Tue. 19 July 2985. 06:01 PM.
@onetimeview.mail.com…
Subject: Recognition/Summoning
"Congratulations, Morca Sherman. A First-Rated College graduate. Son of the great Claudius Sherman. Highly compatible Pathbearer. As expected of the Sherman lineage.
A son of the Shermans should never wish to live a peaceful, comfortable, and cozy lifestyle like those of humble backgrounds. Never! For the blood of the Shermans cannot be left wandering in mediocrity outside the lineage. It is time to recognize your roots, Morca Sherman.
Within 48 hours, you must report to the address below:
Slot 05, Lagold Street, first block, left lane, Classicalson Bookshop, Fort Winscalsy, Northelia Evoslon Mainland.
Failure to report to the above address within the given time frame will result in immediate, extreme measures."
Yours Fortune,
Grand Dorkard Sherman
-----
"What is this? How could this have escaped my notice, not just for a day, but two?"
"If this is true, then, I have less than an hour to report to the address, or..."
An anxious Morca groaned silently, his crimson eyes burning holes to the glowing white screen displaying the message.
Short as the mail appeared, it sounded like a summoning bell echoing in Morca's heart.
'I must get home as soon as possible before nightfall.'
In that instant, he had a feeling that the mail was anything but ordinary—especially since it bore both his name and his father's full name. Yet, even if the letter was real, the thought of actually going to the described address didn't cross his mind.
Unbeknownst to him, his reflection in the glass door of the train station exit flinched as he read. Its mouth moved, whispering something incomprehensible.
At the same time, the faint shadow cast across the polished floor shifted in an awkward, unnatural way.
Suddenly, everything around Morca crumbled. The world vanished from his awareness, his thoughts freezing instantly, like a mind colliding with an iceberg.
It all happened in a split second, so quickly that Morca failed to notice anything strange. To him, it felt like nothing more than a fleeting headache.
Honk—Honk.
Beep.
Ring—Ring.
The train station hall rushed back, bustling with noise: the sound of distant vehicle horns, rolling suitcase wheels against polished tile floors, and mechanical beeping. Combined, the din made it difficult to pick out any particular conversation, much less notice the lone figure of Morca muttering to himself near the exit walkway.
Couples held hands, chatting and laughing as they walked past the platform adjacent to the train tracks.
The walls were made of transparent glass layered with brick and silver metal. A long bench sat at the corner of the platform, designed for passengers either waiting to board the next train or relaxing while awaiting expected guests.
"The next train arrives in about five minutes. Why don't we sit and chat for a bit? Who knows when we'll meet again after this inevitable long separation?" Lucian suggested. He is one of the two youths who had just joined the absent-minded Morca standing rooted at the hall exit.
Meanwhile, Lucian's phone screen lit up, displaying the time, date, and weather forecast of the city:
5:29 PM
Thur. 21 July 2985
Fort Winscalsy Weather:
Clear Skies, 72°F (27°C)
Together, the three youths walked past the hall exit doors and toward the bench. Their ages ranged about the same, estimated between fourteen and fifteen years.
'I must not let them notice that something is amiss. Otherwise, my troubles might double.'
Now leading the group from the front was the slightly taller Morca, his pale face and unfocused crimson eyes rolling in their sockets as they searched through the surrounding beyond the platform. His styled black hair nearly touched his shoulders, a few loose strands falling over his face and swaying slightly with every subtle movement of the soft breeze.
He was dressed in a white, short-sleeved shirt that matched those of the two boys beside him. His inexpensive jeans bore the same tone as his grayish-black cross-bag and sneakers he is wearing.
Morca, a new high school graduate on his way back from a graduation banquet with his classmate and friend, was having the worst day of his life.
Today was supposed to be one of his happiest moments. He had topped his class with the highest grade ever recorded at Tyndaland Republic Elite school. However, a single email had stolen that joy, thrusting him into an internal turmoil that he was desperately trying to mask.
'Thirty minutes… sanity. Thirty minutes… death. Thirty minutes… unknown consequences.' The thoughts crawl to his mind like a devil's whisper.
With fractured thoughts, Morca tried to bury his anxiety deep within.
'No! I must remain calm.'
'Father once said, "Worrying is not an option in tough situations. A wise gentleman stays calm to brave through obstacles. Otherwise, what difference is there between him and the cowards who believe worrying helps?"I need to think of a way to verify whether the mail is real or spam.'
The memory of his father's words cooled his mind slightly, but he still couldn't fully relax. His fist clenched tightly around his smartphone. As only one thought settled within him:
'Board the train and rush home as quickly as possible!'
However, would the unknown sender grant him the luxury of time? Probably not. Not when it was boldly stated that failure to report within 48 hours would result in "extreme measures." He was only thirty minutes away from the countdown.
Although Morca still harbored doubts concerning the email, he knew better than to discard it as spam. To validate it, he had to get home immediately to confront his father, whose knowledge seemed endless. This is because, everything pointed in one direction—lineage—which was closely tied to his genes. His parents were the ones most likely to know the truth.
"Wait! I still—" In his daze, Morca almost screamed impulsively, but the words refused to voice out, as if something dangerous lurking in the shadows restricted him from speaking.
"Huh?"
The two boys walking beside him cast puzzled looks his way.
"It's nothing. I was just rambling to myself about something I remembered," he said, forcing a smile.
The two youths looked at Morca, then at each other. They noticed something unusual about his behavior but couldn't pinpoint it. Assuming he was simply anxious about his future university choices, they didn't press further. Yet, a single thought shared between them:
'Weirdo.'
What they didn't know was that Morca wasn't just worrying about the mail itself, but the contents that had already been replaced by a red, glowing countdown at the center of the white screen, ticking down every second.
Morca glanced at the screen, agitated.
'I only have twenty-eight minutes remaining. That's just enough time to get home if the next train arrives in four minutes.' He heaved a forceful sigh of relief when he saw that he still had a narrow window before the countdown hit zero.
Though that would only be possible if the train to Magoria arrived on time.
'But how? I always check my mail morning and night—even this morning before leaving home, and again on the train. I even turned on lock screen notifications display. How the hell did I fail to see this particular mail?'
He wondered, how could he have skipped something this important—something that could endanger his life—for two days straight.
Then, he remembered when he had first noticed the strange message:
-----
Earlier today, Morca had been the focal point of the banquet hall. Having achieved the first major milestone toward his goal, he had been exhilarated, his heart filled with joy. Yet, right as he stepped down from the podium after delivering his valedictorian speech, a peculiar notification had caught his eye.
It was an anonymous email sent two days prior—one he had entirely overlooked. Distracted by the crowd and unwilling to appear rude or arrogant in public, he had dismissed it.
It was only when they arrived at the train station ticket hall that the memory of the message resurfaced.
And that simple delay had brought him to his present predicament.
-----
To Morca's right, Lucian slid his smartphone into the pocket of his navy-blue chino shorts. His short, gray hair was neatly styled to the side, and his deep blue eyes lent a unique charm to his quiet presence.
The other youth, standing to Morca's left, favored a far more formal attire: a pair of black loafers, matching trousers fastened with a dark leather belt, and a white, long-sleeved shirt with the top button casually undone to reveal his chest. His gray, cat-like eyes held a lazy yet intensely ambitious look. A crisp black hat sat perfectly on his head.
"Yeah, Lucian," Oscar teased, his gray eyes locking onto Morca. "That's especially true for the Brainbox. With a historic high school grade like his, he'll be cruising into one of the five prestigious universities on the Central Mainland in no time." He gestured toward their quiet friend. "I bet the admissions boards are practically tearing his applications apart fighting over him. Man, I really envy you."
Beneath the teasing, a genuine trace of pride colored Oscar's tone. He was thoroughly impressed by his classmate's academic performance.
'I wish you well, friend,' Oscar thought, immersing himself in a brief fantasy. 'Who knows? I might just be brushing shoulders with a world-prominent historian in the future.'
Neither Oscar nor Lucian was boarding the train with Morca; they had tagged along purely to see him off. Lucian had a rental appointment in Fort Winscalsy near the school, while Oscar's private driver was scheduled to arrive shortly. Morca, however, lived with his parents in the neighboring city of Magoria—a thirty-minute drive in heavy traffic, but a mere fifteen-minute transit via the railway lines from Fort Winscalsy.
Among the three, Oscar was the most fiercely ambitious, born into a wealthy, influential family. He had befriended Morca much later than Lucian, who had been Morca's companion since their very first class. Before their group solidified, Oscar had proudly declared Morca his ultimate rival. But after three terms of unrelenting academic competition, Oscar had begrudgingly admitted his inferiority—albeit with a self-serving caveat.
He claimed Morca was simply a fraction more intelligent than he was.
Yet, as time passed and his understanding of Morca deepened, Oscar realized the truth: when it came to comprehensive knowledge, Morca was an absolute cheat code among his peers. A freak of nature. Eventually, the nickname 'Brainbox' had stuck.
Lucian, on the other hand, possessed a different kind of competitive spirit—dormant, like a watchdog waiting for a reason to snap.
'One of the five prestigious universities, you say?' Lucian thought, a cynical half-scoff pulling at the corner of his mind. 'I doubt they realize those top three institutions aren't meant for ordinary citizens like us. Even with Morca's exaggerated grades, those hidden boards won't even flinch.'
"You know, sometimes I wonder how you and Morca even manage to study," Lucian said aloud, his deep blue eyes shifting between his friends. "Unlike poor me, who completely loses focus or face-plants into a pillow the second I open a textbook."
"Maybe because you lack basic commitment, or you don't prepare your environment properly," Oscar chortled, thoroughly amused by his own elite advice.
He wasn't entirely wrong.
While the two bickered, Morca offered little to the conversation, leading the way toward a nearby bench. Every few paces, his head tilted over his shoulder, his razor-sharp crimson gaze scanning the crowds before drifting back to the static countdown on his screen.
Once they took their seats, Lucian turned his attention back to the black-haired youth. "Dude, if you actually had your pick, which of the five prestigious universities would you choose? Evoslon Domineer Academy, the School of Mysticism Wonders, Nexus Steam Institution, Oxfordshire University, or Aegis University?"
Oscar leaned forward, equally eager for the response.
They knew Morca all too well. Usually, he had a polished excuse ready to evade the topic, offering generic replies like: 'That is for my future evaluations to decide,' or 'My choice of university doesn't matter. All I want is a peaceful, comfortable academic life.'
But now that he had officially conquered the class ranking, they expected a real answer. Oscar was particularly curious to see which institution would inherit the freak. There was also a hidden, calculated motive behind his curiosity.
Perhaps distracted by the chaotic storm in his head, Morca replied without his usual careful filtering. "Well... I think either of the latter two universities would suffice. I'd prefer to avoid the first three schools; their admission requirements are too strange. Honestly, even a standard major university would do. Either way, I can still achieve my dream of becoming a historian. If I absolutely had to choose, I'd go to..."
His voice rose slightly higher than usual, laced with an unfamiliar sharpness. Noticing his own slip, he abruptly cut himself off, forcing a calm expression to mask his rising panic.
"...Well, it's not important."
Oscar's gray eyes flashed with sudden enthusiasm. "Come on dude, you should aim for the School of Mysticism Wonders. I heard its history dates back to the ancient, forgotten eras. They say its foundational roots run even deeper than Evoslon Domineer Academy, the top-ranked school. For a guy obsessed with history, it's a literal paradise. I would've taken their entrance exams myself if my old man hadn't already mapped out my entire future."
Morca remained silent, his features settling into a solemn mask.
'If Morca gets into the School of Mysticism Wonders,' Oscar calculated silently, 'I can use his acceptance to convince my old man to let me take the Evoslon Domineer Academy exam. That way, I'll stay one step ahead of him.'
To Oscar, a wealthy scion, enrollment into any of those three mysterious, top-tier academies meant a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. An institution capable of altering reality itself, transforming misfortune into the extraordinary.
"If I had to guess, Oxfordshire and Aegis University will probably be dropping admission offers in your mailbox before you even step off the train tonight," Lucian's voice broke Oscar's train of thought.
"What about you, Lucian?" Oscar asked, adjusting his hat. "Which university are you planning to grace with your presence?"
"Me? I don't have plans for university," the blue-eyed youth replied smoothly. "I'm going to tour all of Evoslon. I want to experience the different cultures across the three continents, study mankind, analyze rare flora and fauna, and visit the ancient architectural infrastructures. Maybe after that, I'll write a book or two, like the gods of web fiction—the mysterious Author Claudius Daryl or the legendary Author Thousandfingers Lorenzo."
"That's quite an ambition, Lucian," Oscar noted.
Meanwhile, entirely detached from their dialogue, Morca stared down at his phone screen.
24:00.
Twenty-four minutes remaining.
His hearing dulled, the voices of his friends fading into a muted hum as he waited for a single, defining sound: the arrival of the transit.
Every second that ticked away felt like an eternity of clinical torture. He was still a young teenage boy, barely stepping into his youth, harboring vast ambitions for his future. Having devoured countless web serials—especially with a father who was a serialized web fiction author—he couldn't help but judge his current situation. It felt like the textbook initial symptoms of a broken protagonist.
Exactly four minutes later, the warning came.
Honk—Honk.
A refreshing, cool breeze brushed across Morca's pale face, accompanied by a vibrating gust of displaced air and the distant, mechanical rhythm of grinding iron tracks.
"Your attention, please. Good evening, passengers. The train now approaching Platform 03, Train Number D14MV12, for the Fort Winscalsy City Red Line, calling at New Watchington, Magoria, and Mazeton, will be arriving shortly. Please stand clear of the platform edge."
The distinctive blare of the train's horn and the crisp, automated announcement echoed through the transit hall and onto the outdoor platform, managing the moving crowd as the iron beast finally arrived.
At the announcement, those standing near the platform edge immediately stepped back, while passengers heading toward the listed destinations gathered their belongings, preparing to board. Morca was no exception.
He stood up, stepping forward to hug both of his friends. They exchanged their final, hurried farewells, tossing out promises to meet again in the near future.
A moment later, the space beside him emptied. Morca stood completely alone. His grip on his smartphone tightened until his knuckles cracked, then slowly loosened.
Suddenly, a sensation he had never experienced before in his life descended, weighing down heavily on his shoulders.
A cold, creepy breeze swept over his entire being, carrying an unnatural chill. His mind grew dull and heavy for a fleeting moment, as if his thoughts were being forcefully submerged in ice water.
"Huh? What's happening to me...?" Morca muttered, shivering.
"Oh… someone is stalking us."
Behind him, cast against the dark glass of the train door, his own reflection flinched independently. Its mouth moved in a smooth, eerie rhythm, whispering the warning directly into his mind.