Zeke opened his eyes, greeted by the harsh light streaming through the gaps in his industrial blinds, casting a series of sharp, perpendicular shadows across his face. The symphony of city life outside pierced the quiet of his tiny apartment—cars honking angrily, the distant hum of conversation and arguments on the sidewalks, all laced with the unmistakable scent of processed fat wafting from a nearby fast-food joint.

"How annoying," he thought to himself while sitting up, a faint smile taking hold of his face—a smile he himself failed to notice.

Zeke stood, yawning and stretching his muscles against the backdrop of industrial fumes rising high into the sky, seeping through crevices and escaping from every smokestack of every building—a testament to a stubborn humanity fighting its way back to the top of the food chain. Above, the sky seemed to choke under the weight of mankind's relentless ascent.

He went into the bathroom, relieved himself, brushed his teeth, and took a cold shower. Having been gone for so long, his utility bills were left unpaid; there was no hot water or electricity—a problem he would have to solve eventually.

Overnight, his apartment had transformed, becoming almost spotless. The stubborn grime, dirt, and layers of dust were cleared away. The stack of unwashed dishes had vanished, and the sink gleamed immaculate, sparkling under the dim light. The scattered books on Zeke's desk were now neatly arranged, organized by topic, each lined up according to importance. To others, such a transformation might have seemed extraordinary, but to Zeke, it was perfectly natural.

He tried on different outfits, most of which no longer fit his now muscular frame. Eventually, he settled on an old tracksuit that could stretch far enough to accommodate his body—clothes his mother had bought for him, anticipating the day he would grow into them.

"To think I would outgrow it so quickly," he thought, gently gripping the fabric.

Suddenly, Zeke heard strange noises coming from the apartment next door. At times, it sounded like two people arguing; at others, it resembled a series of loud bangs. The commotion grew increasingly louder until, finally, it became so unbearable that it drove Zeke out of his home. The walls seemed thinner than ever, barely containing the chaos within.

"I might as well get registered; maybe it'll be gone by then," he thought to himself, putting on his shoes and stepping out.

As he entered the corridor, the racket continued to echo. Zeke glanced to his left, closely inspecting the door of the apartment from which the noise originated. The metallic door quivered under the assault of sound, every bang resonating through worn-out hinges. He watched it vibrate and shake, the muffled voices of two people arguing seeping through.

Zeke entered the elevator, whistling a hauntingly familiar tune as he descended—a childish melody etched into his subconscious since he left the Undercity. It served as a reminder of the time he spent there, of all the suffering he endured while serving as the guardian of District 7. The melody echoed softly against the elevator's metallic walls, each note stirring memories best left buried.

Stepping outside, Zeke experienced the bright sun and the biting cold for the first time in a long while—a sensation that gnawed at the exposed skin of his face. His cheeks grew numb and powdery, his lips chapping as he inhaled the thick smog hanging over the streets. The frigid air nipped at him, the sun's glare piercing yet cold. The smog clung to his lungs, each breath heavy with the city's industrial breath.

He took the monorail to a public testing center, a facility designed solely for studying and registering contractors. The monorail zipped through the city's labyrinth, delivering Zeke to the testing center—a monolithic structure once conceived by the Knights organization as a beacon of innovation. Now repurposed, it stood as a testament to their dominion, its sterile walls echoing with bureaucratic efficiency.

The building loomed ahead, an architectural marvel resembling shattered eggshells frozen mid-explosion. Its white exterior housed a vast open hall lit with blue LED stripes lining the spherical shapes that made up the ceiling. Underneath the fractured vault, the weight of expectation pressed down like the shattered sky itself.

Zeke stepped into the maelstrom of ambition, the air thick with the hum of voices. Recruiters circled like predators, eyeing potential recruits among the sea of hopeful faces. He approached the reception area, a row of desks staffed by clerks.

"Hello, I would like to have my contract registered," Zeke said with a smile.

Before him stood a woman with short black hair, a tanned complexion, and bright-red lips.

"Hello," she replied. "Could I please have your name and occupation?" She looked over to her monitor.

"My name is Zeke Ventrew, a student with the status of bud within the Royal Babel Academy," he replied, his mouth smiling while his eyes radiated a cold emotion.

"I see," she said, starting to type on her keyboard. "It says here that you've been absent for quite some time, and your status as a student has been put on hold."

"You see, I was taken in by Knights Unit 22 as a provisional recruit because of my ability to analyze and adapt to demonic threats. There, I was taught how to handle a weapon, and additionally, I was able to receive a contract during one of our operations," Zeke explained.

"That's fine, but why didn't you just register within the Unit headquarters?" the receptionist asked.

"They said it was more convenient if I did it here because I could also apply to become a trainee of a different squad," Zeke smirked.

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The receptionist sighed. "Those knights, always pushing their work down on us." She stopped typing. "So, what type of contractor are you?"

"A Dullahan," Zeke replied.

"Oh?" she scoffed. "And what squad do you want to apply for?" she wondered, her hand placed thoughtfully in front of her face.

"Squad X," Zeke sighed.

"Squad X?!" she exclaimed in surprise. "I'm sorry, but Dullahans are known as being extremely weak contractors that are barely even able to use magic. I doubt that you would be able to join any non-support or cleanup-oriented team."

"Well, you have yet to evaluate my magic," Zeke smirked.

The receptionist sighed. "Fine, show me what you can do." She leaned back, crossing her arms and legs.

Suddenly, Zeke slammed the palm of his hand on the table in front of her, forcing a black smoke to erupt around his hand. A series of blades protruded from the table, each forming into a perfect spear tip.

The woman's jaw dropped.

"How did you do that?" she wondered.

"Well, Dullahans are demons able to manifest and mold parts of their bodies into weapons. All I did was turn my blood into smoke and then that smoke into iron shaped like spears," Zeke explained.

The woman listened attentively, taking notes and sketching something on her pad.

"And how many times can you use this magic?" she asked, a glimmer in her eyes.

"Well, so far I can do this about three times until my mana is completely depleted. Each time, I can create about twelve full-sized spears, and my range is about three meters," Zeke explained.

"Amazing!" the woman remarked. "You are the first Dullahan contractor in history to be able to do something like that. Taking into account the fact that you only received your contract recently, I'm sure you'll be able to develop this skill further with additional training."

"So what do you think? Will this be enough to get into Squad X?" Zeke asked with a slight smirk.

"Hmmm," she thought. "Well, Squad X is notoriously hard to join. But considering the team leader is an oddball with a taste for oddities, I'm sure he'll at least let you take the exam." She paused. "You know what? He comes by quite often as of late, so the next time I see him, I'll put in a word for you." She giggled.

"Her tone sure changed the moment she learned I was special. How vile," Zeke thought to himself. "Sure, I'd appreciate that," he smiled coldly.

"Superficial niceties—a disgusting outlook that is merely looking for those who could benefit her. As long as she is able to bring a special recruit to Squad X, she is sure to get promoted. Had I been a regular person, I would have been treated like an insignificant insect," Zeke mused. "The way she acts—does it stem from her lack of understanding, or is it simply a microcosm of this fucked-up world we live in? Either way, just like most people, she will use me to her advantage for as long as it benefits her, and the moment it no longer does, she will disregard me like a piece of trash. And there is nothing I can do about it... right now." He grinned, smiling sincerely for the first time while bidding the receptionist goodbye. "I'll see just how far she'll come with that thinking of hers, but what will happen when that strength turns its favor away from you?"

"Melinda Russels," Zeke muttered as he walked away. "What a beautiful name."

Zeke once again took the monorail, traveling to the shopping district. There, he bought himself new clothes: six shirts—three with short sleeves and three with long—as well as three pairs of pants in different colors: black, blue, and white. This was his method for shopping. After all, he wouldn't need many outfits since most of his time would be spent wearing an academy uniform.

"Speaking of which, I wonder how he's doing? He did say he'd figure things out without me," Zeke pondered.

After finishing shopping for clothes, Zeke took another monorail, this time closer to home.

There was a large grocery store located not far from his apartment—a vast, centralized food storage with hundreds of shelves holding food, medical, and household necessities. Most products belonged to a single brand, manufactured by one of the five mega-corporations. The area housing medical supplies was well-guarded, surrounded by armed men watching carefully over anyone entering the area. Because medicine was so hard to produce, its value had grown far out of proportion. Additionally, because contractors had no use for it, it could easily be monopolized.

Zeke entered the large, white, well-ventilated hall that at first glance appeared like a warehouse. A certain sense of nostalgia filled his heart as he remembered the times he and his mother used to go out for food. Back then, he was so excited, waiting to show his father what the two of them had bought. The many monotone cans stacked on top of each other appeared so unique and interesting. The narrow selection of products seemed vast and limitless, and the bland packaging, combined with the bends of the metallic cans, seemed intricate beyond belief.

However, now, the magic had all but evaporated. Zeke saw this store for what it was—a sterile warehouse profiting from those in need.

He bought as much food as he could carry, bringing it along in two plastic bags.

As he returned home, the loud sound that was previously echoing throughout the halls was long gone. Instead, standing right outside his door, Zeke could hear two voices arguing inside.

"Well, isn't this interesting," he smirked, opening the door to his apartment.

Inside, he saw two men playing cards and bickering with each other. The first man was tall and skinny, sporting a loose vest and a yellow mohawk. The second man was large and overweight, wearing bright blue shorts and a flashy shirt, his brown hair tied in a man-bun behind his back.

"Who's this?" the mohawk wondered.

"I'm not sure," man-bun replied.

"Hey, who are you, and what are you doing in our house?" mohawk asked, visibly aggravated.

"I was just about to ask you the same thing," Zeke calmly placed his groceries onto the countertop in the kitchen. "What are you doing in my house?"

"This is our house!" mohawk exclaimed.

"We found it first! It didn't belong to no one," man-bun added.

Zeke sighed.

"So, how did you get in here anyway?" he asked.

"We climbed in through the window," man-bun explained.

"And you didn't notice how clean the place became all of a sudden?" Zeke smirked.

"Now that you mention it, this place does seem kind of different," man-bun grabbed his chin in thought.

"Listen, kid!" mohawk stood up. "I think it's best you get out of here. I'll have you know I'm a contractor, a real strong one at that."

"A contractor!" Zeke laughed. "Yes, I'm sure you are," he paused. "Then how about it? Care for a tussle?" He spread his arms, and in the blink of an eye, the room became filled with a pitch-black aura.

Mohawk's knees started shaking, unable to withstand the pressure emanating from the boy. He could feel his heart beating faster and faster, droplets of sweat gathering on his forehead—a deadly premonition of a seemingly fatal error in his judgment.

"Say, are those cards?" Zeke asked, pointing toward the ground.

"Y-yes, why do you ask?" mohawk stammered.

"Care if I join you for a game?" Zeke asked with a devilishly devious smile.

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