The bus rolled to a smooth stop in front of the Ohio Zone G Hero Center.
It looked… almost surreal.
Part government facility, part mall, the building gleamed under the sun like a monument to progress.
Wide glass panels stretched from ground to sky, refracting colored light onto the pavement.
Too clean, too perfect—like a commercial for utopia.
Out front, there was even a park. Neatly trimmed grass, fountains, sculptures of famous heroes mid-pose. Families laughed together. Children ran around in little plastic capes, imitating their favorite idols.
This was one of the most secure zones in the state. No gates ever opened here. Not without being shut down in seconds.
The Hero Center was where power met public image. A place where government regulations, military oversight, private business, and everyday citizens all came together under one polished roof.
Some people walked by in colorful armored suits, helmets gleaming like chrome dragons. Others wore casual shirts, hoodies, or businesswear.
Once inside, I followed the signage and picked up a waiting slip from the registration desk.
Testing Queue: Hero Evaluation — Basic Tier.
There were three types of tests offered here.
The first was the standard scan—quick and cheap. All you had to do was let them read your [Aura]. The system would automatically assign you a level based on your awakened power and register you accordingly.
Level 1–10? That's E-Rank.
11–20? D-Rank.
21–50? C-Rank.
Anything beyond that? It wasn't just level—it was about mission history, achievement, survivability.
The kind of experience that took years, connections, and a whole lot of luck to accumulate.
But the scan? It was free your first time. So anyone with a System—or even the hope of having one—came to try their luck.
Of course, the delusional types were rare.
Most people who walked through these doors knew they had power. Nobody wanted to walk in, stare into a scanner, and get told they were still just... normal.
But it still happened.
Because here's the thing: even if you've awakened, you can't see your level until you're registered.
For some reason, the system keeps that hidden until the official reading.
That mystery kept hope alive. People came in, praying for a miracle. Dreaming of a hidden talent. A "double awakening."
So far? No such thing had ever happened.
The second option was a full performance analysis. It cost money—a lot of it—because it meant specialized assessments: strength tests, combat simulations, mental profiling, power interaction studies. It was comprehensive and invasive.
Sometimes, a select few were granted free access, usually by invitation or sponsorship.
But for most people? It wasn't worth the price tag.
Sure, it helped the government "better understand" your capabilities. But let's be real—you lived in their world. You gave them your data. What they did with it wasn't up to you.
The third and final test was the most extreme.
Practical Combat Evaluation.
You chose a rank you wanted to challenge. The government assigned you a hero of that rank, and you had to fight. Win or draw—you passed. Simple.
But the catch?
The government picked who you fought.
And the government could assign anyone—your worst possible matchup, a literal monster, someone way above your level. And they were under no obligation to go easy on you.
Most people didn't take that option unless they were dead sure they could handle it.
I wasn't one of those people.
So I waited.
The line moved slowly. One by one, people disappeared into the scanning room. Some came out smiling, phones already buzzing. Others walked out stone-faced, disappointed, quietly reassessing their entire life.
For many, this was the moment. The line between "keep working your day job" and "quit everything to become a hero."
Because having a system wasn't enough.
Leveling up took time, money, and serious risk.
People weren't stupid. Just because they had powers didn't mean they'd trade a stable career in finance or tech for fighting monsters in unstable Gates.
Hero work was dangerous, political, and often… fatal.
But now that I thought about it…
[Level: 1]
I already knew mine.
"How…?"
That was all I could think. How did I already know my level? Most people had no clue until their official scan. But there was no time to chase answers—my number got called.
I walked into the testing room.
It was small, simple. The walls were lined with quiet humming machines. At the center stood a large metallic pedestal with a glowing orb hovering above it like a summoned artifact from a sci-fi game. A faint energy pulsed from it, steady and warm.
Behind a desk, an older woman sat, looking like she'd done this a thousand times. She didn't even glance up from her tablet.
"Hand on the orb. Hold it there until it buzzes."
I followed her instructions without a word, placing my palm against the smooth, glassy surface. For a moment, nothing happened.
Then—BOOM.
A deep rumble shook the floor. Somewhere above, a massive industrial fan kicked in, roaring like a turbine engine. The lights flickered once.
I glanced around, wide-eyed. "Uh—"
"Power surge," the old lady muttered, barely reacting. Her voice was flat, tired. "Someone must've used electricity in public again. Idiots…"
She sighed deeply and tapped on her screen. A moment later, a small card printed from the wall slot beside her.
"Here." She handed it to me. "Don't lose it. It's like your Hero Social Number now—ID, login credential, track record. Everything goes on this."
I looked at the card. It had my name. My registration number. My rank.
[Rank: E]
Only heroes ranked C and above got to register a public "Hero Name." For now, I was just John. Nothing more. Nothing less.
"Next!" the old woman called out, already turning her eyes to the next in line.
I stepped aside as another person entered. Just another name, just another rookie. I didn't matter to her. I probably didn't matter to anyone in this place yet.
But I didn't care.
Because I was holding my official badge. A real one.
That meant I was eligible.
Eligible to join official missions. To fight in gates. To climb the ranks.
I stepped into the registration zone, and with every step, I walked faster—barely able to contain my excitement.
This was it.
A room full of heroes. Contracts. Missions. Power.
But when I got there, it was… empty.
Well, of course it was. These days, most heroes signed up for missions online through the League's app. Only the old-school types still used the physical board.
This place mostly acted as a public-facing hub—open all week, but only really busy on weekends or evenings.
Middle of the day like this? It was a ghost town.
Still, I walked over to the mission board, checking the screens one by one.
Some gates had no data. Just coordinates, a date, and a danger tag. Unknown threat. No survivor report. Those? I wasn't touching them.
But a few had reports—logs from previous hero teams who entered, scouted, and retreated. Information was everything.
Eventually, I found one I could handle.
[Gate Mission: Zone F-12, Rank E Recommended]
Known Threat: Spinehounds – fast, bone-armored canine beasts. Sensitive to loud sound. Hunt in packs.
Party Recommended Size: 4
Current Participants: 3.
Not only was the enemy identified and manageable, but the team was nearly full. With three other people, I could stick to support, learn the ropes.
Besides… I didn't have any equipment. No armor. No weapon. Nothing.
But you know why I'm still going?
Because I tanked a goddamn bus.