The voice didn't ask for attention. It took it.
Everest felt the shift immediately—the way the air pressure changed, the way his lungs had to work harder to breathe, the way every instinct in his body said pay attention or die.
He didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Just sat perfectly still in his seat, three down from where that chaotic Japanese girl had finally stopped bouncing, and watched the screen at the front of the hall.
A silhouette stood against blinding white light. No features. No details. Just a shape that could've been human—or something that had decided to wear the concept like a costume.
The HOUSEMASTER.
When the voice spoke again, it was smooth, patient, and carried the weight of someone who'd already won every argument before it started:
[You are here because you are MAD.]
Around him, the hall went silent.
Not the comfortable silence of people listening.
The silence of people who'd just been told a truth they'd spent years running from.
Everest's expression didn't change.
But his fingers tightened on the armrests.
Here we go.
[Let us be clear about what that means], the HOUSEMASTER continued. [Madness is not metaphor. It is not eccentricity or creative genius or any other comfortable euphemism you've been taught to hide behind.]
The screen flickered.
Three words appeared, stacked vertically:
FOOL
GENIUS
MADMAN
[Madness is a disease. It has stages. Symptoms. Progression. And—]
The lights cut out.
Complete darkness.
Everest's hand went to his pocket instinctively—empty, of course, they'd confiscated everything before entry—and his breathing slowed, controlled.
Around him, the hall erupted:
"What—"
"Is this part of it?"
"I can't see—"
"Chotto matte—" That was Aya's voice, closer than expected.
Then the screaming started.
Not from everyone.
Just one person—a girl, somewhere in the middle rows, her voice climbing into genuine terror.
"Something touched me—something's here—"
The emergency lights kicked in—dim red strips along the floor that turned the massive hall into something that looked like the inside of a dying organ.
And Everest saw it.
Shapes.
Dozens of them.
Humanoid—but wrong. Too tall, limbs at angles that didn't match human anatomy, faces that were smooth planes of nothing.
They stood motionless between the rows of seats.
One was directly in front of Everest.
Less than a meter away.
Its head tilted slowly, mechanically, like a mannequin on a rusty hinge.
Delusions.
Not real ones.
Projections, probably—holographic manifestations designed to trigger exactly this response.
But his body didn't care about probably.
His heart rate spiked. His mouth went dry.
Because the thing was looking at him.
[Stage One], the HOUSEMASTER's voice cut through the chaos, calm and inexorable. [THE FOOL. An irrefutable certainty that that which should not be, is.]
The figure in front of Everest moved.
Not fast.
Deliberately.
It raised one too-long arm, fingers extending toward his face—
Everest didn't think.
He moved.
Sideways out of his seat, rolling into the aisle, coming up in a crouch—
The figure didn't follow.
Just stood there, arm still extended, frozen mid-reach.
His breath came fast now, adrenaline flooding his system despite knowing—knowing it wasn't real.
That's the point, he realized. They're not testing if we know it's fake. They're testing how we react when our madness tells us it's real.
[When you see the impossible], the HOUSEMASTER continued, [your first instinct is to deny it. Your second is to run. Your third—]
The figures moved as one.
All of them.
Sudden, inhuman speed—converging on specific targets throughout the hall.
Everest watched a boy three rows up try to bolt for the exit.
One of the figures intercepted him.
When it touched his shoulder, the boy froze.
Not collapsed—froze.
Mid-stride, mouth open, eyes wide.
"Oi oi oi, that's NOT COOL!" Aya's voice—sharp with genuine anger.
Everest's head snapped toward her.
She was standing on her seat, crimson eyes fixed on the figure approaching her—and her figure suddenly emanated an aura of dense, hateful abjuration.
It hurt his very core merely looking at her.
She's going to use her delusion.
Here.
Now.
"Aya, don't—"
Too late.
Her aura flared ablaze, and for a split second Everest saw something—a flicker of wrongness in the air around her, like reality hiccupping—
The figure stopped.
Then it dissolved.
Not disappeared.
Dissolved—collapsing into fragments of light that scattered like disturbed fireflies.
The hall went silent.
Even the HOUSEMASTER's voice paused.
Aya stood there, breathing hard, hands still raised, eyes blazing.
"Try that again," she said quietly, in perfect English. "See what happens."
[...Interesting.]
The lights came back on.
Full brightness.
Blinding after the red emergency glow.
Everest shielded his eyes, blinking hard—
When his vision cleared, the figures were gone.
All of them.
Including the one that had been inches from his face.
The frozen boy was moving again, stumbling forward, looking around in confusion.
Throughout the hall, Icons were picking themselves up—checking their neighbors, some laughing nervously, others dead silent.
Aya dropped back into her seat.
Then immediately bounced up again, looking around wildly.
"Eh? Eh?! Where'd they go? Did I—was that me? Did I do that?"
[Ms. Aya Norito], the HOUSEMASTER said—and now there was something in the voice that hadn't been there before. Amusement, maybe. Or hunger. [Thank you for the demonstration.]
Aya froze.
"...Demonstration?"
[Your third instinct when faced with the impossible—after denial, after flight—is to fight. To impose your own impossibility over the world's. That is Stage Two. THE GENIUS.]
The screen behind the stage lit up again.
This time it showed footage—recent footage, less than thirty seconds old.
Aya standing on her seat.
Her hands moving.
The figure dissolving.
[When you prove your madness to yourself and the world. When you manifest your delusion into reality. When the impossible becomes undeniable.]
The footage zoomed in on her hands.
On that flicker of wrongness.
[Ms. Aya has just demonstrated a Stage Two madness. A supernatural ability born from her madness made manifest. And she did so instinctively—without hesitation, without doubt. This is what I mean when I say you are the best generation yet.]
Aya sat down slowly.
Face flushed.
Hands clenched in her lap.
She looked like she didn't know whether to be proud or terrified.
Everest studied her from three seats away.
She didn't even think about it, he realized. She saw a threat and responded with her delusion like it was muscle memory.
How long has she been doing this?
And more importantly: what exactly did she do?
The figure had dissolved.
Not vanished.
Not been destroyed.
Dissolved.
Like it had stopped being real.
[Now], the HOUSEMASTER continued, [let me be clear. What you just experienced was a controlled demonstration. Those entities were not real threats. But your responses were real. Your fear was real. Your choices were real.]
[And they have been recorded.]
The screen split into a grid—dozens of small windows, each showing a different Icon's reaction to the figures.
Some had run.
Some had frozen.
Some had tried to fight with their fists.
And one—Everest saw himself on screen, rolling out of his seat, coming up in a defensive crouch—had moved with trained efficiency.
Shit.
[Every choice. Every strategy. Every moment of weakness or strength. All of it matters. All of it is content.]
The grid vanished, replaced by a single image:
A card.
Sleek. Black. Glowing text.
[Your STELLAR CARD. Your identity within this system. It tracks everything—your growth, your audience, your value. And it is updated in real-time based on your performance.]
A figure walked onto the stage—human this time, wearing a simple black suit and a featureless white mask.
They carried a metal case.
"All Icons will now approach the stage in rows to receive their delusion permits and stellar cards. Front row first. Form a line."
The hall stirred immediately—people standing, forming queues, some eager, some reluctant.
Everest stood smoothly and stepped into position.
Aya appeared behind him almost instantly.
"Ne, June-san," she whispered, leaning close enough that he could smell something floral—perfume or shampoo. "Did I mess up? Using my delusion like that? Are they gonna—I don't know—punish me or something?"
"No," Everest said without turning around. "They wanted exactly that. A demonstration. You gave them one."
"Oh." A pause. "So... that's good?"
"That depends on what you want."
"Eh?"
"Attention," he said quietly. "You just showed everyone in this hall—and everyone watching the broadcast—that you're capable of instinctive delusion manifestation under pressure. That makes you interesting. It also makes you a target."
He felt her go still behind him.
"...Oh."
"So the question is: did you want to be interesting?"
Silence.
Then, softer than before: "I don't know yet."
Honest answer, Everest thought. Better than most would give.
The line moved forward.
When he reached the front, the masked figure gestured to a sleek black terminal.
"Place your hand on the scanner. State your full name."
Everest pressed his palm against the cool surface.
"Everest June."
The terminal hummed.
Light pulsed beneath his hand—warm, then hot, then searing—
He didn't react.
Let them watch me not flinch.
The light faded.
The masked figure retrieved two items from a slot: a folded document and a black card.
"Your permit and stellar card. Next."
Everest stepped aside, unfolding the document as he walked.
DELUSION PERMIT
ISSUED TO: Everest June
CLASSIFICATION: Stage Two (Genius)
DELUSION TYPE: [REDACTED - To be updated upon first manifestation]
AUTHORIZATION LEVEL: Stellar High Compound Only
RESTRICTIONS: Lethal force prohibited without HOUSEMASTER approval. Collateral damage will be billed. Unauthorized use outside designated events will result in immediate termination of permit and Icon status.
TERMS: By accepting this permit, you acknowledge that your madness is property of Stellar High for the duration of your enrollment.
His jaw tightened.
Property.
He flipped to the stellar card.
EVEREST JUNE
DELUSION: [LOCKED]
PRESENCE RANK: #???
FANBASE: 0
CONTRACT: NONE
The question marks felt deliberate.
They're waiting to see what I do.
He pocketed both items and moved toward the exit—
A hand grabbed his elbow.
Everest turned, instinct overriding caution, his free hand coming up defensively—
Silver Lake grinned at him.
"Easy, brother. Just wanted to talk."
Everest pulled his arm free, stepping back to establish distance.
"Talk fast."
Silver's grin widened. "I like you. You move like someone who's been in actual fights. Not sparring—fights. The kind where losing means not getting back up."
"And?"
"And I'm collecting interesting people. You're interesting. That Japanese girl who dissolved the projection? Also interesting. I figure we should stick together when the real games start."
Everest studied him.
Silver Lake.
Presence Class: Star.
Viewer count lower than Everest's—but still respectable.
He's recruiting.
"Why would I want to stick with you?"
"Because I'm very good at not dying," Silver said cheerfully. "And because you're going to need allies who understand that this whole thing is a bloodsport dressed up as entertainment. Most of these kids?" He gestured vaguely at the hall. "They think this is summer camp with cameras. They're going to get eaten alive."
"And you think I'm different."
"I think you're a June," Silver said, dropping his voice. "Which means you've seen things most people can't imagine. Which means you know exactly what kind of monster the HOUSEMASTER is. Which means you're playing a different game than everyone else here."
Perceptive.
Dangerous.
Everest met his eyes. "I work alone."
"For now," Silver agreed easily. "But keep me in mind when that stops being viable. Oh, and—" He leaned closer, voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Your viewer count? It's climbing. You're at 156,000 now. Someone's paying attention to you specifically."
He clapped Everest on the shoulder and walked away, whistling.
Everest watched him go.
156,000.
What the hell are they seeing that I'm not?
"June-senpai!" Aya appeared at his elbow, clutching her own card and permit. "Look look, mine says the same thing! Delusion locked, rank unknown—do you think that means they don't know what we can do, or they're hiding it on purpose?"
"Probably both."
"Ehehehe~ mysterious~" She peered at his card. "But your fanbase is zero too, right? So we're the same!"
"For now."
Something in his tone made her pause.
"...You sound like you're expecting that to change."
"It will," Everest said quietly. "For all of us. That's the point of this place. To turn us into something people can't look away from."
Aya was quiet for a moment.
Then: "Is that what you want? To be watched?"
No
But it's what I need.
Before he could answer, the HOUSEMASTER's voice returned:
[All Icons have been processed. Proceed to the main courtyard. Your first event begins now.]
The doors at the back of the hall—massive, reinforced steel—began to open with a grinding mechanical sound.
Beyond them: sunlight. Open air. And the distant sound of machinery.
[THE SORTING has commenced. You have two hours to reach the central mansion. The first fifty to arrive will proceed to national seasons. The rest will be reconsidered.]
Around him, people started moving—some walking, some running, some hesitating.
Everest checked his card once more.
The text had updated:
VIEWER COUNT: 161,492
Climbing fast.
He started walking toward the doors.
Aya fell into step beside him, silent for once—her earlier excitement replaced by something sharper.
Focus, maybe.
Or fear.
They crossed the threshold together, stepping from the artificial light of the hall into natural sunlight—
And Everest stopped.
The courtyard was massive.
Easily the size of ten football fields.
Artificial terrain—forests, rivers, buildings, ruins.
And scattered throughout it:
Obstacles.
Not static ones.
Moving ones.
Creatures—some mechanical, some organic, all wrong—patrolled the space between where they stood and the distant mansion visible on the far horizon.
One of them turned toward the doors.
It looked like a wolf.
If wolves were made of smoke and had too many eyes—and mouths that opened vertically.
It saw them.
And it started running.
"Oh," Aya said faintly. "Oh shit."
[Welcome to madness, Icons], the HOUSEMASTER's voice echoed across the courtyard, amused and inevitable. [Try not to disappoint me.]
Everest didn't wait.
He ran.
Behind him, Aya cursed in rapid Japanese and followed.
And somewhere in the distance, machinery hummed, cameras swiveled—and 161,492 people leaned closer to their screens.
The game had begun.