Lakane district
Lakane Public School service
Pele city
Haumea Nation
10th May 385 Post Global unification
Eighteen years after the Halley Incident
"Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker. Mr. Walker—"
A sharp nudge to the ribs finally dragged Eren Walker's attention away from the sunlit window and back into the classroom. He grimaced and shot a look at Asher Asterion, who only tilted his head toward the front of the room. At the instructor's desk, Mr. Briggs was glaring at him with thinly veiled irritation.
Eren groaned under his breath, slumping back in his chair. Summer was almost here. The school year was ending. Graduation loomed just a week away. None of this droning lecture mattered. The only thing occupying his mind was the practical exam for Namer Academy—
"Mr. Walker," the instructor snapped, "you would do well to pay attention."
Mr. Briggs was an unremarkable man—average height, fair-skinned, with neatly waved brown hair that never seemed to fall out of place. He adjusted his glasses as he peered down at his terminal. "I suppose that just because you're graduating next week, you think the rules no longer apply to you. Hey—I'm talking to you."
Eren had half a mind to turn back toward the window anyway, but instead he sighed and met the instructor's gaze.
"I see here," Mr. Briggs continued, tapping the screen, "that you've listed Namer Academy as your choice for secondary education."
Something sharp flashed across the man's face. Disdain. His lips curled slightly as he looked up at Eren. "Oh? Don't tell me you intend to join the Hunter Association."
The classroom shifted instantly. Heads turned. Whispers rippled through the rows of desks.
Eren said nothing. He didn't dignify the room with a response. Becoming a Hunter had always been his goal. Getting into Namer Academy was the first step—the step. It was one of the most prestigious institutions in the entire Global Union for training Hunters, infamous for producing elites who shaped the world beyond its borders.
But prestige came at a price.
Unless you were born into the upper class or could afford its obscene tuition, the only way in was through the practical exam held each summer—a brutal filter that crushed most applicants before they ever reached the gate.
A harsh laugh cut through the silence.
"Ha! That's rich!" Tyron barked from across the room. "Someone from the lower class? And without a Spiritual foundation?" He doubled over, clutching his stomach. "How the hell do you think you're getting into Namer Academy? You're just a Mundie—"
"Now, now, Tyron," Mr. Briggs said mildly, though there was no real rebuke in his tone. "There's no need to be rude. Everyone has the right to dream… even if those dreams are a bit unrealistic."
Eren rose from his seat.
The sound of his chair scraping against the floor cut cleanly through the room. His hands clenched at his sides as he fought to keep his breathing steady. He'd heard this for four years. From teachers. From classmates. From strangers who looked at him and saw nothing.
His desk cracked.
Wood splintered beneath his fist, the surface caving in as something dark coiled inside his chest. Whispers brushed the edges of his mind—low, indistinct, promising things he would later struggle to remember. Heat flooded his veins.
A hand settled on his shoulder.
The pressure was firm, grounding. Eren blinked, the haze receding as Asher stood beside him, shaking his head ever so slightly. Not worth it, the look said. Not now.
"Apologies, Mr. Briggs," Asher said calmly, his voice smooth and composed. "Eren meant no disrespect."
Every eye in the room swung toward him.
The girls stared openly, some whispering, others blushing. Even the boys fell silent. The instructor himself hesitated, words caught in his throat. Eren watched as the familiar expressions rippled across their faces—awed fascination, unease, envy, and fear. Sometimes all at once.
It was always the same when it came to Asher Asterion.
Before anyone could say another word, the bell rang, sharp and final. The sound washed over Eren like a release.
He didn't wait.
Grabbing his bag, he turned and walked out, leaving the fractured desk, the stares, and the classroom behind—before he did something he couldn't take back.
The hallway parted for him.
Students stepped aside as Eren passed, pressing themselves against lockers and walls, their forced laughter dying in their throats. The fear on their faces soothed the heat still burning in his chest. They had been snickering only moments ago, whispering behind his back—but none of them were foolish enough to block his path.
They all knew better.
Around this part of the district, Eren Walker had a reputation. Fights followed him the way shadows followed light, and every one of them ended the same way. He didn't need Mana. He never had. His fists were enough. Hard-earned, bone-breaking, and relentless.
Bone Smasher.
That was the name they used when they thought he couldn't hear it. The delinquent with the red-hot fists. The boy who hit like a battering ram and didn't stop until the other side stayed down.
No one crossed him unless they wanted to learn that lesson again.
Tyron and his crew spilled out of the school's side entrance in a burst of laughter, still riding the high of their cruelty. Cyrus Occhia was in the middle of a joke, his voice loud and careless as the group moved toward the street.
They stopped.
Eren was leaning against the chain-link fence, arms crossed, waiting for them exactly where they always exited. The setting sun cast its shadow long across the pavement. The insult Tyron had thrown at him in class still rang in his ears, sharp and poisonous.
"Mundie."
"Tyron," Eren called, his voice calm.
The group turned, surprise flickering across their faces.
"What do you want, Mundie?" Tyron shot back, a grin tugging at his lips. He was feeling bold—graduation was close, and consequences felt distant. Too distant. He must have forgotten what Eren's fist tasted like.
Eren raised an eyebrow. "You shouldn't call me that."
The word burned. It always had.
Mundie. A slur for those born without Anima. For people deemed lesser. Growing up, Eren had waited—year after year—for his Awakening like every other child. He had the Spiritual foundation. The signs were there. Everyone said so. But his body had failed to form a spirit core. No Grimoire. No ability. No magic. He could not perform magic, not even the ability to cultivate it.
At the Atwell Orphanage, even other lower-class kids had learned simple spells.
Eren had been the exception.
"And what are you gonna do about it?" Cyrus cut in, smirking.
Eren studied them, unimpressed. Are they actually this stupid? He might not have Anima as they did, but—
"Looks like I'll have to educate you one last time," Eren said, cracking his knuckles as a crooked, dangerous grin spread across his face. "Before the school year finally ends."
The laughter died instantly.
Faces drained of color as memory came rushing back. Tyron's crew didn't hesitate. Panic won out over pride, and they bolted—shoving past one another as they fled, leaving Tyron and Cyrus standing alone.
Eren stepped forward.
The lesson, it seemed, needed a refresher.
****
The Zangrest Library
Zangrest Province
Holy Empire Lumerior
10th May 285 A.G.M (After the Great Migration)
Eighteen years after the Hailey Incident
Alastor Kinsway stood just inside the doorway, motionless, as the forensic teams flowed past him in practiced, intersecting paths. White gloves flashed. Arcane lenses hummed softly. Evidence tags snapped into place as investigators swept the room with methodical precision, cataloging every fragment of the intrusion that had shattered the building's sanctity.
He had returned barely a week ago.
A year-long mission alongside his apprentice—dust, blood, sleepless nights, and constant vigilance—had ended with him craving nothing more than silence. A desk. A chair. His bed. Maybe a few uninterrupted days where the world didn't threaten to collapse if he blinked. Instead, here he was, watching yet another crisis unfold.
One week, he thought dryly. That's all the peace I get.
Broken glass glittered across the marble floor like frozen rain. Alastor's gaze drifted upward to the shattered remains of the glass ceiling above, moonlight pouring through the jagged hole left behind. The intruder had escaped through it—straight up and out—leaving chaos, questions, and insult in their wake.
He found himself frowning.
Someone had broken into one of the most secure buildings in the empire. No—the most secure building. Warded, sanctified, layered with both modern security and holy protections older than the nation itself. Whether the breach came from within or without, the perpetrator had to be either terrifyingly competent or profoundly unhinged.
Probably both.
Breaking into a place like this, in the heart of the Holy Land, wasn't just a crime. It was a statement. And a reckless one at that. You didn't attempt something like this unless you had loose screws—or nothing left to lose.
Which only deepened the question gnawing at him.
Why am I here?
This was Imperial Police Force territory. High-profile, yes—but still an investigation, not a hunt. The fact that he had been summoned suggested something far more troubling beneath the surface.
Alastor stepped further into the room, careful to stay clear of the forensic teams. His boots were silent against the polished stone as he moved toward a window overlooking the breach site. Someone was already there.
Leaning casually against the frame, hands tucked into her pockets, a cigarette burning lazily between her lips, stood his younger sister.
Without a word, Alastor reached out, plucked the cigarette from her mouth, and flicked it out the open window. It vanished into the night.
She didn't flinch. She merely raised an eyebrow at him.
She wore her usual attire: a black long coat hanging loose over a white shirt, black pants ripped in places that suggested either deliberate fashion or utter apathy. No insignia. No uniform. Nothing to indicate that she was a Commander of a Division in the Hunter Association—or that she carried the title most people whispered with reverence or fear.
The Sword King.
Standing side by side, it was hard to believe they were siblings. They shared the same wild curls of black hair, with a lighter brown complexion. While Alastor's features were sharper, his hazel eyes carried a constant state of alertness. Hers—Alexander's—were a molten gold, heavy-lidded and unreadable. While Alastor looked alert, she gave the impression of one who was too aloof.
"I hear those things kill you, Captain," Alastor said lightly, a grin tugging at his mouth.
She snorted and pulled another cigarette pack from her pocket, tapping one out with practiced ease.
"I wish there was something that could," she replied in a flat, self-deprecating tone.
But Alastor heard what lay beneath it. The sound of boredom.
"And can you stop calling me that?" she added, lighting up again.
"You're a superior officer," Alastor said mildly, casting a simple wind spell to blow the fire off. "It's called courtesy. How else am I supposed to address you?"
"My actual name, for one," Alexander shot back. She gave him an annoyed look before putting the cigarette away. "Fucking protocols."
"You gave that up when Father passed the role to you," Alastor said. His smile sharpened. "And could you not smoke in front of me? I don't know when you picked up the habit, but it's not exactly appealing. No wonder you haven't had any offers of marriage."
"Not interested in their offers," Alexander said, stretching her body as she yawned. "And I'm even less interested in romance. Being a King is already a drag." She took another slow yawn. "Gods, I could die right now,"
"I bet," Alastor raised an eyebrow.
His sister had always been like this—lazy in posture if not in skill, irreverent to the point of provocation. Growing up, he had been the one picking up after her, smoothing over messes, explaining away her indifference. He'd secretly hoped that his year-long deployment would force her to mature, to shoulder her responsibilities properly.
Instead, she'd done what she always did.
Dumped the work on her subordinates and carried on exactly as she pleased.
Some things, it seemed, never changed.
"While you were away on your mission, I had to step up, you know," Alexander said casually.
Yeah. Right.
Alastor didn't bother voicing the thought. He'd spent half of what was supposed to be his rest period smoothing things over with irritated squad captains—men and women who were exhausted by Alexander's interpretation of leadership but lacked the courage (or suicidal impulse) to say anything to her face. Free drinks. Expensive dinners. Carefully worded reassurances that, yes, the Sword King was taking things seriously. He scanned the room once more—the shattered ceiling, the scattered glass, the hum of investigative magic—before finally asking the question that had been gnawing at him since he arrived.
"Why are we here?" Alastor asked. "Isn't this an IPF matter?"
"The Emperor requested my oversight," Alexander replied, yawning once again as if speaking was too much for her. "Seems someone managed what we couldn't and broke into the Zangrest family's workshop." Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Whoever did it was skilled enough to breach those wards. Awful timing, too. Ananya and I were just about to—"
"We've found something."
The call cut through the room like a blade.
Alastor and Alexander were behind the forensic crewmember in a blink—air snapping in their wake. The worker stiffened, shuddering as if the temperature had dropped, clearly unprepared for the sudden proximity of two high-level Mages.
"What did you find?" Alexander asked.
Her tone had shifted completely. The laziness vanished, replaced by the weight of command—cold, absolute. The presence of a true Magic King pressed down on the room. The worker swallowed hard and pointed his tool toward a nearby bookshelf.
"I detected trace Anima particles here," he said, voice unsteady. "The resonance was… wrong. Strange enough to stand out."
He shifted several books aside, sweeping a torchlight along the inner frame of the shelf.
There, etched crudely into the wood—still dark and unmistakable—was a single runic word, written in human blood.
REVEAL
Alastor felt his jaw tighten.
Blood magic.
No mage practiced it anymore. It was archaic, unstable, and at worst, dangerous for the wielder. Worse still, the rune itself belonged to an ancient language that had died out millennia ago. Very few living mages could read it—fewer still could write it.
"That's a revelation spell," Alexander said quietly. "Is anything missing?"
"Yes, my lady," the worker replied. "One of the Zangrest family's spellbooks has been taken."
"Which one?" Alastor asked.
Even as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.
"Unknown at present," the worker said. "The Zangrest collection contains numerous grimoires—many of them undocumented, even now."
That was worse than any specific answer.
The Zangrest family's grimoires were among the most coveted artifacts in existence—so dangerous that many had been sealed away rather than destroyed. The fact that someone had infiltrated the building, dismantled its wards, and escaped with anything was unacceptable. The Central Court would not be pleased.
Not in the slightest.
"Radeus is going to love this," Alexander muttered. "Looks like we don't have a choice. We track the thief."
"I'll handle it," Alastor said immediately.
Alexander arched an eyebrow. "You just got back from a year-long mission, and you're volunteering for another?"
Alastor didn't answer. He already knew this wasn't a task for ordinary investigators. This required discretion. Authority. Someone who could move where others couldn't.
"And what's Reyna going to say when she finds out you ditched her again?" Alexander added dryly.
Alastor winced.
"Very well," she sighed. "I'll fabricate an excuse that keeps your head attached."
"Thank you, sister," Alastor said sincerely.
He cared deeply for his apprentice—sharp, capable, and far too brave for her own good—but this mission carried a level of danger he wasn't willing to gamble her life on.
"Don't thank me yet," Alexander said as she turned away. "You owe me. When you get back, I'm dumping some of my work on you. That's the price of being my right hand."
With that, she left the room.
Alastor remained by the window, gazing out into the peerless night sky—vast, empty, and starless.
Somewhere out there, someone had stolen something that should never have been touched.
And he intended to find them.
****
"Argh—!"
Tyron lunged forward, hurling a fist packed with bright red flames. Anima ignited around his knuckles, roaring outward as he unleashed a rapid barrage of fireballs. Tyron Oster was an Elementalist—one of the lucky ones—capable of converting Anima directly into living flame.
Eren didn't flinch.
His reflexes snapped into motion. He slipped past the first fireball, then the second, then the third—moving so fast Tyron's eyes couldn't track him. To Tyron, it was as if Eren blurred and vanished between bursts of fire.
In the same breath, Eren closed the distance.
His fist came in like a battering ram.
Tyron barely managed to raise a wall of flame to block the punch, the impact exploding in a violent burst of heat and sparks. But Eren was already gone. He darted sideways, fast as a Hellcat, weaving through the burning air before the flames could lick his skin. His foot hooked behind Tyron's leg, driving in hard as he twisted his hips and executed a brutal front-wheel throw.
Concrete cracked.
Chunks of stone burst upward as Tyron's balance shattered. Before the boy could even cry out, Eren seized him by the neck and, with raw, unrestrained strength, hurled him into the school wall.
The impact thundered.
Dust and debris billowed outward as the wall caved in, bricks fracturing and collapsing into a jagged crater. Cyrus rushed forward in panic, skidding to Tyron's side as the flames around him sputtered and died.
Eren stood over them, chest rising steadily.
He had been born without Anima—no spirit circuits to circulate Anima flow—but fate had compensated in other ways. His strength and speed bordered on the inhuman, honed through years of fighting, surviving, and refusing to stay down. He could not become an Ascendant, the sacred requirement to become a Hunter. But his body had become something else entirely.
Tyron Oster lay unconscious at his feet, sprawled amid broken stone. The gaping hole in the wall behind him told the rest of the story.
And Eren hadn't used a single drop of Magic.
"Who's the weak one now, brat?" Eren said coldly.
His arms throbbed, skin still stinging from the heat of Tyron's flames, but it was nothing he couldn't ignore. He flexed his fingers once, jaw tight.
"How many times do I have to beat some sense into you, damn Magic brats?"
"You may be strong," Cyrus said shakily, forcing himself upright, "but that still won't be enough to become a Hunter."
Eren's expression darkened. He stepped forward—
A hand caught his arm.
Eren turned to see Asher standing beside him, grip firm but gentle.
"That's enough," Ash said evenly. "I'm sure they've learned their lesson."
"I'm not so sure about that," Eren growled.
Ash's gaze flicked toward the ruined wall, then back to Eren. "What do you think Mother Ruth would say if I told her about this?"
Eren froze.
Mother Ruth's stern face flashed in his mind, disappointment sharper than any blade. Shit. He exhaled slowly, unclenching his fists just as his stomach betrayed him with a loud growl.
"…Fine," Eren muttered. "Let's go."
He turned and walked away with Ash, leaving Cyrus alone to deal with an unconscious Tyron and a shattered wall. The tight coil of anger in Eren's chest eased as they put distance between themselves and the wreckage.
"Damn," Eren said after a moment. "I'm starving."
"Skipped lunch," Ash replied.
He didn't smile. He never did. That was just how Asher Asterion was—quiet, unreadable, almost unreal. Eren had known him since the day Ash appeared at the Atwell Orphanage, silent and mysterious. He couldn't even remember when they'd become friends. They were nothing alike.
Ash looked like he'd stepped out of a holovid—smooth brown skin, long white eyelashes and hair, golden eyes, and features so striking they turned heads without effort. Tall, poised, every movement carried an effortless grace. Eren, by contrast, was solid and grounded. Dark skin, black dreadlocks pulled back, hazel eyes that missed nothing. Average height, broad shoulders, built for impact rather than elegance. He wouldn't call himself ugly. But standing next to Ash, plain felt about right.
They headed toward one of the food stands lining the crowded streets of the Lakane District. It was nothing more than a wheeled carriage tucked beneath a faded umbrella pole, but the scent of freshly fried Lochfish hung thick in the air, rich with oil and spice. Customers crowded around plastic tables and mismatched chairs, laughing, arguing, eating with the easy familiarity of people who lived their lives out in the open. The boys waited in line while Eren scanned the street. Lakane was nothing like Downtown.
Where Downtown gleamed—clean streets, orderly traffic, district cops enforcing regulations, polished automobiles gliding past in neat lanes—Lakane was raw. Mud clung to boots. Fog drifted low between buildings. The streets were jagged and alive, packed with people who moved with urgency, who didn't slow down for courtesy or rules. Vendors shouted from every corner, hawking trinkets, charms, anima tools, and "enchanted" artifacts that were more scam than substance. Transport carriages barreled through without a care for right-of-way, horns blaring as pedestrians leapt aside.
Above it all, dirigibles drifted through the sky—massive, humming silhouettes powered by anima crystals. They belonged to another world entirely, accessible only to those wealthy enough to afford them. Their hulls glinted in the sunlight as they ferried passengers wherever they pleased. Eren had only been on an airship once. He'd been eight years old.
The memory rose unbidden—Mother Ruth standing at the front of the group, her voice warm and steady as she shepherded them aboard. A field trip to Namer Island, off the eastern coast of Haumea. The first time he'd seen the ocean stretch endlessly beneath him. The first time he'd witnessed the true power of a King.
That day was when the dream had taken root.
"Give up on becoming a Hunter."
Ash's voice cut cleanly through Eren's thoughts.
They had already left the Lochfish stand, their food wrapped in iron foil, heat seeping through the metal. Now they sat along the banks of the Lakane River, beneath the shadow of the railroad bridge that linked the district to the rest of Pele City. The sun beat down on Eren's back as he loosened the tie around his neck, sweat clinging to his skin.
"What do you mean?" Eren said through a mouthful of fish. He swallowed hard and shot Ash a look. "You know I can't give up."
Children ran along the riverbank, their laughter echoing as parents watched from nearby benches. The world was bathed in orange light, the sun sinking low and painting everything in warmth.
Ash didn't answer right away. He watched the children instead. His red eyes followed them as they raced back into their parents' arms. Eren noticed the tight set of his jaw, the subtle grind of teeth held under iron control. No one at the orphanage knew about that anger. No one except Mother Ruth.
To everyone else, Asher Asterion was just the calm, collected counterbalance to Eren Walker—the cool-headed prodigy beside the rough delinquent who always found trouble. But Eren knew better. He had seen the fire buried deep inside Ash, the fury he kept chained through sheer discipline. Watching the families by the river, Eren understood it.
Ash had known that bond once.
Eren hadn't.
Eren never knew his parents. The orphanage, the Sisters, and Mother Ruth were the only family he'd ever had. To him, that absence was normal. To Ash, it was a wound that never closed. Ash had lost something Eren had never possessed. And on top of that, Ash had talent. Real talent. His Spiritual foundation was exceptional, his control over anima precise and effortless. A natural genius in Magic and cultivation.
Eren, on the other hand…
He wasn't even a cultivator. The foundation was there—everyone agreed on that—but his body couldn't engage with anima at all. Spiritually inert. No matter how hard he tried, nothing responded. No circulation. No refinement. No Awakening. All he had were his fists. Martial training. Bone and muscle forged through pain and repetition. A body honed to compensate for what his spirit could not do. Eren stared out at the river, the foil crinkling in his hands, and wondered—quietly, stubbornly—if that would ever be enough.
"I already took the theorem exam," Eren said. "My scores were excellent."
It was true. He'd passed the written portion with marks high enough to qualify for the next stage. When the results arrived, he'd reread them three times just to be sure. All the late nights, the studying by candlelight after chores, the refusal to give up—it had all paid off.
Now only the practical remained.
"And how exactly do you plan to pass the practical test?" Ash asked quietly.
Eren didn't answer right away.
"To pass it," Ash continued, "you need either spell aptitude or battle aura. You have neither."
The words landed harder than a punch.
Eren clenched his jaw. He knew this already. The practical exam wasn't about theory or discipline—it was about application. About how well one could wield anima in combat. Control. Output. Refinement. Presence.
And Eren had none of it.
Attending the practical without anima wasn't just reckless. It was absurd.
"To be a Hunter," Ash went on, "is to fight Maleficants."
Eren's thoughts drifted, unwillingly, to the things Ash meant. Creatures born of corruption and malice—warped spirits that fed on fear, hatred, despair. They were invisible to ordinary people, untouchable by mundane weapons. Only those with anima—those with internal sight—could perceive them, let alone destroy them.
Eren had never seen a Maleficant in his life.
How could he? He lacked the most basic trait of anima sensitivity. He'd heard stories—attacks in distant cities, neighborhoods wiped out overnight—but Hunters always arrived before things could spiral. The closest he'd ever come was when he was eight, and even then, he'd only seen the aftermath.
Ironically, being anima-less was also the reason he'd never been targeted. Maleficants couldn't sense him. To them, he simply didn't exist.
"You have no anima or spirit core," Ash said. "So how are you planning to convince anyone to let you become a Hunter?"
Eren stayed silent.
"And Namer Academy," Ash added, "isn't just prestigious—it's brutal. Their acceptance rate is barely two percent. That's counting every applicant in Haumea alone, not even factoring in the rest of the Global Union… or beyond."
"What are you trying to say?" Eren snapped.
The irritation finally bled through. He was tired of this conversation. Tired of hearing the same careful warnings wrapped in concern.
"I'm saying be realistic," Ash replied. "That's all."
He stood just as a steam train thundered into view, its engine screaming as black smoke poured into the sky. The bridge trembled as the cars roared past, drowning out the river and the distant city.
Eren scowled and shoved the rest of the Lochfish into his mouth, chewing harder than necessary. When he stood, he noticed something by the spot where Ash had been sitting.
A book.
It was small, black, and worn, its cover blank—no title, no markings. Old enough that the edges had softened with age.
"Hey, Ash," Eren called. "Is that yours?"
Ash glanced down, picked it up, and flipped through the pages.
"There's nothing written in it," he said flatly.
"Let me see—"
Ash didn't wait. He tossed the book into the river. It hit the water with a soft splash and was immediately carried away by the current.
Eren stared after it, heat flaring in his chest. "What the hell was that for?"
Ash had already turned away. "Let's go."
The sun dipped fully below the horizon as they walked home in silence.
The orphanage sat on Calmuet Street—one of the few decent stretches in Lakane, where building costs were low, and the neighborhood was quiet enough to breathe. It belonged to the Lumerian Church and was overseen by Mother Ruth, a retired Hunter and woman of faith who had taken in children the world had decided it no longer wanted. The compound was large, enclosed by iron fencing. Sister Abby's flower garden bloomed near the entrance, carefully tended alongside the groundskeeper, Abbox. It was one of the few places in Lakane that felt genuinely safe. As soon as Eren pushed open the door, voices spilled out to greet them.
"—no, no, sweetie, that's not yours—"
Sister Judith stood just inside, clearly struggling with one of the smaller children tugging at her robes. She was a middle-aged nun who had transferred from the Church two years ago—the newest member of the staff, and often assigned to watch the younger kids. Seeing her flustered expression, Eren couldn't help but exhale. At least some battles, it seemed, were still ordinary.
"Oh—Patry, you have to wash your hands before dinner—"
Sister Judith cut herself off the moment she noticed Eren and Ash standing in the doorway. Relief crossed her face almost instantly.
"Oh, perfect timing," she said warmly. "You're both just in time for dinner."
"Sweet," Eren said with a grin. "I'm starving."
Patry looked up at him, eyes lighting up. The boy was a little bundle of chaos—brown hair sticking out in every direction, a few teeth missing in a crooked grin, and clothes that were clearly Eren's old hand-me-downs, sleeves rolled and hems frayed.
"Hey, Eren!" Patry bounced on his heels. "You promised you'd teach me how to do a back kick!"
"Later, little one," Eren said as he headed toward the kitchen. He ruffled Patry's hair as he passed. "Maybe if you wash your hands properly, I'll even give you better pointers."
Patry gasped like it was the greatest incentive imaginable. "Deal!"
He shot past Sister Judith and sprinted toward the sink.
Sister Judith laughed softly and followed after him. "Thank you, Eren. Really."
"No problem," Eren replied easily.
Ash, meanwhile, turned toward the staircase without a word.
"Hey—where are you going?" Eren called after him.
"To drop my things and wash up," Ash said over his shoulder. "Not all of us want to smell like a dog during dinner."
"Bastard," Eren muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.
Dinner that night was familiar comfort food: mashed potatoes, fried turkey, and Edmaine soup brewed from fragrant Edmaine leaves. The long dining table was full, every seat occupied. Laughter and clinking cutlery filled the room.
Mother Ruth sat at the head of the table, her presence steady and commanding without ever needing to raise her voice. To either side of her were Sister Amber and Sister Abby. Sister Judith sat near Patry, doing her best to keep the boy's boundless energy contained long enough for him to eat. Eren sat two seats down from Mother Ruth. Even so, he could feel her eyes on him.
She knows, he thought.
"Eren," Mother Ruth said calmly, "I received a call from the school today. About another incident."
Shit.
He froze, setting his fork and knife down carefully. His stomach tightened as the familiar dread washed over him. Tyron must have talked. Snitched. Or maybe the school had simply grown tired of him.
Eren didn't respond right away. Since he was little, kids his age had mocked him for lacking anima. Even when he insisted he'd awaken someday, the world never seemed to listen. He saw it in the way teachers overlooked him, in how he was never chosen for activities that required anima, in the subtle and not-so-subtle ways society dismissed people like him. Eventually, he'd stopped waiting for a miracle. He gave up on awakening magic and threw himself into martial training instead. If he couldn't rely on anima, then he would rely on his body. His strength. His fists. Survival demanded it.
When he entered public school, Eren had learned quickly that strength was the only language his detractors understood. He fought back. A lot. Over time, his name became synonymous with trouble. Delinquent.Problem child. The school had threatened expulsion more times than he could count. Yet every time, Mother Ruth intervened. And because of her, he was still here—still sitting at the table, still chasing a dream the world kept telling him he had no right to want.
"It's not my fault they pushed me into a fight," Eren said.
"And you couldn't walk away?" Mother Ruth sighed softly. She knew his nature too well. If Eren was given a reason to fight—even a bad one—he would take it. "Eren… you're almost finished with public school. You could get into any university you set your sights on. Don't throw all of that away because of someone else's stupidity."
"It wasn't just that," Eren said, his jaw tightening. "He called me a Mundie—"
The room went still.
Forks paused midair. Conversation died at the table.
Mundie was an old word, but it still carried weight—a slur for people who couldn't cultivate anima. In a world where one's worth was measured by spiritual power, it was a word meant to strip a person of dignity. The stronger your anima, the higher you stood. The weaker you were—or worse, if you had none at all—the less you mattered. Even on the Western Continent, where spiritual power was more widespread than any other form of strength, people like Eren were still looked down upon. In truth, his so-called inhuman strength was nothing special by the world's standards. Anima was superior. Always had been.
With the rise of anima research and technology, magic had become more accessible to those without innate talent. Corporations like Myrr Corporation and Satou Industries had flooded the market with Magic tools and enchanted gear. Careers like Adventuring were now possible even for people like Eren. If he wanted, he could apply to the Dungeon Guild, earn an enchanted tool, and carve out a living clearing dungeons. But that life had never called to him. What Eren wanted—what had taken root in his chest years ago—was the Hunter Association.
That dream had been born the day he witnessed true power. The memory of the Magic King—Alexander of the Sixth Division of the Global Hunter Association—was burned into his mind. She was his idol, the embodiment of everything he wanted to become. Even now, so little about her was known to the public, yet her presence had been overwhelming enough to change the course of his life forever. From that day on, Eren had wanted only one thing.
"Besides," he added lightly, forcing a grin, "beating sense into snotty brats like him is good for society, if you ask me."
Laughter rippled around the table. Even Mother Ruth couldn't suppress a smile.
Eren was still smiling when he noticed an empty chair.
"Hey… where's Ina?" he asked. "Don't tell me she already left."
"Ina's upstairs in her room," Sister Abby said quietly.
"What?" Eren's smile vanished. "I thought she was getting adopted today."
Ina was one of the few girls left at the orphanage, and she was like a little sister to him. Truthfully, all of them were. Eren had taken it upon himself to watch over every one of them. He'd been genuinely happy when Ina had been chosen. She was twelve—the last age at which adoption was possible. It was also the age when children were encouraged to begin their cultivation journey.
"Looks like the adoption fell through," Ash said. "She's been in her room ever since."
Eren turned to him.
Unlike Eren—who had never once been considered—Ash had received plenty of adoption offers. Families with money. Influence. A better life. And every time, Ash had refused. Eren used to think it was loyalty. That Ash didn't want to leave them behind. Over the years, he'd realized the truth. Ash simply didn't care. Like Eren, Ash wanted only one thing: to become a Hunter. Why they shared the same dream, Eren had never understood.
"Why didn't it go through?" Eren asked.
No one answered.
They didn't have to.
Eren stood up and left the dining room. Mother Ruth didn't stop him. Anger burned through his veins—hot and unyielding. Anger at the world. At the system. At how unfair everything was. Despite all the progress anima had brought, despite the technology and tools and supposed equality, spiritual power still dictated everything. His fists clenched as he reached Ina's room. She shared it with Carla, another of the girls. Eren forced himself to breathe, to calm the storm inside him. He smoothed his expression, cleared his throat, and knocked.
"Go away," Ina called out.
He knocked again. Soft sobs leaked through the door—audible even without anima, thanks to his sharpened senses.
"I said—go away!"
"Ina," he said gently, "it's me. Eren."
"…Eren?" Her voice cracked. "Is that you…?"
"Yeah, little one. It's me."
He opened the door. Ina lay curled on her bed, an open suitcase abandoned on the floor beside it. She emerged from beneath the blanket, eyes swollen and red from crying.
"I heard about the adoption," Eren said quietly.
"Can you believe it?" she sniffed. "It doesn't matter… really."
It mattered.
He sat beside her, gently pulling her head onto his lap, fingers combing through her brown hair.
"It matters," he said. "You matter."
"I guess the Owen family didn't think so," Ina whispered. "My magical power wasn't good enough for them."
Eren ground his teeth, biting back a curse. Words had power—especially when fueled by anger like this.
"Forget them," he said firmly. "Just because they didn't want you doesn't mean no one else will."
"They were the last," Ina said. "I'm twelve. Next year, I'll be too old. I'll be stuck here forever."
"Hey," Eren said quickly, forcing a smile, "it's not so bad being here."
"You know what I mean," she said, curling her knees to her chest.
"I was never considered," Eren said. "And look how I turned out."
She laughed despite herself, wiping her tears.
"See?" he said. "Bright side—you don't have to leave us."
"But you are," Ina said softly. "You're graduating next week. You'll go off to university."
Eren thought of Namer Academy—the only future he could see. The path that felt impossibly narrow without anima. He pushed the thought aside.
Not now.
"No matter where I go," he said, tapping his chest, "Atwell—and everyone in it—will always be right here."
"You mean it?" Ina asked.
"Of course," Eren said with a grin. "And when I become a world-famous Hunter, I'm going to make this place better than it's ever been."
Ina beamed up at him, her brown eyes bright again. For that smile alone, Eren swore silently, he would burn the world down if he had to.