker. Private escort. Corporate pet."
His grin returned.
"Some of them even get rich doing it."
Niero's face hardened.
Takeshi continued, voice calm, almost respectful.
"But days like this? This is where you see it."
He gestured toward the track lanes and testing zones.
"Boys trying to make a name for themselves. Trying to earn a spine. Trying to prove they're not just… accessories."
He glanced at Niero again.
"And I won't lie, kid. It's kinda refreshing."
Niero scoffed.
"Refreshing… until they get eaten alive beyond the wall."
For the first time, Takeshi's smile faded just a little.
Not sadness.
Not guilt.
More like… a familiar acceptance.
Then he turned it back on Niero, smoothly, like a blade flicking direction.
"Then why are you here, huh?"
The question landed like a punch.
Not loud.
Not aggressive.
Just direct.
Takeshi tilted his head.
"If you already know what's out there… why step forward anyway?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, still casual, but the weight behind them sharpened.
"You're smart, Niero Ripley."
He tapped his own temple.
"Too smart to be naïve."
Then he smirked again.
"So tell me."
His voice was light, but the words weren't.
"Are you here because you're brave…"
"…or because you're trying to prove something?"
Niero opened his mouth—
But nothing came out.
For the first time in a long time, his brain didn't have a clean answer.
Because Takeshi's question wasn't wrong.
It wasn't even insulting.
It was… sharp. Like a knife sliding into the cracks of his own motivations.
Yes, he wanted money.
Yes, he wanted a better citizenship tier.
Yes, he wanted to protect his family, to make sure Mom never had to count credits again, never had to smile politely at rude customers while her eyes looked tired.
Yes, he wanted to explore beyond MAC-01's walls.
Yes, he wanted to grow stronger.
But behind all of that…
There was another pull.
A deeper itch.
A question that had no name.
Who am I?
Why was I the only infant survivor in a dead Ark-city?
Why do I have this power?
Why does the world feel like it's hiding something from me?
He gripped the paper cup harder until it crumpled slightly.
Before he could say a single word—
A voice cut through the crowd.
"Armitage! We got movement on the east corridor!"
Niero turned his head.
A tall wolf Beastfolk male in a black tactical uniform, the same agency emblem stamped on his chest, was waving Takeshi over with urgency.
Takeshi exhaled like a man being dragged away from his smoke break.
"Tch… duty calls."
He pushed off the nearby railing and dusted his coat, acting lazy again, but his eyes were sharper now.
He gave Niero a two-finger salute.
"Kid."
Niero blinked, still tense.
Takeshi's tone became quieter, more serious.
"I'm not here to scare you off."
He glanced around, then leaned in just slightly.
"But I saw something in you. Potential."
Niero frowned. "You don't even know me."
Takeshi smirked.
"Yeah. And that's the problem."
Then he spoke plainly.
"When you get your results—call me."
Niero stiffened.
"And if you fail…" Takeshi continued, shrugging like it was nothing, "…don't sulk too hard. You'll still have options."
His eyes flicked toward the agency emblem on the wolf man's chest.
"Bloom Dominion Anti-Anomaly Agency. We're always hungry for capable people."
He pointed at Niero's chest with one finger.
"I can refer you."
The offer didn't sound like kindness.
It sounded like a hook being casually dangled.
Then Takeshi stepped away, already walking backward.
"See you soon, Niero Ripley."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the crowd, his trench coat vanishing between bodies like smoke.
Niero stood still, cup in hand, watching him go.
His heartbeat didn't slow.
Not because Takeshi was threatening.
But because he was interested.
And that was worse.
Vuldyr's voice whispered in his mind, calm but alert.
> ["ArkNet Scan: No restricted anomaly data linked to Niero Ripley."]
> ["No active surveillance flags detected."]
> ["Risk Assessment: Moderate—Agent Takeshi Armitage is an unknown variable."]
Niero's jaw clenched.
Takeshi wasn't just some laid-back swordsman.
He was the kind of man who smiled like a friend…
while quietly measuring your throat for where to cut.
Niero exhaled slowly, then tossed the crushed paper cup into the bin.
"…Yeah," he muttered under his breath.
"That guy's a problem."
=
=====
=
Niero stepped up to the Punch Power Station, rolling his shoulders as he stared at the force-sensor pad mounted into a reinforced wall frame. The machine looked like a slab of black metal with glowing Dominion runes and digital numbers floating above it.
A staff Mechanoid announced calmly:
"Candidate 157. Punch Power Evaluation. One strike. Full commitment recommended."
Niero swallowed.
Full commitment? Yeah, no thanks.
He took a stance anyway—feet planted, hips aligned, fist chambered.
He inhaled.
Then exhaled sharply.
His fist launched forward like a piston.
THOOM!
The pad shuddered violently.
A bright holographic number burst into the air:
6000 N
A beat of silence.
Then the system confirmed in clean glowing letters:
RESULT: A-RANK
Niero's eyes widened.
"…Shit."
A few nearby boys gasped.
One guy actually muttered, "What the hell…"
But before Niero could panic, the station beside him lit up too—
5800 N. A-RANK.
Another boy roared and punched again at a different station—
6200 N. A-RANK.
Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted.
This wasn't just Niero.
There were other monsters here too—boys who had been training like madmen, boys who were desperate enough to throw their entire soul into one punch.
Some were shaking their arms in pain after hitting the pad, grimacing, almost tearing something.
But they still got their A.
Niero let out a slow breath of relief.
Good… I'm not alone. I can blend in.
Vuldyr's voice whispered inside his mind:
> ["You miscalculated, moron! But this is acceptable. Multiple candidates have achieved A-rank output."]
Niero clenched his fist and flexed his fingers.
His knuckles didn't even hurt.
That fact alone made him uneasy.
=
=====
=
Reflex / Agility Test
The next station looked more intimidating.
A circular arena surrounded by sensor pillars. Thin red laser grids flickered in patterns, and overhead drones hovered like watchful insects.
A Mechanoid instructor explained:
"Reflex Evaluation. Dodge drills. Avoid laser contact. Reaction time will be recorded."
Niero stepped into the circle.
The floor lit up beneath his feet.
BEEP.
Then the lasers came alive.
Not slowly.
Not fairly.
They snapped out like sudden death traps.
Niero's body moved on instinct—ducking, twisting, stepping sideways, jumping back with a fluidity that came from months of Mom's brutal hell-training.
His mind didn't even process the lasers as threats.
They were just… obstacles.
One came from the left.
He leaned away.
Another from above.
He dropped low.
Two crossed at once.
He slid between them like a shadow.
The drones scanned him constantly.
Finally—
BEEP. TEST COMPLETE.
A holographic number hovered above him:
0.21 sec
Then the grade appeared:
RESULT: B-RANK
Niero nodded, satisfied.
That was perfect.
Not too high.
Not suspicious.
Still impressive enough to qualify.
He stepped out of the arena, sweat barely forming on his skin.
But his heart was pounding—not from exhaustion…
=
=====
=
Niero sat on the lobby bench, the cold plastic seat slightly damp from melted snow drifting in through the stadium doors. His gym bag rested beside him, towel draped loosely over his neck, and a half-finished synthetic sports drink in his hand—sweet, artificial, and just barely enough to take the edge off the fatigue.
Around him, the lobby had shifted from tense competition to exhausted chatter.
Groups of boys compared results in low voices. A few girls laughed nervously about near-fails or unexpected A-ranks. Some were already talking about career paths like they were choosing lunch options—Security Corps, Engineering Division, even Exploration track.
But not everyone was celebrating.
Near one of the side exits, Niero caught movement.
Security personnel.
Two candidates were being escorted out—hands bound with soft restraint cuffs, their names projected in red above their heads.
DISQUALIFIED
Niero's eyes narrowed slightly.
He didn't stare openly. Just watched through reflection in the glass panel beside him.
A staff Mechanoid's voice echoed calmly:
"Candidate deviation detected. Removal in progress."
Whispers spread nearby.
"Cheater…?"
"Or anomalous?"
"I heard they used illegal boosters…"
Then Niero caught fragments of something worse.
Two names being spoken in hushed, uneasy tones.
-
Redborn
"…cannibal mutation case… Red Plague strain…"
Niero's grip tightened slightly on the drink.
He glanced toward the corridor.
One of the escorted candidates had skin that subtly shifted under stress—like muscle and flesh couldn't decide what shape it wanted to be. Even restrained, the body twitched unnaturally, like something inside was still trying to grow.
A guard spoke quietly:
"Keep it covered. No exposure."
Dreamdiver
Another group was being moved separately.
This one made the air feel heavier.
A boy walked under escort, trembling slightly, with faint fungal-like patterns visible under his collar and wrist—almost like glowing veins of pale, unreal color.
Someone in the crowd whispered:
"Dreamdiver…"
Niero's brow tightened.
He caught the word again.
"Forbidden dream realm users… RPG-type cognition space… lifespan exchange mechanics…"
Another voice cut in:
"If they die in there, they don't just die here. They come back… wrong."
Niero exhaled slowly through his nose.
That one stuck.
Not because it was scary.
But because it was structured. System-like. Rule-based.
Just like his own.
Vuldyr's voice appeared in his mind, quieter than usual.
> ["These classifications are unrelated to your system signature."]
Niero didn't respond immediately.
He took another sip of his drink.
Sweet.
Fake.
Safe.
-
But his thoughts weren't.
He looked down at his hands.
At the same hands that had just hit 6000 N.
At the same body that moved like it already knew how to survive things it shouldn't.
If they ever looked deeper…
If they ever scanned past "Psionic enhancement type"…
Would they see him as candidate 157?
Or something closer to those being dragged away?
He leaned back slightly, staring up at the stadium ceiling lights.
The Profession Day noise continued around him—life going on, normal, structured, controlled.
But for Niero…
the lobby suddenly felt like a waiting room between labels.
And he wasn't sure which category he wanted to avoid most.
Niero's thoughts snapped apart the moment two familiar voices cut through the noise.
"BROTHER!"
Daisy arrived first—practically launching herself onto the bench before immediately recoiling with a dramatic gasp.
"Ew—sweaty!"
Sophie followed behind at a calmer pace, smiling as she folded her arms.
Niero blinked, then sighed.
"…Thanks for the warm welcome."
Daisy bounced on her heels, still energized despite the tests.
"Sophie did AMAZING! She got mostly B's, some A's and a few C's!"
Sophie gave a small, modest shrug like it wasn't a big deal, but the faint pride in her eyes betrayed her.
"And Daisy?" Niero asked.
Daisy puffed her cheeks.
"I also got B's and C's… and one D…"
Sophie patted her head. "Still solid for her age group."
That made Niero pause.
His eyes shifted between them.
"…Right. Age group."
Then it clicked.
Sophie was 18.
Daisy was 14.
And most candidates here were 16.
Daisy noticed his expression. "Oh! Yeah, we're in a different bracket thingy."
Sophie nodded. "Sororitae-eligible candidates are evaluated separately. Age-flex testing zones, adjusted standards, and different evaluation booths."
Daisy brightened immediately.
"It means we're SPECIAL!"
Niero exhaled through his nose.
"…Of course you are."
Sophie added, a bit more serious now:
"It's not exactly 'easier.' It's just different criteria. Mana output, stability, Arcana compatibility, emotional resonance…"
She glanced toward the distant girls' section of the stadium.
"There are girls who fail too. A lot, actually."
Daisy tilted her head. "But we still did better than some of them!"
Niero leaned back slightly, looking up at the ceiling again.
"…Yeah," he muttered.
"Mana users get a cleaner metric."
Sophie frowned. "Cleaner?"
Niero gestured vaguely toward the arena.
"Output, control, compatibility. If you're compatible, you rise. If not, you don't."
He paused, then added more quietly:
"Boys don't get that kind of clarity."
Daisy blinked. "Huh?"
Sophie understood faster. Her expression softened a little.
"You mean you think we have it easier."
Niero didn't answer immediately.
Because it wasn't jealousy.
Not exactly.
It was something more like… imbalance awareness.
Different rules applied to different people, but everyone was still told they were playing the same game.
He finally shrugged.
"I mean… at least yours is visible. Measurable."
Sophie studied him for a moment, then lightly bumped his shoulder.
"You still did fine, you know."
Daisy nodded enthusiastically.
"Yeah! Brother is super strong!"
Niero gave a faint, tired smirk.
"…Yeah. 'Fine.'"
But his eyes drifted again—past them, past the crowd, toward the next stage doors.
Because even if their world had clear metrics…
His third test didn't.
And that was the one that felt the most like it was waiting for him personally.
=
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=
The cold air hit them the moment they stepped out of the stadium.
Afternoon sunlight reflected off the snow, making the whole Sector 13 square feel bright and blinding. Niero pulled his winter jacket tighter, while Sophie and Daisy walked beside him—tired, sweaty, but with that strange feeling of surviving something important.
They moved through the crowd of families, candidates, and vendors, heading toward the familiar sight of the Ripley-Mobile minivan.
Maison Bella Café's stall was already being dismantled.
Mom was folding up the table cloths, stacking the trays, and sealing the kettle lid, while Aunt Alura was shoving boxes and supplies back into the van like she was packing for war.
When the three siblings approached, Mom turned—
and froze.
"…You're done already?" she blurted, shocked.
Niero shrugged. "Physical test ended."
Mom looked offended, like she had been robbed of an important life event.
"I missed it??"
Alura scoffed, slamming the van door shut. "They should've let us sit in the stadium seats. At least let us watch our kids suffer."
Sophie calmly replied, "It's probably to avoid… unnecessary issues."
Alura raised an eyebrow. "Like what?"
Sophie glanced toward Niero without hesitation.
"…Women ogling sweaty boys in sport shorts."
Niero immediately turned to her.
But then he stopped.
Because unfortunately…
It was believable.
Mom made a face like she didn't want to admit it but couldn't deny it either.
"…Ugh. Yeah. That's fair."
Daisy crossed her arms. "Disgusting."
Niero muttered, "I hate this city."
Mom then remembered something, her expression shifting into concern.
"But I heard commotion inside. People shouting. Some candidates were dragged away."
Niero's tone grew more serious. "Yeah. We saw it."
Sophie nodded. "Some were caught doping."
"And some…" Daisy hesitated, lowering her voice. "…had weird Metatalents."
Niero added quietly, "Controversial ones. Like the kind the Dominion doesn't tolerate."
Mom's jaw tightened at that. The playful mood faded for a second.
Alura clicked her tongue. "Well. That's Profession Day for you. Either you get sorted into a future… or you get sorted into a cell."
Mom shot her a look. "Alura."
"What? It's true."
Then Alura waved them over with urgency. "Come on. Everyone in the van. We leave now before the traffic becomes hell."
Mom nodded firmly. "She's right. Get in."
The three siblings climbed into the Ripley-Mobile, still sore from the tests, still mentally buzzing from everything they'd seen.
And as the van doors shut, the stadium behind them felt less like a building…
and more like a gate they had just walked through.
-
The Ripley-Mobile rolled through the snowy streets, the heater humming softly while the city lights blurred past the windows. Inside, the mood was a strange mix of exhaustion and excitement—like the aftershock of surviving something big.
Mom kept both hands on the wheel, but her eyes kept flicking to the rear mirror, watching her kids like she needed to confirm they were still breathing.
After a moment, she finally spoke.
"So," she asked carefully, "how did you three do?"
Sophie straightened up proudly, brushing her hair back like she was already posing for a Sororitae recruitment poster.
"I did good," she said. "The instructors said my stamina was above average. And my Mana circulation is stable."
Daisy bounced in her seat. "And they said my Mana output is really good!"
Mom smiled warmly. "That's my girls."
"But…" Daisy's smile turned strained. "I get tired faster than Sophie. My legs felt like jelly."
Sophie nodded. "She didn't collapse, though. That's what matters."
Mom's voice softened. "You both did excellently. I'm proud of you."
Then she glanced at the rear-view mirror again.
"And you, Niero?"
Niero leaned back, arms crossed, trying to sound casual.
"I did… alright."
Mom raised an eyebrow. "Define 'alright.'"
He shrugged. "Mostly Bs and Cs. Above-average physical stuff."
Mom's shoulders visibly relaxed—
until Niero added, like it meant nothing:
"…I got an A in one."
The air shifted.
Mom's grip on the steering wheel tightened just slightly.
Sophie blinked. Daisy's head snapped toward him like a hawk.
"…An A?" Mom repeated.
Niero instantly regretted saying it out loud.
But Mom forced her face to stay calm. She inhaled, then exhaled.
"Well," she said, voice controlled, "good job."
It sounded supportive.
But Niero could hear the hidden meaning behind it:
We'll. Talk. Later.
Daisy squinted at him suspiciously. "What test?"
Niero replied quickly, "Punching strength."
Sophie groaned. "Of course it's punching."
Niero smirked. "What can I say? I'm built different."
Daisy responded jokingly. "Of course you are, meathead."
"Oi!" Niero responded, half offended, half sarcastically.
Mom sighed. "You three did excellent, all of you. You survived the worst part."
Daisy's excitement faded as she remembered something.
"…Tomorrow is the written exam."
She sank into the seat like someone just announced her execution date.
"I'm gonna die," she muttered.
Sophie nodded grimly. "We need to memorize the topics. Strategy logic, ethics, history—everything."
Niero shook his head. "Memorizing isn't the best way."
Both sisters turned to him immediately.
Niero continued, "Understand the topic first; remember key details like a formula, understand its concepts, and even create a mental mind map of this information. Then you don't have to memorize everything. You build a foundation out of it."
Sophie stared at him like he just spoke in an alien language.
Daisy narrowed her eyes. "You're showing off again."
Niero laughed. "Hey, don't hate me for my super-genius brain."
Sophie scoffed. "Nobody hates you."
Daisy muttered, "I do."
Mom smiled despite herself, shaking her head as the van continued toward home...
...carrying the family forward into the next day's trial.
=
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=
<<<[ 2088's Tryout Test Results ]>>>
< 00. Personal Details >
> Name:Niero Ripley
> Gender:Male
> Date of Birth:21st May 2072
> Citizenship ID:MAC01-1155-720521
> Citizenship Tier:TBA
> Prior Academic Institution:St. McWeston All-Boys High School
> Metatalent Classification:Psionic – Enhancement Type
> Main Track Interest: Bloom Dominion's Military Academy - Marauder Course
-
< 01. Physical Fitness Test >
> 100-meter sprint -11.5 seconds (B)
> Grip strength -55 kgf (C)
> Weight lifting -170 kg (B)
> Jumping test -2.5 m (C)
> Punching power test - 6000 N (A)
> Reflex / agility test -0.21 sec (B)
> Overall Perforamance: B-rank
-
> Instructor Comments: "Candidate 157 demonstrates above-average overall physical condition. Notable strength output significantly exceeds baseline cadet expectations, particularly in impact-based tests. Endurance and mobility remain within high-average range, indicating balanced but unrefined athletic development. Potential for high-tier combat application if disciplined."
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<<<[ Ch 26, Part 03 - END ]>>>