The sun beat down mercilessly on the square. Sweat streamed down the faces of thousands of teenagers standing in perfect rows before what was to become our grave. Most of those present had faces full of uncertainty; some reflected the sense of duty they carried. But, whatever the case, they were all united by one thing-a duty thrust upon their shoulders by the government, without any choice in the matter. And I, unfortunately, am among them.
Although my previous life probably didn't hold much promise, the feeling of having no choice in such an important matter filled me with nothing but anger and resentment. After all, where they're sending me… isn't that basically the same as suicide?
What exactly is this 'Duty'? you might ask.
While I was talking to myself, a woman with long black hair, dressed in a black military uniform, stepped onto a small podium and stood before a crowd of thousands of 15- and 16-year-olds.
From where I was standing, it was hard to make out her facial features, but I didn't need to. One of the lead instructors at the research training academy is Miss Sofia. I didn't catch his last name: I have a terrible memory for things like first and last names, haha-though I don't think I need that useless piece of information before I die. She's probably going to give us some kind of motivational speech, and then we'll be sent off…
Cutting me off mid-sentence, Sofia began speaking into the microphone:
"Dear cadets, I would like to congratulate you. On this momentous day, the world will welcome new heroes. You may be disheartened by the statistics and the lack of information. Yes, over the past ten years, eight million people have been sent to Spire. In all the time it has existed-even more so… Yes, no one has ever returned from there, and you have no idea what awaits you there. Yes, the statistics suggest that you probably won't return either. "But you are the most prepared and strongest generation. Success is sure to come your way, and may your destiny lead you to great achievements."
With those words, she stepped down from the podium. But I have to say, I could barely keep from laughing. The best prepared? The strongest? She says that every year, for heaven's sake, and it hasn't helped anyone.
Well, the soldiers in charge of maintaining order led us to our destination. It wasn't far, though: just two hundred meters away stood a massive, titanic ivory-colored spire.
The spire towered over the dead city. It didn't simply reach into the sky-it seemed to pierce it, parting the clouds and vanishing somewhere beyond the horizon. In the bright sunlight, the ivory color seemed almost alive: the surface shimmered with a soft glow, as if something vast and ancient were slowly pulsing inside. No seams, no windows, no familiar architectural details-just a smooth, perfectly elongated column, soaring into infinity.
The closer we got, the less tangible it seemed. The space around it warped, and the air shimmered as if from the heat, though the heat had nothing to do with it. The spire's shadow fell across the ground in a straight line, and there was no coolness in it-only a strange sensation, as if you were standing on the edge of something immeasurable.
And that was when I felt it for the first time.
Not fear. Not excitement. But a pull.
At first, it was faint, like a whisper barely audible. Then it became insistent and deep, as if a spiral were slowly unwinding inside my chest. It seemed as if the spire was calling-not with words, not with sound, but with its very essence. It promised no salvation, threatened no doom. It simply knew everything about you. And there was something frighteningly intimate about that knowledge.
I looked around. The faces around me had changed. Some people's pupils had dilated; others were walking faster than the soldiers were pushing them. A few people were smiling-a hollow, distant smile, as if they had already heard the answer to a question, we hadn't even had time to ask.
The spire's gate was the only irregularity on its surface-huge doors without handles or hinges. In the center was a symbol. It wasn't engraved or painted on. It was a circle of intertwining lines, too complex for the eye to follow. As soon as he tried to focus, the pattern seemed to start moving, changing shape.
The soldiers lined us up.
The first cadet-a fifteen-year-old boy with short blond hair-stepped forward. His hand was trembling, but not out of fear. Rather, it was out of impatience. He touched the seal with his palm.
For a split second-nothing.
Then the lines flared with a soft white light. Not blinding, but warm, like dawn. The light spread rapidly across his arm, his shoulder, his entire body. He didn't scream. He didn't even flinch.
His figure became transparent, as if dissolving into the air. His outline wavered-and he vanished.
Silently. Without a trace.
The crowd gasped, but no one tried to step back.
The second. The third. The fourth.
Each time-a flash, a soft glow, a vanishing.
There was no pain. There was no blood. Only the sensation that a person ceases to be here and becomes part of something else.
When it was my turn, I felt the pull grow stronger. It wasn't just pulling me anymore-it was embracing me. My mind went quiet. My anger vanished, and my resentment faded away. All that remained was a strange sense of clarity.
I raised my hand.
When my palm touched the seal, for a split second it seemed to me that someone was looking at me from within.
The seal felt cool, but at that very moment, warmth spread beneath my palm. The lines came to life, shining brighter than before. The light was no longer white-it flickered with barely perceptible hues, as if it were a spectrum that the human eye is not meant to see.
For a split second, it seemed to me that the spire wasn't a building.
It was a door.
And it didn't open outward.
The light engulfed me completely. The world around me dissolved, as if it had never existed.
First, there was movement.
I wasn't walking or falling-rather, I was gliding, as if the very concept of distance had ceased to exist. I had no body, no time. Only direction. Forward. Deeper. Toward where something awaits.
And then I heard a voice.
"Flame."
It didn't come from outside. It arose right inside me-between my thoughts, between the beats of a nonexistent heart. I tried to figure out whose voice it was: male, female, old, young. But the labels fell apart. It wasn't a sound. It was a fact.
"Flame of the Soul."
The name rang out completely, without doubt and without question. Like a statement. Like a truth that existed long before me.
I wanted to object. To say that wasn't my name. That I had a different one. That I was someone else.
But those thoughts slipped away. They slipped through my fingers like water.
Strangely enough, at that very moment, I realized only one thing:
my name is Flame of the Soul.
Not because I was told to.
But because it couldn't have been any other way.
The movement stopped abruptly.
Cold.
It hit me all at once, without warning. It wasn't just cold-it had mass, density, intent. It pressed down, penetrated, dug into me. I felt my body. Again. I was lying on something hard and uneven.
The air was freezing. Every breath cut into me from the inside, as if I were inhaling shards of glass.
I was about to open my eyes.
And in that very moment, the pain engulfed me completely.
It didn't flare up-it unfolded.
It was as if every cell in my body had been seized simultaneously and turned inside out. It wasn't the pain of a blow or the burning of fire. It was different. Alien. Too precise. It wasn't destroying me-it was rewriting me.
My bones grew as brittle as glass, instantly contracting and changing shape. My muscles tightened as if they were being stretched over a new frame. My blood burned not from heat, but from the sensation that it wasn't flowing as it should.
But the most terrifying thing was something else.
This pain was deliberate.
It knew where to strike, and it did so without haste, without fury. Like a master confident in his craft.
I didn't scream.
I couldn't. The air was stuck somewhere in my chest, and my jaws were clenched so tightly that it felt as if they would simply shatter if I tried to make a sound. My consciousness was struggling to break free, but it wasn't being let go. I was being held here on purpose, not allowed to lose a single second.
One minute.
Two.
Each one seemed to last an eternity. My thoughts fell apart into fragments, but the name-Flame of the Soul-remained. It was an anchor. Or a brand.
By the end of the third minute, the pain began to recede.
Not abruptly-like a wave slowly rolling back into the sea. Leaving behind emptiness and trembling. My body went limp. The cold was still there, but now it seemed almost bearable.
I lay there, motionless.
I was breathing rapidly and shallowly, as if I had just surfaced from underwater. My heart was beating erratically, heavily, as if it had to relearn its rhythm. There was a dull ringing in my ears.
My consciousness slowly came back into focus. Sensations returned bit by bit: the cold of the stone beneath my back, the trembling in my fingers, a dull lingering pain-an echo of what I had been through.
I still hadn't opened my eyes.
Somewhere deep inside, there was neither fear nor panic.
Only understanding.
There was no turning back.
And the Spire hadn't lied.
I took a deeper breath and began to come to my senses.