Alex's eyes darted across the page, re-reading the lines until the truth hit like lightning.
In his trembling hands lay a legitimate Beast Art—and not just any, but an ancient one.
His mind whirled through the history every schoolchild could recite. Beast Arts were humanity's desperate answer to the Walkers—towering aberrations that had once spilled from an interdimensional gate decades ago.
They were not monsters in the traditional sense; they were calamities with faces, capable of crushing skyscrapers and wiping cities off the map as easily as brushing away sand.
When nuclear weapons failed to do more than stall their advance, humanity had turned to science—or desperation masquerading as it.
The world-renowned biologist, Simon Frier, and his son, David, had dissected the corpse of a fallen Walker and discovered a pulsing, fractal pattern of energy in its circulatory system.
They theorized that if a human could mimic that pattern within their own energy pathways, they could channel a fraction of a Walker's power.
Thus, the first Beast Art was born—a weapon carved from the enemy's own nature.
For sixty years, that discovery had defined survival. Each new generation of Walkers brought new horrors—and new Beast Arts rose to meet them.
The manual in Alex's hands, with its faded cover and brittle pages inked in an archaic language, had to belong to that first generation.
A relic. A miracle. A danger.
"But why is it in a different language?" he murmured, his voice barely louder than the wind. The question cut through his excitement, a needle of caution in the swelling storm of awe.
He forced himself to scan his surroundings—the dirt road, the clustered trees, the long shadows shifting in the late-afternoon light. His heart thudded faster than his thoughts.
The last time he'd found something "valuable," it had been a hundred-dollar bill glued to the pavement—bait for a prank that got him plastered all over GrouTube. The memory of laughter still stung more than any bruise.
But this time felt different. Real. Dangerously real.
Seeing no cameras or hidden drones, his paranoia finally gave way to a reckless spark of hope. He shoved the book deep into his backpack and sprinted home, his sneakers slapping the cracked pavement.
By the time he reached the faded silhouette of his bungalow, his lungs burned and his excitement had only grown sharper.
He burst through the curtain-door, collapsed against it, and slid to the floor, chest heaving.
"I don't know how long I have before the IOA traces this," he muttered, pulling the book out with reverent hands. "I need to learn whatever I can… now."
He flipped open to the first page:
Step 1: Form Your Core.
Alex froze, his brow furrowing. That wasn't right. Every textbook said the core came after years of training, the ultimate proof of mastery. But this ancient text insisted it was the beginning.
His curiosity, once a spark, now blazed like wildfire.
For the next hour, he devoured the chapter—memorizing every word, every diagram. His fingertip traced the swirling patterns until the sequence burned behind his eyelids.
When he finally shut the book, determination replaced wonder.
He sat cross-legged, spine straight, and began to breathe—slowly, deliberately. The air filled his chest, then slipped out again, steady and rhythmic. His fingers weaved through the intricate gestures the text described.
At first, there was nothing. Only the steady darkness behind his eyelids.
Then—something shifted.
A faint prickle, like static, brushed against his skin.
Pinpricks of black energy began to leak through the air, as though reality itself had sprung invisible cracks. The dark essence seeped into him—not as a violation, but as though it recognized its host.
Encouraged, Alex deepened his rhythm. The trickle swelled into a stream—then a river of pitch-black energy pouring through him from some unseen dimension.
It was wild, vast, alive. Guiding it was like trying to hold a thunderstorm in his bare hands.
He gritted his teeth and forced the current downward, funneling it into his abdomen. The storm obeyed, swirling tighter and tighter until the pressure became unbearable.
Then—
A soundless crack echoed inside him.
The chaos vanished. In its place spun a tiny, perfect vortex—self-sustaining, breathing on its own. Energy fed into it from nowhere and everywhere, layer upon layer, until the wildness condensed into a perfect, black sphere.
It pulsed gently, like a heart made of shadow.
Alex's eyes flew open. His chest heaved, and his vision swam in the afterglow of the impossible.
He had done it. After what felt like he'll, or possibly was, he had formed his core.