The ash was thick enough to taste. Lin Mo (林默) coughed, pressing a hand to his mouth as he stepped over the broken remains of what used to be a market street. For seven days, the sky had been black, raining ash and dust so dense it had silenced the city. Now, with the sun just a pale glow behind a haze of gray, the survivors emerged slowly, like cautious insects leaving a cracked shell.
The streets were crowded with those who had awoken their Evolution Seals (进化印). Some walked with confidence, their muscles bulging unnaturally or their eyes flickering with elemental energy. Others shuffled nervously, testing their newfound abilities or whispering to companions about what their mark might mean.
Lin Mo had nothing.
A small, thin boy, no larger than most of the other teenagers around him. No glow. No energy. No seal. Only the cold, quiet emptiness stamped on his forearm, the single words from the system that had defined him:
Void Seal (空印)
Status: Non-Executable
He clenched his fists. Around him, chaos swirled. Survivors argued, laughed, and cried, excited by powers and abilities they barely understood. The air was thick with fear and hope tangled together, and Lin Mo felt both keenly and yet separate, as if observing from the edge of reality.
"Move along," a stern voice barked. A soldier from the Heaven Ascension Council (登天议会) marched past, his armor clinking, his eyes sharp. "All civilians will report to the adaptation facilities. Those without a seal—keep up. Don't slow progress."
The adaptation facilities were enormous structures set up in the center of the Skyfall Zone. Steel and concrete, reinforced after partial collapses, with banners reading Tianyan Protocol Registration Center and rows of officers directing survivors into lines. Inside, children and adults alike would undergo tests—physical, mental, and survival. The system would decide who could fight, who could lead, and who would be assigned to support roles.
Lin Mo followed, his hands deep in the pockets of his tattered coat. Every step felt heavier than the last. Around him, people with glowing seals smiled, flexed, and tested their strength, while the officers made notes and murmured evaluations.
"Next group," called a woman with sharp eyes, motioning him forward. Lin Mo fell in line with the other youths. Each would undergo the first stage: the Seal Registration. A soft glow would scan the body, the system recording energy flows, reaction times, and survival potential.
When it was his turn, Lin Mo stepped onto the platform, heart hammering. The scanner hummed, lights sweeping across his body. Nothing happened. The officer frowned, checking a tablet.
"Void Seal," she said flatly, almost with disdain. "Non-Executable. Take him to Observation."
Lin Mo nodded, swallowing his anxiety. He had long expected this. For all the glowing, the trembling, the shouts of power around him, he had known he was different. Useless, according to the system. Defective, according to society.
But even as the officer led him through the observation corridors, Lin Mo felt a strange warmth in his hands. Tiny sparks of sensation—so subtle no scanner could detect—traveled along his veins. A cut from the rubble earlier had healed faster than it should have. A strain in his muscles disappeared almost before it formed. Nothing visible. Nothing measurable. But he felt it, and he understood: he could survive.
Inside the observation chamber, a group of youths like him whispered nervously. A few had faint seals, weak reactions, delayed activation—classified as borderline cases. Lin Mo remained silent, scanning faces, noticing who seemed strong, who relied on brute force, and who already feared failure.
A voice spoke behind him, low and careful:
"You're Void Seal?"
Lin Mo turned. A boy not much older than him had gray eyes, sharp, calculating. His seal glowed faintly—something resembling a minor sensory enhancer.
"Yes," Lin Mo said quietly.
The boy shrugged. "Good luck, I guess. They don't like our kind."
Lin Mo gave a small nod. Outside the chamber, alarms sounded—a routine alert, they said—but Lin Mo noticed something strange: faint tremors in the air, subtle vibrations he felt in his chest, like the world itself was testing him.
He closed his eyes for a moment and let it sink in. Around him, the world was breaking and rebuilding. Everyone had a role. Everyone except him. And yet, he was already adapting, in ways no one could see, no one could measure.
When the observation officer returned, she spoke with clipped efficiency:
"Void Seal. You will remain under Observation. You will train with others in the basic survival curriculum. You are not expendable—yet. Consider this your first warning."
Lin Mo stepped out of the chamber, following the others into the training hall. Here, they would learn to fight abnormal beasts, to navigate ruined cities, and to survive under the system's eyes. Most would fail. Some would die. And perhaps, one day, those who succeeded would become the world's next heroes.
Lin Mo felt the pull of the training halls, the murmurs of other youths, the hum of the system around him. And in that quiet, unnoticed corner of the world, he whispered to himself:
I will survive. No one can see me now… but one day, they will.
The world had not begun yet—it was only starting. And Lin Mo (林默), the boy with the Void Seal (空印), would rise with it.