In the gray breath of an unremarkable morning, beneath skies that had long since lost their warmth, a city's slums lay cloaked in the weary silence of survival.

The narrow alleys were lined with sagging shacks of corrugated iron and patched wood, roofs bowed under the weight of years and dust.

But at the heart of this forgotten quarter stood something that did not belong.

A building—massive, ancient, rising from the filth and rubble like a monument to another age.

Its stone walls were darkened not by soot, but by centuries, the architecture too proud to have been born here.

The arched windows were veiled in grime, yet behind them faint flickers of light hinted at life within. It loomed like a slumbering giant among beggars, its shadow swallowing the cramped streets around it.

Inside, deep in one of its many cavernous chambers, two silhouettes stood facing each other across a long, battered table strewn with maps, talismans, and half-burned candles.

Their voices were low at first, but the weight in them was unmistakable.

"The barrier…" the first said, his tone grim, "it's cracking faster than we calculated. The sigils the fallen angels placed… they're failing. One by one. And without them—"

"The gates will open wide," the second finished, his voice hoarse, "and Hell will spill freely into the mortal plane."

A heavy silence followed, the only sound the faint groaning of the old building as if it too was listening.

They spoke again, their words flowing faster now, more desperate, each sentence heavier than the last.

The fallen angels' barrier had been humanity's last defense, an ancient wall of cursed energy laced into the very bones of the world. But the years had eroded it. Corruption gnawed at its foundations, and cracks spidered wider with every passing week.

Already the rural edges of the world were no longer safe—entire villages swallowed in the night, their inhabitants twisted into grotesque horrors.

The sorcerer academies had sent their students into the fray—dozens, then hundreds—but the tide of enemies only swelled in response.

"It's not just the gates," the first shadow murmured, almost to himself. "It's what's coming through. Demonoids. More and more every day. Born from human sin itself. We kill them, they return. We exorcise them, they split into two. They… they breed in blood and misery."

The other shook his head sharply, pacing the length of the table. "And each is worse than the last. Their power—it's not supposed to grow like this. The oldest texts say nothing of Demonoids evolving."

"That's because the oldest texts never imagined humanity falling this far," the first replied bitterly. "We've reached an era where greed, envy, wrath—every foul vice—burns stronger than virtue. The Demonoids are feeding on the sins of billions. No seal will hold them forever."

The two men sank deeper into their conversation, their voices weaving a tapestry of despair.

They spoke of battlefields drowned in screaming shadows, of cursed storms that swept across farmlands and left only bone.

They spoke of the sorcerer students they had sent—bright, young, untested—and how even the strongest among them often failed to return.

The few survivors came back broken, eyes hollow, their cursed energy burned to embers.

They spoke of the world's slow collapse. How cities had begun closing their gates at dusk, not to keep people out, but to keep something in.

How the very air in some regions had grown thick with whispers, luring men and women into the dark where they were never seen again.

"We don't have enough manpower," the second said finally, pressing a hand to his temple. "Not in the academies, not in the militias, not anywhere. Every day Hell swallows another piece of the world."

A long pause followed.

"…We'll need more help," the first said at last, the words heavy with reluctant acceptance.

"From the government?"

"Yes. And…" The first figure hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if the thought itself was dangerous. "…from the strongest families."

The second man met his gaze, both of them knowing what that meant—alliances with powers too dangerous to be trusted, ancient houses whose loyalty came with a cost no one wanted to pay.

…

Outside, under the pale light of morning, a lone figure stood at the base of the colossal building. Vonjo. He tilted his head back, taking in its towering form, and a smile spread across his face.

"Finally," he said warmly, almost to himself. "I'm here."

His eyes beneath the headband he is wearing traced the ancient stonework, the weathered carvings, the subtle aura of power that still clung to the place.

It was exactly as he'd imagined it—the same as in the stories he'd read. He chuckled under his breath, murmuring praise to the building as though it could hear him.

Strange figures passed him, robed and muttering in tongues not meant for mortal ears.

He watched them file toward the great doors, noting the solemn way they moved, the weight in their posture.

"This will be my safe place," Vonjo decided with an easy grin. "The main character's here—Eugene. If I stick close to him, I'll be fine."

His tone grew almost giddy as he spoke to himself. "Three powerful Dooms… Crimson Doom, Cerulean Doom, Ultraviolet Doom. All the three of them. All deadly. To use them, I need to be right here. In the presence of the protagonist."

With that, he strode toward the entrance.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, darkness slammed down over him—thick, suffocating, absolute.

It was as though the entire building had swallowed him whole, cutting him off from light, sound, air.

Then, just as suddenly, the darkness was gone, dissolving into the mundane warmth of the entry hall. He blinked once, shrugged, and continued inside as if nothing had happened.

…

Far deeper within, in a chamber lined with books and old maps, the two shadows had resumed their discussion.

This time their words were softer, less desperate, as they studied a list in front of them.

"The new year's students…" one murmured. "Remarkable group this time. We've been given strength we haven't seen in decades."

They began naming them—four in total. Each name came with reverent praise, their abilities described in detail.

One had bloodline mastery over fractured curse mirrors, able to reflect any cursed technique but at the cost of slowly shattering themselves.

Another wielded the Bone Choir—a legion of skeletal familiars whose song could paralyze both body and soul.

The third bore the Venom Veins, blood so toxic it dissolved cursed constructs on contact.

The fourth controlled the Living Storm, a technique that bent wind and lightning into razor precision.

Their danger levels, even as first-years, ranged from five to eight—levels that many professional sorcerers few reached in their lifetimes.

They lingered on each one's fallen curse energy lineage, discussing the legends behind their abilities, the ancient battles their ancestors had fought, the curses they'd carried for generations.

Each student was dangerous, powerful, and rare.

But when they reached the fifth name, their tone shifted.

"Eugene."

They both leaned back slightly.

"His curse energy is… simple," one said slowly. "Nothing extravagant. No elemental mastery. No grand displays."

"He fights like a medieval knight," the other continued. "Sword and shield. No flair. Just technique."

They exchanged a glance.

"When we tested him…" The first man hesitated, his voice dropping. "…he moved like a veteran. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Every strike was aimed to kill. That isn't the behavior of a boy with no combat history."

"No," the second agreed. "That's a man who's fought wars."

They fell silent for a heartbeat.

And then—without warning—an incredible chill bled into the air.

It was not the cold of weather, but the cold of something wrong, something ancient brushing against their senses.

Both men froze.

Their breath clouded in front of them. Slowly, they turned to face each other, eyes wide.

No words were needed.

They both rose to their feet.