Tomorrow

"It's tomorrow." Asmodeos's calm voice echoed softly in his tiny, dimly lit room. With a slow, steady breath, he straightened and looked around, taking in the sight of his walls—covered from top to bottom in drawings, each one a shadowy glimpse into his soul. Images of creatures with twisted forms , faces frozen in fear, and dark scenes that hinted at his own suppressed rage. A bittersweet reminder of the way he'd transformed in the past two months, his anger and bitterness spilled onto each stroke, each mark on the page.

He rose from his bed and started his daily ritual, moving from one drawing to the next, almost as if he were greeting friends. Each image whispered back to him, their jagged lines and rough textures comforting in a way no human could be.

After he finished, he left his home to wash up, heading to the barely functional stall that served as the public bathroom. He snorted at the irony of calling it that—one bathroom, left for both men and women, a slap in the face from the rich to remind them just how little they mattered. As he scrubbed off the grime and let the cold water wash over him, he thought about how things would change after today.

He slipped into his best clothes, the cleanest he had, and wandered through the alleys of the slum. The broken-down shacks, the cluttered trash piles, the stray animals skittering about—it was all he'd ever known. But if things went right today, he'd finally be free of this place.

Asmodeos felt a flicker of excitement but quickly squashed it with the bitterness rooted deep in his heart. He hadn't always felt this way, but then, he hadn't always been alone. Memories of his parents drifted up, unbidden.

They had been skilled awakeners, his parents—summoners, able to call forth creatures from some dark, otherworldly realm. They weren't treated kindly for it, of course. Summoners, especially those who dealt in hellish creatures, were always viewed with suspicion. People had found excuses to avoid them, whispering about "righteousness" and "purity" when in reality, they were simply afraid. Hypocrites, Asmodeos thought bitterly. His parents had been exceptional, and yet, it hadn't saved them. He didn't know exactly how they had died, but he was certain it was no accident. Whatever had happened to them, he swore he'd make every last one of those people pay.

He was thankful his parents had at least given him a foundation of knowledge about awakenings before they passed. He knew more than most kids in the slums, who often went into the ceremony clueless, hoping luck would grant them a decent class or rank. He knew about the awakening machine—a massive, high-tech podium that evaluated a child's potential. It was supposed to bring out whatever was already inside you, and for the wealthy, that meant hiring bodyguards or escorts who would ensure the child stayed safe during the process.

For most, though, the machine was their only chance to prove themselves. It could grant ranks from F, the lowest, to the legendary SSS, reserved for the rarest, most powerful classes. But ranks weren't everything; a high rank might give an edge, but it couldn't change the core of a class. For Asmodeos, the ceremony today was more than just a test—it was a chance to break free, to finally stand above those who had always looked down on him.

The air was thick with anticipation as he wandered through the slum, people murmuring and buzzing with talk of the upcoming ceremony. The lucky kids his age were preparing, their families gathering around them, wishing them luck or praying for miracles. The older ones, those who had already faced the ceremony and failed to awaken anything worthwhile, sneered at the younger ones, their expressions bitter and resentful.

Asmodeos couldn't help but feel a twinge of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could awaken something powerful enough to make them all regret their treatment of him.

"Ooh, someone's thinking of a future they don't have." The familiar, irritating voice dragged him from his thoughts. Asmodeos turned, already knowing who he would see.

There stood Theseus, the self-appointed ruler of their age group, his smug grin stretched wide. Behind him, his two ever-present lackeys flanked him, smirking with the same nasty glint in their eyes.

Asmodeos forced a smile, his fingers twitching with the urge to retaliate. "What do you want, Theseus?"

"Just thought we'd come check on the 'big dreamer,'" Theseus sneered, crossing his arms. "Seems like you're thinking you might actually make something of yourself today."

One of the goons nudged him, laughing. "Yeah, maybe he thinks he'll be someone important. Poor Asmodeos, doesn't even know what's coming."

Theseus chuckled, shaking his head. "You really think the podium's gonna give you anything special? A class? A rank?" He scoffed, looking Asmodeos up and down. "Maybe 'Trash Collector.' Seems about right for someone like you."

The words stung, but Asmodeos kept his expression neutral, though his eyes gleamed with a dark edge. "Better trash than a brainless thug, Theseus. Tell me, do you plan on passing any class that doesn't involve stealing lunch money?"

The sneer faded from Theseus's face, his eyes narrowing. "What did you say?"

Asmodeos held his gaze, unflinching. "You heard me. All bark, no bite."

The silence stretched, thick and tense, before Theseus let out a forced laugh. "You're lucky I don't want to mess up my hands before the ceremony, runt. But after today?" He leaned in close, his voice dropping to a sinister whisper. "I'll make sure you remember who's in charge."

Asmodeos clenched his fists as the group walked away, barely hearing the parting taunts. A slow, dangerous smile crept onto his face. "Tomorrow."

He spent the rest of the day wandering, watching the chaos around him. The slum was alive with desperation and anger, a mix of excitement and envy as families wished their children luck or prayed for a miracle. For most, the ceremony was a lifeline—a chance to rise out of the mud. But Asmodeos's thoughts drifted to revenge.

The sky turned dark, and he made his way home, stomach growling, and the taste of the stale bread and watery soup he'd eaten earlier still lingering unpleasantly in his mouth. The government's "rations," as they called them, were a pathetic excuse for food. Twice a day, they handed out dry bread and water, with a "soup" at night that tasted like dirt.

When he got home, he dropped onto the mattress, the springs creaking under him. He glanced up at the broken frame on the wall, his parents' once-gentle smiles replaced by his new sketch. This time, he hadn't drawn Theseus. Instead, he'd captured something different: his own expression—nervous, uncertain, yet beneath it, calm and controlled. A mask, hiding the storm churning inside.

He looked at it for a long time, a sense of strange relief washing over him. "Perfect."

Exhaustion tugged at him, the adrenaline fading as he collapsed onto the bed. His eyes drifted to the frame, and for the first time, a twisted grin on his face, he closed his eyes. Tonight, the nightmares seemed shorter, the darkness less oppressive, and when he woke, the ache in his head had dulled to a faint throb, almost bearable.

He sat up, stretching, a sense of eerie calm settling over him. "Today," he whispered, as if the word itself held power.

With a slow, deliberate step, he trudged outside, his hunger gnawing at him, but for the first time, he wasn't dreading the day ahead. There was no room for fear now—only the promise of today, and the chance to finally break free of his chains.