The hallway stretched before Elijah Neri like a throat swallowing him whole.
His wrists ached beneath the bindings, thick, woven fibers designed to suppress Ego activity, biting into his skin with every shift. The guards flanking him moved with mechanical precision, their boots clanking against the polished marble in perfect sync.
Eli kept his steps small, his shoulders slightly hunched, the very picture of docility. His dark almond eyes flickered beneath his lashes, absorbing everything, the sterile white walls, the way the overhead lights buzzed faintly the trapped insects, the scent of antiseptic clinging to the air.
The doors at the end of the hall loomed, twin slabs of black oak carved with intricate sigils, scales, swords, the unblinking eye of justice. The guards didn't knock. They didn't need to. The doors swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a room so immaculate it felt more like a museum exhibit than a place where people lived.
Eli's breath caught.
A waterfall cascaded behind a pane of glass, its crystalline flow casting rippling reflections across the ceiling. Koi fish drifted lazily in the pool below, their scales shimmering like molten gold. The furniture was all clean lines and dark wood, arranged with geometric precision. Not a single paper out of place.
And then there was him.
An old man by the window, his back to Eli, a silhouette framed by the dying light. He was shorter than expected, his posture upright but softened by age. Ashen blond hair, neatly trimmed. Wrinkles carved deep into his face, the kind that spoke of decades of calculated smiles. When he turned, Eli saw his eyes, gray and dull, the colour of stones. They should have been unremarkable.
They weren't.
They pinned Eli in place, stripping him bare with a single glance.
"Elijah Neri." The man's voice was dry, precise, each syllable measured. "I've been waiting for you."
The guards didn't wait for dismissal. They left, their footsteps fading into the hall.
Eli swallowed. "You sent them away."
A nod. "The human guards, yes." The emphasis was deliberate. "The ones who need to be here are here already."
Eli didn't look around. He didn't need to. The shadows in the corners of the room were still. But dense. He could 'feel' everything within them.
"My name is Alfred Stein. And I am the Pillar of Law."
Woah. That was a revelation. The old man gestured to the couch. "Sit."
Eli obeyed, the plush cushions swallowing him whole. Compared to the prison slabs he'd slept on for the past three months, it was obscenely comfortable. He resisted the urge to sink deeper.
Alfred didn't sit. He paced, slow, deliberate, his fingers laced behind his back. "Your file was… interesting." he paused, tilting his head. "Stealing from stores. Taking money from those who 'mysteriously forgot.' Forgery." A chuckle, dry as parchment. "Petty crimes, and you were about to do sixteen months as a first time offender, really. But then, Ego users are judged more harshly when they misuse their gifts."
"And who's that thanks to?" Eli asked with a blank face.
"Oh don't get me wrong. It is most certainly deserved and can act as a deterrent." Alfred said back in an equally calm voice.
Alfred's lips twitched as he went to pick up another folder. "Your Ego is called Shadow Imitation. The ability to merge with darkness, manipulate people by standing on their shadow." He flipped the folder open, revealing a detailed breakdown of Eli's power, its limitations, its potential. "A valuable skill."
Eli's pulse quickened. Obviously he didn't put that there. The surveillance team that were most likely monitoring him updated it to present his danger. "Want me to use it for you?" He asked.
To Eli it was probably the right move considering the power the old man's position demanded.
Alfred's smile was razor sharp. He slid another folder across the table. Inside, two profiles;
Ruben Rayo. Corbin Monet.
Both dark-skinned, one with locs, the other with tight curls. Light eyes and dark. Brothers, they could pass off as such. Their Egos were also listed but the details were sparse, there could be more information gathered off the names alone than the one lines they gave as descriptions.
Beneath the profiles, a brochure. St. Leontis Academy.
Eli traced the embossed crest with his thumb. "You want them."
"I want you to keep close to them." Alfred corrected. "You will attend their school. Befriend them, if you can. Report to me on their actions, their conversations, who they warm up to." His gray eyes hardened. "And of course, you will do so without being caught."
Eli leaned back, feigning nonchalance. "And if I refuse?"
Alfred didn't blink. "Sixteen months in juvenile detention could easily go to twenty in a grown ups prison and assurance of major strife and worry for the rest of your life and if you have any offspring, their life. A permanent mark on your record." A pause. "Or a completely clean slate. The choice is yours."
The choice hung in the air as Eli pretended to consider the option. "Why them?"
Alfred exhaled, as if the question were an inconvenience. "Certain individuals in high positions may be using those boys against me, to destabilize this great nation." His voice dropped, a whisper of steel. "I intend to stop it. Any means possible."
Eli smiled. Small. Innocent. The perfect mask was forming.
"I'll do it."
***
The halls of St. Leontis Academy hummed with the quiet energy of early morning, a symphony of polished shoes scuffing marble, hushed conversations bouncing off vaulted ceilings, and the distant chime of the preparatory bell. Sunlight streamlined in through the arched windows, painting golden grids across the floors, each beam alive with drifting motes of dust.
Freya Van Daalen moved through it all like a ghost, her small frame nearly swallowed by the tide of students. Her blond hair, pale as spun wheat, caught the light as she passed beneath the windows, and her yellow eyes, unnaturally bright, like twin suns trapped behind glass, flickered with nervous energy. She clutched the strap of her bag tighter, her knuckles whitening.
New class. New start.
The thought should have thrilled her. Instead, it coiled in her stomach like a living thing, restless and heavy.
The guidance counselor's office loomed ahead, its oak door polished to a mirror sheen, the brass plaque reading Robyn Wilson gleaming under the artificial lights. Freya hesitated, her fingers hovering over the handle.
What if she thinks I'm wasting her time?
She swallowed, squared her shoulders, and knocked.
"Enter."
The voice was crisp, efficient, devoid of warmth but not unkind.
Freya stepped inside.
The office was a study in order, every book aligned, every paper stacked with geometric precision. A single potted fern thrived in the corner, its leaves a vibrant contrast to the muted grays and blues of the room.
Behind the desk, Robyn Wilson sat with her back straight, her wheat-coloured ponytail a sleek rope down her spine. Her sharp eyes lifted from the papers before her, pinning Freya in place with the weight of her focus.
"Freya Van Daleen." Robyn's lips barely moved as she spoke. "Transfer request approved. You're in the B class now."
The words tangled in her mouth.
Robyn's gaze didn't waver. "Sit."
Freya obeyed, perching on the edge of the chair like a bird ready to take flight. The leather creaked under her weight.
Robyn set down her pen, lacing her fingers together. "You're nervous."
It wasn't a question.
Freya's fingers twisted in her lap. "A little."
"About?"
"Everything." The admission spilled out before she could stop it. "The new class. My Ego. And maybe not even becoming a Paladin."
Robyn's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes softened, just a fraction. "Ah."
Silence stretched between them, thick but not uncomfortable. Outside, the muffled sounds of the academy carried on, people were quickly entering the school filling it out with sound and footsteps and more. Skye were outside patrolling.
Freya stared at her shoes. "I don't know if I can do it."
Robyn leaned back, her chair barely making a sound. "Your Ego. Lucent Gaze, correct?"
Freya nodded.
"Show me."
"What?" Freya blinked.
Robyn gestured to the lights. "The lights."
Hesitant, Freya stood and crossed the room, her fingers brushing the switch. As soon as they got a pitch higher Freya took her hands off the switch and looked up to the bright lights in the room.
And then…
The room plunged into near darkness, save for the thin line of daylight creeping beneath the blinds.
In the darkness, a soft, golden light spilled from Freya's eyes, illuminating the room in a warm haze. The shadows retreated, the air itself seeming to brighten as she absorbed the scant light, her pupils dilating like a cats. Robyn watched, unblinking. "Impressive."
Freya exhaled, releasing the stored energy in a thin, precise beam of light that cut across the room, it was harmless. She was still getting used to doing that. She had only started releasing the energy during the break, it was quite the revelation for her.
The light winked out as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the faint scent of ozone.
"I can do more," Freya murmured, her voice small. "But it then starts to be destructive and strain my eyes too and I don't know how to…"
"You hesitate." Robyn's interruption was gentle. "Because you lack confidence."
Freya's shoulders slumped. "Yeah."
Robyn stood, her movements precise, and crossed to the window. She adjusted the blinds, allowing more light to spill in, before turning back to Freya.
"Confidence isn't something you find," she said. "It's something you build. Brick by brick."
Freya frowned. "How?"
Robyn's lips quirked, the closest thing to a smile Freya had seen from her. "By counting your wins."
"My… wins?"
"Every one of them. No matter how small." Robyn returned to her desk, tapping a finger against its surface. "Your Ego has evolved. Controlling its output and finding out more unique ways to use it is a win. You sought me out today instead of suffering in silence. That's a win." her gaze then sharpened. "Start there."
Freya chewed her lip. "But what if I fail?"
"Then you fail." Robyn shrugged. "And you count the lessons learned as wins too."
The simplicity of it struck Freya like a physical blow. She stared at Robyn, her yellow eyes wide.
Robyn tilted her head. "You want to be a Paladin?"
Freya nodded.
"Then start acting like one." Robyn's voice was steel wrapped in silk. "There's enough in this school to imitate from. Paladin's don't wait for confidence. They earn it."
Freya's spine straightened. The weight in her stomach lightened, just a little.
"Okay," she whispered. Then, louder. "Okay!"
Robyn nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, your new class starts in fifteen minutes. I suggest you hurry."
Freya scrambled to her feet, her bag bouncing against her hip. "Thank you, Ms. Wilson."
Robyn waved a hand at her, already turning back to her papers. "Count this conversation as your first win of the day."
Freya grinned, her yellow eyes brightening with something that wasn't just her Ego.
She rushed out the door, the halls suddenly less intimidating, the future less daunting.
New class. New start.
This time the thought thrilled her.
***
The uniform was simple. Sleek navy fabric, a single gold star stitched over the heart, the collar loose enough to breathe. No blazers, no ties, just straight lines and soft cotton that didn't itch. Ruben rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of the fabric settle. It was fine. It was fine.
But his skin wasn't.
It crawled.
Not like bugs, not like heat, like something under it, squirming, gnawing, begging to be scratched. He dragged his nails over his forearm, the pressure dull against the buzz beneath. The school gates loomed ahead, iron-wrought and imposing, students streaming through in clusters of laughter and sharp-eyed curiosity. A few glances lingered on him and Corbin. Ruben barely noticed.
His head was a radio tuned to static.
Two weeks. Two weeks since the crash, since his last hit, since the world stopped spinning in that sweet, syrupy haze. Two weeks of clarity, and it felt like someone had peeled back his skull and left his brain out in the sun. Too bright. Too loud.
Corbin's elbow jabbed into his ribs. "You good?"
Ruben blinked. His fingers were still digging into his arm, red lines rising in their wake. He forced them away. "First day nerves."
Corbin snorted. "Nerd."
The word was familiar, comforting. Ruben latched onto it, letting it ground him. Corbin didn't know… he wouldn't let him know, about the itch, the ache, the way his bones felt like they were vibrating out of his skin.
He'd spent the last week buried in Sea of Dreams, chasing the ghost of home through ink and paper, but even the fake Luffy's grin couldn't drown out the whispers in his skull.
Just one more time.
The school courtyard sprawled before them, all manicured hedges and stone pathways. Students lounged on benches, traded notes, laughed too hard. Normal shit. Ruben's throat tightened.
Back home, school was where he'd first smoked, behind the gym, knees pressed into damp concrete, some older kids shitty joint burning his lungs. He'd coughed, they'd laughed and then… then it hit.
The world softened at the edges, the noise dialed down, the weight of his mother's death in his chest lifted like a bird taking flight. He was Ten.
Ruben's nails found his arm again.
He wanted it. He needed it, the quiet nothing, the blur. Dario's house was too clean, too still… it wasn't a space for such things.
And Corbin… he was watching him.
"Seriously," he said, his voice low. "You look like you're about to puke."
"Maybe I will." Ruben said.
"Then turn away from me dickhead."
Ruben flipped him off. Corbin's eyes stayed sharp, he was searching for something. Ruben turned away.
The halls swallowed them whole, lockers lining the walls like ribs in some great beast. Ruben trailed his fingers along them, the metal cool against his skin. He could find it here, probably. Someone in this maze of polished floors and whispered gossip had to have something. It was still a school, and no matter how pure some people thought the children were, none of them were born saints.
Then, the itch would fade.
"In here," Corbin said. "Our homeroom is here."
***
The classroom was a box of sunlight and whispers.
Ruben slumped in his seat by the window, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm against the desk. The wood was smooth, polished by generations of restless hands, the scent of lemon cleaner clung to the air, sharp enough to make his nose twitch. Outside, the sky was a perfect, cloudless blue, too bright, too cheerful.
He barely registered the other students filing in.
There were twenty of them, a mix of boys and girls in identical navy uniforms, their voices layering over each other in a hum of first-day chatter. Ruben's gaze skimmed over them without interest, landing instead on the cracks in the ceiling, the dust motes floating in the sunbeams, the way his own reflection ghosted against the glass, pale and hollow-eyed, like a face glimpsed in a dirty mirror.
Corbin was across the room, already slouched in his chair like he owned it, his dark eyes scanning the class with lazy disdain. A girl with long black hair and violet eyes sat beside him, her posture rigid, her fingers clenched so tight around her pencil it looked ready to snap. She radiated annoyance like a furnace radiated heat.
Ruben smirked.
Then the door swung open and the silence fell.
The man who strode in was tall, broad-shouldered, his grey hair swept back from a face that looked carved from stone; it was so gray. He scanned the room in one swift motion.
Caleb Adams. The name floated up from the orientation packet Dario had given them that morning.
"Welcome to class 1-B," Adams said, his voice a deep rumble that filled the room without effort. He set a stack of papers on the desk with deliberate care. "For those who are new, and I see we have a few, this is a mixed class. Not all of you are Ego users and vice versa. If there's a problem, my doors open for transfer requests."
A murmur rippled through the room. A boy with messy hair near the front shifted uncomfortably. The girl beside Corbin, purple eyes, black hair, rolled hers so hard Ruben half-expected them to stick.
Adams tapped a button on the desk, and the wall behind him lit up with a projected image of a sprawling map of the central continent, its borders jagged, its cities marked in glowing dots.
"Since we have newcomers," he said, "we'll start with the basics."
A groan from the back row now. "Every year," someone murmured.
A girl with braided hair turned in her seat. "New students join every year, idiot. It's normal."
Adam's mouth quirked, but his eyes stayed stern. "Pay attention. This is your history. Your world."
The screen shifted.
The first image was of nomads, shadowy figures wrapped in furs, their faces obscured by the flickering light of a campfire. The caption beneath read; *The Clans, Pre-Year 0.*
Ruben's fingers stilled. He tried to memorize it all.
Back home, history had been a parade of presidents and wars, dates to memorize for a test and immediately forget. This… this was the same. And that made him feel a little drowsy.
The screen advanced.
Year 0: The first Egos.
A painting of a man on his knees, his hands outstretched, lightning crackling from his fingertips. His eyes were wide, terrified, or maybe awed. There will always be many different interpretations to different forms of art.
To Ruben the man looked terrified of his own power in the painting.
The images came faster now, cities burning, armies clashing, a child weeping over a body. *The strife (Years 100-250).* Governments turning on their own people. Purges. Mass graves.
'Ego wielders were hunted,' Adams said quietly. 'Until they decided to become hunters.'
Ruben's nails bit into his palms. What did they expect? It also sounded stupid to come after people that had powers that were almost impossible to fight against as a normal person.
Then next came the year 300.
The year when Phantasm's became a thing, something more prevalent than prior years. They had always existed but they had never been so threatening.They fed on fear and madness and forced the people to unite.
The next image was a banner unfurling, red, white and a golden star blazing at its center. Ostara, Year 310. The Bureau of Paranormal Affairs. The Paladin Class.
They then became protectors. The screen changed again showing a man named Adrian Wolfe.
The man was a giant, his red hair like a flame against the stark white of his uniform, his blue eyes bright even in the faded photograph. He stood with one foot on the carcass of a phantasm, his grin sharp enough to cut.
Second only to Dario Kosta, Adams said, a note of pride creeping into his voice. 'St. Leontis alumnus. A symbol of what this academy can forge.'
Ruben read up on the man, while buried in his late night research. He also asked Dario about him. Dario only spoke well of the man, a few pauses in his speech but otherwise he seemed like a dependable person.
The screen faded to black.
Adams folded his arms. "We stand on the bones of giants. Remember that."
Silence.
And then…
"Through fire, we rise." the class recited, the words rolling out like a prayer.
Ruben didn't join in. He didn't even know it was coming, and the more he thought about it the more he felt it was just weird.
He looked around the class. Really looked, for the first time since he stepped foot in this class.
The boy in the back corner, black hair, shaking, was chewing his lip raw. He looked weird, he looked like the proper definition of first day jitters.
There was a blonde girl that was noticeable too. She sat in the front of the class, right in front of Corbin, she was vibrating, her yellow eyes alight with something fierce. The violet-eyed girl had stopped glaring, she just stared at the empty screen.
And Corbin…
Corbin was watching him, his expression unreadable.
Ruben turned back to the window. The sky's still blue. The world is still spinning. Or not, it was actual common knowledge that this world was flat. There were only very few pictures from space though. There was some reason for no more space exploration from any nation, Ruben forgot the reason why.