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This is Unrelated.

Before you dive in, I want to share that my Webnovel contract application was rejected. I was aiming for their promotion feature and, yeah, the money too—bummer! But I'm not stopping. I'll keep writing, and I'm grateful for your support. Much respect to you all—enjoy the chapter!

Two days ago, Ariel had pleaded with the Primordials in a hushed, urgent whisper as they stood amidst the rubble-strewn school grounds. "Please, don't tell the media or anyone about big brother Zane. He doesn't like getting attention," she'd begged, her blue eyes blazing with fierce determination, her golden hair still tangled with dirt from the battle, her torn dress fluttering in the wind. The Primordials exchanged uneasy looks. They all nodded, a silent pact to keep Zane's existence hidden. None wanted to cross a man who'd torn through Elite Geminis like paper, even though he was unawakened.

Humanity, ever resilient, was already moving forward. The Tutorial's end had left the world in chaos, but with two months until the mysterious Tower of Rankers, people scrambled to prepare. In the fortified Zones—high-tech strongholds of the elite—scientists and engineers swarmed over the Gemini corpses, their inky blood stored in sealed containers, their alien bodies dissected under bright lights to uncover secrets of power or weakness. Awakeners, those gifted with the System's abilities, began organizing themselves. The System was a riddle, its purpose and origins unknown, but the new powers it granted were too dangerous to leave unchecked. Without order, cities could crumble under the weight of unchecked Awakeners, their abilities sparking conflicts that could tear the fragile world apart.

Blake Walker, President of the United States, now the world's strongest nation thanks to its Primordial, Ariel Walker and the only known Supreme Alpha, Blake Walker, stepped forward with a plan. He proposed the Awakeners Association, a global body to govern those with powers, free from political interference. It would be a neutral space, a way to regulate the chaos of the abilities of Awakeners. Leaders from shattered nations—Europe, Asia, Africa, their borders redrawn by the Tutorial's devastation—agreed, gathering to witness the birth of the largest organization in history. The ceremony was set to be a symbol of hope, a foundation for a world reborn under the System's shadow.

In a quiet hospital room, Zane lay unconscious, his white hair splayed across a crisp pillow, his face pale but calm, machines beeping steadily beside him. Doctors assured Ariel he was stable, but she refused to leave, her blue eyes locked on his face, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She hadn't eaten, hadn't slept, her torn dress replaced with a hospital dress, her resolve as unyielding as her brother's. The Primordials lingered nearby, their presence a fragile alliance, watching over both siblings as the world outside buzzed with preparations.

But inside Zane's mind, a different world unfolded. He floated in an endless void, a pitch-black expanse where no light, sound, or sensation existed. His body was weightless, bare, untethered from reality, drifting in a sea of nothingness. 'What's happening?' he thought, his voice trapped in his mind, unable to break the silence. Time stretched, minutes or years indistinguishable, until a faint orb of light, no bigger than a bottle cap, flickered into view. Another appeared, then another, their soft glow like distant beacons in the dark. A strange pull tugged at him, like gravity but softer, drawing him toward the orbs. He couldn't move, couldn't speak, his body a prisoner to the void, but his mind followed, chasing the light through the endless black.

The orbs vanished, and his feet touched solid ground, though he couldn't see it. The darkness clung to him, thick and heavy, like ink pooling around his senses. Then, larger orbs flared to life, their cold silver light casting jagged shadows across a massive temple. Its walls towered, carved with angular runes that seemed to pulse with a life of their own, their edges sharp enough to cut the air. Pillars loomed like ancient guardians, their surfaces etched with symbols that twisted under the flickering light. The temple was vast, its ceiling lost in shadow, its grandeur overwhelming yet oppressive, as if the darkness itself was a living thing, watching him. Zane's vision was limited, his body frozen, but he could sense the magnificence ahead—a structure built for gods or monsters.

A voice sliced through the silence, deep and menacing, its words not English but instantly clear, as if burned into his mind from some ancient memory. It spoke in a cold dark tongue, each syllable dripping with malice, a guttural chant that echoed like a curse.

"Zha'kren vhul, quid es'tar repetis?

Kwant'thar es'vhe, vhen'tis vheint?"

(Are we doing this again? How many does that make, twenty?)

Zane's vision sharpened, revealing seven massive thrones arranged in a semicircle—three on each side, one towering above the rest at the center. Dark, humanoid figures occupied them, their forms shrouded in shadow, their outlines human but radiating a presence that dwarfed the Master's on Zoic.

The temple was a cavernous monument to dread, its towering walls and jagged pillars swallowed by an inky darkness that seemed to breathe. The cold silver light of floating orbs cast flickering shadows, illuminating runes carved into the stone—symbols that pulsed with a sinister rhythm, as if whispering secrets of a forgotten age. The air was heavy, thick with an unseen weight that pressed against Zane's chest, urging him to bow, though his body remained locked, unable to move or speak.

"Zha'kren silenth, quid es'vhe nomis? Zane Walker? Ludar es'tar Terra fragil'vhe?"

("Why is he so silent? His name is Zane Walker? A player from a weak planet called Earth?")

The voice came from the second throne on his right, sharp and mocking, as if peeling apart Zane's thoughts. The figure leaned forward, its shadowed form radiating disdain.

"Dark Disciple ludar es'tar follis, quid es'vhe nominat vheint'thar kandidar pro Dark Throne? Pathetik es'vhe!"

("The Dark Disciple is playing games, not taking this seriously. Why else would he bring such a pathetic entity and name him the twentieth candidate for the Dark Throne?")

The words slithered from the first throne on his left, dripping with scorn, the figure's silhouette shifting as if restless. Zane's thoughts churned, trapped in silence. 'Twentieth candidate for the Dark Throne? The System mentioned that after the Disciple touched my forehead. No matter how I look at it, dealing with these beings—or that bastard Disciple—will only end in my death.' His instincts screamed caution, but he was powerless, a spectator in this shadowed council.

"Es'vhe mortis simplar? Fragil es'tar, non movar, non vokar in nostra presentia. Losar es'vhe, mori'thar cito."

("Should we just kill him? Look at him—so weak he can't move or speak in our presence. No matter which angle I look at him from, he's a loser who'll die sooner rather than later.")

The second figure on his right spoke, its voice a low growl, laced with impatience. Zane's mind recoiled, his thoughts racing. 'Look at these bastards, they're judging me like I'm nothing. But I'm still here. Must be nice to sit on their asses and talk whatever crap they can think of.'

"Satis!"

("Enough!")

The central figure's voice boomed, a deep, resonant command that silenced the others instantly. The air grew heavier, the orbs' light dimming as the figure leaned forward, its shadowed form towering.

"Dark Disciple es'vhe rason pro selektar, quid es'tar origo. Non es'vhe harshar. Procedar es'vhe ritu?"

("The Dark Disciple had a reason for choosing him, no matter his origins. Let's not be harsh. Shall we proceed with the ritual?")

Zane's thoughts turned bitter, his mind screaming where his voice couldn't. "Dark Disciple, you called it a gift, but this feels like a curse. Never trust a stranger's present." He braced himself, helpless as the figures continued, their voices now deliberating with chilling detachment.

"Quid es'vhe takar? Visar, tactar, olfar, gustar, audir, vel ultima sensar? Votar es'vhe."

("Which shall we take? His sight, his touch, his smell, his taste, or his hearing. Let's vote.")

Zane's mind reeled, panic surging. 'What the hell? They're betting on my senses? This is a nightmare. Anything but sight—please, not my sight.' He couldn't move, couldn't protest, his thoughts a desperate plea as the figures deliberated. Three voted for sight, their voices cold and decisive. Two chose hearing, their tones dismissive. The final two picked touch, their words laced with amusement.

The central figure spoke again, its voice final, a blade cutting through the dark. "Es'vhe decidar. Zane Walker, visar es'tar takar. Sed, donar es'vhe specialis donum. Usar es'tar bene."

("It's decided. Zane Walker, your sight will be taken. But don't worry, I'll grant you a special gift. Use it well.")

Zane's thoughts screamed, frantic. 'Wait, no! You can't just take my sight! Don't I get a say?' But his body remained frozen, his voice trapped, as the darkness surged, swallowing the orbs' light. The temple faded, and he felt himself falling, spiraling back into the void.

***

In the hospital room, the air was sterile, the hum of machines a steady rhythm. Ariel sat by Zane's bed, her blue eyes locked on his pale face, her golden hair tied back, her hands clasped tightly. She hadn't eaten or slept, her resolve unshaken despite the doctors' assurances that Zane was stable, his Alpha Awakening merely taxing his system. The Primordials lingered nearby, their alliance holding, though their unease was palpable.

Valmer stepped forward, his voice gentle, his sable-rose eyes filled with concern. "Ariel, please, eat something. Your brother wouldn't want you starving yourself."

Ariel shook her head, her blue eyes firm. "I'm fine. Don't worry about me." Her voice was steady, her strength a quiet fire.

Then Zane stirred, his piercing eyes snapping open, wide with panic. Ariel leaned closer, her hands gripping his. "Big brother, you're awake! How do you feel?" Her voice was urgent, relief flooding her face.

Valmer slipped out to alert the others, his boots quick on the tiled floor. But Zane's gaze was unfocused, his hands reaching blindly. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice hoarse, raw with disbelief. "I really can't see."