Vince woke before dawn, the sting of his suspension like a beast's claw on his chest. Today was the military test, though every student knew it was no test—just a sermon on what awaited at the base. A bad record already shadowed him, and being late wasn't an option. He threw on a faded gray t-shirt and dark pants, his usual armor of simplicity, and grabbed his frayed backpack, its straps worn from forest training.
"Vince, don't go without breakfast," Aunt Jane called, her voice soft but firm. The scent of grilled bread and tomato sauce tugged at his resolve. He glanced at the clock, heart racing. Running to school would save time, but his stomach growled, betraying him. The plate, piled high with steaming food, was irresistible. He shoved a bite in, chewing frantically as sauce smeared his chin. "Thanks, Aunt Jane!" he mumbled, sprinting out, the taste of home lingering.
The ghetto streets stirred, vendors hawking bruised fruit, kids dodging gliding creatures in the azure sky. Buses were the only public transport here—trains and pods were for urban elites. Vince jogged to the stop, cursing the wait. The rusted bus screeched up, and he squeezed past sweaty commuters, the ride a blur of cracked windows and murmurs about beast sightings. His mind replayed the forest: the orb's pulse, the cosmic vision, the "dumbass" voice. Was it real, or had the forest's creepiness warped his head?
At school, Vince's heart sank. The parade ground was packed, students in rigid rows under the instructor's glare. He was late. Cursing, he slipped into the back, mimicking their stiff posture. His rumpled tie dangled like a noose; he tugged it straight, praying the instructor's hawk-like eyes missed him. The man, a scarred veteran, paced like a caged beast, voice booming.
"We don't fight for glory!" the instructor bellowed, locking onto Vince. "We fight because the alternative is death. You're either strong or dead. Many join the military; few return from conquests, wars against beasts and beyond. Stay here, cowering in shitholes, or grow stronger. Avenge your ancestors who died for this land!"
Vince's jaw tightened. Ancestors? His parents died fighting beasts, their abilities useless against portals' spawn. The gods, if real, did nothing. The instructor's words rang hollow, a hymn to divine saviors Vince despised. He shifted, sneakers scuffing dirt, drawing a classmate's glance. The speech droned, praising the gods' gift—fire, ice, teleportation—as if they'd descended to save humanity. Vince snorted, barely audible, but enough.
"You!" the instructor snapped, striding over. The crowd parted, eyes darting. "Got something to say, latecomer?" His scars gleamed, a testament to battles Vince doubted gods won.
Vince's heart pounded, suspension flashing in his mind. Stay quiet, keep low. But the sanctimonious tone, the crowd's blind faith, ignited defiance. "Yeah," he said, voice steady. "The gods didn't save my parents. Their powers failed. Why worship failures?"
Gasps rippled. The instructor's eyes narrowed, flames flickering in his palms. "You question the Pantheon? They gave us strength against Zaroth's beasts!"
"Zaroth's dead," Vince shot back, stepping forward. "Portals still spit monsters. Some divine plan." Sarcasm dripped, echoing the forest's voice. He didn't just doubt the gods—he hated them. They let his parents die, let the world burn, called it salvation.
The instructor's flames flared, heat singeing. "Kneel and apologize, or I burn that defiance out."
Vince's fists clenched. Kneel? To lies about useless gods? "No," he said, voice cutting silence. "I don't kneel to myths." Murmurs spread, some shocked, some awed. The instructor raised a hand, a fiery whip coiling, but Vince didn't flinch. A pulse stirred, raw like the orb's heartbeat.
The whip lashed, but Vince's vision blurred. Time slowed, colors warping like the forest's space. A jolt seared his chest, fire and ice warring, orb-like. His skin tingled, orb shards glowing faintly. A sardonic voice boomed: *"Congratulations, you've unlocked the Godsealed System. Now time to defy the gods themselves."*
Vince staggered, the whip grazing him. The voice—Zaroth's?—matched the forest's "dumbass" call. An interface flickered: *Reality Manipulation: Level 1. Energy: 10/100.* Numbers pulsed, alien yet instinctive. He blinked, and the whip's flames bent, repelled. The instructor stumbled, eyes wide.
"What—?" the instructor stammered, flames guttering. Students pointed at Vince's glowing hands. The air shimmered, bending like the orb's aura. Power coursed, chaotic, urging action.
"You call that divine?" Vince growled, hatred surging. "If gods are great, why's the world a mess? Why'd my parents die?" He stepped forward, ground cracking, reality rippling. "I don't need gods. I'll tear their lies apart."
The instructor roared, summoning a fire dragon, its heat scorching. Vince's instincts, guided by the system, kicked in. He raised a hand, reality folding. The dragon's flames scattered, dissolving. The crowd gasped, some cheering, others fleeing. The instructor charged, fists blazing.
Vince dodged, reflexes sharpened by the system. He didn't grasp it—stats, levels—but it felt right, fiercer than his father's energy. The voice laughed: *"Not bad, kid. Keep defying."* Vince grinned, fear and thrill mixing, and pushed, a warped wave knocking the instructor down.
"Enough!" A tall figure in military armor strode up, eyes glowing. "Stand down." The instructor bowed, but Vince stood tall, glow fading. The officer's gaze bored into him. "That power's no ordinary ability. Report to the base now."
Vince's heart raced. The system warned: *Energy Low: 2/100.* He glanced at the crowd—fear, awe—and felt his defiance's weight. The gods failed him. With Zaroth's power, he'd expose them. The military base loomed, promising answers about the system in his veins.