The image wouldn't leave.

  His mother, tears streaming down her face, clinging to his father as the car pulled away. Two hours had passed, but Nael could still see her — could still feel the weight of her embrace, the tremor in her voice when she'd whispered *I love you.*

  Two hours since he'd left home. Two hours since he'd watched his parents disappear in the side mirror, standing together in the doorway.

  The car moved through the falling night, leaving behind the city where Nael had grown up, where he'd been born. The familiar lights faded gradually, swallowed by the dark.

  Nael stared out the window without really seeing anything.

  *Dad, Mom... I promise I'll become someone you'll be proud of.*

  He pressed his fists against his knees. It was done. The choice had been made. No going back.

  *If I'm doing this, I'm doing it right.*

  The silence inside the car was suffocating. The Academy representatives hadn't said a word since they'd left. Only the quiet hum of the engine and the sound of tires on asphalt filled the space.

  Nael couldn't take it anymore.

  "So... how long until we get there?" he asked, trying to break the tension.

  Nothing. Not one of the men reacted. Not even a glance.

  He let out a quiet, nervous laugh, then gave up and pressed his head against the cold glass.

  Outside, streetlamps flashed past in steady rhythm, casting moving shadows through the car. Buildings thinned out, then disappeared entirely, replaced by vast stretches of dark open land.

  Nael closed his eyes. The engine's steady hum, the warmth inside the car, the emotional weight of the day — everything pulled him under. His eyelids grew heavy. He didn't fight it for long.

  ***

  Meanwhile, elsewhere in the country...

  **8:00 PM — City of Frostheim — Devil-Ass District**

  Night had fallen over Frostheim like a shroud.

  Devil-Ass. One of the most dangerous districts in the city — a maze of dark alleys, crumbling buildings, and figures who preferred the shadows. Even heroes and police moved carefully here. Some never came back.

  In the darkness, a young man moved with a measured, almost military pace. Dressed entirely in black, hood pulled low, gloves on his hands. Every movement was deliberate. His eyes swept the shadows — left, right — making sure no one was following.

  He passed a group of young men in the middle of a brawl. Fists flew, insults rang out, blood already on the ground.

  The young man paused for a moment, watched with cold indifference, then walked on without a word.

  "Everyone's got their own problems," he muttered.

  He stopped at an intersection, got his bearings, then turned into a narrow alley. His footsteps echoed faintly on the damp pavement.

  About ten meters in, he stopped.

  A man was waiting for him, leaning against the wall of a gutted building. Cigarette between his lips, hard and suspicious eyes. He looked the young man up and down, sizing him up.

  "You the new guy?" he asked, voice rough.

  "Yes," the young man replied calmly.

  The man with the cigarette nodded slowly, then pressed his hand flat against the wall behind him. The stone went intangible where he touched it — matter simply losing its substance. His hand passed through without resistance.

  "Follow me," he said, and stepped through.

  The young man hesitated for a fraction of a second — one last moment of doubt — then crossed through after him.

  He found himself in a large room sunk in darkness. His eyes struggled to adjust, making out only the rough contours of stone walls and shapeless shadows. Then, abruptly, the lights came on.

  The harsh light revealed a vast chamber of raw stone. In the center, seated on a crude throne, sat an imposing man. Well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, radiating an aura of brute power. He held a carved staff in one hand. In the other, a fat rabbit that squirmed weakly.

  The man rose and approached the young man slowly, studying him with sharp, penetrating eyes — as if trying to read something behind them. Then, without a word, he turned and returned to his seat.

  The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate.

  "How old are you?" the man finally asked, his deep voice filling the room.

  "Twenty," the young man answered without hesitation.

  The man nodded, seeming to weigh the answer. A beat passed.

  "You read everything before registering?"

  "Yes."

  "Good."

  He tapped his staff against the floor once.

  "I don't think I have anything to add. But before we make this official..." He leaned slightly forward, his gaze sharpening. "Show me your power."

  He held out the rabbit.

  The young man took the animal in his gloved hands. For just an instant, something shifted in his eyes — a dark gleam, deep and unsettling. Hatred, maybe. Or pain. Or something that had no clean name.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  *What had he lived through to end up here? No one knew. Only him.*

  He slowly pulled the glove from his right hand and pressed his bare palm against the rabbit.

  Two seconds passed.

  The rabbit began to age. Its white fur turned gray, then fell away in clumps. Its skin shriveled and tightened over its bones.

  Ten seconds later, nothing remained but a fragile skeleton — which crumbled to dust between his fingers.

  The young man calmly pulled his glove back on.

  The man with the staff stared at him for a long moment. Anyone paying close attention might have caught it — a flicker of fear behind his eyes, quickly buried under practiced control.

  *Better to have this one as an ally,* he thought.

  He stood, and began to clap slowly.

  "Welcome to the Republic of the Fallen."

  ***

  At the same time, at the Hero Academy...

  A young woman moved quietly down the corridor, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble. She wore a sharp, impeccable suit, brown hair pulled back in a tight bun. Professional in every detail — but the slight tension in her hands and the uneven rhythm of her breathing gave her away.

  She stopped in front of a heavy dark wooden door, steadied herself, then knocked.

  *Knock knock.*

  A measured voice came from within: "Come in."

  She opened the door and entered.

  The office was large — elegant but restrained. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined with old books, framed diplomas and commendations on the walls, and a wide bay window offering a sweeping view of the illuminated campus below.

  Behind the desk, standing with his back to her, was the Principal.

  "Sir," she said carefully, "I didn't expect you to still be here."

  Even after years at his side, she hadn't grown used to his presence. He was the director of the Academy — the highest authority among heroes.

  "Shouldn't you be resting by now?" she asked gently.

  The Principal didn't move. Arms crossed behind his back, he kept his gaze on the campus lights below.

  "Did you forget we're receiving a new student tonight?" he said at last. "I'd like to see him when he arrives."

  "But sir, everything is already arranged. You could meet him tomorrow—"

  "Let's get to the point," he interrupted, still not turning around. "Why are you here at this hour?"

  Lyne fidgeted with her fingers, choosing her words carefully.

  "The police forwarded us something, sir. A link. A strange one." She paused. "They intercepted it two days ago. At first, they didn't think much of it. But then one of their officers tried to register on it — filled in the required information — and..."

  She swallowed.

  "He lost his sight."

  The Principal turned around. His brows drew together.

  "He lost his sight," he repeated quietly. "Strange... very strange." Then, sharper: "And why are you only telling me this now?"

  Lyne lowered her eyes. "I wanted to verify things first, sir. I didn't want to alarm you unnecessarily."

  A moment passed.

  The Principal exhaled. "Understood. We open an investigation first thing tomorrow morning."

  "Yes, sir."

  Lyne bowed slightly and left.

  ***

  Alone, the Principal began to pace. His hands were clasped behind his back, his expression heavy.

  "Something is coming," he murmured. "But what?"

  He stopped, closed his eyes, and pressed his right hand over his left eye.

  When he opened his right eye, it burned with a bright, almost electric blue. Fragmented images flickered before him — moving shadows, blood, an unrecognized symbol, muffled screams.

  Then nothing. Absolute darkness.

  He held the vision for ten seconds, pushing against it, trying to find something solid in the fragments. Then he let his hand drop. When he opened both eyes, they had returned to normal.

  "Nothing concrete," he murmured, settling into his armchair. "Just fragments. But something is coming — that much is certain."

  His gaze drifted to the window, and stayed there.

  ***

  **8:15 PM**

  The car passed through the Academy's imposing gates and slowed to a stop.

  Nael jolted awake, blinking. He sat up, disoriented — then immediately turned to the window.

  "Wow," he breathed.

  Despite the heaviness still sitting in his chest, despite the image of his mother's tears that refused to leave him, he couldn't help it. His eyes went wide.

  The Academy wasn't a building. It was a small city.

  It spread across nearly twenty-five acres: ultramodern training complexes, vast lecture halls, enormous stadiums, combat fields, and residential quarters for heroes and students alike. Even in the dark, it pulsed with life.

  To his left, a lit training field stretched out, wide and impressive. Most zones were quiet at this hour, but not all. A red-haired boy floated alone near the center, fire bursting from his palms. He swept an arc of flame across the night sky, then descended smoothly to the ground.

  Further along, on an athletic track, a silver-haired girl ran in loops — so fast she was barely a blur, leaving a faint luminous trail that lingered for a second before fading.

  *Even now. Still training,* Nael thought.

  To his right, a combat zone sat dark and quiet, equipment stowed away for the night. Beyond it, sleek glass buildings reflected the stars alongside older stone structures — columns and vaulted roofs that looked almost like ancient temples.

  "It's incredible," Nael murmured.

  *This is where I'm going to become a hero.*

  The car stopped in front of a modern building with tinted windows that mirrored the night sky. One of the representatives turned to him.

  "We've arrived, Nael."

  He opened the door and stepped out. The cool night air hit his face. He breathed in slowly, filling his lungs.

  A young woman was already waiting. Sharp but warm-looking, in a sober, well-fitted uniform, hair pulled back in a bun.

  "Welcome, Nael," she said with a composed smile. "My name is Lyne — I'm the Principal's assistant. We were expecting you. I'll show you to your room."

  He nodded and followed.

  They entered the building and climbed a wide marble staircase. Nael looked everywhere, taking it all in.

  The walls were lined with portraits of heroes. Some he recognized — living legends whose names made the news. Others were strangers to him, but their faces radiated the same quiet power, the same certainty. Each portrait seemed to carry a story behind it.

  They reached the right floor, walked down a well-lit corridor, and stopped in front of a door marked 214.

  "Here's your room," Lyne said. "Everything you need is already inside. Don't hesitate to reach out if you need anything."

  Nael opened the door.

  The room was simple and clean. A neatly made bed, a wooden desk with a reading lamp, a spacious wardrobe, a small bathroom. A window looked out over the training field — now empty, but still lit.

  He set his bag down near the bed, looked around slowly, then sat on the edge of the mattress.

  *I'm finally here.*

  He lay back and stared at the ceiling.

  After a moment, his hand drifted to his abdomen — to the place where the villain had touched him, where the explosion had torn through him, where he had died.

  He pressed his fingers against the fabric of his t-shirt.

  Smooth. Intact. No trace of what had happened.

  *But I know it did. I remember everything.*

  He closed his eyes.

  Faces moved through the dark behind his eyelids. His parents. The being of flames. The tests. The spring — and all that suffering, concentrated into a single unbearable instant.

  *"Become what you wish to become."*

  He opened his eyes and looked out the window.

  Outside, a few students were still at it. Their powers lit up the night. Fire. Ice. Speed. Strength — visible and undeniable.

  *And me? What do I have?*

  He sat up.

  The doubts came, heavy and familiar. Every student out there had something obvious, something that showed. And him? He'd come back from the dead — but was that enough? Did he actually belong here?

  He shook his head.

  *Stop. You're here for a reason. The being told you. You received a gift. You just have to find out what it is.*

  He stood and walked to the window.

  The campus spread before him like a map of lights. Buildings, fields, corridors — all of it waiting for tomorrow.

  Somewhere out there, people were going to become heroes. Legends.

  *And so will I.*

  He clenched his fists.

  *Dad, Mom. I won't let you down.*

  ***

  In his office, the Principal stood at the window.

  His phone buzzed. He took it out and read the message:

  **"The new student has arrived. Room 214."**

  A slight smile crossed his face.

  "He's finally here," he murmured.

  He put the phone away and dialed a number.

  It picked up after two rings.

  "Good evening, chief. Everything alright?"

  "Fine, Split. It's late, so I'll keep it short. I need you here tomorrow — as early as possible."

  "Understood. Goodnight, chief."

  He hung up. For a long moment he stood there, looking out at the campus, the lights scattered below like a field of stars.

  Then he murmured, almost to himself:

  "Let fate take its course."

  ***

  **END OF CHAPTER 5**