Seth hated it all.
The awkward silence. The throbbing pain crawling through his bones. The humiliating fact that he, an Ossafex, was being forced to sit in the same airspace as these two social rejects. It was enough to make him want to break something. Preferably one of their faces.
He should've been in class by now, sharpening his craft, reminding the academy what a real nightmare artist looked like. Instead, here he was, arm in a sling, body wrapped like a discount mummy, and for what??
It was all because of them.
His already battered jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched. He could feel the pulse of his heartbeat behind his teeth. It took every ounce of restraint not to start growling like some half-feral beast.
And then there was him—the one who pissed him off the most. That timid, trembling twig pretending to be a boy. The little coward who looked like he'd wither if someone sneezed too loud.
Seth's glare cut toward Zev, who was fidgeting with the banana milk bottle the other freak had silently handed him earlier. Every twitch of the kid's fingers annoyed him.
Just look at him. Shaking like a leaf in mid-autumn.
It had been literal decades since the fight, yet he was still quivering like the trauma had set up permanent residency in his bloodstream. It made Seth's stomach turn.
This pathetic display was exactly why he hated people like Zev. The weak. The ones who never fought back. People who survived by leeching off the pity of others.
In Seth's world, weakness wasn't just ugly. It was a sin.
Being Ossafex meant his entire worldview had been carved out by biology itself. Their race thrived in the line between pain and creation. They were artisans of the flesh; bone and sinew their clay, blood their brush, and agony their teacher.
Other dream races might have philosophy or spirituality to define them. Ossafex had anatomy. Their lives were built around the principle that survival was proof of worth.
It wasn't pride. It was evolution.
As a child, Seth had seen it firsthand. The world of the Ossafex wasn't forgiving. Younglings were thrown into the marrow pits with little more than crude blades and the expectation to crawl back out stronger.
The ones who didn't? Their bones were repurposed for study. That was natural selection: the ancient rule that kept their lineage refined and pure.
The weak died early, leaving behind only the strong to shape the race's legacy. The law of biology had no room for condolence.
That was why Seth's contempt ran so deep. He hated anything that didn't fight to exist. Anything soft. Anything that made survival look optional.
And Zev was the walking embodiment of everything that disgusted him. Short, fragile, probably talentless. The kind of person nature should've rejected long ago. Yet here he was, sitting comfortably in the same academy meant for predators. It was repulsive.
Seth muttered under his breath, words sharp as needles. "Pathetic excuse of a lifeform."
Then—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The sudden crack of gunfire shattered the silence. Seth's entire body jolted, muscles tightening. For half a second, his instincts screamed danger before his brain caught up.
The commotion didn't stop. Rapid, chaotic bursts echoed through the room, followed by an explosion so massive it literally rattled the metal frame of Seth's chair.
"Ah—?!"
Zev flinched, nearly throwing himself off the bed. He ducked halfway, his arms instinctively covering his head. His reaction was just the thing Seth needed, proving every single thought he'd just had about the boy.
He scoffed and snapped his head around—only to find the culprit sprawled lazily on one of the beds, a phone in hand and a straw in his mouth.
Zach.
He was playing a mobile game.
Too FUCKING loudly.
It was one of those trendy hyper-realistic video games where the sound effects were calibrated to impact nearby objects, simulating a real blast. Hence, the rattling furniture.
A string of battle cries and gunfire boomed from the small device, filling the sterile room with chaos.
▴ Male voice: "Incoming! We're surrounded!"
▴ Female voice: "Deploying drone strike!"
[ Another massive bomb detonates, followed by screaming. ]
Zach's foot tapped in rhythm with the soundtrack, utterly unfazed by the mayhem. His expression didn't shift, not even when the game's dialogue hit a fever pitch.
On screen, a digital soldier pleaded, "Please! Mercy! Don't shoot—"
Zach's thumbs flicked once. The gunfire instantly drowned out the plea, followed by the wet, sickening sound of impact.
"Enemy commander decimated!" a chipper female announcer cheered. "Kill streak: Bloodthirsty Tyrant!"
"Heh." A tiny, dry sound escaped Zach, a sound of thin amusement, like he'd just witnessed a minor accident in traffic. It held all the warmth of a dropped stone.
Zev blinked at him. He'd never seen someone play a game so… casually menacing.
He'd never been into those hyper-realistic battle royale things anyway. They always looked too loud, too intense. He preferred quieter games: puzzles, strategy boards, something that didn't involve body counts. Chess, scrabble, the kind that gave you time to think.
Now he just felt stupid for nearly ducking under the bed.
'Unbelievable… He was just playing some game, not opening a portal to hell, yet I almost lost it there.'
He awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck, hoping to cool the angry heat spreading across his ears.
Meanwhile, Seth looked two seconds away from homicide.
'What THE fuck?! Is this asshole seriously playing Hellvector right now?'
The audacity was unbelievable.
Zach had shown zero reaction since the fight. Not remorse, not anger, not anything. He just… existed, detached, calm in a way that made Seth's skin boil.
Even when Zach had stomped his face into the ground earlier, there'd been no emotion behind it. Just that empty, hollow grin.
And that was worse.
Ossafex knew pain. They respected it. But the kind of nonchalance Zach had—the kind that looked like he'd done it before and didn't care—wasn't natural.
Seth clenched his bandaged hand, teeth gritting at the memory. He, an Ossafex talent, had been humiliated.
The fight replayed in flashes: his ribblade slipping from his grip, his jaw cracking, the rush of disbelief when he realized he was losing. Not to another Ossafex, not to a Relicbound or even a Chrominent—but to this quiet lunatic who didn't seem to belong anywhere.
That was what bothered him most.
What even was Zach?
He hadn't used an Imprint. There'd been no visual markers, no surge of aura, nothing. Yet his base strength had been monstrous. Seth couldn't even guess his race. He wasn't a Dēremon—no paralysis craft. Not an Ekkomian—he didn't echo. Not a Chrominent—no recursion shimmer. Not a Yvülu, definitely not a Miasmoran.
His mind paused. Eclipsian, maybe?
No…
He turned to Zev, eyes narrowing at those faintly glowing amethyst irises. That one looked Eclipsian, at least partially, but Seth refused to believe it. There was no way someone that invisible carried that kind of lineage. Those eyes had to be cosmetic.
He raked his fingers through his messy hair, tugging in frustration.
"Why the hell are these two so impossible to figure out?" he muttered under his breath. "Can't they just be normal for once?"
Part of him knew why it bothered him so much. Curiosity was survival at Fearcraft Academy. You didn't last long here without knowing your opponents inside and out.
And yet, somewhere deeper, he couldn't shake the uncomfortable pull of wanting to understand them for what they really were.
Before that thought could fester, the sound of a door creaking open sliced through his head.
Dr. Helen stepped out from the side room.
She looked… worse for wear. Her skin was pale, her lips nearly colorless. Fine sweat clung to her temple, glinting under the lantern light. The effortless grace she carried earlier was dimmed, her movements slower, heavier.
In her gloved hands, she held a small glass-and-metal box—a containment unit of some sort, faint mist leaking from the edges as though it had just been sealed.
Seth straightened automatically, the other two doing the same.
Helen's gaze flicked toward them once, sharp but weary. Whatever strength she had left was running on fumes. For a moment, she looked like she might address them directly. But instead of walking closer, her steps veered toward her desk.
She placed the box down carefully, the faint clink echoing in the still air. Then, almost as if her body had reached its limit, she sank into her chair, shoulders sagging. Her hand lifted to cradle her forehead, fingers trembling faintly.
She sighed, tugging the glove off her right hand with her teeth because taking it off the proper way required both energy and patience; two things she'd run out of before breakfast.
Then, without looking up, her voice came—hoarse, but carrying the kind of authority that made them all stiffen.
"Gather round."
She tossed the glove onto the desk, massaging her fingers absentmindedly as the boys shuffled closer.
"Hm, what's that?" came Zach's voice, leaning in to peer at the glass-and-metal box sitting on her desk.
Helen's eyes flicked toward him. Zach Ghoul, she recalled. Lark had whispered his name earlier with that knowing tremor in her voice. The suspicious boy with a record that didn't quite exist. The one whose blood had refused to show a full readout.
Her gaze lingered on him for a moment too long before she pressed a button on the lid.
The box hissed softly, releasing a puff of greenish vapor that curled through the air like something alive. When it cleared, the contents came into view.
Lollipops.
Wrapped, softly glowing, heart-sigiled lollipops resting neatly in crystal slots.