The white mechanical door opened.
Shawn Bracewell stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a metallic clang.
For a long moment, the hall was silent.
Then—BZZT!
Sparks of green energy flickered from beneath the door, followed by a deep hum that vibrated through the floor. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Minutes later, the door hissed open again.
Shawn Bracewell stepped out, his breathing slightly ragged, his green hair standing on end as if struck by lightning. He adjusted the linen-wrapped object on his back and walked away without a word.
No celebration. No disappointment. Just… silence.
People whispered among themselves. Had he succeeded? Failed? What had happened inside?
Zane, however, barely spared him a glance. His focus remained on the steady stream of candidates—one after another, stepping inside and emerging with either joy, despair, or hollow acceptance.
They were all just statistics.
Eventually, the attendant called out, "Next! Candidate number 237—Zane Carter!"
Zane smirked, pushing off the bench. This is my tenth and final chance. After all those years of training, I will awaken this time. I have to.
At seventeen, this was his last chance. Like every other candidate, he had undergone his first Awakening Test at seven. Nine failures later, he remained a Rejecter.
The Awakening Phenomenon—a mystery that reshaped the world after the Tree's emergence.
99% of humans awakened before seventeen.
Rejecters—those who failed. Marked as outcasts. Looked down upon.
Late Bloomers—rare. Feared. Exceptionally powerful.
Zane clenched his fists. I refuse to be a Rejecter.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward. The white mechanical door loomed ahead.
It was now or never.
Zane stepped inside, and the mechanical door slid shut behind him with a hiss.
The room was stark—cold metal walls, dim overhead lights, and a single platform in the center. No turning back now.
This was it. His final chance.
A mechanical voice rang out:
"Candidate 237. Commencing synchronization. Prepare for resonance."
The moment the words fell, a pulse of light erupted from the ceiling, bathing him in a golden glow. His body trembled as a sharp pain lanced through his skull—a force clawing deep inside him, demanding something to awaken.
Zane gritted his teeth. This was it. This familiar, almost unbearable sensation.
Would he finally break free? Would he emerge stronger than ever?
Or would he become just another failure?
The process intensified. He felt something violating his entire being, unraveling his essence, scanning every fiber of his soul. He didn't resist. He had been taught not to.
Then—silence.
The glow faded. The hum of the machine died.
A single, blaring red light flashed.
"Candidate 237, Zane Carter—failure to Awaken."
The words hit him harder than any punch.
"After this, your only chance is to Awaken on your own and become a Late Bloomer. Good luck."
The door slid open.
Zane stood there, frozen. No.
The one outcome he had dreaded—the one thing he had spent ten years fighting against—had happened.
A bitter laugh bubbled from his throat. Then another. And another, until he was howling, his voice raw with pain and fury.
"First, because of my father, I was damned and cursed by everyone. And now this?" His laughter turned manic, broken. Tears and snorts spewed uncontrollably as his shoulders shook.
The mechanical voice chimed again, cold and indifferent:
"Candidate 237, your assessment is over. Step out of the testing room."
Clenching his fists, Zane took a deep breath and forced himself forward. His steps felt heavy as he walked out of the room.
The moment he emerged, hushed whispers filled the air.
A sharp voice rang out.
"Look at him! Why does he look so down?"
Another candidate sneered. "No mystery here. That bastard definitely failed his Awakening."
Laughter erupted around him—mocking, cruel, and full of derision.
Zane barely heard them. Their words were nothing compared to the failure screaming in his mind.
Without a glance at anyone, he kept walking—past the jeering voices, past the academy gates. He wasn't going home. Not today.
There was only one place he wanted to be.
The best tavern in town. The best ale.
"Fuck superheroes, and fuck supervillains. None of that matters anymore. Ten years of training, all those egos—and in the end, I'm just a loser."
The streets of Wheeler Town stretched before him.
It was a small town where everyone knew everyone. And they knew him.
Some averted their gazes as he passed. Others muttered under their breath. Most just pretended he didn't exist.
He didn't care. He was used to it.
Finally, Zane stopped in front of a weathered sign swinging gently in the evening breeze.
The Rusty Mug.
Without hesitation, he pushed open the door.
The moment he stepped inside, a burly man with a long, unkempt beard greeted him with a warm, booming voice.
"Welcome to the Rusty Mug!"
Zane glanced around. The tavern was packed. Over a dozen round tables filled the dimly lit dining hall, most occupied by loud patrons enjoying their drinks.
Only one table in the far corner remained mostly empty.
Mostly.
An old man sat there alone, hunched over a jug of ale. His ragged, smelly shirt clung to his frail body, and his unkempt hair hung in greasy strands. His skin was mottled with what looked like leprosy or some other affliction, patches of decay creeping across his back and left hand.
The other patrons kept their distance. No one wanted to sit near him.
Zane, unfazed, walked over.
"Mind if I join you, sir? I don't care about the company."
The old man blinked in surprise and slowly turned to face him, pointing at himself as if to ask, "Me?"
Zane nodded.
A ghost of a smile flickered across the man's lips. "Suit yourself. But I don't share my food or drinks."
His voice was rich and melodic—completely at odds with his appearance.
A waitress arrived promptly, took Zane's order, and disappeared into the bustling crowd.
Before long, the table was filled—plates of fried meats, dried fruits, and crisp salads. A jar of liquor sat beside a clean cup, its amber liquid glistening under the tavern's dim lanterns.
Zane grabbed the jar, poured himself a full cup, and downed it in one long gulp. The bitterness burned his throat, and he let out a loud belch.
The old man chuckled, raising his mug. "Thirsty, huh? Must've been a long day." He took a slow sip and smirked. "Enjoy every moment of it."
Zane wasn't much of a drinker, but tonight was different. He poured himself another cup, the warmth of the liquor already buzzing in his head.
His hand wavered slightly as he lifted the jar again. "Can I pour you a drink, sir?"
The old man raised his wooden mug without hesitation. "Sure. Free drinks are always welcome."
Zane poured generously, filling the old man's mug before topping off his own. He raised his cup with a lopsided grin. "Cheers, old man."
The old man smirked and clinked his mug against Zane's. "To free drinks and poor decisions."
They both drank, Zane downing his in one go while the old man took his time, savoring each sip.
Zane wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his vision already starting to blur. "Damn… this hits harder than I thought."
The old man chuckled. "Lightweight."
Zane scoffed. "Lightweight? Hah! Watch this." He grabbed the jar and poured himself another full cup, chugging it down without a second thought. "See? Nothing to it."
A second later, his body swayed, and he slammed the cup down. "Okay… maybe a little something to it."
The old man let out a hearty laugh. "Kid, you're on the fast track to a long night hugging a barrel."
Zane grinned, his inhibitions fading with each drink. "Eh, not like I have anything better to do. I failed my Awakening today—my last damn chance." He gestured grandly with his arms. "So here I am, drinking myself into oblivion."
The old man studied him for a moment before taking another slow sip. "That so? Well… failing ain't the end, y'know."
Zane scoffed, pouring more for himself and refilling the old man's mug. "Easy for you to say. You're not the one getting laughed at, cursed at, and tossed aside like trash."
The old man tilted his head, smirking. "You think I wasn't? Heh. Kid, you have no idea."
Zane squinted at him. "Wait… you're saying you were a Rejecter too?"
The old man chuckled but didn't answer. Instead, he raised his mug. "Drink first, talk later."
Zane shrugged. "Fine by me." They clinked mugs again, and with each drink, the weight of the world seemed to fade just a little more.
By the fifth round, Zane's words were slurring, and the old man, despite drinking at a slower pace, was clearly enjoying the spectacle.
Zane leaned forward, poking a finger at the table. "Y'know… you're not so bad, old man. People avoid you, but you're… you're kinda cool."
The old man smirked, shaking his head. "Kid, you have no idea how many times I've heard that… right before someone passes out."
Zane snorted. "Not happening. I'm built different."
A moment later, his head hit the table with a dull thud.
The old man chuckled, swirling the last of his drink. "Told ya."
By now, the tavern had emptied. Only the flickering lanterns cast long shadows across the room. The playfulness faded from the old man's face, replaced by a cold, unreadable expression. He reached out, his gangrenous fingers wrapping around Zane's wrist. A faint gray mist seeped from his decayed skin, slithering into the unconscious youth's body.
Moments later, his expression shifted—first curious, then surprised. He abruptly pulled back, muttering, "Hah… this kid is not so simple."
From behind the bar, the burly tavern owner—Pudge—watched the exchange, arms crossed. "Heron, did that brat just spook you or something?"
Heron's eyes narrowed as he looked at Zane again. "You know this kid?"
Pudge scoffed. "Who doesn't? That's the cursed brat of that scoundrel, Zorro Carter."
Heron's eyebrows shot up. "That evil son of a bitch?"
"Yeah, that evil son of a bitch," Pudge echoed with a snort. He eyed Zane slumped over the table. "Didn't expect you two to get along. Got an interest in him? The whole town treats him like garbage."
Heron chuckled, shaking his head. "Pudge, I'm old. It's time to retire. And since fate decided to drop this brat in front of me, I might as well pass on all my boons… and curses."
He kept the deeper thought to himself—A perfect coincidence. The one I seek to inherit my power just so happens to bear the SEED… the only hope of saving this world. Whether he becomes a villain or a hero, that's none of my concern.
After a moment of contemplation, Heron turned to Pudge. "Goodbye, old friend. If you still think you owe me, keep an eye on this brat."
Then, he raised his palm, chanting in a low, guttural voice. A thick gray mist coiled around his body, and a dazzling white light radiated from his right hand.
He pressed his palm against Zane's forehead.
The tavern filled with an overwhelming brilliance.
When the light finally faded—Heron was gone.
And in the silence that followed, the only proof that Heron had ever been there… was the faint gray mist lingering in the air.