Mornings in Silent House always looked the same, darkness, cold, and silence, which never truly signified peace.
Asher opened his eyes and simply lay there for a moment, staring at the rotting wooden planks of the ceiling. Another day. Another chance.
The air was thick with the scent of damp wood and mold. In the distance, drip, drip, drip, water seeped through the leaky roof, hitting the stone floor.
Some children slept restlessly, tossing and turning on their hard cots. One of the boys mumbled in his sleep, as if battling a nightmare. Someone else coughed, muffling the sound against a thin, tattered blanket.
Asher slowly sat up, feeling the cold air creep under his ragged clothing. The fabric was thin, torn at the elbows and knees, just like everyone else’s in the orphanage. His gaze swept across the room. Nothing had changed. The same bleak hall, the same company—people he had known forever but never considered real friends. He trusted no one. He couldn’t.
He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and stood cautiously, careful not to wake the others. Each of them had their own way of surviving, and sleep was one of the few luxuries they could afford. He stretched quietly, feeling the stiffness in his muscles.
Every morning was the same, yet today, something felt different. There was a tension in the air, like the calm before a storm.
He walked over to a small, dirty window that barely let any light through.
The city was slowly waking, and the gray sky heralded another gloomy day. In the distance, the first sounds of life echoed footsteps, crates being moved, the distant chatter of traders.
He sighed quietly and turned away. He had to start the day, just like everyone else here. Maybe today he would find something that would help him survive another week.
Maybe today he would learn something that would bring him closer to his goal - eliminating every monster that had ever taken a life.
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6:00 AM, Silent House, Wake-Up Call
In every dormitory, a piercing bell rang, announcing the start of another day just as difficult as any other, yet somehow different. Today, scientists were coming to the orphanage.
Every year, at exactly 7:00 AM, a pair of scientists arrived to conduct an experiment on twelve-year-old children.
The experiment involved injecting them with a diluted extract from a Stage 1 Beast Core, known as Awaken.
Some of the children who received the extract awakened certain abilities that allowed them to become "superhuman." These powers could range from controlling the elements - water, fire, electricity, light, and many others. Such children experienced little to no side effects from using their newfound abilities. They were considered "pure."
Other children mutated some part of their body or organs changed to grant them abilities similar to their "pure" peers. However, using these powers took a toll on their bodies.
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At first, the damage was barely noticeable, but over time, it accumulated, deteriorating their health in various ways. Side effects could include loss of vision, limb mutations, personality shifts, or complete mental corruption, eventually leading to a loss of control and transformation into a monster. Even so, these mutated children were still seen as "useful tools."
A rare few turned into Mutants - creatures trapped between humanity and monstrosity. They often became subjects of inhumane experiments and research.
And the rest - about 50% - turned into bloodthirsty monsters, destined for extermination. The scientists were prepared for this.
The twelve-year-olds in Silent House, knowing what awaited them today, were filled with doubt about whether they would live to see another sunrise. But there was nothing they could do, only wait.
As soon as they woke up, all the children headed to the cafeteria.
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"I just hope I survive the Awaken injection and gain a power that will let me take revenge on those filthy beasts. It doesn’t matter, I can’t change anything anyway. Either I get a power, or I disappear, and my worries become meaningless."
Asher tried to steady himself as he walked with the crowd toward the cafeteria. Around him, the usual morning noise was louder than on any other day of the year.
"Shut up, you little brat! How long are you gonna keep whining?! You wanna chew your breakfast with your fingers?!"
A tall, well-built boy with short-cropped hair grabbed another child by the collar and lifted him off the ground.
"S-Sorry, Tom! But today… we might turn into… monsters… and not make it to tomorrow! Waaaaah!"
The small, pale boy trembled violently as he dangled in the air before Tom. At this point, he cared less about what Tom might do to him and more about the fate that awaited him in the near future.
Terror gripped everyone, some cried, others cursed their fate, while some cursed those who cried.
"I don’t want to become a monster, please, no…"
Someone nearby trudged forward with a vacant stare, looking as if they might collapse at any moment.
Most of the orphans were utterly broken, their spirits drained.
"Well, what else could I expect? It’s the same every year. And now, a week after my twelfth birthday, it’s my turn."
Asher walked down the dark hallway, its wooden floor made of rotting planks, likely twice as old as he was. The corridor felt like a path leading to a basement, - pitch black, without windows or openings for light. Only darkness, the stench of decay, and the long, three-meter-wide road to the dining hall.
After a short walk, the orphans reached the cafeteria. Each child quickly and quietly took their designated seat. No unnecessary words. Just silence.
"How lovely to see you all, my little sunshines! Is everyone here? I hope so! You all know what happens to those who don’t listen and fail to do their duties!"
An elderly woman, around fifty years old, shouted with disturbing enthusiasm. She grinned widely as she scanned the children with her beady eyes.
In the Age of Ashes, fifty years was already considered elderly. People at that age looked like old folks who weren’t quite at death’s door yet—but they were getting close. After the Third World War, the average life expectancy was only about fifty-five years.
Yet this woman, despite her age, had lost none of her vigor or enthusiasm for "raising" the next generation of children.
None of the orphans knew her real name, but they had secretly given her one - "Rat" - because her voice was as shrill as a rodent's squeak.
Once, she overheard two children whispering the nickname. She dragged them to her office. When they returned, they had no teeth, no tongues, missing noses, and torn-out fingernails. They didn’t last long in Silent House.
One died from exhaustion. The other killed themselves - desperately pulling out a tooth from a younger child and slashing their wrists under the blanket in the middle of the night.
A shiver ran down Asher’s spine at the sound of her voice.
He hated her.
But he knew that if he wanted to survive, he couldn’t draw attention to himself.
In front of him, on the old wooden table, lay a loaf of hard, black bread.
The last meal before the most important day of his life.