The date projected on the lecture hall wall burned into Lack Flameheart’s retinas. The stomach twisted—a tight, cold knot, a constant companion.
Air in the room tasted stale, recycled through filtration systems that scrubbed toxins but failed to remove the scent of teenage anxiety.
The lecture hall buzzed. Electric energy radiated from eighteen-year-old prodigies. The fresh crop. Bright. Arrogant. Glowing with the faint, prismatic auras of newly acquired God pairings. Children of the New World. The violet sky was their playground.
Lack was nineteen. Six feet tall. Scars on the knuckles told stories of bar fights, not duels. A perpetual shadow cast beneath the eyes.
He sat in the back row. Knees jammed against the undersized desk. Invisibility was the goal.
Presence here was a statistical error.
[Logic Analysis]: By all metrics, graduation should have occurred a year ago. Rank: Commander in the God Army. Station: Northern Wall - Neutral Territory (Sector 2355). Remittance: Credits to parents in the civilian sector for hab-unit repairs.
Reality: "Reserve King". Repeater. Glitch.
Two rows ahead, a boy with hair like spun gold and a matching aura turned to his neighbour. A whisper.
"That’s him. The flashlight guy. My brother said he’s been in Year 1 for two cycles."
Lack’s eyes closed. The script was memorised.
Failure. Waste of biomass. Godless.
Words were old ghosts, echoes from a day thirteen years ago—the day life effectively ended. The day the cosmic joke began.
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[Flashback: 13 Years Ago] Location: Silt-Mourn City, Public Health Centre Event: The Mandatory Measurement (Age 6)
Antiseptic and desperate hope saturated the waiting room. A sterile white purgatory for families determining their worth.
"Stand up straight, Lack." Vesta’s fingers trembled, smoothing down the cowlick. "And don't fidget. The Recruiters are watching."
The Flameheart family defined ordinary. Ignis repaired irrigation droids, smelling of oil and fertiliser. Vesta filed shipping manifests for unaffordable goods. "Base Hybrids"—humans with minimum AI/AGI integration to prevent lung collapse in the dense atmosphere.
No magic. No patronage. No future.
Lack was the lottery ticket.
"Next! Lack Flameheart!" The medical droid announced. Voice: Synthesised monotone. Empathy: Zero.
Lack, small and scrawny, stepped onto the platform.
The scanning ring hummed cold. A halo of blue light rose, analysing genetic potential, soul density, and worth.
Breath held in the room. Even Chady, the toddler, ceased chewing the plastic toy.
The wall screen flickered. Data streams scrolled faster than the human eye could track. Final tally loaded.
[Subject Analysis Complete]
- Health: 100%
- Strength: 38 (Global Rank 1 for Age Group)
- Agility: 29 (Global Rank 1 for Age Group)
- Sync Rate: 58% (Historical Anomaly)
A gasp rippled. The Recruiters—bored officers in crisp uniforms—straightened.
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Numbers were impossible. Even God-blessed children of the High Council failed to achieve stats of this magnitude at age six.
"He’s a prodigy," a Recruiter whispered, tapping the datapad furiously. "Look at that Sync Rate. Fifty-eight percent? The boy is a blank canvas. He could host a High Executor. Maybe an Astral."
Vesta sobbed relief. Ignis puffed the chest, shame of factory work melting.
Rich. Honoured.
The second screen loaded.
[Patron Alignment Check]
- God Affinity: Nil.
- Devil Affinity: Nil.
- Vessel Tier: Unclassified / Null.
The Recruiter frowned. Screen tap. Glitch suspected. Refresh.
Nil.
"There must be a mistake," Ignis stammered, stepping forward. "Look at his strength! Look at his potential!"
"Potential is useless without a battery, citizen." The Recruiter’s voice turned cold.
The gaze shifted to Lack. Awe replaced by pity.
"He has the hardware of a Ferrari and the engine of a lawnmower. Without a Divine or Diabolic pact, mana processing is impossible. He is... empty."
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[Flashback: Age 16] Location: The Academy Training Grounds
Memory dissolved into the fourth year as a cadet.
Instructor Harlen paced before the line of trembling sixteen-year-olds. Harlen enjoyed the job. Crushing dreams was a perk.
"Lack Flameheart," Harlen announced. A theatrical gesture at the boy standing alone on the mats. "The strongest six-year-old in human history. The apex of our species' physical evolution."
Lack stared at the floor. Face burning. The speech was familiar. Variations echoed for ten years.
"And now," Harlen’s voice dropped to a sneer, "Cadet Flameheart, please demonstrate your Vessel Ability for the new students. Show them what happens when you have perfect stats... but no favour with the Gods."
"Instructor, is this necessary?" Lack mumbled. Grip tightened on the dull training sword.
"Proceed, Cadet. Or take a zero."
A sigh escaped. The phantom weight of maternal expectations crushed the chest.
His eyelids shut tight. His mana aggressively probed the absolute darkness of his soul. The internal void demanded a spark.
Show them! A squeaky, manic voice chirped in the mental furniture. Dazzle the little brats! Make them squint!
Just a little glow, the silent beg. Don't make it weird.
Sword gripped. Mana channelled.
Fzzzt.
A beam of stark, white light shot from the tip of the blade.
No crackle of holy fire. No ripple of dark, consuming Void. A static, cold, conical beam.
A flashlight.
The Instructor's boots were illuminated. The light was steady, reliable, and utterly underwhelming.
"A light source," Harlen announced to the silent room. "Cadet Flameheart has bonded with... something. We aren't sure what. But its primary function appears to be illumination."
Silence held for a second. Then, a giggle from the front row.
The dam broke. Eruption of laughter. Even the other Reserves chuckled—relief washing over them that they were not the target.
"The strongest human in history!" A shout. "And he's a nightlight!"
"Sit down, Flameheart," Harlen dismissed, turning his back. "Let this be a lesson. Physical stats are nothing without Divine Favour. Don't be a body without a soul."
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[Present Day]
Eyes snapped open. Memory faded like smoke in a strong wind.
Posture straightened as the bell rang. End of Theoretical Manaflow.
Notes taken: Zero. Necessity: Zero. Theory was understood better than the professor; the mechanism was the only path to breaking it.
Datapad buzzed. Message from Mother.
Lack, honey. Your sister Ember is turning 14 soon. She says the neighbours are making fun of her because her big brother is still a cadet. Please tell us you passed the mock exams. Your father is very quiet today.
Lack stared at the screen. Truth was impossible. Admitting to being a Devil Vessel—even a low-tier one—meant death by shame for them. Admitting failure meant death by grief.
They think you're useless, the Light Devil giggled, swinging legs on the mental furniture. But they don't know about the vibration, do they? They don't know you can tickle the world until it breaks.
"Shut up," Lack whispered.
He stood. Bag slung over one shoulder. Elite students parted. Not respect. Avoidance of contamination.
Status screen pulled up. Retinal display only.
The numbers materialised. To the world: Tragedy. High stats wasted on a flashlight.
Hand flexed. The hum of the universe was a palpable, physical weight. Fireballs were unnecessary. Lightning was unnecessary.
Physics belonged to him. And physics ignored tiers.
"Let's go, Devil," Lack muttered, walking into the blinding light of the thirty-six-hour day. "We have a practical exam to cheat."
Oh, I love cheating, the Devil cackled. It’s the only logical way to play a rigged game.
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