A Spector

Sezel's stomach churned, Krono just disappeared from right in front of his eyes. Panic sprung in his mind, he looked around frantically.

'Where did he go?'

He gritted his teeth, the sound scraping in his own ears as he spun. The ring was empty. The space Krono had occupied held nothing but still, dead air. Sezel's pulse became a frantic, hammering beat against his ribs and suddenly he dropped, squatting so low his knuckles brushed the packed earth. A heartbeat later, a gust of wind followed above his head.

From his earlier matches, Sezel had noticed that a gust of wind followed Krono's every attack—an aftereffect of fast speed. So, the logical thing to be saved from such attacks was to avoid them before they got too close.

But the next moment, everything spun. The ground fell away, or he was lifted—the sensation was too disorienting to parse. It took his mind a second to realize he was in the air, already falling down with his back facing the ground.

'Tch..' he gritted his teeth, trying to spin around, but his body was still just a human body and a human can't spin his body in a free fall of such short distance. He went limp, keeping his back arched, letting head and heels hit the packed earth first.

Krono was just above him the next second, the boy was too fast for someone like Sezel to fight, but Sezel was not weak.

'Fuck you.' he gritted his teeth, the thought was cold, sharp, and stripped of hope. He rolled—a desperate, violent twist of his hips—and drove his heel toward the hollow behind Krono's knee.

The boy remained motionless. His eyes, two black, bottomless pits, were fixed on Sezel. A faint, almost bored smile touched his lips, clearly reading, 'Weakling'.

Sezel's kick met his joint from the backside, but the boy didn't even flinch. Instead, a bolt of pure, white-hot agony fired up Sezel's leg, so intense it felt as though his bone had splintered against metal.

He convulsed, clutching his foot, in pain. Krono simply put his hand on Sezel's chest and laid him over to the ground.

Raelion's whistle marked the end of the duel with Sezel's loss. Sezel's mind curled into a distant feeling—the feeling of loss. He had always lost in his life. Yet this felt something different, a needle of unintentional envy piercing his heart.

He gulped hard, stood up, and left the ring stumbling. A hollow laugh echoed in his thoughts. What was he expecting anyways? In a fight against a Rank 5 Slayer, of course a Rank 0 like him stood no chance.

Maybe the Golden Fable had given him some hope, but it was useless for the most part because, as long as it stands, it was beyond Sezel's grasp. He didn't even properly know how to use it.

The class ended soon. No one was able to stand against Krono, with the exception being a boy with large black hair—a Rank 4 Slayer—who gave Krono a hard time. That fight lasted five whole minutes. The outcome was never in question.

**

Days bled into weeks, weeks into months. The days ground on, each one a perfect copy of the last—a monotonous cycle. Theoretical classes in the morning followed by the ruthless practical classes with Raelion.

His best part of the day was sitting in the cafeteria, plates heaped with lavish fare—exotic meats, vibrant fruits—shoveled down with a usual cup of coffee.

Then evenings followed training with other students in the garden. In his sterile room, he scrolled his assessment device, a mobile phone by another name, until sleep claimed him.

Sezel was a quick learner. He'd mastered reading the foreign tongue, but speaking it felt like swallowing shards. However, human interactions were still far from his reach.

He once tried reaching out and talking to a few of his fellow Slayers but ended up embarrassing himself by juggling between words.

And over the span of the last two months, he had failed to use Spirit Energy in any form. He'd tried revealing it once, but his throat sealed, breath choked, and he woke gasping on the floor.

The ability he couldn't even reveal.

Tonight, a storm raged outside. He stood by the open window, letting the wind and rain lash his face. Lightning split the sky, a momentary, surgical incision in the darkness, and in that flash, the world was stark and colorless. He closed his eyes, feeling the chill seep into him.

'I would have been shivering somewhere two months ago.'

He spoke the words aloud, his voice a low rasp against the thunder. "The world is a cruel place, the rich get it all, while the poor suffer." He gritted his teeth, the harsh reality stinging.

He closed the window, crimson eyes squinted in resolve. He was not what he was earlier—he had food. He had a roof over his head. He was alive. It was not enough. His sister's face, etched with a suffering he had escaped, was a debt that could never be ignored. It pierced his heart, thinking of her.

'I will save you. Just wait—your big brother will take you out of that miserable life.' he vowed.

Suddenly his assessment device buzzed heretically, blinking, showing an emergency message.

[All the Slayers are requested to immediately go to the reception.]

Sezel recognized the summons. Something similar happened a few days ago while he was sleeping. It was the opening of another gate. The last gate that opened was a B-Rank.

The expedition of 100 Slayers sent inside only returned around 40. All others were gone—some died, some were murdered by other Slayers, and some were lost, their whereabouts unknown. Who knew.

Sezel followed the instructions and joined the hurried exodus, boots echoing in the dorm's corridors. The reception hall was a cavern of anxious faces.

'Just like last time, some of them would be chosen to be a part of the expedition and only one or two would return.'

He wasn't part of the expedition last time, and with the skills he had, there was no chance he was going to be picked for one. He was just a Spector.

The grand screen at the front of the hall came to life, its cold light washing over the assembled crowd. Text appeared, stark and white. Sezel's gaze traced the words, and his breath caught. His eyes widened—not in fear, but in a kind of grim, fatalistic clarity.

'This... This is fucked up.' he gritted his teeth, but who cared.