It began with an explosion—
not of fire or sound, but of existence itself.
A violent surge of energy ripped through the universe, splitting it open like a fractured mirror. The fabric of reality tore, stretched, and rewove itself wrong, bending the laws of physics until everything humanity once understood collapsed into nonsense. Cause and effect faltered. Space forgot its boundaries. Time stuttered.
The world didn't break.
It glitched.
Five hundred years ago, without warning or prophecy, the event struck. No astronomer foresaw it. No god claimed responsibility. In a single, irreversible moment, the planet was stunned into a new shape and forced to endure impossible deformities—anomalies that should never have existed.
History would name it The Great Distortion.
Most simply called it The Glitch.
Earth expanded to nearly one-point-seven times its original size, as if reality itself had taken a deep, uneven breath. The population swelled to sixteen billion, cities stacking upon cities, continents stretching unnaturally apart. The old laws of physics were torn to shreds, replaced by unstable, newborn rules that no one fully understood. Floating islands drifted through the skies. Objects became affected—phasing, duplicating, decaying, or refusing to obey gravity at all. Echoes of the past appeared where they did not belong. Things that should have stayed dead, forgotten, or impossible began to surface.
Daily life was rewritten overnight.
The Glitch did more than warp the world—it changed people. Some were granted abilities beyond human limits, powers that could bend reality in small, terrifying ways. A few learned to wield them with stability and control. Most were not so fortunate. Unstable powers ruined bodies, minds, and entire neighborhoods.
Those altered by the event were labeled the Anomalies.
To society, they were hazards—walking distortions of reality. Fear turned into hatred, and hatred into cruelty. Anomalies faced systemic brutality, segregation, and open violence, blamed for a disaster none of them had caused.
In response, the TCA—The Coherence Authority—was established. Officially, it existed to protect Anomalies through legal oversight and regulation, maintaining order in a world that no longer behaved. Whether it truly served as a shield or a leash was a matter of constant debate.
Acceptance came slowly—begrudgingly. Anomalies were never fully welcomed, but they were unavoidable. Nearly forty-two percent of the sixteen billion people alive bore the mark of the Glitch. They were coworkers, neighbors, family members.
Living beside them became normal.
Living with them never truly did.
"Shion, wake up! You're going to be late for the entrance exam!"
The shout cut through the thin walls of Shion's room, sharp and urgent. It came from the hallway—his uncle's voice, already laced with impatience.
Shion jolted upright before the door even opened. His chest heaved as if he had just surfaced from deep water, his sheets twisted beneath him and damp with sweat. His heart pounded too fast, too loud, and for a moment he couldn't tell whether the nightmare had truly ended.
A knock followed, then the door slid open.
Miyato Sorahiko paused at the threshold. His sharp expression softened the moment he saw Shion sitting there, wide awake, breath uneven, violet eyes unfocused.
"…The same nightmare again?" Miyato muttered. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, brows furrowing. "You really should see a psychiatrist or something. This is starting to worry me."
"N-No. I'm fine," Shion replied too quickly. His voice faltered. "It's just… I don't know."
It had become routine—waking like this, night after night. The images never stayed long enough to remember, dissolving the instant he opened his eyes, leaving behind only that awful pressure in his chest.
Miyato studied him for a second longer, unconvinced. "Sure you are. Breakfast's ready. Hurry up, or you'll miss your exam."
He turned and walked away, footsteps echoing down the stairs.
A few minutes passed before Shion forced himself to move. He sat there until his breathing steadied, until the tightness in his chest dulled to a manageable ache. Only then did he drag himself out of bed and head downstairs.
The smell of food greeted him—rich, warm, grounding.
At the dining table sat Miyato, already halfway through his meal. Plates were set neatly, steam rising from a generous serving of bacon, eggs, and melted cheese layered perfectly between toasted bread.
"Eat," Miyato said without looking up. "You need the energy."
Shion took a seat across from him. Miyato Sorahiko had always been like this—stern on the outside, careful in his own quiet way. The man had raised him like a son ever since Shion could remember.
Shion himself was hard to miss. Slightly taller than most his age, with dark purple hair that refused to stay neat no matter how often he tried, and striking violet eyes that often made people stare a second too long. He looked perpetually tired, as if sleep never truly reached him.
Miyato finally glanced up. "You sure you're okay?" he asked more gently. "Having the same nightmare over and over isn't normal." He paused, then stiffened. "Wait… do you have some kind of trauma?"
Shion nearly choked on his food. "No! It's not like that." He hesitated, searching for words. "I don't remember anything. Just this… pain. Right here." He pressed a hand to his chest. "Like something's missing. Or breaking."
Miyato squinted at him. "Chest pain, huh? Someone break your heart already?"
"Hey—don't jump to conclusions."
A faint smirk tugged at Miyato's lips before he returned to eating.
Soon after, Shion stood and slipped into his uniform, straightening the collar with trembling fingers. Today was important. The entrance exam would decide everything.
Miyato folded his arms. "Settle the score, squirt. Make me proud."
"I will." Shion nodded. "Thanks for the food."
With that, he stepped outside—and leapt.
The ground vanished beneath his feet as his body surged forward with explosive strength, carrying him effortlessly onto the neighboring rooftop. The wind rushed past his ears as he bounded from house to house, each landing precise and controlled.
Powers like this were nothing special anymore.
Ever since the Glitch, abilities had become a fact of life. Some people bore animal traits—tails, claws, wings. Others mimicked machines, objects, even insects. Superhuman strength, speed, durability—once miraculous, now mundane.
This neighborhood was filled with anomalies. Once feared, now simply there. Over time, abnormal had become normal.
Shion reached the station just as the bullet train arrived, its sleek body humming with energy. The platform buzzed with life—workers, civilians, students in identical uniforms like his. Some were seniors, their confidence obvious as they chatted casually.
He boarded and scanned the interior.
The train was divided into three sections.
Section One: Grade-D — the visibly deformed anomalies.
Section Two: Men only.
Section Three: Women only.
Shion stepped into his assigned car, gripping the overhead rail as the doors slid shut.
The train lurched forward, carrying him toward the exam—and toward whatever awaited him beyond the ache in his chest.
Shion arrived at the designated station and immediately broke into a run.
The moment he emerged from the platform, the academy came into view—and it dwarfed everything around it. The structure rose like a colossal fortress of steel and glass, its architecture both rigid and symbolic, designed not just to house students but to contain power. Crowds flooded toward its gates: humans, anomalies, and everything in between, all drawn by the same purpose.
This place wasn't merely a school.
It had been constructed by the TCA as part of a long-term academic initiative—an attempt to reshape the future. While ordinary humans were permitted to enroll, the institution was primarily designed to train anomalies, to teach control, cooperation, and coexistence. The ultimate goal was simple in theory, impossible in practice: harmony between normals and abnormals.
Unlike conventional academies, this place was founded not to glorify violence, but to prevent it.
Its name reflected that ideal.
The Academy of Unity.
Within its walls existed five specialized courses:
General Studies.
Medical Studies.
Military Studies.
Research Studies.
Engineering Studies.
Each discipline focused on confronting the absurd reality born from the Glitch—studying it, stabilizing it, and, if possible, correcting the chaos it had inflicted upon the world.
Shion didn't hesitate.
He chose Military Studies.
Not because he craved battle, but because he believed strength could be a shield rather than a weapon. He wanted to stand between fear and understanding, to become someone capable of protecting both humans and anomalies alike.
Peace—that was his only dream. His only conviction.
"Sign here once you're finished."
A staff member slid a paper across the counter, pointing to the final line.
It was a questionnaire—standard, clinical, impersonal. It asked whether the applicant was human or anomaly, the grade of their Glitch, its type, their first and second manifestations, their levels, and finally, the course they wished to pursue.
Shion filled it out carefully, pen steady despite the weight pressing down on him.
Once finished, he signed his name.
He found a seat among hundreds of others as the hall slowly settled into uneasy silence.
About fifteen minutes later, a figure stepped onto the stage.
"On behalf of the Academy of Unity," the announcer began, voice amplified yet calm, "we express our gratitude to every promising individual who has chosen to enroll in this program."
He paused, scanning the crowd.
"Remember why you are here. You are here to protect lives—to build peace between humans and anomalies. I say this as a human myself." A faint smile crossed his face. "We may differ in form or ability, but we stand on the same ground, beneath the same sky, as lives gifted by the gods above."
He bowed deeply.
"Thank you for choosing to walk this path."
Murmurs rippled through the students.
"Now," the announcer continued, stepping back toward the microphone, "all students—regardless of the course selected—will undergo the same initial training regimen. Do not be alarmed. Your chosen field of study and your Glitch type will be taken into account when determining expectations."
With that, the crowd was guided toward the training grounds.
The sheer number of enrollees—nearly a thousand—forced the academy to divide the area into ten separate zones. Assistants and automated systems directed students with mechanical efficiency.
Shion's group was led into a wide, reinforced chamber.
Moments later, a tall, stern-looking man entered. His presence alone silenced the room.
"You're here to be tested," the instructor said flatly. "Specifically—your strength. Give it everything you have."
He pressed a button on a handheld remote.
With a heavy thud, a massive object dropped from above.
A giant teddy bear.
Its surface looked deceptively soft, but faint energy patterns shimmered beneath its fabric.
"This is a strength assessment unit," the instructor continued. "Punch it however you want. Use as much firepower as you can. There are passing scores."
A hand shot up from the crowd.
"But sir!" a student protested. "My first Glitch is sustain-type, and my second is also sustain. Isn't this unfair to those of us who aren't vigor or transmute types?"
The instructor turned slowly, eyes sharp.
"You think this world cares about fairness?"
The room went silent.
"Everything is inconvenient," he snapped. "If you're a sustain-type relying on a vigor anomaly for protection, what happens when that guardian falls? Who saves you then? Medical training isn't just healing wounds—it's fighting to keep people alive under pressure."
He gestured toward the test unit.
"As stated earlier, your Glitch type and chosen course will adjust the expectations. But do not mistake that for mercy." His voice hardened. "Give it your all."
Without another word, he stepped aside.
A robotic assistant activated, its synthetic voice echoing clearly.
"Akimichi Boraha. Please step forward."
A tall student approached the teddy bear, rolling his shoulders. His arms suddenly expanded—muscles swelling to grotesque proportions, veins glowing faintly. His second Glitch: Vigor.
He threw a single punch.
The impact shook the room. The teddy bear absorbed the blow, energy rippling outward like a shockwave.
A number flashed on the display.
53,129.
A stunned silence followed.
The robot recorded the result, marking it efficiently.
"...After all that, the teddy bear didn't even budge," Akimichi muttered as he returned to the group, flexing his still-enlarged arms. "That thing's definitely some kind of Grade-S object."
The massive test unit stood unmoved at the center of the arena, its stitched smile mocking every ounce of power thrown at it.
One by one, students stepped forward. Fists crashed, energy flared, and numbers flashed across the screen—each score reflecting the limits of their abilities.
"Miranda Selvia — 5,279 scores!"
"Mortei Blacc — 73,511 scores!"
"Sherdy Dolca — 69,885 scores!"
The names echoed endlessly, excitement slowly dulling into expectation. Strong hits, impressive numbers—but nothing extraordinary.
High above the training floor, the stern instructor watched silently. A second figure leaned against the railing beside him, arms folded loosely, a grin tugging at his lips.
"You know, Gray," the man said casually, "you're being way too strict on the newbies."
Gray didn't take his eyes off the field. "They need to understand what lies ahead. Besides—" he added coolly, "—the passing score is low."
A holographic display flickered to life beside them, listing the standards:
Passing Scores:
• 70–150: Average humans or anomalies (Sustain, Environ, Hollow, Null)
• 151–250±: Peak human
• 350–1,000: Average Vigor or Transmute (First Glitch)
• 10,000–500,000: Average Vigor or Transmute (Second Glitch)
• 1,000,000: Threshold required to move the test unit one meter
"Didn't even show off your own power to motivate them?" the colleague smirked. "That's unlike you."
"Unnecessary," Gray replied flatly.
A ripple of murmurs suddenly swept through the crowd.
"Hey… is that the cyborg guy?"
"I heard he topped a prestigious school in both physical and written exams."
"Then why didn't the TCA recommend him?"
A student stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding attention. One of his arms was fully mechanical—sleek metal plating reinforced with exposed pistons and a compact engine humming softly at the joint.
The whispers didn't faze him.
He drew back his arm. The engine roared.
The punch landed with a deafening blast, a shockwave ripping through the arena and rattling the reinforced walls. Dust burst upward as the teddy bear absorbed the impact.
Still—
it didn't move.
The cyborg clicked his tongue in irritation.
"Arnold Silver — 787,993 scores!"
The number froze the crowd in disbelief.
"That's… insane," someone whispered.
"That punch could've wiped out a small town…"
Shion stared, breath caught in his throat. Even that wasn't enough.
The teddy bear stood untouched.
"Shion Sorahiko. Please step forward."
The call sent a jolt through his spine.
As Shion approached the test unit, Arnold cast him a sideways glance—sharp, assessing. Something about Shion felt wrong. Dangerous.
Shion exhaled slowly.
"…Alright," he murmured. "Here goes."
Purple lightning crackled around his body, snapping violently against the air.
"Power Charge: Maximum Output."
Energy surged through his veins, crawling across his skin in jagged arcs of violet light. The ground beneath his feet groaned faintly.
"Maximum…"
He lowered his stance, fist pulled tight to his side.
"…Strike!"
The punch connected.
Reality shattered.
The teddy bear didn't just move—it was launched like a missile, obliterating the reinforced walls behind it in an explosive roar. Steel bent. Concrete vaporized. A shockwave tore through the arena, forcing students to shield their faces as debris thundered outward.
Silence followed.
Smoke swallowed everything.
The instructor stood from his seat, eyes wide for the first time.
As the dust slowly cleared, Shion emerged from the haze, not a single tremble on his arm, a wide grin stretching across his face.
"…Yes," he breathed. "I did it!"
Then he looked up.
What remained of the training ground was… gone.
Walls reduced to rubble. The teddy bear nowhere in sight.
His smile faltered.
"…Although," Shion added quietly, "I think I might've done it a little too much..."