The Night Shift Archmage

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T18:48:20+0100

Somewhere on a street in the suburbs of Kellblay City, inside the bowels of the local MinouseMart, Soren Vonesdar, night-shift employee, was stacking Ramen cups on the shelves at the back of the store, labels facing outward and chicken flavor in the center, since the middle shelf was empty once again.

The store had received forty-seven boxes that week. "Forty-seven boxes," Soren murmured with a smile. "Forty-seven boxes of humanity's greatest achievement in the last eight hundred years," he proclaimed, proudly.

It wasn't the urban magic regulated by the government, not the system that categorizes the abilities of Kellblay's inhabitants and measures the power of potential anomalies and threats, and not the dimensional barriers that seemed like they were going to collapse every Tuesday. No — it was the instant Ramen that's ready in two minutes.

Soren glanced at the time on the rectangular, digital clock that hung above the shelf where the potato chips were kept. The batteries had been replaced last week; Soren could trust the clock for roughly another two years.

It was precisely 2:47 a.m. The digits glowed, especially when there were thirteen minutes left before he could justify going out back for a smoke — Not that he was going there to smoke specifically., but the principle of small, scheduled rebellions against the tyranny of the eternally humming fluorescent lights seemed important to him.

The night shift stretched from midnight to dawn in the Vanwong district. Outside, the streetlamp bulbs shone alone, making a cockroach crossing in front of them look like it was performing a solo at a concert for zero people.

In the distance, the sound of mana-powered industrial trains could be heard; as they departed the station, the train catapulted its sound waves as though they floated in slow motion all the way to the MinouseMart storefront, like a breath of spring in the forest. The hours were long, shapeless. Kellblay seemed to be asleep and Soren pretended to be insignificant. Both were lying.

Presence Suppression: Successfully Active [Control of Ultra-dimensional Powers]

Efficiency: 94.2% [Perfect value to achieve the objective]

My Mana Circulation: Stable [No excesses or spikes in mana use]

Status: Insignificant [Nobody cares about you]

For two seconds Soren closed his eyes. The notification appeared at the periphery of his perception. He blinked again and it vanished. It was information only he could see — a discreet power, important for maintaining the anonymity he had so desired. With this suppression, his magic was recognized and identified as normal within the Post-System era. It was accepted and fell within the power parameters Kellblay acknowledges.

Insignificant. Two years of calling it insignificant — the message already felt like a compliment.

The door opened with its tired DingDing. The sound echoed all the way to the stockroom where Soren was doing a new inventory of the new Matcha ice creams; the boxes were still on the floor, and Soren had to be quick.

A man stumbled in. He was in his late thirties, his black tie was loose, and his breath was sour and strong — it was cheap whiskey he'd been drinking. For a moment, it overpowered the lemon scent of the floor cleaner that subtly perfumed the store.

He looked exactly like an office worker at a mana-powered vehicle company. In that state, the man was certainly not going to pitch the new fleet of automobiles to Soren.

He must have missed the last train and chosen to wander the streets of Kellblay, from store to store, from bar to bar, until dawn.

"Cigarettes. The blues," he scratched the atmosphere with his hoarse voice. Soren turned behind the counter, opened the cigarette shelf, and scanned the blue pack.

"That's 40 Nioris," Soren said. The man pulled a suede wallet from his pocket, and as he opened his coin purse, a coin fell — but Soren, attentive, caught it and added it to the payment.

"All good, thank you," Soren said.

The man tucked the cigarettes into his coat and on his way out slammed his shoulder into the door without so much as a thank you.

The door shuddered from the impact. Maybe the man hurt himself, Soren thought.

Soren returned to the Ramen shelves. With two fingers, he made space on the shelf and pushed in the new spicy shrimp cups from a new brand that had reserved an entire shelf exclusively for its own flavors, as though that were the sacred formula for selling more.

For two years Soren had worked at this convenience store — the same amount of time since he'd arrived in this city. Long enough to know the best Ramen was the RamenJinn brand. He turned his head to the side and smiled — RamenJinn — the shelf almost always incomplete, the favorite of the Adventurers. On the label, a Tanuki devoured a chicken Ramen with a wooden spoon. The Tanuki returned the smile to Soren.

Soren sighed. It had been 802 years without using a significant power. 802 years without any interference in reality, without protagonism, without limitless magic capable of defeating thousands of mages and ancient creatures in a battle in the old world, without saving humanity.

It was a new personal record.

At 3:30 a.m., the front door burst open.

A woman in her thirties stormed into the store in a panic, slamming her hand against the door so hard the glass nearly shattered, as though she were fleeing from something terribly dangerous — and her eyes refused to see.

Her mascara was completely smeared; she was crying in distress, her voice exhausted and drowning from the run she had made to the nearest open space she could find.

"There's a thing out there!" the woman exclaimed.

Soren set down the Ramen box he was holding and walked to the window. Between the hinges of the storefront and the smudged fingerprints that the curious had gifted it, he leaned in and looked out at the parking lot — and saw.

Fissure.

Soren didn't look at the woman right away. He murmured the word first before analyzing it carefully, for his instinct was far older than the System, older than all the urban magic the modern Era knew. Not to mention the famous government agency "Kellblay Integration Goverment," founded with the purpose of combating magical threats that could endanger the city's population. But it was not older than the apocalyptic entity sealed inside his chest.

By the parking lot, reality was tearing apart like wet paper dissolving — two meters in diameter, a Class B Fissure was emerging in front of MinouseMart. Its edges gleamed with a purple light and a sharp, deep sound that, when they expanded, emitted a vibration causing discomfort at the back of the mouth of anyone standing nearby. The sound was alien to the perception of the new urban Era. The air took on a new taste — like copper, something that still has no description in humanity.

A mana-powered vehicle that had been gliding past the parking lot was immobilized when the Fissure appeared. The driver's mustache was covered in suspended ice crystals; he was paralyzed, merely staring at the tear in reality as it expanded.

His wife, who had just finished her shift at Gliusir Hospital, was equally stunned, unresponsive. Her skin turned cold as snow; even the scent of shrimp pastries vanished from the lunch bag she had brought for her nursing shift. She always held it in her lap.

In the back seat, unlike the parents, a child could still move. She had her face pressed against the glass. She looked at the Fissure. Then at the store. Then at Soren. Her lips moved.

"Help."

Kellblay System Alert: Dimensional Fissure Detected in the Vanwong district [Please: Avoid the area]

Classification: Class B [Warning: Its size may grow substantially]

Threat Level: High [Estimated]

Closure Time: 15–20 min [Elite Adventurer Level 50+ — KIG]

Recommended Action: Evacuate [Inform citizens who are not monitoring the application]

The collective notification was issued by the Kellblay System, appearing for the entire population. The capabilities of a Level 50 KIG Adventurer were required to neutralize this threat and prevent all collateral damage.

Soren or anyone else could make that call. The average response time from KIG headquarters to the parking lot was twenty minutes.

On the street, the Fissure continued to grow as the family became increasingly terrified. The bubbling and vibration of the Fissure grew louder, causing the residents of the buildings along the street to cautiously pry open their bedroom shutters. In their pajamas, some neighbors gawked at the chaos in the parking lot.

802 years without using a real power — like grabbing hold of a smugglers' cruiser and flying it into space, letting the treasures divorce themselves from the thieves through gravity.

In his last two years, Soren had been illuminated by the store's fluorescent lights, enjoying life on his minimum wage. He strolled in his free time through the gardens of Kellblay, sitting on a bench far from the crowds. He liked to watch the meerkats that appeared between the bushes. They were especially friendlier when he brought a sandwich or peanuts to eat. For Soren, it pleased him to be nobody in particular.

It had been two years of restocking Ramen shelves, often zealously, with an almost meditative precision. Two years of returning waves to drunks passing by on the street, of pretending that the System's incessant notifications were just another banal irritation of modern life. And not a cosmic joke he didn't find the slightest bit funny.

He could make the call. The Fissure kept growing. Someone, terrified, unhinged, could do something dangerous and attract the attention of whatever was on the other side of reality.

The Fissure expanded another six centimeters. Its edges shimmered with something that could have been sharp teeth. The air on the street deteriorated noticeably. A peculiar gleam appeared in the air, as though the atmosphere had been polished with a Rank S scrubbing pad — which meant physics was having a particularly bad night that early morning.

In the car, the couple — both around forty — remained cold and motionless, their expressions identical masks of pure incomprehension, of fear. The two had invested in a state-of-the-art car and couldn't believe it could be broken down — they were the kind of people who had probably only ever seen Fissures in their History of Magic textbooks back in secondary school.

The child — dark skin, even darker eyes, around fourteen years old — pressed her face against the cold glass again. She didn't look at the tear in reality. She looked at him.

"Please."

Soren set the Ramen cup on the counter. "Damn it." He furrowed his brows and looked down at his sneakers.

Soren took off his apron, folded it into squares, and set it on the counter. He stepped out of the store and walked toward the parking lot, as if he were going to check whether he'd left his car headlights on.

The morning air touched his face. He closed his eyes. The air was cold and dry. When he opened them, he looked directly at the Fissure. His sneakers — the ones he'd bought when he first arrived in the city from a cheap sporting goods shop — scraped against the worn tarmac.

The panic on the street shifted direction. As Soren approached, the couple stared at him, their eyes wider still.

"Sir, get away from that!" shouted a woman in a thin voice from the fourth floor of the building above MinouseMart, wearing pink pajamas, who had been watching. Soren did not return her gaze and kept walking.

Soren stopped five meters from the Fissure.

It was more horrifying up close — in truth, they all were. The sound of its movements arrived with a slight delay, as though the world were buffering.

Slowly, he raised his hand, and in a single gesture — almost casual to those watching, as if he were swatting away a cobweb that had gotten too close to his face.

Ability Activated: Reality Patch [Rank S]

Effect: Dimensional Stabilization [Closes small and medium Fissures]

Mana Consumption: Negligible [for the user]

System Note: "…How is this possible??"

To those present, what Soren had done looked like the madness of a fool. The Fissure didn't merely begin to yield to his gesture — it immediately ceased to exist in that Vanwong parking lot.

One moment, the street was terrorized, cold, bewildered; the woman who had called out to Soren was still inside the store, terrified. In front of her stood the rack with the promotional magazines featuring the store's latest deals. Not even that caught her attention.

The next moment, the parking lot returned to its normality. The streetlamps shone naturally again. Beyond the lot, one could already make out the garden where students went to drink their beers and leaf through their mundane magic textbooks.

Just past Soren's hand, a cigarette butt someone had tossed on the ground last Thursday drifted lightly from side to side, floating gently.

2.2 seconds between his gesture and the sound of a soda can rolling at the far end of the lot. His back teeth ached for a brief moment — the result of his long inactivity, like an athlete who had quit their favorite sport and was suddenly called back to compete.

Behind his ribs, Soren felt something stir, an itch — something that had not yet awakened but seemed to register what had happened. Like the ear of a sleeping cat that twitches at the sound of a mouse.

Soren lowered his hand and turned toward the store. Behind him, it was as though someone had sucked the sound out of the world. As if human brains recognized something they couldn't process and deliberately chose the most sensible option — to temporarily shut down.

The automatic doors opened with their usual DingDing. The fluorescent lights spread across the floor tiles, greeting him with their eternal complaint. The Ramen was exactly where Soren had left it — intact, ready to be shelved.

He picked up his apron again, and as he put it on, he glanced at the cardboard box on the floor. He saw that the soy flavor was left over — it was always the last to go. "Some things, at least, hadn't changed."

ANOMALY DETECTED

Event: Fissure Elimination [Class B]

Method: unknown to the Kellblay system

Time: 2.2 seconds [Expected Time (Elite Adventurer Level 50+): 15–20 min]

Analyzing...

Analyzing...

Analyzing...

Error.

Entity Classification: FAILED

Ability Analysis: INCOMPATIBLE

Power Reading: FAILED TO MEASURE PARAMETERS

Recommendation: Observe [Investigate identity]

Secondary: Do not attack and do not confront

Tertiary: Seriously. Don't do that.

The notification burned at his perception. It wasn't his personal interface — the one that helped with his presence suppression and that helped him establish the mana circulating in his body — but the notification that all Awakened in Kellblay had access to. Soren had confused the System, and that was going to cost him later.

For the first time in its existence, the System had failed to classify the power that closed the Fissure. In two hundred years of existence, it had always managed to measure the power and magic used in this modern world.

It knew precisely how to classify reality and powers — from the simplest, used by Mid-Level Agents (Level 20 to 30), all the way up to a Guild Master (Level 80 to 99), the best in the world, or a Living Legend (Level 100), which were exceedingly rare.

Normal citizens (Level 1 to 10) had no developed magic. The System was accessed through a magical application that appeared on their smartphones; it served as a support tool — like a GPS for magic or a safety instrument.

For Adventurers — those gifted with powers that could be developed and improved at universities and through training — it served as a career dashboard where they could view their Stats and Abilities.

For the Government, it was an ally — like a right hand. The System detects; the Government registers, controls, and reacts.

The woman had Level 1 magic; she barely opened the app. She turned toward the cardboard boxes and stared at Soren, bewildered. She stammered and stressed:

"You just—"

"Gas leak," Soren said.

"That was not a gas leak!"

"Gas leak," he reinforced, while straightening the lighters in the display beside the cash register. "Very dangerous, but it's been taken care of." Soren looked at the woman once more and asked, "Do you need a receipt?"

She stood there staring at him, mouth open. Soren turned his gaze back to the lighters.

"I need a drink!" the woman exclaimed.

"Aisle 4. The rice liquor and sake are on sale."

Shortly after, the family came into the store. The father moved on legs still trembling, as though he wasn't sure the floor would hold — or whether it would crack open and swallow him into some hidden dimension.

The mother entered with her daughter's hand gripped in hers, squeezing so tightly it was as though she had just watched the laws of physics take a break to go have a smoke.

The girl — fourteen, maybe twelve — had been watching Soren since she spotted him upon getting out of the car. With her dark eyes, she attentively observed his select customer-service movements. The girl was so relaxed she looked like she had just woken up and turned on her GamesGalatic console, and this tear in reality seemed like nothing more than clearing another level, on easy mode, in her favorite game: "The Adventurer Polaius."

"Hey, you there! What happened out there?!" shouted Rusgar, the girl's father, loudly. "What did you do?! What was that?!"

"Gas leak," Soren said.

Rusgar pressed again: "That wasn't—"

"It was a very dangerous gas leak. It contained hallucinogenic properties," he replied, while looking at his ice cream inventory sheet and flipping to the mango-flavored page. "You may experience some disorientation over the next few hours. I recommend drinking water or iced tea — they're in aisle 3."

The woman standing slightly beside her husband gaped, and then closed her mouth the moment Soren swept his gaze past her as he headed toward the battery aisle. For a moment she looked embarrassed — a nurse shouldn't be this astonished by a semi-heroic act from a night-shift worker.

It was the girl who spoke first. "You made it disappear."

Soren had his back to the girl. His hands froze on the shelf. He stared at the white floor tile for an instant, then looked over his left shoulder. "I didn't make anything disappear. Gas leaks dissipate on their own."

"No. You raised your hand and it vanished."

"This kid has a vivid imagination," Soren whispered. The girl's eyes wouldn't stop tracking his; it was as though she still believed in the tooth fairy.

"The hole had teeth."

Soren dropped the box of batteries he had been arranging set by set on the display. How is it possible she could see inside the Fissure? She's not the child of Global Adventurers or magical beings whose offspring might inherit the gift of seeing into the tear, he thought. She wasn't even old enough to be in university, where she would already need to have developed a considerably high level to be able to see inside a Fissure.

Something inside his chest stirred. The warmth disappeared, as if someone had opened a window that let in nothing but frozen winds.

The dimensional barriers existed precisely to prevent ruptures in reality between worlds, to block the incursion of creatures and villains into Kellblay — like a wall in four dimensions. Yet they required constant improvements and adaptations; they were a kind of cosmic courtesy, because what exists between worlds is not exactly something that the psychology of Level 1 humans is prepared to handle.

Discreetly, Soren activated another one of his abilities.

ABSOLUTE ASSESSMENT

Target Name: Eva Dermilian

Age: 14

Target Level: 11 [Civilian Unawakened]

Target Class: Pending [Will be revealed with her development]

Target Potential: Not identified [EXTREMELY HIGH]

Latent Capabilities Detected:

Dimensional Perception [Partial]
Deep Investigation Aptitude

Note: Unusually perceptive sensitivity

Warning: "This one sees too much."

Spectacular, Soren mentioned — as if this night weren't already peculiar and complicated enough. Now a kid, a sharp one, had an unusually perceptive ability.

"The gas leak is resolved. I recommend you go home, rest, and drink water — or iced tea, if you prefer. It will help with your recovery."

It was clear the father wanted to keep arguing — his jaw was clenched, and his hands kept opening and closing — but his wife touched his arm and pulled him toward the exit. The girl walked to the door beside her parents without even asking if they could buy the gummies or the new watermelon-flavored sodas. The woman seized her chance.

The door closed and Soren was alone in the store. The refrigerators murmured. He looked at his right hand — the same one that had closed that Fissure in 2.2 seconds, the same one that restocked Ramen on shelves with meditative care, the same one that handed change back to customers. It was 4:25 a.m., and once again, something stirred inside his chest. It wasn't pain, but a slight pressure — as though on the other side, someone were testing a locked door they planned to walk through in the future.

Status Update

Crown Integration: Rose from Level 5 to Level 8

Cause of level increase: Ability Used: Reality Patch [Rank S]

Mana Consumption: Minimal [for the user]

Previous Streak: 2 years [counting from his start in Kellblay]

Current Streak: 0 days

Seal Status: Stable [No threat of losing control]

Crown Influence: Negligible [Level too low]

Power obtained: No power obtained

Status Note: [The powers that the Crown develops are the rarest of the entire magical era. In the wrong hands everything can go wrong]

0.2% — that was the cost for using a Rank S power. It had been eight centuries since a power of this magnitude had been used. Soren knew that using abilities of this scale awakened the cosmic entity inside him — he definitely did not want to go back to the old days.

Two years of everyday life, ruined because of a kid who was too curious with her questions — annoying questions, Soren confessed in response to the murmur of the refrigerators.

Soren went back to work. The Ramen cups weren't going to shelve themselves.

The night shift passed at its usual pace, between beeps from the front door and the ping-ping of the half-broken coffee machine dripping away. Soren was restocking energy drinks at five in the morning. The Magboosters went on the top shelf; below, on the middle shelf, the local brand — which featured a logo of a frightening skull wearing a black hood at the center of the can — was the teenagers' favorite: the Bonglár. Students could study focused through the entire night on just one can. Athletes improved their stats, becoming faster, stronger, and more agile. Adventurers, however, gained no powers or stat improvements whatsoever — they weren't particularly interested in its sweet orange flavor, either.

In the drawer beneath the counter, his phone started vibrating. It was a call. Soren stood up, and when he reached the counter he saw it was an unknown number — a number ending in a string of zeros. He knew who it was. Someone from the Government was trying to reach him.
The two-year streak without the use of an ultra-dimensional power had been broken — and worse, it had been noticed.

Soren didn't answer. The phone vibrated again, and again. Soren continued to ignore it, until a message arrived:

MEETING REQUEST

From: Workplace Integration Division

Subject: Routine Inquiry

Location: To be determined

Time: At your convenience

"We appreciate your cooperation."

"We appreciate your cooperation" — never a good sign. Soren placed both hands on the cash register and instantly thought of a world at 3 a.m. that, for two years, had been a refuge — discreet, almost anonymous, with no saving the world from an Apocalypse, no saving lives or watching friends die, and no using magical powers from the Pre-System era. He looked at his hand once more.

In the center of Kellblay, where the city wore the finest technology and the most refined magic, Level 20 Adventurer Agents walked the streets with a proud air, their arrogant tone on full display whenever they passed Level 1, 2, 3, and 4 citizens.

Vehicles floated up to the fifth floor — clearly the latest models. On those streets, one commonly saw famous professors, experts in the most diverse varieties of mundane magic, teaching at universities. They instructed aspiring Agents on how to close a Class D Fissure, always in a curt and authoritarian tone.

The trainers, for the most part, were veteran ex-Adventurers — capable of training Adventurers able to defeat some of the creatures that appeared in the dungeons open for exploration.

A notification appeared on the KIG screens. A woman — short hair, formal suit — immediately set her coffee down on the desk beside the screen.

SYSTEM FLAG

Entity Status: PENDING REVIEW

Classification Attempts: 147

Status: FAILED [loop detected]

Threat Assessment: UNKNOWN [No information detected]

System Note: "Entity detected. 147 times. Still cannot classify. Everything is fine"

In the last two hours, the System had attempted to classify Soren 147 times. It was almost threatening for the institution not to understand why.

In an empty room, surrounded by screens, dossiers, and manuals, someone was assembling a file on a night-shift worker who had closed a Class B Fissure in 2.2 seconds at around 3 a.m. Someone was noticing things that, for Soren's sake, should have remained silent. Someone was preparing questions whose answers could be devastating.

Soren glanced at the message on his phone once more. "At your convenience." He almost smiled — because it was definitely not going to be.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T18:57:39+0100

That same night, after the Fissure had been closed, the north wind made the rain tremble on the glass. Raindrops trickled from the ceiling down to the floor of the KIG building's office.

It was just another night at the Agency responsible for responding to magical threats that could endanger Kellblay. The thunder rumbling in the distance at the far end of the city did not bother Director Virgínia Krevolian (Level 64); she drank her coffee from a cardboard cup while staring fixedly at the screens at the back of the room.

Virgínia had already seen Global Adventurers level entire city blocks, simply by accident, while practicing their magical powers in training, when they fought in simulated combat against one another.

There was no shortage of folders and dossiers on the central desk in the KIG office — names underlined in red, papers upon papers — all manner of documents had already passed through her hands.

In the black folder, it detailed the powers of demons capable of destroying stone walls with nothing but a breath, turning them to dust, as though blowing out a candle.

The yellow-covered dossier contained mythical creatures trapped in the fog that floated along with it. When they attacked, the mist itself would close in, becoming thin and sharp as though it had teeth.

In the same dossier, but already in the final pages, there was an image of the Droveths — creatures created in times of war to serve war. They were giants, far too powerful for a single army to defeat even one.

It was the Black Legion of Mages that had created them. They forged their heads and torsos with plates of bone. These creatures were impossible to stop without the use of heavy magic.

Virgínia had lost count of the meetings she'd had the previous year — she had attended at least more than seventy, and they all seemed the same. The breeze of the air conditioning, and the smell of printer ink so intense it seemed as though someone had just printed a report from an army of 10,000 mages, and the constant tardiness of Sub-Director Óskar Okibu — those were the hallmarks of these meetings.

In those meetings, they discussed threats that normal citizens (Level 1 to 10) would never come to know about — deep analyses of the Fissures, the events inside the forbidden Dungeons located in the industrial zone.

They also discussed ways to improve the development of the city's defenses and the improvement of its dimensional barriers. They developed and researched magic for Adventurers to use, the creation of new combat swords, staffs of magical power, and war vehicles — those discussions everyone knew about.

Director Krevolian learned that the coffee in those rooms was always terrible — watery, without any creaminess. It seemed as though the machine was saving its coffee beans for some special occasion. The coffee was so bad, it was as if the universe demanded some form of suffering in exchange for classified information.

For Director Krevolian, what she had never seen in twenty-four years of working at the KIG was a classification failing 147 times in the System. After each failure, the System would attempt to evaluate the incident again, and would once more fail to classify Soren.

She confirmed it was the first time this had happened in the System's 200 years of existence — 200 years of life with industrialized magic, magic that had become routine, magic that had become predictable.

"Director." Amyashy called, immediately setting her tablet on the desk beside the screens with careful attention, like someone cautiously handling undetonated explosives. Her hands were trembling; her skin was cold.

"The analysis is complete."

"And?" asked Director Krevolian, firmly.

"Director, we cannot begin to fathom what he did." Amy clicked the play button, which automatically played back the recording from the camera positioned at a high angle on the corner of the building. That building sits to the left of the store and the parking lot in the Wanwong district.

The Director moved closer to the screen. The image trembled slightly. Krevolian watched a man walk out of a convenience store, moving slowly toward the parking lot, and when he raised his hand — the Director leaned in even closer to the screen — a Fissure, Class B, instantly ceased to exist in that moment.

"Impossible," the Director stated. "It's as if he simply…"

"Had asked reality to restore itself, and reality, without question, had said yes."

"I was going to say he cheated — but your version is more poetic," Amy remarked, trying to break the stress that was overtaking the Director.

PRIORITY ALPHA

Classification Event Registed

Location: MinouseMart, district: Wanwong

Entity Classification: FAILED

Attempts: 147

Power Level: EXCEEDS PARAMETERS

Method: UNKNOWN

Recommendation: Observe [Investigate identity]

Secondary: Do not attack and do not confront

Tertiary: Seriously. Don't do that.

Virgínia stared at the tertiary recommendation the System had issued. In twenty-four years of working at the KIG, she had never seen the System issue this kind of opinion.

"I want to see this employee's record!" the Director ordered.

Amy, desperately, ran to the far end of the desk and grabbed the dossier. When she approached the Director, Virgínia pulled it from her immediately, and upon opening the cover, she looked at a face pinned with a clip to the upper left corner of the page. Below it was written:

Age: 26 years old. Occupation: Night-Shift Worker at a convenience store: MinouseMart.

His hair was fine and bright white, his gaze green with a neutral expression — the kind of face that belongs in the background of other people's photo albums.

Krevolian read aloud: "Soren Vonesdar." Amy immediately filled in for the Director.

"He's been working at the store for two years, and before that there are no further records of him in Kellblay."

"There aren't?! What do you mean there aren't?!"

"Are you telling me it's as though he appeared out of nowhere and decided to make a living restocking Ramen shelves?" Amy hesitated to respond, and began to think aloud:

"In terms of career choice… it's certainly a choice…"

Krevolian pulled her phone from her pocket and, in a polite, professional tone, began typing a message to Soren, giving the impression that he had a choice in the matter.

Despite feeling somewhat tempted, she didn't want to come across as rude. She didn't want the KIG's position to seem like a confrontation — it would always be safer to follow the recommendation of a magic technology with 200 years of experience.

At the end: "We appreciate your cooperation." Krevolian sent the message.

Her message went unanswered — first for two hours, then five passed, then twelve hours went by, and the phone did not vibrate with a reply. The Director began to think of another solution.

Virgínia was not accustomed to being ignored. No one was supposed to ignore a Director of her standing. At the KIG, silence meant only two things: obedience, or it occurred when there were technical errors.

In Valinbuh, the apartments were the color of metallic gray — so dull they seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. They were located in the housing development just before the industrial zone.

The industrial zone never slept. At its entrance, visible from some of the building windows, stood the plants that produced mana — the same ones that supplied the city. On top, they slowly spewed a radiant blue vapor. The air there was thicker; it was not a tourist zone. Deeper into the center of the industrial zone, war vehicles circulated — serving as combat vehicles for the Adventurers — still being tested and having their combat capabilities improved.

There was also an old factory dedicated to refining and exploring magical artifacts and powerful weapons. Once refined, they were transported in floating trucks to the Agents' and Adventurers' Barracks.

In apartment 4C, in one of the buildings where the exterior paint was already quite worn on some floors, the clay-colored brick was visible. On the ground floor, however, it was a different story — the brick was disguised with graffiti, with some protests from rebels, written in different colors:

"Free access to the entrance of the forbidden dungeons" "We want to know our city"

Sometimes curiosity killed the cat. The KIG had special forces to monitor those Dungeons. They had also been classified by levels to measure their degree of danger, where 0 were practically safe dungeons and 4 and 5 had total entry restrictions.

His apartment had a symbolic rent — he paid around 2,400 Nioris. The amount matched well with his profession.

It was 2:47 p.m. when Soren woke up. He had slept roughly seven hours — an unusual amount of time for someone who, in his golden days, slept only three hours. Not out of necessity, but because it was enough.

Perhaps closing dimensional rifts made him tired, or he was simply getting old.

He pulled the navy-blue sheet off himself and looked at the aluminum window, opened it from top to bottom, and breathed deeply. Outside, the air smelled of barbecue, and before him, Soren contemplated the magnificent morning view of a gray wall from the neighboring building.

During the day and night, the noise of water traveled down between the pipes — some visible inside his apartment — sounding like ghosts with intestinal problems, or else a misunderstanding of how water was supposed to behave.

He no longer woke up during the night, and during the day, the noise no longer bothered him.

For Soren, the apartment was perfect. He hadn't used a superpower in 802 years.

Soren sat on the bed for a few more minutes. After looking at the pipes, he looked even higher to where a crack ran across the ceiling between the lamp that lit his living room. The crack had been in the ceiling since he'd arrived in Kellblay. To him, it already looked like a honey candy.

Status Update

Crown Integration: Rose from Level 5 to Level 8

Seal Status: Stable [No threat of losing control]

Recovery Status: Full complete

Recommendation: Maintain routine.

Secondary: [Good luck with that.]

When he opened his eyes after seeing the notification, what remained in his mind was: maintain routine. That had been his plan for the last two years — work through the night, sleep through the day, exist in the background at the edges of modern society, where no one watched him with too much attention. Soren became hostilely so mundane that even Karma got bored of him and went to bother someone else.

The plan had worked, precisely until last night. He got up and picked up his phone from beside the lamp on the bedside table, unlocked it, and noticed he had seven more unanswered calls — all from the same number composed of zeros.

Soren locked his phone and slammed it on the bedside table. He took two steps forward and went to make coffee — the instant kind. He turned on the kettle and grabbed a sachet. Soren stared at it fixedly and said to himself: "There are achievements that deserve respect."

Senhora Bella was in the hallway when Soren finally came out. She was almost always in the hallway — seventy-something years old, barely over a meter and a half, gray hair with bangs above dark glasses, with an oval visor of very dark blue frames.

Senhora Bella, from apartment 4A, was surrounded by plants. At the top of the stairs were Aglaonema; below were the Lucky Bamboos, followed by some Bonsai, and then the Calathea.

Soren always slowed down when passing through the hallway, always with caution, lest he break one of the Senhora's pots. For some time now, he had doubted how Senhora Bella managed to keep plants alive in a building with so little natural light. But after two years, they looked quite healthy.

"Good afternoon, Soren!"

"Senhora Bella, how are you?"

"Well, thank you!" Her watering can — light blue — had a smiling frog at its center. To Soren, the smile already seemed threatening.

"You look tired. Was it a long night?" For Soren, the truth was complicated to reveal. He considered.

"Gas leak at work. I had to stay late."

Senhora Bella raised the watering can; the frog stared directly at Soren, just as the Senhora did — she seemed to be reading something inside his mind — and said:

"Gas leaks are problematic things, dear."

Soren's jaw tensed for a moment. He replied with a "Yes…" that lingered in the air.

"Especially the ones that glow," the senhora mentioned.

Soren gripped the frame of his door with his left hand and left his mark by turning what had been a thick, old horizontal iron bar into something now wavy and thin.

Senhora Bella remained serious, eyes locked intensely on Soren's, as though she were communicating something telepathically. She seemed to know exactly what had happened, and probably the consequences and dangers of that supposed "gas leak."

"Have a good day at work, dear. Always give your best," she replied. She went back to watering her plants as Soren descended the stairs.

When he had passed her and was already near the third floor, Senhora Bella, in a distracted tone, said:

"Those types who work in the government are very demanding and also boring. Over any little thing, they want meetings, they want to investigate… they're so inconvenient."

She had no idea what was going on with his phone, but her seventy-something years ended up giving her a certain experience that could almost foresee or be almost certain of something.

"Senhora Bella?!" Soren stopped with each foot on a different step. "Yes, dear?!" she responded in an assertive, more direct tone.

Over his left shoulder, Soren looked at her. "How did you know they glow?"

"I was talking about gas leaks. I've heard they can be quite luminous, with a glow distinct from what we're used to seeing — they have a fascinating chemistry, don't you think, dear?" She descended one more step and continued watering the Bonsai.

"When you have a day off, we must have tea. I make an excellent white tea."

She returned her gaze to the Bonsai. The frog kept smiling at him. Soren continued descending the stairs; he didn't like to be late.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T18:58:26+0100

The sun shone on the streets of Vanwong. Soren walked in a sweatshirt with the hood over his head, as if he could hide from the entire world. Earphones in his ears, and hands in the pockets of his baggy pants.

In front of the MinouseMart storefront window, a group of teenagers could be seen talking and laughing loudly, until suddenly they all fell silent when they realized it was Soren at the end of the street.

They began rushing toward him, as if that moment were a starting signal only they had heard.

"It was you who saved the Neighborhood!" "How did you do it alone?!"

Soren took out one earphone — he could no longer pretend it wasn't about him. He looked at one of them, not knowing what to answer. The young people stretched out their notebooks and with the other hand, a pen ended up in Soren's hand for him to sign.

Soren didn't even know what exactly to sign, but he scribbled his name.

He quickened his pace, slowly looked at the parking lot, and began to anticipate his new day at MinouseMart.

MinouseMart looked the same as at any hour, as if time around it didn't pass. The nighttime neon of the sign no longer vibrated. In the parking lot, there was a small Rolote releasing the smell of freshly pulled coffee — hot, bitter, impossible to ignore.

In front of it, dressed in overcoats and with coffee cups in hand, stood two adventurers who watched Soren walk attentively.

Outside, near the door, the pallets of beer and energy drinks were already there, out for when supplier Mike came by to take them — misaligned with that precision of someone who does this every day.

Next to the boxes was a vending machine so old it was questionable whether it still worked or had finally given up. Above the dark beige walls were the posters, one on top of another, with words announcing the store's news and product promotions.

Soren pushed the store door open at 4:20 p.m. — he had arrived early to cover a coworker's shift — AbelYoung's. Abel loved being called by his favorite video game character; that name was a compliment to him.

When they called him, he would respond immediately with a smile and a sparkle in his eyes. Abel played "Deaths in Parawall," a combat game between demons and Elite Adventures. His favorite elite adventure was "John Lucci."

Abel was probably hungover. Mohchida, the store manager, had asked if anyone could cover John Lucci's shift — Soren said yes. He liked the routine, the predictability, knowing that what came next were boxes, customers, and Ramen. Soren also didn't want to think about other things, or maybe, pretend everything was fine.

"Vonesdar!"

Mohchida, 1.60m, had one hand pulling his large blue beard that went past his neck, bottle-bottom glasses, already in his late 60s. He stopped looking at a long inventory he held with the other hand, supported on a wooden clipboard. With a hoarse, rough voice, in a sudden gesture he pulled his blue hair back.

"You arrived early, boy!"

"I had a complicated night, sir."

"I heard there was an incident last night, on your shift. What happened, Vonesdar?!"

Soren shrugged, as if it were nothing.

"It was a gas leak. Already resolved, sir."

Mohchida, half tired, half satisfied, replied:

"Good. I don't want problems. All this paperwork I have to organize is enough for me."

Mohchida leafed through the inventory again and over his glasses, looked at Soren.

"Neighbors told me you resolved it alone and everything was calm. Good, boy!"

Mohchida just wanted to hear his employee's version to see if it matched up.

"Today you can stay at register 2. Figgi has been at register 1 since 12:00 p.m. You know, she's already getting that look."

"Excuse me, Boss, what look?!"

"The look of: 'I'm going to start talking about my dungeon creatures podcast to customers.'"

He understood and walked to register 2 and put on his red apron, while Boss Mohchida left the store.

Figgi, 19 years old (Level 3), is a communication and journalism student. What attracts her are dungeon episodes and following Adventures — the higher the level, the more fascinating it was for Figgi. She always carried a recorder.

She had an enormous, almost irritating curiosity about anything that was a topic, which made her excellent at customer service and terrible at managing her personal life.

When she spotted him, her eyes lit up with the intensity of someone who had waited all day to ask him questions.

"Soren! I thought you only worked nights!" she said in her high-pitched voice.

"I'm here covering AbelYoung's 5 p.m. shift."

"I see. That boy must be hungover for sure."

Soren grabbed the inventory and pen, with the haste of someone trying to escape a horror movie scene.

"Hey, colleague, is it true you closed a Fissure yesterday?"

Soren began counting the money in the cash register.

"Gas leak," said Soren.

"I received on the app and saw the notification about a Dimensional Fissure…"

"Gas leak…" drawing out the last word.

"You're not any kind of adventurer, you're a simple store employee! How are you supposed to have closed that?!"

The green light on her recorder was on. As if she were already preparing content for her next episode.

"Gas —" he paused and sighed "— leak!"

Figgi stared at him, surprised, like someone trying to solve a puzzle that keeps changing shape.

"You're weird, colleague!"

"I've been told that." He closed the cash register.

"Wait! But weird in a good way. Not weird like creepy, but like a mysterious secret hero who works in a convenience store! WOW, that would make an excellent story! Thanks, colleague!" said Figgi with a somewhat childish smile.

"How about you complete it with a tragic final story — it would complete the aesthetic of the story."

Soren, after his comment, went out to the storage room before she could respond with something like: "Tragic story?! I want to know more!"

Soren thought about his time before 802 years without using ultra-dimensional magic, the civilizations he saw rise and fall, the people he loved and then buried, the battles he won in the blink of an eye, and the apocalyptic entity sealed inside his chest. He knew someone was looking for it, but he never wanted to attract attention.

That was probably enough for the story.

The shift passed with that idle chat between colleagues, with some fatigue that emerged at the beginning of the night, with the Dlim Dlim of the entrance door and Soren's attempt to seem normal.

It was 7 p.m., more or less, when Mohchida returned to the store. He had a rectangular-shaped package — it looked like a frame. He knew all the merchants in Vanwong; he was the type of man who knew practically anyone who entered the store.

His father was the one who founded the store, the first in Kellblay. At that time, Mohchida was just a normal store employee. When his father passed away, Mohchida continued with the store — he didn't give up on the store, even when it would have made sense to give up.

"Vonesdar, come here."

Soren had his back turned, aligning chicken Ramen.

"Go ahead, Mr. Mohchida."

"I have something for you. You know, your heroic gesture from last night didn't go unnoticed. The neighbors told me it was an employee from my store, and that fills me with pride."

"Here — I had this made for you. Thank you for protecting MinouseMart."

Soren held the gift, and with the air of someone who hadn't received anything in the last two years, stared at the orange wrapping with small capybara faces repeated all over it.

"Open it, Vonesdar."

Soren, incredulous, with the air of not believing he had received a gift from his boss, began to open the package.

In the background, Figgi didn't hide it — arms crossed, she looked with a sulky air of someone who also wanted a gift.

EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH

Soren Vonesdar

"For exemplary management of a crisis due to a Gas Leak"

The ink from the engraving of his name was still warm — it had been made at a stationery store by a friend of Mohchida's.

Soren looked at the frame and thought: "Years I've worked at this store and it's the first time Mr. Mohchida has given me anything."

"Vonesdar, don't get used to it now. Hang the frame somewhere very visible. I want everyone not to forget that the employee who saved Vanwong works at my store."

Mohchida smiled. He liked that — being praised by the neighborhood already gave him a certain pleasure, but knowing it was his employee was something else. It made him feel superior to the competition. He loved that rivalry.

Soren walked to the counter and looked at the frame again:

"Exemplary management of a crisis."

For closing a dimensional Rift in 2.2 seconds, for doing something that a team of Level 50 adventurers took 20 minutes to do, for having used a power he swore to keep hidden.

The bar for employee of the month was low. Soren almost smiled.

He hung the frame on an empty nail, next to the safety regulations, between a calendar that had an image of a drawn guaxinim. Looking at it, the guaxinim seemed judgmental.

Fair, thought Soren.

Soren finished his shift at 9:00 p.m., carrying with him a bag with leftover food from his dinner at the store. When the door closed, he turned to the alley on the left and began filling a bowl that was always at the corner of the alley.

Suddenly in the back, a gaze appeared beside the garbage cans and piled cardboard boxes. It was a small Tanuki. It began walking step by step toward the food. When it arrived, it sniffed the food and began to eat. Soren gave it two little strokes and Minji, with the look of someone who had just woken up, looked at him.

Soren put the earphones in his ears and continued on his way.

The night had cooled. Tonight it was possible to feel the fresh breeze coming from the garden behind the parking lot. Sometimes came the smell of eucalyptus, other times the aromas of barbecue.

Soren began to walk, and when he was putting the hood over his head, he looked at the bus stop. He felt someone looking directly at him, like a lighthouse illuminating a boat.

She was waiting for him when he finished his shift. She told her parents she had some school work to do with friends, but it was at the bus stop where she was, with the orange-toned light illuminating her from the top of the shelter.

The bench where she sat was cold, the metal worn, designed by someone who had never waited for a bus in their life.

Eva was sitting exactly in the middle, with her feet swinging and her sneakers scraping on the cement floor. Seeing his gaze cross with hers, she called out:

"Hey, it's you!" And she waved her right hand in the air.

Soren still considered ignoring the girl and continuing his walk home — it was only 20 minutes or 5 songs from his playlist. And, of course, he didn't need a bus.

"What are you doing here?!"

"My mother is late."

"Look, I'm going to be direct — that wasn't a gas leak," said Eva.

Soren sat on the bench, one meter away from the girl.

"Gas leaks don't have teeth or bright white eyes."

Eva looked at him intensely.

Soren didn't respond.

"I went to investigate it. I also wanted to consult some books from the university library, but my mother says I'm too young, since only at 18 can young people enter the magic university."

"What did you investigate? Tell me."

"Fissures are classified from Class S to D. Yesterday's was B — they require teams of 50+ adventurers. The average closing time for an adventurer team is 20 minutes."

Soren was amazed at how the 14-year-old girl had all this knowledge.

"I have questions."

Eva pulled out a small notebook from her pocket with a serious cat on the cover.

"You closed it in 3 seconds."

"2 seconds," Soren corrected.

He immediately regretted it.

"The System says you're level 'error.' I've never seen an 'error' level."

Soren stayed quiet and asked:

"You can see System information?"

"Yes," Eva answered, with a mischievous smile.

"I look at a person and the little box appears — name, age, class, ability — it's much faster and more detailed than the phone app."

Unusual perceptive sensitivity. Soren saw his absolute assessment again; the notification was in his consciousness like a splinter.

But this was more than sensitivity. This was unauthorized access to System functions that should be blocked until awakening (18 years old) — when young people decide to develop abilities at universities or choose a Level 1 or 2 life.

This was a 14-year-old girl reading information that most adults couldn't see without specialized abilities developed at universities.

This one sees too much...

"What do you see when you look at me?" Soren questioned.

Eva tilted her head.

"Soren Vonesdar. Age: 26. Level: Error. Class: Error. Abilities: Error. Everything else I just see... clouds."

26 years old, said Soren. Despite his centuries, he stopped at 26 years because he reached the superior divinity of powers. Ultra-powerful beings stop at the age they reach the divinity of powers.

"The System thinks you're lying," said Eva.

"The System thinks many things."

"It also says 'Do not interact' in red letters." Eva wrote something else in the notebook.

"Why would it say that?"

"Because the System is very cautious."

"Are you dangerous?"

For a moment, the question hung between them. Honest and direct — it was the kind of question adults learn not to ask at certain times.

"Sometimes," said Soren.

"But not to me, right?"

"No. Not to you."

"How do I know you're not lying?" Eva interrogated with a suspicious air.

"You don't. You'll have to trust me."

She wrote that down too.

A bus appeared at the end of the street. The headlights illuminated that stop for an instant. The bus stopped and only 4 tall men got out, with serious looks, all wearing black overcoats. They looked sideways at the bench at the stop before passing and walked slowly to the left, toward the store. The bus continued to the next stop.

"My mother is there," she said.

"Okay."

"I have more questions."

"I imagine so."

"Will you answer them? Later? Please..."

Soren looked at that child who saw inside Fissures and read System data and carried a notebook full of questions about things she shouldn't even know existed.

He should have said no. Distance was safety. Involvement was risk.

"Maybe," he said.

Eva smiled. It was a small smile, but genuine.

"That's not a no."

"It's not a yes either," said Soren.

"I know. But it's not a no." She put away the notebook. "I'm going to find out who you are, gas leak man. You're interesting."

"The System says Error. That's the most interesting thing I've ever seen."

A car pulled up. The mother was at the wheel, tired eyes, the air of someone who worked too much and spent her life apologizing for it. Eva's mother greeted Soren:

"Good evening," she said carefully. "Thank you for being with my daughter at this hour. My daughter is special — she's very skilled and intelligent. I'm very proud of her."

Eva jumped off the bench.

"Goodbye, Soren."

"Goodbye, Eva."

She stopped by the car door.

"You should be more careful. People are going to start noticing you."

The door closed. The car started. The taillights disappeared around the corner.

Soren remained sitting on the bench at the stop, under the orange light and the silence that was only disturbed by a dog barking on another street.

He stood up, and before heading to his right, he noticed four men reversing their direction in an unnatural movement. They fixed their gaze on him without any expression. Serious faces, hands in pockets — they began walking in his direction.

Soren thought: Now I know how to give autographs.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:00:30+0100

The four men were roughly two metres tall, all so muscular — you could tell perfectly well they had years of gym work, training, good supplementation, and bad tempers. Looking at their overcoats, black shirts, and loose trousers, all matching in black, you could see muscles contouring their outfits.

When Soren looked at them, he instantly understood they were four Adventure Agents from the Wid, already recognised as government-licensed professionals. These were the bad boys, the rebellious ones, mercenaries who worked at KIG only for the money, because they had bills to pay.

Soren wasted no time. He used one of his powers, the most discreet of all, one that doesn't draw attention. Yet despite being discreet, it wasn't just anyone who could execute this power. This power is rare, sophisticated, and involves a prudent mastery of consciousness combined with high magical abilities — a power that was, in truth, a little ahead of its time for the city of Kellblay.

ABSOLUTE ASSESSMENT

Target Name: Yodi Sang

Age: 22

Agent Level: 14

Agent Class: Adventure Agent [Newly Licensed]

Inventory: Immobilising shock baton "Rocklan" [Level: 2]

Detected Abilities:

Brute strength
Immobilisation through the touch of his shock baton

System Note: "Yodi is lethal when he hits his target"; "Constant need to prove himself to the older agents"

ABSOLUTE ASSESSMENT

Target Name: Jason Musta

Age: 23

Agent Level: 17

Agent Class: Adventure Agent [Licensed In Specialisation]

Inventory: Katana "Darewan" [Level: 4]

Detected Abilities:

Arm agility
Perspicacious katana handling

System Note: "This one knows how to cut deep, careful! You don't have medical plasters at home"

ABSOLUTE ASSESSMENT

Target Name: Alan Blabo

Age: 25

Agent Level: 19

Agent Class: Adventure Agent Inventory: Shuriken "Balliga" [Level: 5]

Detected Abilities:

Expert shuriken thrower
Excellent aim

System Note: "Alan is about to level up; he wants an urgent target to level up and upgrade his Shuriken."

ABSOLUTE ASSESSMENT

Target Name: Vand Bolon

Age: 26

Agent Level: 23

Agent Class: Adventure Agent [Prodigy of Dungeon Combat Squads]

Inventory: 2 Mac-10 "Zeprah" [Level: 6]

Detected Abilities:

SMG specialist
Dual fire, with super-fast reloading

System Note: "His dream is to become an Elite Adventurer; he won't want to miss this chance to kill you."

When Soren began walking to his right, he noticed in the reflection of the dirty glass at the bus stop a slow movement — someone was advancing. It was two steps that one of the Agents took forward. Anyone would have felt the intimidation.

In the reflection, Soren saw the Level 14 Agent, Yodi — black hair, always messy; he didn't care much about his hair. His gaze only showed he wanted to cause damage. He wore heavy boots, military style, all black. You could tell the agents wanted to make it known they were there to deal significant harm.

"It was you," said Yodi, his voice deep, hard, and tense. His eyes never left Soren; they carried rage and a desire to teach him a good lesson in combat, to show him that his place was just selling ramen.

Soren turned to face them head-on, so he could see all four in full. Their outfits were practically identical, all the same build — there wasn't one thinner or another fatter — though Vand was the most skilled; there could be no doubt about that. Soren had a perfectly calm air about him. He replied:

"Yes, it was me who left my shift, from that shop there, the MinouseMart." He gestured with his chin, pointing past the Agents' backs.

Yodi laughed at Soren's response — not that he truly felt like it, but he wanted to give him hope that he could carry on with his good comedy.

"You think you're funny, boy?!" As he raised his hand, he made a baton of roughly one metre appear — the "Rockland" model. He began doing a sort of juggling act and acrobatics with his baton while staring at Soren with his threatening face, his forehead all wrinkled, no room for smooth plains.

"That Fissure, in the car park! It was you who closed it!"

Soren moved his chin to centre and his white, shining hair floated to the left side of his face. He looked the Agent in the eyes.

"Are you trying to say, the gas leak?"

Yodi started getting worked up. His jaw was already clamped too tight and his teeth were clenched. He looked to his left and spat on the ground. There was no restraint left — in a louder tone, he shouted:

"Don't mess with us! Who do you think you are, man?"

Soren delved into the depths of his question, emerged to the era when he was recognised as one of the most powerful and skilled beings. He was different, but the question was so old it almost put him to sleep.

He tilted his head slightly. On his earphones, a trumpet played softly, giving the feeling of being in a jazz club. He asked:

"Right now?" He paused. "I'm a man who's tired and is going home."

Yodi looked back and, in a confident tone with a half-malicious smile, said to the other three Agents:

"Leave this to me."

The youngest always wants to show good performance to the older ones. He was thirsty to prove competence.

He advanced first, started running, his boots thundering as they pounded the ground. When he was close, he aimed the baton in Soren's direction.

The Agent closed in even more, raised the baton, sparks of electricity appearing and vanishing along his weapon. With all his strength, he sent the "Rocklan" downward, with the sole purpose of crushing Soren in a single blow.

When the baton was centimetres from his head, he took a step to the side. It didn't even look like he was actually dodging — it looked more like disinterest.

The Level 14 Agent barely had time to register his failure. The baton slammed with a crash against the stone pavement. As the agent tried to turn his face toward Soren, Soren touched the Agent's wrist with two fingers, and he instantly lost all his strength.

The baton fell to the ground, and when it hit it gave a small bounce. Soren, with his right foot, landed an acrobatic kick on the baton and sent it skyward. Suddenly the sky was lit up by the baton's yellow light. As he planted his right foot back on the ground, while the Agent was still watching the baton in the air, he instantly shoved him with his other foot to the chest — a moderate kick, not even close to strong. It was clearly more technique than actual force.

Yodi took flight. He crossed the road as if a cannonball were pushing against his chest, slamming back-first into the brick wall of the building across the street. The wall erupted with dust and was left dented with the imprint of his back. Yodi fell tumbling and hit his knees on the ground, folded in on himself, and collapsed onto the stone pavement. He lay there trying to remember how to breathe, and the baton fell in front of him, rolling down the road.

The other three agents looked at each other simultaneously. Tension hung thick in the air. With a look of fury, Jason advanced, fast. In his hand he made his katana "Darewan" appear. He was well trained — you could tell by the way he handled his weapon; he had been practising fencing for years.

Without hesitation, he tried to hit Soren with a diagonal strike, but Soren, just steps forward and back, like someone cradling a baby, swayed from side to side, making Jason look like he was trying to swat flies — but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't hit the target.

Jason tried other strikes to defeat Soren, always fast and direct — top to bottom, left to right, bottom to top — but Soren dodged his attempts with ease. When the man tried his strongest blow, Soren blocked his movement with his forearm against the Agent's fist, with a sublime motion like someone raising a hand to shield the sun. On one side was an agent pushing with all his strength, and on the other, Soren doing functional gymnastics.

"Do you have any idea how to fight?" said Jason, grinding his teeth and pressing relentlessly with his boots against the pavement.

Soren looked at him and gave him a shove to the chest — a light, casual movement, like someone pushing away a person standing in front of them. The man's feet lifted off the ground and he ended up at the stone wall at the back of the car park.

While the man was flying, Soren caught the katana as it fell through the air and immediately hurled it toward the garden. As it crossed the garden, it cut the air with a faint whistle. It struck exactly the top of a tree trunk — one of the tallest in the garden. The agent Jason's katana was driven clean through from one side of the trunk to the other.

Jason was seeing everything spinning before him, so dazed he didn't even notice where his weapon had ended up. It is a disgrace for an Adventure Agent to lose his weapon. The higher-level agents were surely disappointed with his performance.

After confirming his aim was more precise than a veteran archer's, Soren set his green eyes on the wall at the back of the car park and said:

"I have some idea."

The two remaining agents grew even more furious, burning with the desire to eliminate Soren. They could not accept this terrible humiliation.

Alan's hands began to glow. He pulled from his inventory his weapon of choice. In his hands, stars appeared — black, well-sharpened, and lethal — his Shuriken "Balliga."

Alan seized the moment to attack and defeat him once and for all. He was certain Soren couldn't dodge them, because he was tremendously fast and precise at throwing them. He was eager to level up and upgrade his weapon of choice.

He threw them all at once. They overlapped in the air, which made predicting their trajectory even harder for the target to dodge or protect himself. As they closed in on Soren, two headed for his chest and one for his neck — they would have been fatal blows.

The shuriken flew at lightning speed. Soren was relaxed, serene, appreciating the stars' race toward him. At the last moment, at his final chance to dodge, when the stars were about to slice him, he leaned just enough to let one pass by his shoulder, another by his waist, and the last through the space where his neck would have been if he were a slow man.

The Agent threw two more shuriken, putting even more force into his throw to make them faster than the last, though it cost him more mana than usual.

When they closed in, Soren stretched out his arm and raised his index finger. The two shuriken hung suspended in the air, like insects caught in a spider's web; they trembled beside his hand.

Alan was incredulous. He had never imagined seeing that ability in a convenience store employee. He stood frozen, staring at his stars, unable to believe what was happening. He couldn't identify what kind of magic that was. Even the two agents lying on the ground, knocked out, forgot their own pain for a brief moment.

"I think you should go back to University," said Soren in a conversational tone, showing he was genuinely enjoying this attempted fight.

When he finished the last word, the air stopped in that moment, and with a simple gesture — as if lazily brushing away dust — Soren gently lowered his hand.

The five shuriken flew fast, much faster, toward Alan. The force cutting through the air created a thin, sharp whistle that helped draw the neighbourhood's attention, of course.

Soren didn't want to kill them. It wasn't necessary. He was more focused on teaching a lesson with basic powers that didn't increase his fatigue. It was like a completely failed wrestling show where the opponent never even had a chance.

Two stars pinned precisely the leather at the shoulders of Alan's coat. With brute force, they drove him into the lamppost that lit the street. With the impact, the steel post bent, and the lamp also showed signs of its survival by flickering on and off. As for the agent, he would have preferred to be stuck in some hole somewhere — at least there he'd be hidden.

The last Agent, Vand, stood staring at Alan, who was completely dazed from the impact with the post, embarrassed that his companions had failed this mission, and worse, Alan had been defeated with his own weapon. It was too bad to be true.

Vand had been waiting for this moment. He loved combat. For him, combat was easy to win — as simple as pulling a trigger. In his inventory, he had two MAC-10s. They were new weapons, freshly manufactured, dark, gleaming, with his signature near the magazine. On the front of each weapon was the engraving of the model "Zeprah," and of course, they were unconditionally always ready to fire, no questions asked. The two "Zeprah" models appeared one in each of Vand's hands, and he was ready to unleash his fury.

Vand was skilled at firing burst weapons. He loved this type of weapon — the machine-gun sound, and their size that fit in each hand. Without contemplation, he aimed at Soren's chest, and with a malicious smile, squeezed both triggers.

The sounds woke up the street in the Vanwong neighbourhood. The rain of bullets was unleashed. The two muzzles spewed orange flashes that transformed the bus stop, for an instant, into a war scene. Shell casings arced through the air and fell onto the tarmac of the road and the stones of the pavement.

But Soren was no longer at the spot where Vand had aimed. His agility didn't even look like movement — it was a discontinuity of the world, a reality adjustment, a video-game glitch, something like an error between one millisecond and the next.

The first bullets shattered the side glass of the bus stop, while others lodged in the steel of a lamppost and others in the traffic sign that had been behind Soren. The remaining shots chipped the walls of the buildings, and the last ones carried down the street. Lucky that no one was passing through the street at that moment.

The Agent swivelled his torso as he tried to follow him. But Soren was too fast, too intelligent in predicting his movements, and always responded with the best possible decision, accompanied by supreme agility. The Agent wasn't enjoying this — with two full magazines, Soren should have been more than dead by now. He started getting even more nervous.

And without looking, as he reloaded his weapons — as if he'd done reloads thousands of times before — he shouted:

"How can you be so fast?! How did you learn those abilities? I've never seen that at University!"

Soren appeared precisely at his side. The shots from the gun in his left hand were still being fired. Soren touched the agent's wrist with just two fingers, and he automatically dropped both weapons from his hands. He went static. He had never felt such a cold touch, a sensation that was perceived and retained by his entire body. In fear, in a paralysed state, he held his breath.

In front of him, Soren appeared and placed a foot on top of one weapon. He pressed down on it subtly, crushing it without any effort, flattening it to the thickness of a sheet of paper. He lifted his foot and did the same with the other MAC-10, all while gazing serenely with his light green eyes at Vand Bolon.

Soren replied:

"I learned in the old school, my friend."

And in the blink of an eye, he struck him in the chest with his hand and projected him to the far end of the street. The man's body shut down immediately, before even reaching his destination, just from the shock of the impact on his chest.

Silence flooded the street.

Until some curtains closed — the typical neighbours, Level 1 or 2 citizens, snooping on the noise. Some were no longer surprised by the chaos, because for those who had seen someone close a Fissure in 2.2 seconds, this battle with Adventure Agents would be easier and not as drastic to process. In the background, a train could be heard breathing mana as it arrived at the station, and near Soren, a few crushed beer cans slid along with the breeze.

He took a deep breath of the fresh night air of the Vanwong neighbourhood. You could already smell the street food — stir-fried noodles with meat and vegetables. That was the aroma that reached his nostrils. Soren pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, drew out the first one that was already sticking out of the pack, and with a subtle gesture, lit it.

He looked at the scene around him: one agent leaning against a building wall, his baton wanting nothing more to do with him; another hanging from a bent lamppost by his own stars, appearing and disappearing with the post's flickering light; another at the back wall of the car park, with a future mission of climbing a tall tree to retrieve his sword. Lastly, at the far end of the street, a little past the car park, Vand lay taking a nap, with two posters of his MAC-10s. The mana level of all four was at zero — they didn't have the strength to stretch a single finger.

Combat Ended:

Threat: No threat found; moment of amusement located.

Combat Time: 4.27 minutes

Method: Self-Defence Tutorial without weapon use

Crown Integration: Stable, held at level 8

Skills Used: No Skill detected. [Only: Basic Combat Principles]

System Note: "You could have been faster. Go home and rest. Don't forget, you acted in self-defence."

He turned his back, crossed to the pavement on the other side of the street, put his earphones back in, and then pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt. Now it was a metal song that his playlist produced automatically — perhaps ill-suited to the moment. Soren would have to reconfigure it.

He continued on his way home, in search of a good night's rest, in search of his chamomile tea that he brewed in his kettle. Tired only because of his shift at the shop, of course.

"Have a good night, gentlemen." The men held their breath and pretended not to exist in that moment.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:01:32+0100

The KIG headquarters appeared on none of the public maps, whether paper maps or those available on mobile phones. Only the officers who worked there knew its coordinates; people the KIG wanted to visit were given specific coordinates, and in other cases KIG employees would collect them in dedicated vans. In this way, its location remained semi-secret for security reasons — employees could not speak freely about it to their families or close friends.

The KIG was located in Havernal, where fog clouds were constant, arriving before dawn and lingering throughout the day, as did the heavy rains perpetually driven by winds that occasionally swelled into enormous storms, lifting into the air the smell of wet earth and old metal.

The storms easily knocked over rubbish bins, which rolled through the streets, damaging the pavement and asphalt, and sometimes tearing roof tiles and shutters from the few houses that existed in Havernal. Nobody came to this neighbourhood by choice — Havernal had made itself entirely uninteresting for tourism or for an evening stroll with a partner. Whoever happened to wander in by accident never came back.

At the building's entrance, a bin of employees' wet umbrellas was a frequent sight, left by staff and by those who came to deal with specific or particularly complex matters. Air conditioning units and oil heaters were in constant use beside the desks, in the halls and in the offices. The interior light was bright, reflecting its glow off the grey walls and the white floor tiles. It was not a particularly relaxed place — inside, employees moved with urgency to complete their tasks, barely glancing at one another, perpetually focused on developing classified information, unwilling to fail their superiors.

From outside, the colossal building presented a structure composed of multiple towers and platforms connected by bridges. The tallest tower rose sixty floors, and on the thirtieth floor, to the right of an armoured door, a discreet copper plaque read: Workplace Integration Division — this being, at its core, the name that appeared in the official records, as Integration was one of the Government's departments. Kellblay Integration Government had been designated by the Director to be more modern and easier to identify — one of the many advances she had brought to the Government.

The KIG department extended all the way to the top floor, the sixtieth. The two lifts always required two forms of identification — a quick biometric scan and the entry of a personal secret code. The entire building had been designed to respond to threats: it featured sensors for magical hazards, sophisticated weaponry, and a battalion of Adventurers ready to neutralise any kind of danger. The whole structure had been conceived with the best Kellblay had to offer in terms of technology and combat magic.

This research case continued to raise increasing concerns about Director Virginia Krevolian. She had already been in her office for an immense stretch of time — in meetings, in debates with other seasoned professionals — and her desk and the room's central table were buried under documents, lying there as proof of an effort that had yet to produce a final answer on the case. Her cup of coffee was no longer helping her; it had been cold for hours.

Virginia had delegated a task to Amy and her investigation team — they were to produce a report on the powers used by the young man from the convenience store. She waited with a slight anxiety.

Director Krevolian was desperate, exhausted, and with little hope of a concrete answer regarding the class of power the night-shift employee had used. She glanced discreetly at her phone — no reply had arrived so far.

Suddenly, the door to her office opened. The Director recognised the nervous, uncoordinated footsteps of Amyashi.

"Director, we've finished the 'Report on Powers Used,'" the words came out with difficulty; her mouth was dry. She continued walking forward and set down, with a dry thud that echoed through the entire room, the tablet containing the report.

Amy had given her best. Her hands were never fully relaxed, their state mirroring her facial expression.

The grey tablet looked as exhausted as she and the Director felt — it had demanded a great deal of work to produce, or rather to attempt to produce.

The Director felt a small surge of hope at the prospect of finally understanding what power he had used — it would, at least, be an excellent step toward classifying him. But as the Director drew closer, Amy ground her teeth, looked at the floor, and with an expression of utter terror said:

"Director, the report is blank."

"Blank — how?!" Virginia gasped, staring at Amyashi with wide eyes and clenched fists, her hair nearly standing on end.

"You found nothing? The University has one of the best libraries in the world, and excellent professors on the subject of magical powers. The Kellblay library holds decades of archives — and not one of you managed even a possible theory about how he closed that rift in 2.2 seconds?"

"No, Director." Amy was stammering. "I searched every manual, I searched the university library and the Kellblay library as well. I spoke with Professor Macan Lyus, a specialist in magical powers — he himself watched the video and said he had never seen anything like it, and was sorry he couldn't help. At the end of the video, he fell silent, staring at his classroom board, and began to question whether his own profession was at risk, given that he didn't know."

Krevolian slammed her right hand down on the desk with a crash — Amy gave a small jump — then turned around and shouted:

"I expected a far more developed answer, one worthy of a competent analysis team. Never — but never — a blank report!"

Amy drew a deep breath, on the verge of tears. "My team and I, along with the Elite Adventurers unit, watched the video thirty-eight times. The KIG team specialised in power classification also observed it and attempted to understand what happened. I assembled members with different perceptual abilities and searched every type of manual and archive on the subject."

"And so? Not a single lead — not even an idea?"

"Unfortunately not, Director." Amy's hands were trembling, her knees shaking without stop. "Nobody can understand what he did. Involuntarily, this case is raising doubt and suspicion in the city — let us hope it doesn't turn into panic. The boy raised his hand and the Dimensional Rift disappeared. There is no record of an ability being activated, no record of mana usage — without that, we cannot analyse the type of power — and in our extensive database there exists no technique that bears any resemblance to what he did in that car park. The system's classification attempts continue to fail; they are now at four hundred and twelve, and it keeps trying to find an answer that will put Kellblay's mind at rest. There was also no record whatsoever at Kellblay University — he possesses no licence or awakening certificate to use official powers, let alone any affiliation with an Adventurers' Guild, such as the dungeon specialists."

The Director opened a tab and slid her finger across the tablet, then asked:

"Zero results in the historical archives? Did you go there, Amy?"

Amy began to flush. She went momentarily still, then finally opened her eyes. "No, Director — those are rarely consulted. I confess it: I'm afraid to touch those archives."

"A KIG employee is not afraid, Amyashi!" She snapped, then expressed her demand the way a mother shouts at a badly behaved child. "I want you to bring those archives here immediately! Right now! This instant!"

The temperature grew steadily colder as Amyashi descended in the lift to floor -5. She could not hold back her tears — she hated to disappoint. Amy was always focused on giving her best and on measuring up. She tried to rest by leaning against the lift's metal wall, a cloth satchel in her hand to carry the manual.

The doors slid open to either side, and the smell of mould and damp paper — worn further by time — flooded into the lift. The place was dark; the oil lamps did not fully illuminate the corners, as though someone had wanted to save on electricity in that underground floor.

To the left, a metal plaque read Kellblay Archive, held in place by a lamp that flickered without rhythm, clearly on its last legs. The space had the feel of an ancient cave that had been converted into archive corridors, with poorly finished construction work throughout.

At the far end stood Mr. Esidro, the archivist — seventy and many more years on his back, already hunched for an age from spending too long bent over the archives. He was perpetually occupied with restocking, cataloguing, and organising old books. The space was thick with dust, as it was abundantly clear that cleaning the corridors was not his responsibility.

From the corridor to her right, Sub-Director of the KIG Oskar Okibo appeared, walking with quick strides and an anxious expression, visibly displeased. Over his suit he wore a black cape; his dark hair fell to his neck, and round glasses framed a face that spoke to his immense learning. After passing through the shelves, he approached the lift, crossed paths with Amy and, with an air of surprise, in his characteristically measured, restrained, deep voice said:

"What are you doing down here, young Amyashi? It is not customary to see an employee of your level in this area — in such a restricted zone."

"I came to look for the Historical Archives."

The sadness on Amy's face did not escape the Sub-Director's notice, though his coldness did not move him to concern.

Oskar's expression grew serious, his usual forbidding demeanour intact, and in his habitual manner of speaking slowly, in a blunt tone, he said:

"The Historical Archives." He repeated the words as though running calculations in his head. "Are you really going to waste time on those? How could it possibly be that a convenience store worker has some connection to ancient entities, legendary creatures, or epic events? Don't tell me you're entertaining the idea that he saved the world?"

Indeed, the Sub-Director conveyed a solid knowledge of these archives — he was one of the sharpest minds at the KIG, and among the most skilled and powerful the Government could count upon. Yet he made clear his disagreement with the method being demanded by the Director.

"I don't know, Mr. Oskar. I'm only trying to help — these are the Director's orders." Amy simply wanted to get this over with and leave that wretched place as quickly as possible.

"Wipe the tears off your face, young Amy. It's not a good look for a KIG employee to be crying."

"Mr. Oskar, it's just an allergy — I apologise." She said this while pulling her handkerchief from her pocket and passing it across her face.

Okibo stepped into the lift, placed his finger on the button for the fifty-seventh floor, and in a sarcastic tone said:

"Be careful — you don't want to get lost down here."

The lift ascended, and Amy made her way toward the staircase where Archivist Esidro stood, his back to the lift, his knowledge of the Archive deep — he had been doing this since he first began working at the KIG.

"Mr. Esidro, could you help me? I'm looking for the Historical Archives."

The archivist was old and unenthusiastic, as though doing a favour entirely against his will. Congeniality was unquestionably his worst skill.

"Follow me."

He picked up a torch to light the way and they moved through the central corridor. Amy was trembling, walking right alongside the Archivist so as not to risk getting lost. She was already longing to be back in the lift, going up.

They walked on through the corridor. In the corners were mana pipes that had not circulated in decades; some had already mineralised into solid matter. Lower on the walls, framed illustrations of creatures appeared — some depicting Goblins, others Gnolls, and further along a large frame displaying a Troll — all sharing in common the trait of subterranean life.

The air tasted increasingly foul; cobwebs filled the pipes and the door locks of the side rooms. For a moment Amy seemed paranoid — the background sounds gave her the sensation that she was not alone there with Mr. Esidro. Perhaps it was fear speaking on her behalf, or perhaps just cockroaches or rats scuttling about.

They arrived at a room bearing a skull on its door. Esidro reached into his pocket and produced his ring of dozens of keys, selected one without comparing it to any other, and the door opened with a sharp creak. Inside, the air was even colder and damper, nearly freezing the nostrils shut.

"I'm not going in there," said Amy.

Mr. Esidro registered Amy's panic. He looked at her and said nothing, then stepped inside and returned from among the shelves with an enormous volume tucked under his arm, the weight of it causing him to lean to his left side.

That room held an immense number of shelving units stacked with archives, as well as artefacts Amy had never seen before. She glanced to the left — there stood statues with facial expressions that seemed to be frozen mid-scream, clad in garments no longer worn in the present day.

The volume's cover was leather — leather from a creature that no longer existed; one could tell by the feel of it. Embossed at the centre were the words: Historical Archives — Pre-System.

By the time Amy reached the lift with the volume already inside her satchel, she wanted nothing more than to express her relief — but in part she needed to appear professional, because on the thirtieth floor Director Krevolian was firmly intent on putting a definitive full stop to the case of the night-shift employee. As quickly as possible.

The Director leafed through the book with care; her fingers felt the unevenness of the rough, ancient paper — a raw material that could no longer be produced today. The pages smelled of old wax and many centuries of history.

She turned through the first pages quickly, without stopping. She began to read the names of powers entirely unlike any she had known — powers reserved only for beings of exceptionally high skill levels. Entities so powerful they exceeded all standard classification. All described in a distinct hand, with words and figures the system of Kellblay had never dreamed of.

Virginia reflected: Ancient abilities from the Pre-System era. The System cannot measure them. It cannot measure them because they do not belong to this age. Perhaps it lacks the capacity for these levels of magic — perhaps these powers are too ancient for the present day. Perhaps because everything has already been extinguished.

"What does that mean, Director?" asked Amy. She had never studied anything remotely close to this subject.

"I don't know for certain yet. The files are fragmented — all of them were sealed centuries ago, always for reasons decisive to humanity. The document was entirely written in an ancient language: Liopedius, except for a sentence at the end of the page—This language used by those capable of moving reality itself, wise cultivators of ultra-powerful magic. Also used by the forces of evil, those who sought access to all magic in order to control the entire world."

At the bottom of that page, it read: Vessel Programme: if encountered, do not provoke, do not engage in combat. Cooperation is preferable.

The Director scanned the page and remained staring at the words, for they were the only resemblance the system had recommended in its notification. Perhaps as a precaution, it was the only thing she had been able to associate with phenomena of the Pre-System.

"I want everything there is on that programme!" Virginia ordered, her tone firm.

Amy shut her eyes tight, summoned her courage, and said:

"Director, the rest — I can't retrieve it alone. The security protocols are severe; with my clearance level I cannot reach it. It requires a different kind of authorisation. Access to that programme is extremely dangerous."

The Director turned her back to Amy and looked out the window. Outside, everything was grey; the fog had already swallowed the first ten floors of the building.

"Don't worry, Amy. Yuben will go with you."

Krevolian stepped toward her desk and looked again at the tablet — precisely at the aggressively unremarkable face of Soren, wearing his apron with MinouseMart printed in white.

"Who are you, boy?"

The photograph, naturally, did not answer.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:02:20+0100

As Soren was walking past the metro station, a group of friends ahead of him burst into laughter, gesturing to express their joy, their conversations spilling out in the loud and good-humoured tone that animated every terrace table at the restaurants around them.

Closer to him, a terrace table toppled onto the wooden deck, drinks spilling over, some reaching the stone pavement, the smell of beer and liquor from the overturned glasses hanging in the air. No one present paid any mind to the broken glasses on the floor.

Inside the restaurant, groups of friends sang karaoke. They never asked permission to bring life to that street in the Yumance district.

On that street, different classes were visible — groups of civilians enjoying the night after their working hours, newly promoted agents celebrating their career advancement, and even students, convinced that having learned one or two magical abilities already made them grown-ups.

On the other side of the street, several bars extended along the pavement, though with calmer crowds. Some smoked pipes, others lit cigarettes, and the more skilled among them blew smoke clouds shaped into geometric forms that drifted upward through the air. There, conversations had no particular hurry to reach an end.

It was in Yumance that the inhabitants of Kellblay expressed their happiness, decompressing from their personal worries — the result of a governing body that works tirelessly to promote safety in the city.

Emerging from the metro, groups of students poured out, some with half-closed backpacks, others carrying notebooks and folders in their hands, chatting about certain teachers not being particularly effective at conveying specific material on the powers of Level 40 Adventurer artefacts. They had the air of people nearing the end of their final year, on the verge of becoming government agents and drawing their first salaries for defending Kellblay.

Soren moved discreetly past the street corner. He had veered off to avoid the dense crowd — it was not his habit to fix his gaze on others; he detested that. Physical contact was something he avoided as well.

He continued on his way, letting his heightened sensory capacity absorb everything that surfaced around him. He could only feel the mana level rising up from beneath the tarmac to his feet — it was slightly irregular, running too high relative to the norm, especially for a recreational and commercial district.

He felt his phone vibrate against his leg. It was a message. Soren did not break his stride. He took the phone from his pocket and read:

This is a reformulation of our request. Proposal: a meeting — let us get to know one another, shall we have a coffee?

"Mr. Vonesdar, we have registered your continued lack of response and understand that this falls outside your routine. We respect the value of your privacy, but the events that have occurred recently require a (friendly) discussion.

I am not your enemy. We simply wish to meet you."

Proposed location: Café Lunem Proposed time: 9:30 a.m. Topic: Gas Leak

Note: They serve an excellent coffee at this establishment…

Director Krevolian

The Director had used her excuse. That could be a good sign — or a very bad one, the kind that might still make things worse.

Soren stood still for four seconds on the pavement. Someone accidentally bumped into his shoulder as they walked past. He immediately skipped to the next track on his playlist, because the neoclassical piano had already begun to irritate him.

Soren started typing a reply:

— I prefer tea.

Only six seconds passed before Soren received a reply from the Director:

— Noted. It's settled. Director Virgínia Krevolian

Soren remained standing in that spot. In just two days, his life in Kellblay had changed completely. Perhaps something special was about to happen in his life. Perhaps stepping outside his routine might not be so terrible — as others had explained to him, and as he himself had begun to think at the very beginning of it all. Meeting new people could be an opportunity to form friendships.

The Government now knew his name. He tried to stay positive about the situation, but stepping out of his near-anonymous and discreet daily existence drew the attention of other forces from his era — the Pre-System age. There is a malevolent force that endlessly desires what Soren has sealed within him. The Crown.

Soren continued on his way to his apartment and checked his perspective system, reading the display that appeared before him on a screen:

Crown Integration: Level 8 [Stable]

Crown Seal Status: Stable

Community/External Interest: [HIGH]

System Note: Welcome to this new phase. All eyes are on you. The pieces on the chessboard are moving. Without meaning to, you moved the first piece. Good luck winning the game.

Soren was not particularly in the mood to play games — but deep down he could admit what his expression was already giving away. He kept walking and listening to his music, now a track from the electronic genre, and with a faint smile he looked up at the balconies of the buildings. In the distance, some balconies still had laundry out and waiting to be brought in. On the road below, cars floated past — some curving around the corner, some almost level with him, others gliding overhead — trailing the scent of mana that would drift and linger in the air.

He slipped his hands into his pockets and looked at the road ahead. He could admit that he was slightly curious to get to know Kellblay better.

In the early hours of the morning, silence and four bodies on the ground remained in Vanwong. Someone from the neighbourhood had called the authorities. First, two medical vans arrived, both with blue lights washing over the tragic scene. Then two vessels hovered above the car park in front of the MinouseMart, their hulls painted in a blend of petroleum grey and black.

The vessels stabilised at a low distance from the tarmac, their doors opening to release two Elite Adventurers. From the first vessel stepped Elion Klair (Level 43), bearing a scar that crossed the right side of his face. From the other emerged Catlin Bravo (Level 45).

Both wore hair past their shoulders and long tunics reaching to their ankles — the customary attire of Elite-class Adventurers. Elion wore a purple tunic; Catlin, a cream one. He also wore a straw hat — in the middle of the night, in the middle of a crime scene — as he wore it regardless of the situation or the time of year. Elion had long since given up commenting on that famous hat.

The Elite Adventurers needed little time to assess the scene. The four Agents sprawled across the street were identified by the Elite Adventurers almost immediately.

That street was in chaos. A total silence hung over it — the place felt like two entirely different streets, the contrast between its commercial daytime atmosphere and the battlefield it had become by night strikingly clear.

Elion accessed the System and studied the screens that appeared before him. He himself was not particularly surprised.

"It was the night-shift employee who defeated them, Catlin."

Catlin replied, without astonishment:

"How did these four manage to pick a fight with someone who closed a Rift in 2.2 seconds? Poor things — those fools seriously underestimated his power."

Combat Information:

Parties Involved: 4 Agent Adventurers vs "Night-Shift Employee"

Event: 100% Unbalanced Confrontation

Combat Time: 4.27 minutes

Winner's Method: Self-Defence Tutorial without weapon use

Defeated's Method: Full application of their capabilities

Skills Used: No Skill detected. [Only: Basic Combat Principles]

Winner Note: "Winner's level unidentified; Profile flagged as suspicious by the System"

System Note: "The System had warned against engaging"

The medical teams were already on the street, tending to the four agents. They approached and observed that all were unconscious. The severity of each person's condition was immediately apparent. They acted without delay, carrying with them medical kits, four stretchers, HP recovery potions, and a separate potion for mana replenishment.

The dedication of the entire medical team was plain to see. Daisy, known for her wholehearted commitment to anyone in need of medical care, was coordinating the team. She was doing everything in her power to preserve the lives of all four.

With the utmost delicacy, they were transported to the medical vans and immediately began receiving intensive treatment. The van pulled away slowly, its blue light reflected on the wet tarmac.

Daisy and the nurses did not stop. They knew precisely what they were doing. Their healing abilities were highly developed, and they began administering the potions to minimise the damage and treat the wounds, working to convert the patients' dire states back to normal.

Upon arrival, they were transferred to the intensive care ward of Kellblay Hospital. Despite the immediate treatments, there were no signs of improvement in any of them.

It was imperative that the Agents did not die — they had to be able to stand trial and be heard, so that the KIG could determine who was behind this attempted homicide, and what had led them to go after Soren.

In room 74 on the twentieth floor of the Hospital, the Elite Adventurers kept their eyes on the four at all times, maintaining a constant vigil in preparation for transferring them to the dungeon cells of the prison once they could stand, pending their trial. That was the space where all criminals, the corrupt, and the traitors were held. The Dungeon was a devastating place — entirely of black stone, subterranean, staffed with the finest prison guards, all of considerable ability and considerable hostility.

Mipa had already finished her shift at the hospital. In the early hours of that morning, two doctors were on the night rotation. The most distinguished was Dr. Hadley — the most experienced of them as well, holding Level 60 in combat medicine. On that shift, he was accompanied by other nurses skilled in post-combat care. Throughout those early hours, the entire team remained focused on bringing the four agents back to stability.

They were treated with sophisticated potions and magical therapies, and Dr. Hadley was required to draw on the very best of his medical skills. Daisy never stopped — she was determined and committed to seeing the recovery through.

In the end, when all four had been stabilised, Dr. Hadley fell into silence for a brief moment before remarking to Daisy:

"In all the patients who have passed through our hands, I have never seen damage so difficult to treat."

"I understand, Dr. Hadley. We have closed deep wounds from severe battles. We have cured corrosive mana in Agents. But damage like this — I have never seen anything like it."

The medical team allowed themselves a measure of relief. Dr. Hadley and Daisy embraced, drawing comfort from the knowledge that their efforts had succeeded.

The Agents were stable — though still in a coma, with no signs of uttering a single word.

The four agents were transferred to a Level 3 dungeon ward before their court hearing. Each was placed in a separate cell under maximum security, though with adaptations suited to their medical condition — still in beds, connected to a monitor.

Daisy remained with them in the Dungeon, staying in Alan's cell. Each agent was accompanied by a pair of nurses to ensure that their stabilised state progressed toward full recovery. Inside each cell were also two prison guards, all at Level 32, to protect the nurses, who would remain in the cells until the patients emerged from their comas.

Outside, in the corridors and the surrounding area, the usual security personnel circulated. The matter had already made the news on television. All of Kellblay was waiting for the trial of these Agents.

When Director Krevolian read the notification on the screens in her office at the KIG building, she seemed not to want to believe what she was reading. She was incensed when she learned of this act of disobedience — when she absorbed the magnitude of this tremendous disloyalty.

The analysts in her room immediately sensed her fury. For a moment, they looked away and pretended not to be watching.

Krevolian shouted to the entire room, with all the rage her eyes were expressing:

"How dare those four parasites disobey me!"

Having traitorous agents working under her command was grounds for the maximum sentence in Kellblay's prison. Failing to respect one of her orders and disregarding the System's own recommendation was a dishonour. Disloyalty carried a heavy cost within the KIG — it meant revocation of one's adventurer licence, a court trial, and imprisonment in the dungeons.

What unsettled her most was not knowing why. The reason that lay behind the Agents' foolish decision. It could not simply be a matter of levelling up, nor some rivalry over status with the night-shift employee, nor plain curiosity about the boy's combat abilities.

The Director turned to look at the window. The fog had already swallowed the fifteenth floor; the entire district seemed to be sinking into white clouds.

"They will confess. They will have no choice but to confess everything."

At 7:50 in the morning, Soren was already descending the stairs of his apartment building at some pace — centuries of history, and his greatest morning obstacle remained the same: not knocking over any of Mrs. Bella's plant pots. He pushed open the worn aluminium door on the ground floor and felt the fresh breeze — a mixture of industrial mana with a faint salt touch that lingered in his nostrils.

He made his way toward the train station. His bag was already packed, his MinouseMart apron folded and ironed inside. Soren was wearing his classic white T-shirt beneath his grey sweatshirt, paired with the red of the apron.

He climbed the station steps. The train was waiting at platform 4. It departed at precisely 8:15 a.m. The carriage was surrounded by civilians, most of them still trying to shake off the desire to be back in bed before arriving at their workplaces.

Soren sat down in an empty window seat at the far end of the carriage. He watched the landscapes pass — fields of wheat, mountains blanketed by vast forests at their feet. For a moment, he felt that nature had not changed in eight hundred years.

This was not a high-speed train. Those consumed far more mana than usual and were designed for longer journeys; the tickets were also considerably more expensive.

The train stopped at the station by the river. The display above the door read: "Welcome to the Chenwen district."

Indeed, the place was markedly open and airy — good natural light, the sounds of animals in the background, and the sound of water flowing from a fountain at the station exit.

The fixed benches along the river drew Soren toward the thought of sitting there and taking in the fine morning view. But that moment would have to wait, given his appointment. In Chenwen, people moved without haste and without commotion. Squirrels moved freely along the pavements, unbothered by the people around them.

Soren passed the fountain, and on the other side of the road stood the old Café Lunem, where he was to have his meeting with Director Virgínia Krevolian.

He had prepared himself well. He had managed his hydration carefully, deliberately refraining from drinking his first morning tea at home.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:03:00+0100

Café Lunem stood on the bank of the Cleiu River. Patches of stone were visible along the walls, and the wood of the entrance columns came in different shapes and textures that left no doubt they had been salvaged from something else entirely.

Out front, round tables were scattered across the terrace — iron legs with artistic patterns, green in colour, set on marble stone bases — with some civilians talking about TV programmes, others about Eastern food, and still others debating the best jazz bands.

Inside Café Lunem, the air smelled of roasted beans. The walls bore faint damp stains caused by the river. At the back, two baristas worked behind the counter, focused and committed to crafting coffee-based drinks. Still by the entrance, Soren glanced over the menu. The card listed eighteen coffee combinations and, at the very bottom in smaller print, only a single variety of tea, identified simply as seasonal infusion. Which could mean any sort of mixture — a red-berry tea steeped with tractor oil, perhaps.

Soren liked being punctual. He arrived at precisely 9:28 a.m.

Inside, the café was nearly empty — too early for the creative-magic professionals, too late for the full-time office workers.

Three agents sat within, at separate tables, pretending to be customers. One was typing on a laptop with the intensity of someone who had never naturally used a computer. Another was reading a paper from the previous year — yellowed, gathering dust, clearly pulled from the stack of magazines the Café Lunem kept aside; apparently something in last year's news had caught his interest. The last agent was staring, prolongedly and with aggressive seriousness, at a white chocolate muffin, as though the pastry had personally offended him.

Director Virgínia was seated at a table at the back of the room. She had chosen her spot strategically, with all possible care. From there she could observe the entire space around her with a clean, clear view of both exits. Her back was to the wooden wall, above her a poster of a coffee cocktail drawn ten years earlier. She was close enough to the counter not to give the impression of a private or particular meeting, yet at a sufficient safety distance to prevent eavesdropping from the other tables.

Soren appreciated good professionalism. He was genuinely a fan of it — he appreciated the details most people tended to overlook.

"Mr. Vonesdar." The Director did not stand when Soren approached the table. She did not extend her hand in greeting, only pronouncing his name in a commanding tone. She merely gestured toward the chair where he was to sit, a slow motion that betrayed all the exhaustion she had accumulated in the ceaseless effort to understand who this night-shift employee really was.

"Thank you for your presence," she said, with a full seriousness that clearly conveyed the importance of this meeting.

Soren pulled the chair back, and as he was sitting down, he tried to break the ice that hung over the table.

"You were very persistent, madam."

"I am well aware of that, Mr. Vonesdar. At the KIG, my team of analysts tells me it is one of my greatest qualities." The Director touched the menu lying on the table, beside her cup of coffee — one she had already ordered a good few minutes before. Virgínia did not stand on ceremony for anyone. She delicately pushed the menu across the table toward Soren. The Director could not hold back her recommendation.

"The tea is actually quite pleasant. I had tried this month's infusion already."

"Does the madam Director go to confirm the quality of the tea before scheduling a meeting with an unclassified entity?"

"I believe rigorous preparation makes the difference."

Soren was still trying to find the most comfortable position on that chair — now it was his right buttock that ached, now a pain flaring in his lower back. Centuries of existence, and Soren had come to accept that innovations in suffering still existed. While trying to settle, he reflected on whether this induced discomfort was also deliberate.

"But first of all, Mr. Vonesdar, allow me to begin by expressing my regret over what happened last night, as you were leaving your place of work. Everyone in the Government had orders not to engage you. That situation was a lapse on our part. On behalf of the KIG, I apologise for what occurred."

"I also wish to inform you that I have confirmation they are improving. They are already in the prison dungeon, still accompanied by nurses. Very soon their trial will take place, and they shall be left to rot in the worst dungeon in Kellblay."

"You don't have to apologise. I can defend myself."

"That has been made abundantly clear, Mr. Vonesdar."

"I hope the nurses are patient. Those four are insufferable."

The waiter approached the table and prepared to take their orders. He was wearing the uniform common to every employee of that establishment, which paired innovation in beverages with datedness in décor. His shirt was white, perfectly unwrinkled; a metal badge over his chest read "Viter," and above the engraving, "Café Lunem." His black apron bore two or three coffee stains — admissible at an hour like this one. The hair was where he stood out: Viter sported a fade so clean it looked as though it had been cut the night before.

"Seasonal infusion," Soren said, with a frown and the tone of someone thoroughly doubtful of the beverage.

"This week, it's jasmine with goji berries," Viter presented the tea with a subtle pride in what he was saying.

"Perfect. I'm curious to try it."

The waiter withdrew toward the counter. On the table, the Director's coffee remained untouched, releasing steam in small waves that seemed to be trying to provide some harmony between the two.

"I shall be wholly direct with you. I don't have time, and I don't even like playing games. And Mr. Vonesdar, it seems you don't like them very much either."

"I do like some. Chess. Certain combat games from the Galactic Games. I like anything with clear rules, Director."

The Director paused and drew a breath. She had no intention whatsoever of entering into Soren's irony.

"Very well. Then I shall begin by establishing our rules." From beside the legs of the chair she was sitting in, she pulled from her bag a tablet so worn in appearance that it seemed to be requesting its own retirement.

The Director widened her eyes and spoke in measured tones, severe and heavy.

"You closed a Class B Rift in 2.2 seconds. The System has failed to classify you 412 times to date. We found nothing in your background check. We have carried out the finest of searches and identified nothing related to the power you used that night."

"You know, Director, I am a very private person." Soren delivered his words without altering his expression.

"I know you are more than that, Mr. Vonesdar. I know you have many more abilities left to reveal."

The tea arrived at the table on a tray, in a mug with a phrase printed across its centre: "Keep calm and drink tea." Soren could not believe this was the only mug Café Lunem possessed for tea. He blew the steam from the surface and calmly took a sip. Against all expectations, the tea was genuinely very good.

He set the mug down on the table and deliberately angled the phrase toward the Director.

"What do you want from me, Director?"

She noticed the phrase, then looked into his eyes serenely and, with her fingers, touched the tablet.

"I want to understand who I am really dealing with. After that, I want to put a proposal to you. Ever since the incident in the car park, the city has begun to grow suspicious. When citizens become alarmed, they begin to perceive a lack of security. Fear starts to take root in their minds. That is all we do not want."

"The good work of the KIG must never be called into question, and so the first thing we must do is put an end to this matter and understand, once and for all, who you are. Only then does the proposal come."

Soren took another sip of the tea. The combination of the seasonal infusion was growing steadily more agreeable.

Director Krevolian had something prepared. She tapped a tab on her tablet, and his photograph appeared on the screen — him in the convenience store uniform — with a long list below of classification attempts, each terminating with the same conclusion: Error.

"Mr. Vonesdar, the System is able to measure transcendent Adventurers at Level 100 and above. Adventurers from dungeon-combat Guilds — those Guilds independent of the KIG, combatting under their own laws. Any malevolent creature dwelling within the dungeons. Any veteran teacher — easy enough for the System to classify. Even creatures whose very existence inflicts damage on those around them. The System has never failed to classify anything in Kellblay, as you must have understood by now." The Director looked at Soren, drawing out her final word in a descending tone that seemed to linger.

"Perhaps I fall outside your parameters." Soren's green gaze flickered, behind a faint trace of concern, at the many possible reactions the Director might have.

"You see, that is precisely what is worrying us." The Director continued scrolling on the tablet until she arrived at another document, one that made her pause for several seconds.

"We found ancient references. We searched through a manual, something known as the Vessel Files. Most of it is written in Liopédius — the language of the old mages and creators. We were able to gather that the fragments are entities that predate the System itself. A fragment, if it falls into the wrong hands, can, through development, awaken extremely dangerous powers — world-altering powers, which is to say the most potent powers in the universe. On the other hand, they attract those who seek them with the greatest thirst the world has ever known. I never expected to find a fragment in Kellblay. This places the city at risk."

Soren clasped the cup in both hands and leaned his torso toward the Director.

"How do you have access to those Files?"

"Mr. Vonesdar, I am the Director of the KIG. I issue orders. I also have authorisations for things that would surprise you." Krevolian's firm, calculating gaze met Soren's green eyes. "My question is whether you will help me understand, or whether I shall have to work it out alone."

"And if the Director finds out without my cooperation?"

"The city will not remember you as someone amiable. Members of the KIG may come to regard you as a threat. I may uncover things about you that you would prefer to leave buried — things that might explain how a man with no past whatsoever ends up working night shifts at a convenience store. Whatever someone with your capabilities ought to be doing at this moment — those capabilities, theoretically, should have been extinct long ago."

Café Lunem was filling up as the morning progressed. The tables murmured, sidelong glances flicking between the tablet and the faces of Soren and the Director.

The agent's laptop keystrokes entered as a new sound in Café Lunem's background music. Another flipped one more page, maintaining his enormous interest in the outdated newspaper. The last agent finally took a bite of the muffin, while never once lifting his suspicious gaze from it.

"When I arrived in Kellblay, I chose the convenience store," Soren said. He felt a trace of emotion and spoke in a slightly lower voice to the Director.

"Why the store?"

"The night shift is a quiet place. No one asks me questions. And, of course, humanity has invented instant noodles, ready in just two minutes — I could hardly wait to try them. I knew that in Kellblay they made the best ones ever. You know, Director, I have a long history. But a bowl of ramen is something you never turn down."

"That is not a reasonable answer." The Director raised her tone, demanding seriousness.

"It is the only one you will get."

The Director's coffee was no longer releasing steam. It had gone cold, and she still had not touched it. She placed both hands on the table and regarded him for a moment before beginning to speak.

"I shall tell you what I know, and then I shall tell you what I want."

"I know that you are Soren Vonesdar. That you are old — very old — despite being only twenty-six years of age. Older than the System itself. I know you are powerful enough to frighten the System's algorithms. I know you have been hidden in Kellblay for two years. What I do not know is what you did in your past. I know your hiding ended when you saved that family trapped frozen inside their car." The Director leaned slightly forward. "What I do not know is whether you are a threat to us."

Soren did not think before answering. He simply let it out:

"I can assure you I am not a threat."

"Then convince me." Virgínia flashed a small, challenging smile.

Soren could have walked out at that very moment. Used an ultra-dimensional ability — a teleport — dropped one identity and taken up another, a different passport in another city, a bank account carrying far more money, a palace in place of a small, old apartment. What he could not do was extract the fragment lodged inside his chest. The rarest and most valuable fragment of all time. The Crown.

Something moved him against taking all those decisions, easy though they might have been to execute. Only they all meant leaving the MinouseMart. Abandoning the best chicken ramen humanity had ever produced. Leaving the apartment with the crack in the ceiling that looked like a honey-drop sweet. Leaving the quiet life he had built there — no battles, no losses, no combat adrenaline, and no saving the world.

And Eva. The child who investigated and saw far more than her age and abilities ought to allow. No one in Kellblay had ever taken such genuine interest in him as Eva had. She did not want Soren's help to solve problems — to kill, to destroy. She only wanted to learn, and to know him better. That gave him a familiar feeling.

"I am tired," Soren said. His words redoubled the Director's attention.

"Pardon — tired? But it is still morning."

"No, Director. I have been alive for a very, very long time. I never took the time to rest. I watched empires fall. I saw humans die unjustly for the malignant ambitions of someone who wanted to rule the world. I was once among the most powerful. I was venerated. I was target number one for the most diverse threats to the good people who lived in those times." He drank the tea once more. The goji flavour was stronger now — perhaps a touch too strong.

"I am tired. I want to stock ramen on the shelves. I want to live in a modest apartment with questionable plumbing. I want to exist in such a way that I can go on being someone no more than irrelevant. The way a civilian lives their life — living the small details. Without returning to conflict. Without going back to action. That is why I have been here for two years."

"So that is why you suppressed your presence for two years. And then you broke that record to save that family."

"A child asked for help, Director." Soren shrugged and sighed. "There are things that override certain personal preferences."

The Director did not stop analysing him. Soren let her gaze take him in completely and think whatever she wished to think. He maintained his neutral expression and his relaxed posture, letting her see what she truly wanted to see: a tired man, not a potential threat.

That was not entirely a lie.

"Very well, Mr. Vonesdar," she said, in a tone of conclusion. "Here is my proposal."

She leaned to her right and pulled a document from her bag — now on paper, which could suggest either paranoia or a certain formalism. Probably both.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:03:31+0100

The paper document still smelled of freshly printed ink, without a single crease, utterly perfect, without so much as a fingerprint on it. Someone in a KIG office had taken the care to print it so that it would arrive immaculate in his hands. All that attention to detail moved him as much as it wore him out. The Director moved on to the presentation, and as she held it up for Soren, she began explaining the proposal in her own words:

"As you've no doubt gathered, KIG exists to integrate people who have become Awakened into society. Citizens only become Awakened when they reach eighteen years of age, through the development of their abilities at the universities."

Soren, for a moment, imagined himself in two different situations: one as a professor, with nineteen students in front of him taking notes on subjects of offensive magic, and then he imagined himself in a chair in that same classroom, raising his hand and asking the professor whether a power conceived by a level 340 being could annihilate the big boss of a dungeon — naturally, the Kellblay university professor would have no idea how to answer such an advanced question.

"We handle everything, whether it's the licensing or the support for collaborating with us." Virgínia drew a breath. "Lately we've had some complications in Kellblay. Threats lingering inside the dungeons — some adventurer teams aren't returning from their missions — and also the appearance of fissures in various parts of the city, as if someone on the other side were watching us."

Soren acknowledged the Director's burden without replying. He had never entered a dungeon in Kellblay; he had only caught the odd piece of news in the papers and on television — teams going in at dawn, interviews at the entrance.

Centuries ago he had earned a fortune by defeating a boss in a dungeon. He remembered it had four chambers, and in the last one there had been a treasure guarded by the creature. To celebrate his conquest, he recalled, he had gone out for a special meal — something at an expensive restaurant, sophisticated food. But if it were today, with his current gastronomic knowledge, he would have chosen a different dish. One that tasted like chicken, and that came with chopsticks.

"Anything that falls outside the normal parameters, I'm the one who handles it," Virgínia said, holding her firm posture and leaving no room for doubt or deeper emotional probing.

Soren hesitated. "Do I fall outside the normal parameters, Director?"

The Director placed the document between the two of them. "Mr. Vonesdar, you fall outside all of them. I'm not going to try to contain you; I'm not foolish enough to think that would be possible for someone with the abilities you have already demonstrated."

Soren tilted his head, pulled the mug toward him, and began staring down into the depths of the tea, breathing in the aroma of the infusion.

"But my challenge is... I need to frame you somehow. The System is in a panic, and you know, when the System panics, our credibility is called into question, and internal disorder begins to spread through the city."

"So what are you actually proposing, Director?"

"I'm proposing an 'Informal Consultancy.' Meaning: Mr. Vonesdar keeps his so-desired job at MinouseMart, keeps his dream apartment in Valinbuh, and continues with the discreet life he so enjoys — as though he were an early retiree."

"In exchange..." Virgínia drew out her pause. "In exchange, you occasionally answer questions, offer your perspective and opinion on certain phenomena, help us understand and find solutions to problems Kellblay cannot resolve. The safety of this city is our highest priority. It is for the families, for the children who feel happy here. That is why we work to keep this place safe."

Soren picked up the document, and in truth the document was surprisingly simple — just a basic consulting agreement with no binding commitment. He could teach a lesson or two to plenty of Adventurers, especially the ones who turned up at MinouseMart, all starched up and wearing that snobbish look, convinced that just because a guy restocked ramen at a convenience store, he couldn't possibly understand a thing about magic, fissures, dungeons, or any other such matters.

"And if I refuse, Director?" Soren looked at her, already braced to hear any scenario of the sort — we'll declare war on you, we'll send our best army, our finest adventurers, our ships and war vehicles, and defeat you without the slightest chance, and in the end you'll be locked up on floor -10 of Kellblay's prison dungeon.

Of course, the Director said nothing of the sort.

"If you refuse, Mr. Vonesdar, this case will be filed as a report stating that an unknown entity to KIG, with unprecedented power, does not wish to cooperate. That report will end up in the hands of Kellblay's President, and he is not as diplomatic as I am." Virgínia's eyes narrowed and grew a shade darker. "He is one of those people who would rather skip the questions and move straight to action — for example, giving the order to clear out the chicken ramen stock across the entire city for a week, until you present yourself at our facilities."

Soren swallowed dryly. "What?! That sounds like a threat, Director! Don't even joke about that."

"It happens to be a reality, Mr. Vonesdar. And I know you know my alternative is the better one."

Soren let out a sigh of relief. "Are there others like me?"

"That information is confidential, Mr. Vonesdar."

Soren took the answer as a yes.

Soren set the document on the table and tapped his index finger against it, saying:

"I have some conditions. I keep my job; the schedule stays exactly the same — the night shift at MinouseMart. I don't want any kind of surveillance — don't try it, seriously, I'll catch it easily. And I want this made clear: this agreement is purely advisory. I don't take orders, I don't follow protocols. If I decide to help, it's because I wanted to, not because I was told to. Think of it as a courtesy from a veteran."

"I understand, but that may be a little difficult. Although I give the orders, there are other members who are also part of the hierarchy — my Deputy Director Oskar Okibo, for instance. He is more conservative about certain decisions and about how KIG should operate. When you meet him, you'll notice."

"Advisory only," he affirmed, holding his posture and the tone of his voice.

The Director held his gaze; he held hers. In a room where the other tables were growing livelier, the two of them looked as though they were playing poker — like two seasoned players who, despite holding a bad hand, realize at the same moment that they are both bluffing. The drinks were of no further help to the atmosphere: one empty, the other ice-cold.

"Very well, Mr. Vonesdar, you win — advisory only." Virgínia extended her right hand and asked, "Do we have a deal?"

Soren looked at the document and then at her hand. Centuries of experience, and he still didn't know whether this would turn out well or whether it was just a small trap. For now he focused on the handshake. He knew that hesitant handshakes could come at a steep cost — to the point of breaking the other person's bones, or crushing the hand outright — and so he poured every ounce of his focus into shaking the Director's hand with the utmost delicacy and care.

Soren took her hand, and with the effort of holding himself steady throughout the greeting, he looked her in the eyes and, with total concentration, said:

"We have a deal."

"Excellent." She released his hand, and now at last the Director picked up her coffee and took a sip. By that point, the coffee was long past cold.

Soren breathed out in relief — it had gone well. Few things had he perfected with such dedication as the art of shaking a human hand without doing any damage.

"I have to warn you of one thing — we have some employees who are extremely enthusiastic. They'll want to study you, and they'll be fascinated by seeing someone with your abilities. Come prepared."

Virgínia rose from her chair, picked up her bag, and in a cordial tone:

"Welcome to the Kellblay Integracion Goverment, Mr. Vonesdar — unofficially, of course."

The Director made for the exit without another word, walking as always with her straight posture and level gaze. Outside, a car was waiting — practically fresh off the dealership floor, modern and extremely fast — with Deputy Director Okibo at the wheel, there to pick up the Director and drive her back to Havernal.

Soren stayed seated, with his empty tea, the document, and the uncomfortable chair.

Advisory. Perhaps that word meant one thing to the Director and another to him.

Soren stood up and left 30 Nioris on the table. He carefully placed the document in his backpack and walked back to the terrace at the entrance. The sun was shining alongside the light breeze off the Cleiu river. He looked straight at it, and at the squirrels hopping about and eating acorns by the benches. Before him, a screen appeared with a System notification:

Update: System Notification

Event detected: Government Agreement

Agreement type: Informal Consulting Agreement

Agreement status: Active

Visibility in Kellblay: Increasing significantly

Presence Suppression Efficiency: 72.9% [-21.3%] [You are becoming known]

Agreement and each party's objective:

KIG Director: Virgínia Krevolian [Kellblay will continue to be a safe city]
Soren Vonesdar [I just want to restock Ramen on the night shift]

Crown Integration: Level 8

Note: No change, as no ultra-dimensional powers were used

Consequence: minimal

System Note: "Congratulations, you have just celebrated an informal cooperation agreement with a government body. This agreement has every condition in place to end badly for everyone involved. Good luck with that."

Soren set off again toward Vanwong, since he still had to work his night shift, but before that he had to eat something — the hunger was starting to set in, the kind that began to manipulate his thoughts.

Before catching the train, Soren stopped at a convenience store still in Chenwen. As soon as he walked in, he went straight to the ramen section and picked out a new brand, different from the ones he already knew. He chose one with a soy flavor. Before paying, he asked for it to be heated up, and he sat outside on a bench with a view of the river.

Soren didn't leave a thing in the bowl; that would have been an affront to such a precious delicacy. They were good, but not as good as the ones at MinouseMart. Soren had yet to find any ramen cups better than the ones at his own store. Mohchida was, quite simply, peerless at choosing the best suppliers.

Although he was satisfied with that meal, the System notification had left Soren with a few concerns. True, his freedom and his job would be safeguarded, but he was curious to know more. The Vessel files wouldn't leave his head — he definitely wanted to learn more. To find out whether there were others like him, whether he might find them, and to learn more about those he had known in the past. That information held great value for him.

After lunch he went up to his apartment, 4C. The clock read exactly 15:00 on the dot — he still had plenty of time before starting work; he didn't clock in at MinouseMart until 11 p.m.

The perfect hour for a coffee. Instant coffee, for Soren, of course. He had drunk from the widest variety of coffees imaginable — from the finest ultra-selected beans, in cups of imperial porcelain, stirred with gold-plated spoons. And yet this afternoon, the coffee was made by Soren, with water heated in his kettle, supermarket coffee sachets — the cheapest ones — and served in a mug that was already somewhat chipped. But Soren drank that instant coffee with the same respect as any other.

Just then, someone knocked at the door.

It was Mrs. Bella. She seemed to know the exact moment Soren got home. In her hand she held a tray, covered with something beneath a lid.

"Mr. Vonesdar, you've been out on this lovely day."

"Yes, I've been taking care of some personal matters."

"Very good. The sooner done, the sooner over with, isn't that right?"

Mrs. Bella held the tray out toward Soren and opened it, revealing what lay inside. "Look — I made some sushi for you. Two salmon temaki, tuna nigiri, and sashimi of corvina, tuna, and salmon. I hope you like it."

Although Soren had already eaten, he could not refuse good homemade sushi. It looked delicious — fresh, crafted with attention to detail, with the utmost delicacy, not a single grain of rice out of place.

"Go on, eat, Mr. Vonesdar. I know young people forget to eat when they're dealing with complications."

Young people? Complications?

I have centuries of history, but in this lady's head I was only twenty-six years old.

Soren picked up a temaki and took a bite. "Mmmh, this is fantastic — thank you so much, Mrs. Bella."

The lady was always very attentive to Soren; she never took her eyes off him, observing him through her dark glasses and letting no detail escape.

"Mr. Vonesdar, were you with someone in dark suits this morning in Chenwen?"

Soren's fingers tightened on the temaki, and the rice began to bulge and almost spill out. He froze, mouth open, with a look of astonishment. This woman is shameless.

"I'm sorry — how did you know?" For Soren, privacy was everything, and the knowledge that the neighbor across the hall knew more than she should — ever since the closing of the fissure — was not something he welcomed.

"I don't sleep much, dear. I have friends who know things," she said, smiling. "Government types always want something in return. Be very careful." She turned slowly back toward apartment 4A. "Enjoy the rest of the sushi, dear. If you need anything, you know where to find me."

The door closed. Soren was left with the nori between his fingers, the rice and the salmon on the floor, wearing the same astonished expression.

Centuries of history, and the person who had left him most disarmed that week was an elderly woman in slippers.

He looked at the lady's plants, which always seemed so healthy, and asked himself: Who is this woman?

ABSOLUTE ASSESSMENT

Target Name: Bella Feuri

Age: 78

Civil Level: 5

Civil Class: Caregiver/Healer [Basic Level]

Detected Abilities:

Gossiping
Makes the best sushi in the city

System Note: She is a true friend

The notification had taken a little longer than usual to appear, but that was the data. Soren looked over the screen, and it was nothing out of the ordinary — a level 5 civilian who was a gossip and had a talent for making excellent sushi. Perhaps it had been the employee, Viter, who had told her; perhaps a friend from Vanwong had filled her in about the fissure, as swiftly as the most efficient news crew.

He left the matter there and stepped into his apartment. He went to finish the rest of the sushi, and glanced once more at the coffee he had made with such dedication and respect. The mug and its steam no longer wore the most comforting expression; perhaps it wasn't the ideal pairing, he thought.

The coffee would have to wait. It was important to maintain a certain gastronomic rigor — especially on days when one celebrated an agreement with the government.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:09:37+0100

The night shift began at 11 p.m. at MinouseMart. Soren put on his red apron and waited for normality to settle back in. He went straight to the meal shelves with a smile and an unusual eagerness that revealed his complete professional satisfaction. He began restocking the chicken Ramen with the same gravity as someone arranging gold trophies on a shelf.

This shift was the quietest, yet stranger than the day shift. It had its peculiarities, like the type of people who walk into a convenience store after 11 p.m. They were either customers desperate for something, or already drunk and looking for some kind of alcoholic drink — liquor, beer, or whisky — or just cheap cigarettes. To Soren this was already routine; in some cases both situations at once were a frequent reality.

None of those patterns matched whoever had walked in at 11:30 p.m. Soren even had a rough idea of the customer types by hour, since by now he could read most of the night's patterns. Around 11 p.m. the night workers came in for coffee and cigarettes; around 1 a.m. the students raided the chip shelves and the energy-drink fridges, arguing loudly about whether they had survived their university exams. Around 3 a.m. the drunks would show up, already speaking a language of their own invention. Then around 5 a.m. the baker would come in, with crates of warm bread and the most enticing cakes in the Vanwong neighborhood.

The doors opened, with their slightly off-key Dling Dling. Soren was already bent over the freezer chest, and he heard two sets of footsteps walking through the store. He didn't get up. They passed by the discount magazines and the tired coffee machine.

The first set, firm and controlled, in low-heeled shoes; the second, the complete opposite, too enthusiastic for the hour. Without looking, Soren realized there were several other reasons these two might be entering a convenience store around 11:30 p.m.

She stopped in front of the freezer chest, right beside Soren, while he remained bent over the inside, organizing a few ice-cream boxes.

The other one stayed behind the Director, dazzled and fascinated to see the man from the "Gas Leak" hunched over arranging popsicles.

The suit was dark, the cut precise; you didn't need to check the label to tell it was an expensive suit, the pair of shoes black and in impeccable condition. The kind of clothing nobody wore to go shopping in the middle of the night.

Above the shoes, her body posture, military style, betrayed her hierarchical rank, her sharp, direct gaze sweeping the whole space, like someone scanning for threats. Behind her, another pair of dark shoes, but dirty — those of someone who had been running and hadn't stopped at home to change or clean them.

Soren, still bent over, thought without any effort: Level 64, Director's aura, important enough to attend meetings with any high-ranking entity in Kellblay, and with enough power to access files that officially didn't exist. The other one behind: a rookie analyst, dying to start hopping around.

Definitely not someone who came in to buy anything in particular. He stayed bent over arranging the popsicles — the matcha ones had to be on top, always. They were usually all jumbled up; customers automatically scrambled the order, mixing them with vanilla, kiwi, and the coconut-and-chocolate ones. It was the result of the constant indecision over choosing the perfect flavor within the small variety the old freezer chest had to offer.

"Mr. Vonesdar." Her voice was completely controlled, trained to sound the same at 10 a.m. or at 11 p.m.

Behind her, with an utterly enchanted expression, watching every gesture and movement Soren made — flailing inside the freezer chest and, of course, contemplating the "hero costume" he wore, the red apron over a completely ordinary white t-shirt — was the analyst Mivali.

He was younger than the Director, in formal attire, as if cut by the same tailor, dark, but not as crisply pressed as hers. In his hand he carried a tablet linked to a device the size of a shoebox, with two antennas and two displays. Mivali's expression gave him away at once: it betrayed just how badly he wanted to run tests on Soren.

For Mivali, learning the results of Soren's power classification was reason enough to bug-eye and spend two weeks talking about the same thing to all his friends and colleagues.

The moment Mivali stopped behind the Director, his equipment began beeping hysterically, beeping at the rhythm of an alarm; it literally seemed to be malfunctioning, or even about to explode. The antennas began trembling and the displays started filling with bars that overshot their limits.

Soren glanced at the device, then at the analyst, and said:

"That's not going to work."

After Soren looked at him, Mivali was left with no reaction; he froze completely, even forgot to say something like, "Yes, I'll switch it off right away." Instead he just stood there smiling, the kind of smile a child wears when they spot their idol at the supermarket and don't know what to say.

"Director, it has been precisely—" Soren glanced at the store's digital clock, "—eleven hours since our morning meeting."

"I said it would be advisory, Mr. Vonesdar, I didn't say it would be infrequent." She launched a half-threatening smile at Soren.

Now that the matcha popsicles were already on top in the freezer chest, he checked their expiration date and grabbed three — precisely the ones closest to expiring, still with two more weeks of pure flavor left. Perfect, these are the ones, Soren thought. He stretched out his arm and offered one to the Director and another to the analyst Mivali, and kept the last one in the freezer for himself.

Soren was still processing this unexpected visit to MinouseMart. For a moment, while they unwrapped the popsicles, the fridges along with the freezer chest hummed a vaguely hypnotic noise that stretched throughout the store; in that moment it was the only audible thing.

The cold air escaped through the old rubber seals of the machines, releasing that smell of refrigerated plastic and something vaguely sweet. It was the typical atmosphere of a very old convenience store like MinouseMart.

"The matcha flavor is extremely good," Soren remarked.

The Director looked at the popsicle as if she were looking at a proposal, and in a sharp tone:

"I hope this isn't a bribe."

"No, it would be a cheap bribe, Director. It's just our best popsicle in the store."

She accepted the popsicle, and Mivali accepted his so quickly he almost dropped the tablet. He looked like a man who had never had time for a popsicle in his life.

After tasting them, they looked at each other and nodded. The Director remained serene, subtly raising her chin and lowering it again; Mivali, for his part, still had his eyes closed, unable to hide his pleasure.

"It's good," the Director admitted.

She set a leather folder on top of the freezer chest's display lid. She opened the folder for Soren, and the first page showed two incidents that had occurred almost simultaneously earlier that night in the Yumance neighborhood.

In one photograph the metro stairs were visible, along with a few abandoned cars and tables and chairs broken on the asphalt. In the center, suspended one meter above the ground, were two Class C fissures that had appeared almost simultaneously. The edges of the rifts were irregular, which was already the norm, but the interior had something different — it had the form of a perfect circle, worthy of a special technique, so clean it was worthy of someone who had trained in archmagic in the Pre-System era.

Soren stopped. He finished what he was doing, stood up, and shut the freezer chest, observing with his relaxed air as the Director explained.

In another photograph, several dead goblins were visible. They weren't ordinary goblins — these were larger than any the KIG had on record. They had more skill, more lethal attack techniques, were faster and stronger, with longer axes and steel armor over their torsos. Even their height and musculature were superior to anything the KIG had on file from recent attacks.

Below, a casualty report was attached, with the loss of 6 Elite and 10 Adventurer Agents in the engagement. "The teams assigned to this mission were cornered, and we had to call in reinforcements. We finally managed to seal them with the support of a Global Adventurer team — the best in Kellblay."

"We were not supposed to need help from adventurers of that class to close this kind of fissure and defeat these revolting creatures," the Director remarked, in a tone of revolt.

"The other incident—" The Director turned the page, breathed in, and paused.

The other incident had taken place in the Level 4 dungeon in the Industrial Zone of Kellblay. This dungeon classification did not permit access to any civilian; they were guarded by Keepers.

"An Adventurer team entered on an exploration mission, and after thirty-five minutes communication dropped — we lost the signal entirely."

Mivali set the tablet down on top of the chip shelf, while staring at the folder with a few shivers. His breath caught as he noticed those horrific images.

The subsequent images showed the corridors of the dungeon: the walls were made of black, damp stone, with patches of purple and several holes punched into the walls in a circular pattern, as though something gigantic had passed between floor and walls and left its trademark behind, along with pools of blood that stretched across the floor.

They had been defeated right in the second chamber of the dungeon. Through a body camera worn by one Adventurer, with only the camera's light and the chamber's torches illuminating the scene, it was possible to identify the dungeon's Keepers, already pinned and motionless on the ground.

In the next images, in the background, half-hidden in the dark, was a creature that looked like something between a giant octopus, a serpent, and a human; its gaze was sinister and a brilliant yellow, focused directly on the Adventurer's camera.

The final captured images revealed the Trolls and the famished Goblins charging the team at full force and speed.

The very last image only captured the holed-out ceiling of dungeon chamber number 2, and a Troll stomping on the camera.

The Director closed the folder. "We are noticing more and more fissures emerging, and it's getting harder to control the interior of the dungeons in Kellblay. Inside, the problems are escalating; we are slowly losing control."

The Director showed her concern to Soren — it had become necessary to raise the Adventurer class to deal with these problems in the city. At least for now.

After studying the images in the folder, Soren recognized a common pattern, something ancient; it seemed he had noticed a particular signature. He remembered the edges of the fissure, and the perfect circle inside. The creature, the marks on the walls, the development of Goblins and Trolls — he thought to himself:

These creatures weren't attacking merely out of their natural impulse to defend and protect the dungeon; they had a purple gleam in their eyes, as though they were being manipulated and were serving a specific entity.

This is the work of a Pre-System entity, of Voyéd, Soren thought.

The rescue team had not been able to extract a single survivor, no Keeper had made it out, and the adventurers inside had all died. The Dungeon was in serious danger of becoming 100% corrupted and turning into an open door for evasion into the city of Kellblay.

"The KIG is in negotiations with the Adventurers' Guild to form a team and defeat the enemy still inside the Dungeon. That partnership brings new hope to restore peace to the citizens of Kellblay," the Director said.

After Soren's prolonged pause analyzing the folder, Director Krevolian asked:

"So — do you know what's causing this?"

"Someone is revealing themselves. Someone who was thought to be dead."

"Can you find them? We want to settle this quickly!"

"It may not be that easy, Director — but wait. What we agreed on is consultative, not operational."

"Of course," the Director said.

"I'll see what I can find out," Soren remarked.

"As soon as you have any conclusion, get in touch with us."

"I'm going to ask you for two things, Mr. Vonesdar.

The first: that you come tomorrow morning to Havernal, to the KIG facilities, to the advanced sensor room. Mivali is particularly excited to receive you."

Mivali tried for a moment not to look it. He failed spectacularly.

"And the second, Director?"

"That you keep calling this consultancy. In return, the KIG offers you access to the Vessel files — a century of information especially regarding individuals who carry apocalyptic entities within themselves. Information the system has difficulty classifying."

For Soren, it wasn't a bad deal. That volume held something important for him to analyze. It was the first time in two years that Soren wanted to read anything.

"Agreed. For now, I suggest you put your best men on dungeon watch, and put more combat vehicles circulating through the streets. Those teams should be ready to seal fissures, to give you more margin of time to respond.

They will want to push forward and inflict damage in Kellblay," Soren said without any hesitation.

"Kellblay is no longer a safe city."

The Director swallowed dryly, uttering no word in response to Soren, but her gaze made it clear she agreed. It was time to get the best men ready for combat and ready to defend the city like never before.

Soren kept the folder, and the Director ordered Mivali to leave and start driving back to the KIG, but Mivali was loving watching Soren — observing his every movement, almost drooling. Obviously, he couldn't ask him for an autograph; that wouldn't be professional.

"The popsicle was really good." They both dropped the popsicle sticks in the trash and headed for the exit.

"Until next time, Mr. Vonesdar."

Mivali walked ahead with the tablet pressed to his chest, and just as he was reaching the door, the Director's phone rang — it was the KIG landline. Soren had already moved behind the counter, ready to attend to any customer who might walk in.

"Yes!"

"Director, terrible news—" It was Amyashy, crying; the tone of her voice betrayed her terrified state.

"The KIG has just received a drastic report. You're not going to believe this! We've just had a communication from the prison dungeon.

The guards doing the cell-by-cell review found the four Agents dead — Yodi, Jason, Alan, and Vand — all four killed the same way, pierced through the throat by a blade.

All of them killed, Director: the guards and all the nurses inside each cell as well. There was no chance for anyone. No record on the cameras, no record of any door being opened during the shifts." The words came out trembling. "The KIG is devastated, after this night."

Virgínia placed her hand over her mouth, pressed her lips, and stared at the front display. This was the third terrible piece of news of the day.

Virgínia thought: emergence of Fissures in Yumance, the entire team killed in the Industrial Zone dungeon, and now the four Agents who were due to give testimony, killed alongside the medical team and the guards.

This was the work of someone with knowledge, with great skill and intelligence; they had managed to get into a high-security dungeon, completed their mission successfully, and no guard had spotted them.

A grim notice for the Director — the case was now incomplete, hanging in the air with no resolution as to who had sent those men to kill Soren, and, of course, why.

"Amy!" the Director shouted. "Have it investigated — I want access reports. We have to find some kind of lead!"

"Of course, Director, Mr. Oskar Okibo is already there with a team handling it."

The Director hung up the phone and looked at Mivali with all her rage, as though he were somehow to blame for this.

"Change of plans, Mivali — we're going to the Tuvernal neighborhood, to the prison dungeon! Quickly!"

"Soren, tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. we'll be expecting you in Havernal, at the KIG building."

"I'll be there."

Soren went back to his work routine: restocking, attending to early-morning customers, waiting for the breaks he always took, sometimes smoking, sometimes just enjoying the city's night. Before his shift ended at 6 a.m. and Abelyong came in for the first day shift, Soren passed by the popsicle freezer and picked up the matcha popsicle he had set aside for himself, looked at it, and put it back in the freezer.

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:10:22+0100

At the door of Soren's building, hovering 50 centimeters between the ground and its chassis, a dark green car was already waiting—flattened in the center and broad at the extremities. There was no one inside; the windows were closed, and within only technological panels, highly programmed so that the vehicle could be 100% autonomous, and so that this type of government vehicle could perfectly carry out its mission of transporting special guests.

Soren climbed the stairs that touched the ground and stepped through the door, which opened automatically. Inside, the smell of green tea with ginger.

"Interesting," said Soren, not meaning to share his thoughts with the vehicle's microphones.

Despite being small, inside it Soren was able to stretch his legs; his backpack at his side did not disturb his comfort in the least, and in the center there was even a small table for eating some kind of snack. Very tempting to fall asleep, which would have been useful, since he had hardly rested at all that night.

The vehicle's windows had clearly been designed by someone who enjoyed appreciating beautiful landscapes—they were large, clean, and proportional to the passenger's view.

The car began to gain altitude, and at a controlled speed, a robotic voice spoke through the vehicle's microphone:

"Welcome to the vehicle 'Cristóvão Amendoim'—yes, that is the name with which this vehicle was christened, do not judge me—automated vehicle of the Kellblay Integracion Goverment. We wish you an excellent journey."

When Soren heard the vehicle's name, he stopped contemplating the view of his neighborhood and looked forward, only to find himself face-to-face with a peanut bearing a smiling face, suspended on a spring on the car's dashboard.

"Well, this really is to keep me from falling asleep," he smiled too.

"Mr. Vonesdar,"—still Cristóvão Amendoim with his robot voice through the microphone—"Director Virginal Krevolian made a point of offering you a welcome gift. I hope you enjoy it."

For a moment Soren was confused. Was this another attempted joke from "Cristóvão Amendoim"?

On the left side of the vehicle, from a confection chest, a metal arm emerged and brought to the central table a Ramen cup freshly made—or rather, freshly heated. The smell of sesame entered Soren's nostrils. Soren had become an expert at identifying Ramen ingredients from a distance, by smell alone; he had never once failed to identify the flavor of a Ramen.

"Seriously, Director? Ramen first thing in the morning?!"

Cristóvão did not answer—perhaps he had not been programmed to respond to rhetorical questions. But the truth was that Soren Vonesdar never refused a Ramen meal; perhaps even if he were sleeping, he would wake up to eat.

He picked up the chopstick, and indeed the flavor was pleasant. A 6 out of 10. The 9 was clearly the chicken flavor from MinouseMart. Soren had read in a gastronomy magazine on the shelf at his store—the magazine already a little dusty—that, beyond the appetizing biscuit cake recipe, the best critics never gave a maximum score; the space that existed between the 9 and the 10 was a hope the critic harbored of finding something even better than the last experience, that sort of feeling that the best is yet to come.

The weather began to turn grey, and the vehicle's windshield wipers entered into panic, beginning to move at a speed that compromised any appreciation of the landscape. Now the buildings had taken on another color, darker and more inhospitable, with fog and rain, plenty of rain enveloping the entire neighborhood.

To the right of the road, a half-worn sign read: Havenal—it was always a place that wouldn't make anyone want to linger if they visited this neighborhood for the first time, even if they were paid to.

That turbulence could be felt; Soren was calm—he could no longer dirty himself with the broth from the Ramen, since he had eaten it all.

"Mr. passenger, to your left, the KIG building. Have a good evening in Havernal."

Soren picked up the umbrella that the vehicle came with as standard, grabbed his backpack, and quickened his pace to the door of the building.

"Good morning."

Soren closed the umbrella and placed it in the wet basket beside the entrance door.

"Good morning, Mr. Vonesdar, I hope you had a good journey. Are you looking for the sensor room?"

The receptionist's gaze did not fail to notice Soren's sporty look—black cotton trousers and a white t-shirt. In his left hand, a backpack; she was tempted to ask whether his red apron was inside it.

"Yes, I am."

The assistant—high heels, formal suit, short hair, orange-colored—unlocked the elevator with a secret code and said:

"Floor 48. Have a good day, and welcome to the KIG."

The elevator doors opened, and Soren found himself surrounded by every kind of sensor. The room reproduced a technological hum, coming now from supercomputers, now from calibration machines. At the back, gigantic devices, so complex that the instruction manual must have run to three volumes; on the side walls, several extensive workbenches packed with computing equipment such as cables and monitors, with a variety of servers suspended above on the wall. The atmosphere of the room was designed to facilitate the classification of abilities, and all this activity was supported by a team of analysts.

That morning there had been exhaustive preparation so that nothing would fail. The analysts were preparing the Sensor with full focus and precision—it was the most expensive in the entire history of the KIG, and any minor failure could result in gigantic losses.

Soren was still observing the technological complexity of that room and the dedication of the analysts. They avoided looking at him, making it seem as though they were not bothered by his presence; however, they could not resist—they kept their backs turned, working at their tasks, then would crane their necks back for a second before quickly returning to normal, believing they were maintaining a fully professional environment.

Director Virgínia, punctual as always, was looking at the analysis staff's attendance sheet. Amy was missing—perhaps she has had some indisposition—the Director thought, granting a generous benefit of the doubt to her closest analyst.

Director Virgínia was already expecting Soren. She descended the metal stairs of the observation booth, which sat one floor above the room. Above remained Doctor Hilura, coordinator of the classification department. It was a space from which they could observe everything happening in the room and, of course, give orders to their analysts through the microphone.

"Good morning, Mr. Vonesdar. In this room are installed the finest classification equipment Kellblay has ever seen; by the end of this session, the System and the KIG will know everything about your power classification," said Virgínia proudly.

Soren nodded, pretending to believe her.

Mivali approached, and after having rehearsed for 2 hours in front of the mirror, he had managed to memorize his introduction to Soren. The young man finally got himself out:

"Good morning, Mr. Vonesdar. Accompany me to the 'Sensor Zelkrin 78'—that piece of equipment cost the KIG millions of Nioris."

As if Soren wanted to know the price.

When they reached the sensor, a young technician was making the last checks on the Sensor. This would be the young man's first major professional assessment; he was a little nervous, afraid of pressing the wrong button, checking procedures and rereading manuals—Classifying the "Gas Leak" man?!—that was gold for his professional résumé. The young analyst was hoping he would not come to regret his career choices. His name was Melvin. He said the following:

"Mr. Vonesdar, when you are ready, please step inside the sensor's Silo."

The sensor also had its components: measuring devices, mana identifiers, dimensional frequency analyzers, and something else that brought to mind a medical scanner crossed with a particle accelerator.

Soren entered the sensor's silo.

Melvin went to the computer that configured the entire sensor and clicked on: "Begin Calibration." He took the microphone on his right, and with every effort to try to sound authoritative, he announced to the entire room:

"We are going to begin the calibration of the Sensor 'Sensor Zelkrin 78.' I ask everyone to remain in safe zones, put on your ear protectors and eye visors. Lastly, no sudden movements."

The lights of the room dimmed in a descending sequence, and the sensor began to come to life and emit its startup noise, as if a rocket were moving toward space. The Director and the analysts exchanged glances of expectation and pride—the team's growing enthusiasm was notable—the only thing missing was the champagne bottle to open after the result; apparently, someone had forgotten.

For approximately 5 seconds, a notification appeared on the main screen at the back of the room:

Assessment Matrix

Initiating all sensors

Adapting frequency

Calibrating baseline values

Error: Receiver signal overload

Error: Galactic information [Dancing with the illumination of the stars]

Error: Mana state reading: -4 ?

Error: This cannot be possible [

:s :| :\ ]

Error: Sensor Zelkrin 78 has begun to cry

Recommendation: "Please stop this"

The lights of the room remained off, and from within the silo a smell began to emerge—somewhere between heated metal and an aroma of lavender.

In the room, the analysts had the suspicion that the lavender might be the cologne Mivali wore in excess; it was already something characteristic—he practically wore the cologne with the same enthusiasm with which he memorized presentations. The metal, however, would be a worse sign, perhaps a symptom of a potential malfunction in the "Sensor Zelkrin 78," which would mean losses for the KIG.

"What are you doing?" Doctor Hilura asked angrily.

Melvin did not know where to turn or where to look. He glanced at a screen and read aloud:

"The sensors are recording negative mana values. Galactic information? What is this?" he vented.

"Doctor, this must be…" he looked around with his hand on his chin.

Doctor Hilura, in her white coat, while descending the stairs toward the sensor, was thinking to herself that the sensor might be possessed.

"Leave that be, Mr. Melvil; I doubt anyone in this room studied that at university."

Melvin breathed a sigh of relief and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat that was flooding his face.

The door opened, with some vapor escaping, and Soren stepped out of the Sensor's Silo. He looked around him, and everyone seemed to have just witnessed an analytical miracle. The Director, through the microphone:

"Mr. Vonesdar, are you all right?"

"I could eat something."

"There is no time for meals right now, Mr. Vonesdar."

Doctor Hilura was around middle-aged, with tall grey glasses and only a single loose strand of hair—the rest of her style was always pulled back. To the left of her temple, the strand of hair was always ready to lift, especially when she huffed out of impatience.

She began to look at her tablet with the expression of someone who had been insulted by mathematics itself—the strand of hair took flight at that very moment.

"This!" said Hilura.

"These are not readings," she said, still looking at the tablet, searching for further conclusions.

"No?" asked Soren. "I am not doing anything intentionally."

"The sensor is trying to describe something it cannot process. What the 'Zelkrin 78' has described looks like a metaphor," said the Doctor.

"Metaphors?!" Everyone in the room was left open-mouthed, looking from one to another in search of a justification.

Doctor Hilura clicked the print button, and from the printing terminal a sheet of thin paper emerged:

"Your mana level is like the ocean—as if the ocean were made of mathematics."

Miviali was incredulous: "Doctor, that is not a measurement, it is poetry." Discreetly, he noted the phrase down in his notebook—who knows, perhaps to frame in his bedroom, or even for a future tattoo.

"The equipment seems to be creative," commented Soren.

Doctor Virgínia felt obliged to give a justification to the entire room. "Our equipment was conceived by the finest minds of magic and dimensional physics. They have measured Adventurers, Global Adventurers, even a Transcendent." The Doctor pointed at the "Sensor Zelkrin 78." "Now this! It had never written poetry before!"

Director Virgínia had a plan B in her notebook. She stepped close to the microphone and communicated to everyone in the firm tone characteristic of her: "Let us attempt the direct assessment—the capability-based analysis."

"Woow"—was the sound the analysts made, sweating in the room, looking at one another with astonished faces. It could just as easily destroy the upper half of the building as produce the long-awaited report on Soren's classification.

Soren stood thinking about the safety implications. "That could be dangerous; this building took a great deal of work to build."

The Director was resolved, and so they all headed toward the other room. The same dynamic: a booth accessible by stairs for observation, and a protective viewing window that allowed one to see everything that might happen.

This room had fewer machines, but the open space was much larger. The test floor could be judged by the burn marks on the walls and the impact dents that decorated them—it was already something artistic.

Mivali was already at the center, practically vibrating with enthusiasm for this moment. Melvin, although relieved by the change of room, was still recovering from the certificate of incompetence that the "attempt to classify Soren" had bestowed upon him.

"It will work here; the method is different. This is a specialized assessment, also designed to measure capabilities that exceed normal parameters. In this assessment we use a relative comparison instead of the classical comparison, the absolute comparison," said Director Krevolian, trying to placate those involved in the room.

"Even so, I do not believe it will work," Soren pronounced.

Soren stepped into the testing area. "What do you want me to do?"

"The first test is simple—we are going to gradually measure your available mana." Everyone went up to the panel, and Doctor Hilura activated a button on the computer and announced:

"Everyone, put on your safety kits."

In front of Soren, an apparatus began to emerge from the floor, forming a target with an adjacent display. Once it had taken shape, the display read:

"Please direct minimum mana toward the target."

Soren raised his hand and pointed at the target.

The target exploded completely.

"I didn't do anything…"

"Okay, okay—no problem, we know you did not attack; it was some kind of error…"

Mivali was taking notes, and apparently his enthusiasm was waning. He really did want to know the classification of the "gas leak" young man.

"Second test," said Director Krevolian into the microphone, and looked with a serious gaze at Doctor Hilura. Hilura made her angry air evident, particularly because the strand of hair was constantly moving from her lips to the top of her head.

The atmosphere in the room was beginning to grow tense, anxious to discover the classification of the young man from the night shift.

"Capability assessment," Virgínia looked in Soren's direction. "Please use your weakest capability."

"Above and below you are 4 ultra-sensitive receivers that will absorb the entirety of the capability you demonstrate."

Soren thought, and weighed the options.

Absolute assessment? This is internal, no one on the outside would notice. Soren had already tried it on various different people at MinouseMart, when scanning items at the barcode reader, and nothing had happened.

The capability activated.

The lighting in the room flickered for a moment and slowly returned to normal; all the screens in the room displayed his name and then returned to normal. And somewhere in the upper levels, an alarm could be heard descending along the walls of the room.

Absolute Assessment

Target Name: KIG Power Assessment Room

Elements:

4 humans [Different threat levels]

14 active monitoring systems

1 emergency containment protocol

1 very worried deity [observing – military posture]

Note: "The System is impressed that you have triggered so many security protocols simultaneously"

The Director looked at the tablet. "You activated the entire alert network of the building? With an assessment capability?"

When the capability was used at ease, in everyday life, the side effects were non-existent. When he activated it in front of four ultra-sensitive receivers, the side effects—well, the KIG building can speak for itself.

Mivali at that moment looked like a child on Christmas night, thrilled and restless. "The data, Director—the data is incredible, look."

The Director looked at the upper screen and analyzed: "His mere presence is causing constant cascading measurement failures in every assessment system we have."

"The dimensional stabilizers that sustain the equipment of the room are constantly reinforcing themselves with data, simply because he is standing here."

"Is that supposed to be good news, Director?" Doctor Hilura asked.

"Not exactly. It is information—it is more information than we have ever gathered from a classified entity." She displayed the graphs on the main screen, so that everyone could observe; the movement of the graphs really did look like modern art.

"Dear analysts, dear Doctor, what is happening is the following:

"Notice this variance in the result"—she pointed at the graph—"the equipment is not failing; rather, it is adapting to something it was not designed to measure."

Director Krevolian sighed deeply and said to everyone:

"Enough! The tests are over. Doctor, you may shut down the equipment; make sure everything is powered off safely."

The Doctor and Melvin appeared for a moment relieved, yet disappointed at not having achieved a desirable result. Bad luck for Melvin, beginning his career with a great disappointment. Mivali, at least, had gained an idea for a future tattoo.

"Mr. Vonesdar, accompany me to my office; let us talk."

Francisco Alexandre · 2026-05-08T19:12:36+0100

The door of Director Virgínia's working office closed and only the two of them remained in that room. The open blinds revealed the stormy weather looming outside the KIG building.

Soren sat down across from the Director. Her desk was quite narrow, separating them by a short distance, conveying the dominance Virgínia would exert over those who sat there. He placed the backpack he carried in his hand beside his chair, since he himself did not like it when his customers placed their backpacks on the store counter. Customer service had given him different perspectives.

He had used the same backpack for an immense time, and it had developed a peculiar smell — already an aroma of coffee mixed with traces of floor detergent. Perhaps because Soren would set the backpack down, especially when the floor was still drying. To some absent-minded people, that scent might have seemed like a faint coffee fragrance.

Soren, even to this day, was still trying to get used to wearing the backpack on his back. He kept searching for the most appropriate way to carry this invention — two straps sewn to a sack with a zipper.

He would sometimes try carrying it with just one strap on the shoulder, or else use both, one on each shoulder. Other times, he carried it in his hand, or even with just a single finger, distinguishing himself from all the university students who looked with some doubt at this possible new trend in backpack-carrying.

He had already reflected on it: centuries of humanity have already passed, and they could have invented something more straightforward for carrying personal belongings by now.

Soren crossed his hands in his lap and waited for the Director to begin. The days had not exactly been easy for her. But Director Virgínia Krevolian did not bend. She was tough as nails. Despite the exhaustion, she did not give up.

The Director walked over to the coffee machine she kept for personal use in her office. Now, with a porcelain cup, worthy of a Director of a magic regulatory agency.

The coffee came out. Now, yes, a real coffee aroma.

The smell was unmistakable, definitely different from the instant coffee he drank at home. He observed the porcelain cup in the Director's hands — cream-coloured, probably handmade, and looking so expensive it could pay for three months of instant coffee for him to drink at home, in his cracked mug, which still survived only by accident. Maybe each mug is suited to a particular function, he thought.

"Mr. Vonesdar, I just wanted to ask whether you have already looked at and analysed the folder of anomalies I left at your convenience store yesterday." The Director's brain didn't stop; it was running at a thousand miles an hour.

"Director, I came off my night shift at dawn today, I barely had time to sleep, but later this afternoon, I will look at it," Soren said, without hesitating on a single word.

The Director partly accepted the answer. She continued pacing the room, unable to sit down. She took the first sip of her coffee and kept walking with her chin tucked toward the floor, her hands behind her back.

"Mr. Vonesdar," with her piercing gaze, "I ask you to analyse it as soon as possible. I want my team of Adventurers to go better prepared, with more information, on the next rescue mission to the level 4 dungeon."

"I will do my best."

"Director, by the way…" Soren asked, a little more quietly, trying to show his concern. "You know nothing else has been on the news, in the papers, on television. Have they obtained any lead on the murder in the prison dungeon?"

"Unfortunately, not yet." The Director sighed, looking at the window, avoiding letting her anxiety to solve this case show.

"Don't worry, we will manage it and we will deliver justice in this city. As long as I am Director of the KIG, this city will be safe."

Although the city was becoming more and more dangerous, unsafe, with citizens voicing their concerns, Director Virgínia's determination did not falter. It was true that she could be tired, that she slept little, sometimes did not sleep at all, but the unrelenting will to protect this population was unstoppable.

The Director set her coffee cup on her desk and walked toward the back of the room, stopping in front of a shelf. The shelf automatically slid slowly to the side until it ended up right next to a vase holding a lucky bamboo.

Behind the shelf, a black, fully secured safe came into view; its very form imposed security by itself. She entered a secret code into the keypad and placed her fingerprint on the sensor. The safe opened slowly and Virgínia found that the volume "Historical Archives" — the rarest in the entire history of the KIG — was not inside. The safe was empty.

The Director seemed to lose colour. She kept staring at the bottom of the safe; for several seconds, she stood paralysed.

"What? It was supposed to be here! The huge volume, with the leather cover from a very ancient creature."

"It is impossible that someone managed to steal it. Only I had access to this. Only I had the credentials to be able to open the safe."

The Director went to the centre of her desk and immediately called Subdirector Oskar Okibo.

"Okibo, the safe has been robbed, they took the 'Historical Archives'. Activate the alert alarm throughout the department now. I want the recordings immediately."

"I want to know who opened this safe. And I want the manual, now! Here and now!"

"Get the recordings urgently from the security team, fast!" She hung up the phone.

The Director turned again toward the window. The storm was growing more severe; thunder rolled and the sound made itself heard with a crash inside the room. The rain was falling more intensely on the Havernal district.

Virgínia sighed more deeply and could not contain what she was thinking.

"I think I'm going to fire every single technician on the security team!"

She turned back and took another sip of coffee.

Soren did not respond; he stayed in the same position he had been in since sitting down, hands in his lap. During those two years working at the store, he had learned a great lesson.

Sometimes, when dealing with irritated customers, it is preferable to give them air during moments of tension rather than answer them. This had been one of the lessons he discovered in this new world, especially in the commercial field.

The security team was working at full speed to cut precisely to the moment when the safe was opened, so that they could organise it into a folder and send it to the Director as quickly as possible.

Meanwhile, the door opened without a knock, without permission. It was Oskar Okibo, with his perpetual air of superiority.

"Director, in a few minutes we will have the playback. Mivali will deliver the file securely, and we will see exactly who robbed the safe." His gaze shifted to another target; he slowly turned his neck toward the chair and looked at Soren the way one looks at a worm.

"Director," in a slow, monotone voice, as if the very words caused him discomfort.

"What is a convenience store clerk doing in such an emblematic room as this one?"

"Director, be careful. The chair he is sitting in is too good, too important for someone with the standing of a night-shift worker, who wears an apron, cleans, and restocks products in a store," he said with the utmost contempt.

The Director looked her Subdirector in the eyes and told him:

"Consultancy work, Okibo."

Oskar Okibo, in truth, was not in favour of this consultancy arrangement. For him, those involved in KIG matters should be qualified people, people who had studied and held an elevated status. It could not be just anyone — much less a store clerk — getting involved in matters of magic, classification, and defence.

"Be careful, Director. Some employees are not to be trusted."

Soren registered what Okibo had said.

Indeed, he doesn't know what good chairs are. I have found much better chairs even in a swamp. A few centuries ago, when some friends and I would go camping for days and amused ourselves hunting four-headed Swamp Hydras. At the end of the day, we would sit in stone chairs and talk — those were the days. A wave of nostalgia came over him.

Three knocks on the door. The door opened — it was Mivali, holding in his hand a folder with a sheet bearing the report and a confidential CD.

"Insert that into the computer quickly," said the Director, taking another sip of coffee, "and project it onto the room's main screen."

Mivali walked past Soren; he could not control his gaze, he had to look at him, and with no possibility whatsoever of holding it back, a smile escaped him.

The screen began to glow and the playback of the video appeared in the room. The door of the office opened and Amy entered. She walked slowly, without trembling, and headed toward the safe in a coordinated stride, without hesitating; the shelf moved to the side and, before the encoding panels, she opened them in one go. With some kind of magic, she was able to use the fingerprint that only the Director was authorised to use. Once the safe was open, she took the Historical Archives, and from a cardboard box belonging to the old computer she pulled out the manual.

The safe closed, the shelf returned to its place, and Amy left the room. The report stated that she walked straight out of the KIG building.

The Director let her porcelain cup fall, and the coffee was completely spilled on the floor. She uttered only one word:

"How."

The Director's air of sadness was unmistakable. And it was clearly visible to everyone that she was losing some of her strength.

Mivali, spontaneously, went over to her and gave her a comforting hug. The Director returned it. Even those who are toughest have their own limits.

Everyone in the room was shocked, except Soren, since he did not know who Amy really was. Mivali rhetorically said:

"She was such a thoughtful person, so dedicated to her work — how is this possible?"

Okibo was the first to comment, through his deliberate, paused monologue. For him, smiles were not given, were not sold; in truth, they did not exist.

"It is no surprise that Amyashi did not come in to work today. Maybe she has already sold the manual to some clandestine dealer and made a fortune off these Historical Archives. Maybe she's already on the deck of a cruise ship, lying on a lounge chair, sunbathing."

Soren, although he did not know her, watched the video attentively and noticed a strangely robotic behaviour in Amy. He answered Okibo.

"She may not be with the fortune. In fact, she may be in danger."

Boom!

The door flew open with a crash, and Yuben entered the room, panting. He paused for his breathing to return to normal. His physical condition was no longer what it had been in his glory days as an Adventurer. Still, he was the KIG analyst who continued to take part in combat missions, holding the rear line with the bow and arrow in which he had specialised.

"Director, I have something you need to know. Urgent! We need to put together a team to defend the level 4 dungeon, now!"

"The first chamber of the dungeon is being invaded. The Keepers are no longer able to hold it, not even with the support of the local Adventurers."

Soren grabbed his backpack and said to everyone: "Well, I'll go do my homework."

"See you tomorrow."

Mivali was the first to answer. "See you tomorrow." With a smile contemplating the farewell of his idol.

"Wait — you're coming with us," said Yuben. The three of them looked at Soren, with a gaze so deep it was as if it had the power to block his exit.

Soren stopped, his left foot still suspended in the air. His smile froze; it looked exactly as if he were playing Red Light, Green Light.

Okibo looked on with utter denial on his face and said:

"Do you realise the gravity of what you're saying, Yuben?"

"Putting a convenience store clerk on a dungeon-exploration team? The Media and the Government will laugh at us! That would be sheer madness!"

The Director, little by little, recovered her composure, with Mivali still at her side. To appear detached from the conversation, he started cleaning up the spilled coffee on the floor.

"He is not just any employee. He is going to be part of this team," Krevolian ordered, setting the condition.

"Yuben," the Director added, "we also have an asset who wants to join this team, in the team's medical role: Dr. Hadley. He cannot bear the loss of his colleague Daisy and asked me whether he could join this exploration team, since he wants to take revenge and help on this mission."

"Approved, Yuben — you can clear his request."

Although he did not like what he had just heard, Okibo kept his serious tone. He looked at the Director:

"As you wish, Director Virgínia Krevolian. You know you can count on me."

He turned his back, and as he walked: "Excuse me, but I have a meeting in Tavernal." He left, and even the lucky bamboo's vase shook with the slamming of the door.

"Prepare yourself, Mr. Vonesdar. Very soon I will tell you the meeting point so we can move forward with this mission. I'll be expecting your homework."

The Night Shift Archmage

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