Ethan narrowed his eyes.
At the heart of the ice shard was something sealed inside—small, round, and pill-like.
When the ice melted in his palm, the pill sat there quietly, warm against his skin.
“Aimee,” Ethan said, raising his wrist, “scan this.”
“Please align your terminal with the target item… scanning.” Aimee’s voice stayed flat. “Item identified: ‘VitaHeal Pellet,’ produced by Unit 749. Effect: rapid wound recovery. Exchange cost: 5 contribution points.”
A healing pill?
Ethan frowned.
She’d tossed him expensive meds without a word—what was that supposed to mean?
He had taken some internal damage. The Level Five hits had shaken his blood and organs even through armor. But the moment he swallowed the pellet, warmth flooded through his body like a slow wave, smoothing out the turbulence. The ache in his chest eased. The deep, bruising pain in his abdomen faded.
It worked—fast.
He didn’t even need the med bay.
But a debt was a debt. Ethan hated owing favors.
Next time… he’d pay it back.
…
After leaving the arena, Luna Frost walked straight into her mentor—who also happened to be her aunt, Dr. Renee Hart.
Every probationary investigator had to train under a mentor, the way grad students had advisors.
“Luna,” Renee said, half pleading, half scolding, “I told you to make friends. Missions are run in two-person teams. You’re not good with people—if you don’t build connections, you’re going to have problems.”
Renee had a headache the size of the base.
She’d brought Luna in three months ago. Talent-wise, Luna was ridiculous: Water-line, top-tier God-Chosen, rookie assessment score 98.
But she was ice-cold. Silent. And worse—she chased high-difficulty missions and refused partners who couldn’t keep up.
How many people could keep up with her?
“I did,” Luna said simply.
Renee’s eyes lit up. “You made friends? How?”
“I gave him a pill.”
“And then?” Renee leaned forward, rapid-fire. “Did you say anything? Did you talk? Did you do the normal human thing—like ‘Let’s team up sometime,’ or ‘I’m not great socially, please bear with me’—anything?”
Luna shook her head. “No.”
Renee slapped her forehead. “You little disaster. You gave away a contribution-point item and didn’t even say one sentence?”
Luna’s brows knit—clearly displeased.
“Hold on,” Renee said, her terminal buzzing. “Call coming in… Hello? Mentor meeting for unassigned rookies? Got it. I’m coming.”
She hung up and immediately turned to Luna. “Tell me his name. I’ll try to pull him onto my roster—then it’ll be easier for you two to run missions together.”
Luna paused, then raised her finger. Frosty mist gathered in the air, writing a single word like a signature:
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
[ETHAN]
Renee laughed. “Oh, you’re shy now? Fine. I’m going to see what kind of guy this ‘Ethan’ is that caught your eye.”
…
Renee hurried into the conference room.
Seven mentors sat around a long table. At the head was the Deputy Director.
“All present,” the Deputy Director said. “Aimee—pull up the roster of recruits who haven’t been assigned a mentor yet, along with their assessment scores.”
“Confirmed.”
A holographic screen projected over the table, displaying headshots, profiles, ages, and scores in neat rows.
A male mentor spoke first, without hesitation. “No need to browse. I want Ethan Parker.”
He’d clearly gotten the news early.
Another mentor raised a hand immediately. “Deputy Director, I want Ethan Parker as well.”
The Deputy Director frowned. “Settle down. Follow procedure. We review the whole roster first, then we choose.”
Renee’s suspicion spiked. Ethan Parker… was that the Ethan Luna had written?
Why was everyone acting like they’d found buried gold?
Then Ethan’s profile appeared on the screen:
Ethan Parker, male, 19
Ability estimate: Slaughter-line Sequence
Assessment score: 100
“Perfect score?!” Renee blurted—and slapped the table as she stood up, instantly drawing every eye in the room.
She cleared her throat and sat back down. “Sorry. Momentary… reaction.”
Inside, her thoughts were chaos.
No wonder Luna had noticed him.
A perfect score wasn’t just “talented.” It was abnormal.
That kind of score meant: monster.
Renee raised her hand. “I’d also like Ethan Parker.”
A mentor scoffed. “Really, Renee? You just took Luna Frost—already a one-in-ten-thousand God-Chosen—and now you want another likely God-Chosen? That’s greedy.”
Renee spread her hands. “What can I do? My emotionally defective ice princess decided she wants to be friends with him. She won’t even look at normal rookies.”
The Deputy Director lifted an eyebrow. “Emotionally defective… as in no chest, no face, no figure?”
Renee’s head snapped up. “I meant no talk, no warmth, no expression. Sir. Please.”
Another mentor snorted. “I object. I’ve never had a rookie like this under me. You don’t get to collect every genius that walks through the door.”
“I’ll say it plainly,” someone else growled. “Whoever fights me for Ethan—let’s spar.”
“Oh, we’re doing caveman politics now?” Another mentor stood. “Fine. Training floor. Winner gets Ethan.”
The room was seconds from turning into a brawl when the Deputy Director coughed—twice—hard.
“That’s enough. You’re adults. We’re doing this fairly.” His eyes narrowed. “We draw lots. Whoever pulls his name gets him.”
Seven paper slips were placed on the table.
One per mentor.
They drew.
“Damn…”
“Not me.”
“So close.”
“Who got Ethan?”
A man in a perfectly pressed uniform—neat to the point of obsession—slowly unfolded his slip, flattening it with care.
On it, in plain text:
ETHAN PARKER
Someone hissed. “Caleb Shaw—you lucky bastard.”
Another mentor laughed. “Deputy Director, you sure there’s no rigging? Everyone knows your daughter’s on Shaw’s team. Putting Ethan under him might be exactly what you need to finally rein in your rebel kid.”
“Honestly, that tracks,” someone said. “Your daughter’s impossible to manage. But if she sees a prodigy like Ethan? She might actually calm down and train.”
The Deputy Director cleared his throat. “Ahem. If we’re done, keep selecting other recruits.”
A voice snickered. “Hope you don’t regret it when your daughter ends up dating him and you don’t even notice.”
The Deputy Director’s eyes sharpened. “If I recall correctly, you were two minutes late to the last meeting.”
The room went quiet.
…
Ethan was led to the rookie dorms.
He scanned his terminal at the entry panel, and his information synced into the base system.
A warm, middle-aged dorm manager smiled at him. “Ethan, your assessment result qualifies you for your choice: a private unit or a shared suite.”
“Private is quieter,” Ethan said.
“Shared suites still have private bedrooms,” she explained. “But they help with friendship and teamwork.”
Ethan thought it over. He could always live alone when he went home on leave. While in 749, it might actually be useful to know people.
“Shared suite.”
“Room 304. Scan your terminal at the door. Welcome to Unit 749—hope you enjoy your stay.”
Housing was generally assigned by mentor group, so rookies under the same mentor ended up near each other to build cohesion.
Ethan reached 304.
His terminal chimed. The door unlocked.
The suite was better than he expected—an upscale common room, clean lines, decent furniture. On the couch, a girl lay sprawled out with her phone, a lollipop in her mouth.
She noticed him, slid her headphones off, and stood.
“You’re Ethan Parker?”
She had bright copper-orange hair, an oversized hoodie that looked intentionally sloppy in a fashionable way, and denim shorts over long, straight legs that belonged in a comic panel. Trendy, bold, and a little dangerous—like she’d stepped out of an anime and into real life.
“Tessa Blake.” She offered a pale hand, casual and fearless. “Roommate. And just so you know—don’t treat me like a girl. We’re bros.”
“Ethan,” he said.
Tessa grinned around the lollipop. “Rule of 304: whoever hits hardest is in charge.” Her eyes sparkled like she meant it. “There’s a mission tomorrow. You coming with me?”
Ethan’s mouth curved. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He needed monsters. Missions meant monsters.
And monsters meant strength.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Someone was at the door.
