The Guild Spire didn't look like a building. Up close, it looked like a weapon aimed at the sky.
It was a monolith of black glass and reinforced steel, piercing the smog clouds of the Delhi-Mega-Zone. While the slums below drowned in rain and sewage, the Spire stood immaculate, protected by a shimmering Mana-Barrier that repelled dirt, water, and undoubtedly, the unworthy.
Aryan stood at the base of the structure, just another speck in a sea of thousands.
The recruitment drive had started at 06:00. It was now 08:30, and the line stretched for three kilometers, winding through the streets like a dying snake.
The air here didn't smell of rain. It smelled of ozone and synthetic fear.
"Move up!" a mechanical voice boomed from the floating enforcement drones hovering above the crowd. "Have your IDs ready. No pushing. Deviants will be stunned."
Aryan shuffled forward. He was squeezed between a large man who smelled of stale alcohol and a nervous teenager who kept tapping his leg against his bag.
Nobody spoke. The usual chatter of the slums was gone, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence. Everyone knew the odds. The "New Horizon" project had promised 10,000 spots. There were at least 50,000 people here.
This wasn't a recruitment. It was a lottery.
Aryan pulled his hood tighter. He wasn't here to rely on luck. He had spent the last two hours observing the line.
He noticed a pattern.
The drones weren't scanning random people. They were scanning bio-signatures. Every few minutes, a red laser would hit someone in the line—usually someone coughing, or someone with a visible limp—and a drone would descend.
"Medical rejection. Leave the queue immediately.""Medical rejection. Leave the queue immediately."
They were weeding out the weak before they even reached the door.
Aryan straightened his back. He suppressed the shiver from his feverish fatigue. He forced his breathing to be slow, rhythmic.
I am not tired, he told his body. I am a machine. I am worth 50,000 credits.
He reached the first checkpoint.
A massive blast door stood open, flanked by two Guild Guards in full combat armor. They held heavy pulse rifles, their visors opaque and reflective.
A scanner archway loomed ahead.
"ID," the guard grunted, not looking at Aryan.
Aryan held up his wrist.
Beep.
[ Name: Aryan ]
[ Age: 19 ]
[ Status: Unawakened / F-Rank Potential ]
[ Occupation: Manual Laborer (Sector-4) ]
The guard looked at the screen, then at Aryan. He sneered behind his visor.
"Another rat from the debris yards. You think you can colonize a planet, boy?"
Aryan met the guard's reflection in the visor. "I lift concrete for ten hours a day. I don't complain. I don't break."
The guard paused. He seemed disappointed by the lack of fear.
"Go inside. Line C."
Aryan stepped through the archway.
A sharp sting hit his neck.
[ TRACKER IMPLANTED ]
[ TEMPORARY ID: CANDIDATE 4921 ]
He rubbed his neck. A small, glowing blue barcode had been laser-etched into his skin.
He wasn't Aryan anymore. He was Number 4921.
He walked into the Great Hall.
If the outside was impressive, the inside was terrifying.
The hall was vast, like the inside of a hollowed-out mountain. The ceiling was lost in shadows and spotlights. The floor was a grid of white tiles, sterilized and cold.
Thousands of candidates were being herded into metal pens, separated by laser barriers.
It didn't look like a military induction. It looked like a slaughterhouse processing line.
"Line C! Strip to undergarments!" a loudspeaker blared. "Leave all personal belongings in the bins! If you hide contraband, you will be jailed!"
Aryan hesitated for a fraction of a second.
He looked at his bag. The picture of his parents. The multi-tool.
He placed the bag in the bin. He stripped off his jacket, his shirt, his boots.
The air in the hall was freezing. It was deliberate. Cold made people weak. Cold made them compliant.
Aryan stood in his worn-out undershirt and boxers, shivering slightly. Around him, men and women stood exposed, covering their chests, looking at the floor. Their dignity lay in the bins behind them.
"Forward!"
Aryan walked barefoot on the cold tiles.
He reached the Medical Screening Station.
It wasn't a doctor waiting for him. It was a Medical Pod—a vertical glass tube filled with scanners.
A bored-looking technician in a white coat stood by the console.
"Step in," the technician muttered, swiping on a tablet. "Don't move."
Aryan stepped into the tube. The glass door slid shut.
Hiss.
Beams of green light swept over his body, from his toes to his skull. It felt like ants crawling under his skin.
[ SCANNING... ]
[ Muscle Density: High (Labor-Class) ]
[ Bone Density: Average ]
[ Mana Sensitivity: 0.1% (Dormant) ]
[ Scar Tissue Detected: Back, Hands, Shoulders ]
The technician looked at the data. He zoomed in on the map of Aryan's scars—the roadmap of three years in the construction pits.
"Rough life," the technician commented, voice devoid of empathy. "Broken clavicle. Healed wrong. Three fractured ribs. Healed naturally. No gene-therapy?"
"Couldn't afford it," Aryan replied through the glass.
The technician hummed. "High pain tolerance. That's good. We don't have enough anesthetics where you're going."
Where I'm going?
Aryan caught the slip. They weren't checking if he could go. They were checking if he would survive the trip.
"Lungs?" the technician asked.
"Clear."
"Any family history of Mana-Madness?"
"No."
"Beneficiary?"
"Sister. Anya. Sector-4."
The technician paused. He looked at Aryan through the glass. For a second, something flickered in his eyes. Pity? Or calculation?
"You're doing this for the medical package?"
"Yes."
The technician tapped the screen.
"Approved. Step out."
The door hissed open.
"Next!"
Aryan stepped out, grabbing his clothes from the conveyor belt on the other side. He dressed quickly, his fingers numb.
He had passed the medical. But he felt dirty. The scan felt like it had measured the value of his meat, not his life.
He moved to the final stage: The Psychological Assessment.
This was the part everyone feared. The rumors said they used Telepaths to read your mind. If you had criminal intent, or if you were a spy, they would know.
Aryan sat in a metal chair in a small, soundproof booth.
Across from him sat a woman. She was beautiful, elegant, wearing the pristine blue uniform of the High Guild Administration.
She didn't use telepathy. She used a file.
"Candidate 4921," she said, reading from a holographic screen. Her voice was smooth, like polished glass. "Aryan. Nineteen. Orphan. Primary caregiver for a sibling with... Stage-3 Mana Poisoning."
She looked up. Her eyes were grey, unblinking.
"That is an expensive condition, Aryan."
"That's why I'm here," Aryan said. He sat straight, hands on his knees. He didn't fidget.
"Is it?" The woman smiled. It wasn't a warm smile. "Many people come here for glory. They want to be heroes. They want to slay dragons and level up. Are you one of them?"
"No."
"Why not? Don't you want to be powerful?"
Aryan looked at her. He thought of Rao backhanding him. He thought of the pharmacist behind the bulletproof glass.
"Power is for people who have time," Aryan said flatly. "I just want the check."
The woman's smile widened. It looked genuine this time.
"Good. We like pragmatism. Heroes tend to die stupid deaths. We need workers who understand the value of a contract."
She tapped the table.
"The New Horizon project is not a vacation, Aryan. The planets are... raw. The environment is hostile. The work is dangerous. There are no safe zones yet. You will be building them."
"I understand."
"Do you?" She leaned forward. "If you die, your sister gets the payout. But she will be alone. Are you willing to trade your presence for her survival?"
It was a cruel question. A test.
If he hesitated, he was weak. If he answered too fast, he was reckless.
Aryan thought of Anya's hand gripping his. 'Don't go.'
He thought of the empty vial.
"My presence won't save her lungs," Aryan said, his voice cold. "The credits will."
The woman stared at him for a long moment. Then, she nodded.
"Passed."
She stamped a digital seal onto his file.
[ ACCEPTED ]
"Welcome to the High Guild Alliance, Aryan. You are no longer a citizen of Sector-4. You are a Pioneer."
She handed him a thick metal bracelet. It was heavy, black, with a small red light blinking on the side.
"Put this on. It monitors your vitals. It tracks your location. And it contains your signing bonus."
Aryan took the bracelet.
The moment he clasped it around his wrist, it locked with a painful click.
A needle extended from the inner lining, piercing his vein.
[ SYNC COMPLETE ]
[ USER: ARYAN ]
[ BALANCE: 50,000 CREDITS (PENDING DEPLOYMENT) ]
"Pending?" Aryan asked, looking at the screen. "The flyer said immediate."
"Immediate upon deployment," the woman corrected smoothly. "Once you step through the Gate, the funds transfer to your beneficiary automatically. Insurance policy. We can't have people taking the money and running, can we?"
It was a trap. A final, beautiful lock on the cage.
He couldn't back out now. He wouldn't get the money until he was gone.
"I understand," Aryan said.
"Proceed to Hangar Bay 4. Your group leaves in one hour."
Aryan stood up. He walked out of the booth.
He emerged onto a balcony overlooking the Hangar Bay.
His breath hitched.
Below him, thousands of candidates—"Accepted" pioneers—were being lined up in rows. They were all wearing the same grey jumpsuits. They all had the same black bracelets.
And in the center of the hangar stood the Gate.
It wasn't like the small dungeon gates he had seen on TV. This was a colossus. A massive ring of spinning metal, crackling with unstable violet energy. It hummed with a sound that vibrated in his teeth.
It looked magnificent.
And it looked hungry.
Aryan looked at the sea of grey uniforms.
He realized then what the "Screening" really was.
They hadn't been looking for the best.
They hadn't picked the strongest warriors or the smartest engineers.
They had picked the desperate. The ones with sick families. The ones with debts. The ones who looked at a death sentence and asked, "How much does it pay?"
They hadn't recruited an army.
They had recruited a sacrifice.
'Cattle,' a voice in his head whispered.
No. That wasn't a voice. It was just his own thought.
Or was it?
He shook his head. The fatigue was making him imagine things.
He walked down the stairs to join the rows of grey.
He found his spot. Number 4921.
Next to him stood a boy, barely eighteen, shaking with excitement.
"We made it," the boy whispered to Aryan, grinning. "We're going to the New World. I'm going to be a slayer. What about you?"
Aryan looked at the boy. He looked at the massive Gate that swirled like a storm.
He touched the bracelet on his wrist.
"I'm going to work," Aryan said quietly.
The loudspeaker boomed.
"GATE ACTIVATION SEQUENCE INITIATED. STAND BY FOR TRANSPORT."
The violet light flared, swallowing the hangar in blinding brightness.
The lie was complete.
The trap was sprung.
And Aryan stood in the center of it, waiting for the fall.