A week later, Ronan found himself walking the muddy back streets of a neighboring town, clutching the token like it was a lifeline. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten here—how a single desperate ssage had set him on this path—but the thought of turning back now hollowed his stomach more than the uncertainty ahead.
The eting place was a run down building on the edge of a small town not far from Dark Moon City—only around 15 minutes by driving or an hour walking.
The building the eting was taking place in had notices of an upcoming demolition all over the grounds, it had once been a toy factory. Now the main building sagged in disrepair, roof tiles missing, wooden beams blackened with rot. A faded sign still swung above the doorway, the letters long since flaked into illegibility. Kain had bought the factory in order to demolish it and put up another beer brewery in its place. But until then, it can serve as a discrete eting place since barely anyone from the general public ventured to this district.
Ronan hesitated at the door. For a mont, the weight of reason pressed on him. ’I’m about to walk into a trap, aren’t I? Like those stories in the papers—people vanishing, harvested for organs, sold off as slaves.’ He paused, tempted to turn around, but then his knees nearly buckled beneath his own weakness, the sharp reminder of how far he had fallen. He gritted his teeth and stepped inside.
The corridor slled of damp stone and old paint. At the far end, a figure waited. She wore a plain full-face white mask of white lacquer, smooth and without any particular identifying features aside from a violet star in the center of the forehead, but her physique hidden beneath a set of loose robes was unmistakably feminine—slim fra, narrow shoulders, the tilt of her neck betraying elegance. She wordlessly handed him a similar plain white mask without any star.
The mask thrumd faintly in his hand. Not just decorative, then. Sothing woven into it pulsed with restrained spiritual power. Ronan felt a prickle run across his skin. He didn’t understand the chanics, but his gut told him it was no trinket.
"Wear it," the woman said, her voice clear despite the mask covering her mouth
He obeyed, fastening the mask over his face. Imdiately, the hum sank into the back of his skull, like a veil settling over his presence. Even his own breathing sounded distant. Anti-detection? he thought, unsettled. Whoever had built these wanted absolute secrecy.
She gestured toward a door to his right. "Inside."
The room beyond was larger, perhaps a gutted storage hall. A dozen chairs were arranged in loose rows. Several were already occupied. Each figure wore the sa faceless mask, their features erased, their identities concealed. Only their postures betrayed them: one leaned forward, his hands wringing together in restless anxiety; another sat stiffly, shoulders hunched as if bracing against pain. A third wheezed faintly with every breath, the sound loud in the hush of the hall.
Ronan swallowed hard. They were like him—broken. So visibly had a disability like himself, so did not. His chest tightened at the realization. He wasn’t the only desperate soul lured here. That should have been comforting, but instead it made his skin crawl. How likely is it that soone systematically targeting vulnerable people has kind intentions?
He took a seat near the back, hands clenched against his knees. Minutes dragged. More masked figures entered at staggered intervals, each slipping quietly into a chair. By the ti three more filed in twenty minutes later, the air was thick with unease.
Then the door shut with a heavy thud.
Shadows pooled near the front of the room, and a figure stepped into them. It was the sa man who had approached Ronan in the street, though Ronan didn’t know his face nor had a na been given. He could tell from the familiar physique and voice that it was him. His face was concealed in deeper shadow than seed natural, as if darkness clung to him like a second mask.
Flanking him were two more. On his left, the masked woman who had greeted Ronan, her posture straight and unyielding. On his right, a larger man, his fra so broad and muscular that Ronan almost went mad with envy, rembering when he also once had a similar manly build. All three of them exuded power.
Ronan’s pulse quickened. Whoever they were, even if this was a scam, it wasn’t a half-baked scam. It was organized, deliberate. And dangerous.
The man in the center began to speak, his familiar voice steady, commanding.
"You are here because you chose to answer. Because the lives you had were no longer enough. Each of you carries pain, loss, failure. That is your bond, and that is why you were chosen."
Ronan’s fingers curled tighter against his knees. The words scraped too close to his own sha, his own collapse.
"But," the man continued, "not everyone who enters this place will leave it changed and with the opportunity to turn their life around. To take what is offered, you must first prove yourselves. Loyalty. Discipline. Resolve. These are the keys. Without them, you are of no use to us and our Master."
’Master?’
The room was silent save for shallow wheezing coming from a female figure nearby and the faint creak of a chair. Ronan’s heart thudded painfully in his chest.
The man’s gaze swept the crowd—or at least, Ronan felt it did, though he couldn’t see his eyes. "From this mont forward, you are no longer yourselves. You are candidates. What you beco depends on how far you’re willing to go."
At those words, as if on cue, low hum filled the hall as the shadows behind the masked man rippled. Then, like a curtain parting, a holographic screen shimred into existence. Its surface glowed faintly blue, covered in lines of text that scrolled slowly upward.
It displayed a list of tasks. Each description was short, vague, and almost teasing. At the end of every line was a number, sotis in the single digits, sotis higher. Next to each, a danger rating glowed as a sequence of red stars—one, two, sotis five.
Ronan scanned the entries, his pulse quickening:
Deliver a sealed package across three districts. (Danger ★, Reward: 1 Point, Slots: 1)
Guard a supply shipnt overnight. (Danger ★★, Reward: 3 Points, Slots: 3)
Track and report on a marked individual. (Danger ★★, Reward: 3 Points, Slots: 2)
And dozens more like them
The masked man spoke again, "These are your first steps. Every task has a danger rating, a point value, and a limit to how many may attempt it. Once you select a task, it is yours until it is completed. If you fail or walk away... well let’s just say that a single failure is not an option."
The words rang like a death sentence.
"You will use the token you were given to select a task. The mont your choice is locked in, there is no turning back." His tone hardened. "When you reach one hundred points, your deepest wish will be fulfilled. Your bodies healed and granted the chance to wield power greater than you’d hoped for. Until then, you are candidates. Nothing more."
A shiver swept through the room. Even through the anonymity of the masks, Ronan could feel it—the desperation, the hunger clawing at everyone present. So leaned forward instantly, tokens already raised, as if terrified to be left behind.
Ronan’s eyes darted back to the screen. Most tasks promised 1 to 3 points. At that rate, a hundred points was a lifeti away. His chest sank. Was this so trick, dangling the impossible in front of them?
Then his gaze snagged on a single line near the bottom:
Investigate and neutralize a suspected target. (Danger ★★★★★, Reward: 52 Points, Slots: 3)
Ronan’s breath caught. Fifty-two points. Halfway there in one step. His pulse hamred in his ears.
Before he could think, fear pressed in. If I hesitate, soone else will take it. His fingers clenched around the token. His chest tightened with panic. Almost against his will, he funneled his spiritual power into it.
The screen chid faintly. The line dimd.
"Slot filled. No spots remaining"
A tremor ran through Ronan’s arms. He’d chosen. He couldn’t take it back. And even as his token dimd, the entry vanished from the screen entirely—filled in a blur by two others. Clearly if he’d been even a second slower, he would have lost the chance to select it.
It had been the most popular choice.
The masked man gave no reaction, only a faint tilt of the head. "Those chosen will be escorted."
A hand touched Ronan’s shoulder. He jerked, almost bolting from his chair, but the masked woman simply gestured toward a side door.
His legs carried him there on instinct. The room beyond was smaller, dimly lit, with only a table and three chairs. Two of them were already filled. His new partners sat waiting.
Even with their masks, Ronan could see it: the broad shoulders, the scars peeking from worn collars, the posture of seasoned rcenaries. They looked dangerous, like predators who had only been leashed temporarily. Not like himself and the other people with clear disabilities who were more so here in search of a cure. These people were clearly strong already and sought even greater strength.
Ronan’s stomach flipped. His thin, wasted arms trembled at his sides. ’What the hell was I thinking?’ He wasn’t the martial arts champion anymore. He was a shadow of himself, brittle as paper. Easily pushed over by a ten-year-old girl
The door shut behind him with a solid click.
The holographic glow shimred across the table. Their mission details scrolled across the screen in a single line:
Operation: ’Knightfall’
Target: Suspected 6-Star Beast Tar.
Ronan’s blood turned to ice. His lips parted, but no sound ca out.
’Yup,’ he thought, the words dry and hollow in his skull. ’I’m dead.’
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