Judgment Day — it happened once a year. The god stirred awake, showcasing its unquestionable power.
With the highest Danger Level and Corruption Rank possible, it was placed at the top of the hierarchy above every living being that resided on the planet.
For a full twenty-four hours, not a single soul was allowed to move beneath its gaze.
The price for daring to do so would reduce anything, no matter how mighty, to ash.
This created the ritual: when the day finally came, every living being would stare at the moon, unmoving—waiting for the day to pass and for it to close its eye.
'And to think that I was born on this cursed day…' Azrael thought, breathing as calmly as he could, not daring to make a single wrong move.
Technically speaking, being born on this day was unheard of, for it was virtually impossible. The mother, as well as the baby, would be reduced to nothing but ash… and yet he stood on his chair, whole and alive.
He had wondered how such a thing was possible and had naturally asked the old man who raised him. But no matter how often he asked, he never received a satisfying answer.
Now, in hindsight, it made sense — for the old man was a Skinwalker. If it had hidden its true nature, what other things had it done?
With nothing else to do, Azrael's eyes narrowed, activating his system interface.
He didn't need to move to do so — he could perform all actions just by thinking about them.
His eyes stopped at his Inborn Trait, or more specifically, its description:
'Born untouched by both Life and Corruption, the world couldn't decide if he belonged to either. In the end, Death claimed him as its own…'
He had read it countless times after obtaining the system. In the end, there was only one possible conclusion:
'I was born dead. Died at birth… as for why Death chose me, that is another matter.'
With nothing else to do, he stared at the god and its unblinking eye.
These were going to be a haunting twenty-four hours, but important ones nonetheless. For they served as a reminder—of why he was trying to get stronger.
'I will kill you,' he swore inwardly, but a moment later, a sudden realization swept through him.
'No… considering my system and the way it functions… I will devour you.'
The moon didn't flinch. It stared back with quiet indifference, unmoved by the declaration of one of its countless powerless subjects.
'I swear it,' Azrael made an oath.
Eventually the twenty-four hours passed.
The moon stirred once again, and the god closed its eye, returning to its slumber for another year—only to awaken again on this cursed day.
Azrael rose, his body aching from being forced to remain unmoving for such a long period of time. He picked up the chair that, thankfully, had not given in while the god was still awake, and headed for his assigned room.
On the way, he observed the surroundings. It was night, making it hard to see the details, even with the lamps scattered around the military camp. However, despite the hard-to-see darkness, the expressions of the Chosen were more than clear:
Relief.
They were happy that the worst was behind them.
'It's not over,' Azrael thought bitterly. Surviving one Judgment Day didn't guarantee they'd survive the next.
What if, next year, the moon's eye didn't close? What if it stayed open longer—two days, a week, a year?
In the end, everything would be doomed; they were at the mercy of the mighty god.
He walked wordlessly toward his quarters, thoughts spiraling, when the wind brushed past him carrying a faint scent drifting into his nose. Dry. Silvery. It made his nose twitch—the sharp tang of metal biting at the back of his throat.
"Ash."
He muttered, fist clenching tightly.
It seemed this year had been no different.
Chosen had fallen.
*****
The next day, everyone was called by principal Arthur.
It wasn't just the Marked who had yet to prove themselves—the Proven were here as well. They stood out immediately, with higher Ascension Level and Purity Rank that made them look stunning beyond belief.
However, instead of their usual relaxed expressions, their faces now seemed far more threatening.
Even the professors were present. Unlike the younger ranks, it seemed there hadn't been any casualties among them. Not that it was surprising, considering their vast experience.
"It's good to see you alive," principal Arthur said, breaking the silence that had settled over the Chosen.
"Even if it pains me to admit, some of your brothers and sisters didn't manage to endure the weight of the moon's gaze."
He paused. His gaze lingering on them for a few seconds.
"Remember it for as long as you live. That feeling of powerlessness—like an ant at the mercy of a giant that threatens to squash it into paste. Use that fire, that drive, to strive for power and give our name meaning."
Azrael looked down at the symbol stitched into his uniform, a fractured moon.
His fist clenched until it turned white. Power—he needed more, that much was clear.
"Now," the principal raised his voice,
"With the threat gone and a new year on the horizon, I want to announce that we, the Moon Breakers and the Elite School, have made an agreement. Many of the heirs under their care will be coming here soon. You will have the opportunity to go against them. Should you win, you will raise the prestige of our school. As such, expect grand rewards."
Azrael sighed, 'just like Seyra said.'
Thanks to his teacher, he wasn't surprised by the news.
He was no fool—he was beginning to see a pattern forming.
She had managed to contact one of his instructors to deliver the Blessed weapon she had promised him the same day he had requested it.
Then, somehow, she'd known there would be a rivalry competition between the two most powerful schools.
'She's really high up... much higher than I initially expected.'
At the realization, a faint smile tugged at his lips.
'Turns out, earning the interest of someone so influential is surprisingly simple. Just be willing to gouge out your own eye with a dagger—and you're in.'
It seemed principal Arthur's words were becoming more and more true, the longer he lived, the more twisted his sense of humor would become.
Once the principal finished his speech, the Chosen were allowed to continue their classes as scheduled.
If they had been giving one hundred percent of their focus to the instructors before… now, it was two hundred.
No one wanted to embarrass themselves in front of the heirs from the Elite School.
And Azrael was no exception.