"mhgmhgh," a man groaned as he regained consciousness.
"What happened to me, ahrgrrgg… I can't feel my arms!!!"
All four of his limbs were in casts.
"Why am I in a hospital???" he said, noticing the sterile room surrounding him.
Still confused about his situation, he finally noticed a presence in the room.
A man with his face covered—only his eyes were visible.
Two amber eyes laced with silver stared at him.
"NOOO!! GO AWAY!!!" he screamed,trying uselessly to escape.
Panic overtook his body. Cold sweat ran down his skin.
"That tattoo—who or what does it represent?" the mysterious figure ordered, covering the criminal's mouth.
"I have no intention of repeating myself."
His free hand moved to the man's chest, a hand filled with mana releasing a minimal amount of energy—just enough to shatter one of the few ribs still intact.
"mgmsgmsgsm," the outlaw whimpered.
"Who or what does it represent?" Seran pressed again.
Realizing he had no way out, he gave in.
"It's the symbol of the Vipers."
"What a banal name," the Tower thought.
"Good, now we're finally on the same page…" he said, lifting his hand from the man's torso.
"Tell me everything, and don't lie… I'll know—and you won't like what happens to you…" he added.
"We're just a group of criminals," he gasped,"taking any well-paid job. I'm just a low-level grunt who didn't have the courage to face the Trigger. Please, just leave me alone!!!"
"Who caused last month's attack?!" he asked coldly.
"Igor."
Placing his hand on one of the casted limbs—
"Tell me more about him."
"I've already said too much… they'll kill me…" he replied fearfully, trying to stall.
Seran's hand lit up with energy again.
The bones in the man's leg—carefully set by doctors—were broken once more.
A scream of pain was muffled by Seran's hand.
With defeated eyes, he signaled his willingness to speak.
"All I know is that he's a Floor 3… nothing else… please, leave me alone…" he confessed, nearly crying.
"How do you communicate with each other?"
"Outside the walls… a small outpost serves as our HQ…"
Pulling up a map of Nova Vitae's borders on his phone, Seran said:
"Show me where."
The criminal pointed at the plains west of the city.
"Now leave me alone… I won't tell anyone about this conversation…"
Confident he wouldn't be recognized—or perhaps not yet ready to take a human life—and hearing footsteps approaching the hospital room, Seran escaped through the window.
Like a cat, he leapt across rooftops, disappearing into the city.
"Igor… F3… an entire organization… I'm not ready yet…"
"How far am I willing to go… I just tortured a man… I feel filthy…" he muttered, partly disgusted with himself.
Back in his apartment—
"I need to accelerate my saturation. If I want a chance to take down Igor, I need to become an F2…"
Pacing back and forth,
"Tomorrow's raid will pay well, but I'll need to take more contracts… or increase my expeditions if I want to reach the next Floor quickly…"
Driven by vengeance and a sense of inadequacy, he kept thinking.
The afternoon arrived.
Having calmed down, he began preparing his equipment for the next day.
"I need flares, torches, a supply of grenades for emergencies, and first-aid injections."
After checking his inventory, he headed to Tower supply stores and got what he needed.
Back home, after his usual mana saturation and manipulation session, he trained with his swords.
He continued until his arms could no longer move—as if punishing himself for not being strong enough.
And one thing kept driving him insane:
"What is my affinity? Why hasn't it manifested clearly yet?"
He knew that until he mastered it, he would remain a "half" F1.
"Everyone shoots fire and lightning, others create tsunamis with their hands… and I can just see things in slow motion at random?"
Between strikes, he kept thinking.
He swung again and again.
"I always feel late… always rushing… others move forward, and I'm always behind…"
Sweat soaked his training suit.
Frustration and anxiety pushed him onward.
"What if what happened to Regis happens to my mom or dad? I wouldn't be able to protect them…"
His strikes lost all form—now driven only by emotion.
He continued like that for another hour, until—
The room froze.
The clock on the wall stopped ticking.
His mind accelerated while the world slowed down.
"Again," he whispered, his eyes glowing silver.
He stared at the frozen clock as his thoughts raced.
And suddenly, as if the clock itself could speak, he heard within:
"TIME."
The world resumed.
"Time… the one thing I've never had control over. Always late in my life. Always arriving after, always chasing something—or someone…" he said ironically.
Approaching the clock, he took it in his hands.
"If this really is my affinity… then this world sure has a twisted sense of humor."
With that realization, silver mana flowed around his body—just like the day he became an F1.
"If before, Time, you were against me… now we'll be closer than ever…"
The next morning, at epsilon patrol block—
Six raiders were waiting for the final member.
"Who does he think he is? No respect…" said a tall, 1.95-meter man with a massive build, thinning hair, and deep brown eyes.
"Shockwave, calm down. There are still two minutes before the scheduled time," said a stunning woman, her red hair fading into sandy tips, her eyes sharp with experience.
"Dune, leave him be… you know he's old-school," said a good-looking young man with brown hair, an athletic build, and green eyes.
"You're right, Far."
Just then, footsteps drew everyone's attention.
A young man stepped forward, showing the mission contract on his phone.
"I'm LAG. I believe we're all here for this."
"You think this is the way to make us wait?! What kind of upbringing did your parents—"
Raising his wrist to eye level, Seran interrupted:
"It's 06:59. One minute early."
He smiled—but it didn't reach his eyes. A faint silver glow flickered within them.
"Pamm."
A small pebble struck Shockwave's watch, shattering it.
"Maybe you should calibrate yours… and think less about other people's parents."
The group didn't understand what had just happened.
Dune suppressed a laugh.
Far widened his eyes, stunned by the speed of the throw.
The irritated man stepped forward angrily—
But before things could escalate—
A woman in her thirties stepped in.
"Well, what a fun group," she said, her voice cold as her icy eyes.
"I'm Frost. And I'd appreciate it if we stayed focused and coordinated for this raid."
She pointed to the others.
"Introduce yourselves."
"I'm Icarus," said a well-groomed man, green accents in his hair and eyes, his gear both efficient and stylish.
"And I'm River," said the last member, cheerful, with a relaxed posture and a faint smile.
"It's 07:00. We'll reach the southeast caves in 35 minutes. There we'll meet the client. Once contact is established, the operation begins," Frost briefed them.
And they set off.
Seran walked at the back of the group, his gaze fixed on his companions' backs.
Suddenly, a thin trail of blood ran down his face.
Touching his nose, he kept going…