The Last Sanctuary

A boy entered the grand hall, his steps measured, quiet against the cold marble floor. Towering pillars loomed above, casting long shadows that swallowed the room in dim light. The air carried the scent of burning incense—ritualistic, almost suffocating. Hundreds of others stood in silent anticipation, but to Solvyr, they were little more than background noise.

He was here for one reason.

The Awakening.

This was the moment that determined who mattered and who didn't. The divide was absolute—those blessed with powerful Arts ascended the hierarchy, while the weak were discarded, left to rot in the lower districts.

Solvyr already knew where he stood. The slums had taught him that much. Starvation was a better teacher than any scholar. Hope was just another lie people told themselves to get through the day.

He adjusted the collar of his worn-out jacket, ignoring the noble heirs standing nearby, their polished boots reflecting the artificial glow of the hall's chandeliers. They didn't even bother to hide their amusement, whispering amongst themselves as commoners stepped up to the Awakening Orb.

A boy in line trembled as he placed his hand on the sphere. A second passed. Then another.

Rank: D

A barely contained laugh erupted from the nobles. The boy staggered back, his face drained of color.

"Next!"

Solvyr stepped forward without hesitation. He felt no fear—fear was for those who still expected something from this world.

He pressed his palm against the orb.

Heat surged through his veins, burning, unraveling something deep within. The hall faded into darkness. Then, the system's voice echoed in his mind.

Name: Solvyr

Soul: ???

Art: None

Ability:

Soul Griever {S+++} – Devour a soul to unlock.

A sharp, almost bitter laugh threatened to escape his throat.

No Art.

No structured power.

Nothing but a cryptic ability locked behind an unknown condition.

The registrar sneered. "How pathetic."

Murmurs rippled through the hall. Some students scoffed, others whispered in disbelief. But Solvyr wasn't listening to them. His mind had already moved on, calculating.

Weakness was a death sentence. But knowing your position on the board was the first step to flipping it over.

A sudden gust of wind swept through the hall. A tall, battle-worn man materialized beside the registrar—silver-haired, amber-eyed, and carrying the weight of something ancient. He studied Solvyr with an unreadable expression.

"Kid," the old man said, voice gravelly. "Are you sure you don't have an Art?"

Solvyr held his gaze.

"No. But I have an S+++ Ability."

The nobles fell silent. Even the registrar hesitated.

An S+++ Ability—without an Art? It didn't make sense.

The old man chuckled, but there was no amusement in it. "A tool without a function. Useless."

Solvyr exhaled through his nose. "Maybe." He glanced at the Awakening Orb, then back to the man. "Or maybe you just don't know how to use it yet."

The old man's eyes flickered with something—curiosity, perhaps.

"Check your inventory," he instructed.

Solvyr did.

Inventory: None

The old man threw his head back and let out a boisterous laugh. "HAHAHA! Kid, you're humanity's weakest Awakener!"

The hall erupted into quiet laughter.

Solvyr's expression didn't change.

Weakness wasn't something to be ashamed of. It was something to be corrected.

He met the old man's gaze, calm and unshaken. "Then let me enlist."

The laughter stopped.

"You're asking to die."

"Maybe." Solvyr's voice was steady. "But I'd rather die on my feet than live on my knees."

For the first time, the old man grinned.

"Interesting."