"You're leaving?"
Ren stopped at the door. Mira sat on the bed—hair tangled, blanket pooled in her lap.
"Yeah."
"Where to?"
The answer needed thinking. Ceremony, skill, assessment—those words were too heavy for a five-year-old who'd run a fever three times this month.
"To pick up a gift."
Mira blinked. "What gift?"
"You'll see later."
"Can I come?"
Ren stepped closer, back of his hand to Mira's forehead. Still warm—not enough to need a doctor, but enough to make Ren's jaw tighten.
"Later. I'll bring it home."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"Pinky swear."
Ren held out his finger. Mira grabbed it tight, shook three times.
"Swear," Mira said, serious.
---
In the kitchen, Ren opened a used biscuit tin. Four bills inside—enough for a week if careful, three days if Mira needed medicine again. Three bills went into his pocket. One went back into the tin, under the loose floorboard.
At the stop, angkot number 12 pulled up with a squeal of brakes. Ren got on, sat at the back. The window beside him was cracked diagonally, but still in one piece.
Two kids in academy uniforms sat up front. Academy name embroidered on the left chest. Ren had no embroidery.
"I'll just aim for B," said one, hair combed neat to the side.
"I want offensive." The other was bigger, broad shoulders. "Go straight into a guild."
"Dream on."
They laughed.
"Hey, you hear about Kevin's team?" the neat one lowered his voice.
"Which?"
"Last week. Went into a level 4 gate. Came out three people short."
Broad shoulders let out a low whistle. "Which guild?"
"Not a guild. Independent team."
"Of course. That's why you join a proper guild."
"Proper guilds lose people too."
They laughed again—not loud.
Ren looked out the window. The old gate ruins in the distance still glowed faintly. A ring of light that never fully disappeared. Sixty years was enough to turn a catastrophe into scenery.
The angkot stopped. Ren got off.
Varen Hunter Academy. White marble pillars, wide steps, a red banner stretched overhead: Graduation & Skill Blessing Ceremony.
In the yard, folding chairs lined up in neat rows facing the stage. Family tents stood along the sides. A boy with carefully combed hair posed in front of one of the tents. His father beside him—suit fitted with a metal guild badge, gold, engraved with a dragon.
"Deva! One more!"
His father raised a camera. The lens flashed. Deva laughed, teeth—
"He'll definitely get A," someone whispered behind Ren.
"Or S."
"People like that, it's just their path."
Ren sat in the back row. His chair wobbled—one leg uneven. He let it wobble.
Deva glanced over. Their eyes met for a second. Deva smiled—not mockery, not sympathy—then turned back to his family.
---
"Good morning, future Hunters."
The voice echoed, heavy—like someone who'd said the same sentence hundreds of times.
"Today you will receive the skill that will accompany you for the rest of your lives. Some will be great, some small. Some will save lives, some will take them. But remember: skill is not everything. What matters most is how you use it."
The Academy Head smiled faintly. "Skill is fate. Skill is your path. Become Hunters we can be proud of."
He stepped back from the podium. The committee beside the gate took over.
Ren folded his arms. Internally: fate can be whatever it wants, as long as the pay is enough. And honestly, why make such a big deal out of this? Just walk through the gate, come out, done.
"Andre!" the committee called, the first name.
A boy from the middle rows stood, face pale. He walked to the stage with stiff steps.
"Come on, Andre!" someone shouted from the back rows.
Andre didn't look back. At the gate, the committee gestured. Andre took a breath, then stepped in.
The air inside the iron frame trembled. For a moment, Andre's body looked redrawn—his outline blurred, then sharpened again. A blue panel appeared in front of him. He read it. His face went from pale to red.
The committee at the microphone read out: "Andre — Rank C — Skill: [Shield]."
In the middle rows, a woman stood.
"Andre! Son, look over here!"
Andre smiled awkwardly, gave a small wave toward his mother.
To the right, a man in a rumpled suit folded his arms. "Rank C. Good enough to be a grunt."
"Don't say that," the man beside him replied. "C can join expedition teams if they put in the work."
"Just a shield. No offensive capability."
"Shields get protected. Better than rank D."
They whispered—not quietly enough.
From the back row, Ren watched Andre come down the stage, immediately pulled into his mother's arms.
---
"Bina!" the committee continued.
A girl with a ponytail jogged up to the stage.
"Bina! Bina! Bina!" three people in the front row shouted together. They stood, arms raised, like concert crowds.
Bina laughed, bounced to the front of the gate, stopped right at the threshold, then looked back toward the shouting. "Watch me!"
"Hurry up, Bin!"
Bina stepped in. The gate trembled briefly. Then the blue panel appeared.
"Bina — Rank B — Skill: [Fireball]."
A shriek. Not a shout—a shriek. A man with a thick mustache leapt from his chair. "THAT'S MY KID!"
"Rank B, Pa!" Bina bounced on the podium. "Rank B!"
His wife—a woman in a red headscarf—laughed through tears. "Get down from there, you're embarrassing us!"
Bina didn't come down immediately. She stood on the podium, two fingers forming a V.
The committee at the microphone said, "Please come down, Miss."
Bina came down, ran toward her family, met with hugs and slaps on the back.
Behind Ren, someone said, "Rank B at 17. She could hit A next year."
"Offensive skill too. Guilds are going to fight over her."
Ren didn't turn around. His eyes stayed on the stage.
---
"Citra!"
A girl with long hair, calm face. Unhurried, no smile. Walked to the stage like someone walking to a library. No one shouted, no family stood.
Citra entered the gate. Slowly—not like Andre who was stiff, not like Bina who bounced. Stepped through like water flowing.
The gate trembled. The blue panel appeared. She read longer than the others. When she came out, her expression hadn't changed.
The committee read: "Citra — Rank A — Skill: [Medic]."
Silence.
Then a voice from the front row. A woman in a white coat, hair pinned up neatly, standing.
"Citra," she said. Quiet, but heard because everything else was still.
Then applause broke.
"Rank A," someone beside Ren whispered. "Medic too. She'll get recruited by a major guild straight away."
"I heard her mother was rank A as well."
"Now?"
"Retired. Injury."
"See, even Medics, if they go into the wrong gate…"
"Shh. They'll hear you."
Citra came down the stage. Didn't run, didn't wave. Walked toward the woman in the white coat, and they stood facing each other without touching.
---
From the stage, the committee called, "Ren!"
Behind Ren, someone whispered, "That's the one who lives in the slums?"
"Yeah. Alone. Raising a little sister."
"Poor thing."
"Just watch."
Ren stood. His walk to the stage was ordinary—not fast, not slow. Past the rows of chairs.
The committee beside the gate gestured. "Go in."
Ren stepped until his whole body was inside.
An electric sensation crawled from the soles of his feet up his spine. Cold. Like something was reading him—every cell, every vein, every possibility. For a moment, the world outside the gate disappeared. Just the iron frame, trembling air, and a feeling like sinking into water.
A blue panel appeared in front of his eyes.
[SKILL RECEIVED: SYNTHESIS — RANK F]
Allows the user to combine two objects or entities into a single new entity. Success depends on understanding the fundamental properties of the material.
Warning: material incompatibility may cause backlash that injures the user.
Ren read it twice. The warning line—read once. Then ignored.
He stepped out of the gate.
The committee read into the microphone, voice flat: "Ren.... Rank F.... Skill: Synthesis."
Silence.
Ren stood on the podium. His eyes moved across the front rows, the middle rows, the back rows.
From the front, someone snickered. A boy with blonde hair—Ren didn't know his name—covered his mouth with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking.
"Synthesis?" A voice from the middle rows, high and sharp. A girl with thick bangs leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Isn't that a skill for making crafts?"
"Might as well become a blacksmith," the boy beside her said.
Laughter began to spread.
Deva in the front row raised an eyebrow, lips forming a smile. Then he laughed—head thrown back, mouth open, all his white teeth showing.
A man in the second row—neat suit, silver guild badge—smiled faintly and shook his head. "Rank F. Well, not everyone can get a good skill."
"But Synthesis?" his wife beside him replied. "Never heard of it. What's it even for?"
"Who knows. Maybe for combining sandals with shoes."
Ren came down the stage at a steady pace—not hurrying, not slowing—past the boy still covering his mouth, past the whispers of "poor thing," past all the neatly lined chairs.
At the gate, a voice from behind.
"Hey, Ren."
Ren stopped.
Deva approached with both hands in his pockets. His academy jacket was open, showing a white shirt underneath. Still carrying the last of his smile.
"I feel bad for you, man," Deva said. Not mockery, not sympathy either. More like stating a fact. "Rank F. What are you going to do after this?"
"Find work."
"Work?" Deva blinked. "As a Hunter's grunt?"
"Yeah."
"You can't do anything with that skill."
Ren looked at Deva. "I can. Combine things."
Deva laughed softly—almost just an exhale. "Seriously. You'd be better off as a blacksmith. I know a few—"
"No need."
Ren didn't continue. His eyes were already on the gate, the road outside, the direction of the flat and Mira waiting there.
"I'll head off."
He left. Deva still stood with his hands in his pockets, didn't call after him.
---
The flea market along the road was starting to close when Ren arrived. Stalls lowering their goods, pulling down tarpaulins. The last vendor was counting money under an oil lamp.
Ren walked to the stall at the far end. An old man in a worn hat was sorting through the last of his wares.
"Still open?" Ren asked.
The old man looked up. Eyes heavy, like he hadn't slept all day. "What do you need?"
"Flat iron. Pointed at one end."
The old man blinked, then bent down, shifted a stack of cardboard boxes, and lifted a piece of metal. "This?"
Ren took it. Good weight in the hand. Rough texture, rusted on one side, but the tip was still sharp. He turned it over.
"A magnifying glass too."
The old man frowned. "A magnifying glass? What for?"
"Experiment."
The old man didn't ask again. He pulled a glass from a wooden box under the table—handle cracked, lens still intact. "Here."
Ren held both. Iron in the left, glass in the right. "How much?"
The old man looked at the items, then at Ren. "Five thousand."
Ren pulled out one bill from his pocket. The old man took it, handed back three coins in change.
"Two bits of junk like this," the old man said, "what are you taking them home for?"
"Experiment."
The old man shook his head, went back to his wares.
---
The flat was dark when Ren arrived. He opened the door slowly—trying not to make noise.
"Kakak?"
Mira's voice from the bedroom. Still awake.
"Yeah."
Ren set the iron and magnifying glass on the chest near the stove. Then he went into the bedroom.
Mira sat on the bed. Blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes were clearer—the fever had come down. Hair tangled, cheeks slightly red from the pillow.
"Where's the gift?"
"Not yet. Tomorrow."
"You promised yesterday." Mira looked at Ren. Eyes round, unblinking. "Pinky swear."
"Tomorrow."
Mira went quiet. Eyes still fixed. Then: "Did you eat?"
"Yeah."
"Liar. Your stomach's growling."
Ren took a breath. No point lying to a five-year-old.
"Yeah. Not yet."
"There's still rice." Mira pointed her chin toward the kitchen. "I left half."
"That's for tomorrow."
"Buy more tomorrow." Mira blinked. "You said you were picking up a gift."
Ren didn't answer. He went to the kitchen. The pot on the chest was still tightly covered. Ren lifted the lid. Half a portion of rice, cold, starting to harden at the edges.
He took the one plate that wasn't cracked. Scooped the rice onto it. Ate standing by the window.
"What's the gift going to be?" Mira's voice from the bedroom.
Ren chewed. Cold rice felt like paper in his mouth. "Don't know yet."
"Make it something nice."
"As long as you like it."
Mira was quiet for a moment. Then: "You coming home was already nice."
Ren stopped chewing.
The sky outside the window. Then to the table beside the stove—iron and magnifying glass waiting there. Money left in his pocket: one bill. Three days. Maybe four if he ate once a day. Mira's medicine still unbought.
He set the empty plate on the chest.
"Tomorrow," he said toward the bedroom. "Tomorrow I'll bring something."
"Swear?"
"Swear."
"Pinky again?"
"Tomorrow. Sleep now."
"You promised."
"Promised."
---
Ren leaned against the kitchen wall. Eyes on the iron and magnifying glass on the chest.
Not tonight.