"Just what have I done…"
Thierry stared at the crumpled paper in his hands, the words blurring slightly as the morning light spilled in through the warped glass of his rented room. It was the recruitment flyer—the same one half of Berken had been gossiping about since yesterday. He hadn't paid much attention at first. Why would he? He was no longer part of the Flounders troupe, he had plans—vague, distant, but plans nonetheless. But now, with the current situation and his future uncertain, the flyer weighed heavy in his grip like a curse disguised as a promise.
The more he read it, the more his excitement faded into a pit of quiet dread.
It wasn't just any clan offering this chance—it was a subsidiary clan of the Five Great Houses.
Forget it, he thought bitterly.
Sure, he fit the age range of fifteen to seventeen, though just barely. But this? This wasn't meant for nobodies like him. The flyer welcomed those already initiated, those with an anchor and a chain—Bounded clansmen. While it offered uninitiated participants a chance to receive an anchor, he knew better than to think that meant anything. He'd be competing against prodigies who already held power in their hands, Monsters dressed as heirs.
No chance in hell. Still, the words wouldn't stop echoing in his mind. 'Free anchor.' Like bait on a barbed hook.
Maybe a walk will shut me up before I start worrying about money again.
Thierry pushed himself off the bed with a groan, heading downstairs. The inn's bar was mostly quiet save for a few morning regulars. He caught sight of Emma—the blonde waitress he'd embarrassed himself in front of yesterday—and awkwardly shuffled toward her.
"I'm... sorry about yesterday," he muttered, sliding a few extra coins her way.
Emma blinked in surprise, then gave a small, grateful nod. No words exchanged. Maybe that was for the best.
He slipped out into the street, wandering without direction.
"Excuse me, but do you know the way to Roldun Street? I'm not from around here, so I'm a bit lost."
A low, almost musical hum drifted behind him as someone tapped his shoulder.
Thierry turned around, only to have his thoughts flatline.
The stranger was handsome—painfully so. Seaweed-green hair streaked with bright turquoise framed his face, disheveled in a way that looked effortlessly intentional. His eyes… Gods below. Thierry found himself staring into two droplets of deep blood, glittering like polished rubies.
Of course. Of course the gods would hand him perfect eyes on top of everything else.
"Sure," Thierry said, scowling inwardly. "Just follow me. Try not to get mugged."
Roldun Street. He knew the way—he'd been planning to check it out anyway, see the estate hosting the initiation with his own eyes. If he brought this pretty bastard along, maybe he could shake him off at the gates.
"No need to worry about me," the stranger replied, brushing some hair behind his ear with infuriating grace. "If trouble comes, I'm sure I can handle myself. Call me Veron."
Thierry barely contained his scoff. Oh, I'll call you something alright... He turned and picked up the pace, hoping Veron would lag behind.
No such luck.
They reached Roldun Street quickly, the estate looming ahead like a sleeping leviathan. Ornate gates, curling with iron vines, stood half-open as if awaiting prey.
Thierry stopped in front of the estate, eyeing the address again. It matched. He turned toward Veron, who was casually strolling up behind him.
Is this idiot not going to leave? Do I need to spell it out for him?
Veron smirked as if reading his mind.
"Don't worry about me," he said, brushing past Thierry and stepping through the gate. "After all... this is my home."
Thierry blinked. Then again. His face warped as realization slammed into him like a punch to the gut.
This—this bastard—He's a clansman?! A handsome one at that?! Why must you curse me so, gods!?
He considered bolting, but Veron turned and casually waved him forward like they were old friends.
The gates opened wider. A hundred gazes fell on them all at once—sharpened by expectation, heavy with scrutiny. Thierry realised, with a sick twist in his stomach, they hadn't entered through the guest entrance.
The estate's porch stretched out wide like a battlefield. Dozens—no, hundreds—of people stood arrayed, most clad in armour, all staring toward the loggia.
What have I gotten myself into...
These weren't just hopefuls. They were heirs. Born and bred within the folds of blood-tied clans, carrying weight in their names and legacy in their veins.
A man stepped out onto the loggia. His face was weathered, carved by time and war, eyes the dull blue of a storm that had already passed but left its destruction behind.
"Young master," the man barked, voice low and worn, "I don't think her ladyship would be pleased with your antics again. Make your way to her now so I can begin the initiation."
Thierry turned to his side, expecting to share a look with Veron.
But he was gone.
His eyes darted through the crowd, catching movement—Veron, walking leisurely down a path that had parted before him. Clansmen bowed their heads as he passed, acknowledging his presence with solemnity.
"Young master," the old man said again, "Her Ladyship is waiting in the workshop."
"Don't worry, Magnus," Veron replied with a smirk. "I mean, where else would she be?"
He vanished behind the bronze doors. The crowd resumed its hushed muttering. Magnus's gaze swept over the gathered initiates before resting—briefly—on Thierry.
Then he spoke again, voice clear.
"Those who have been initiated and already bear a chain—left side. The rest of you, the uninitiated—come to me."
So it's true… they're really giving out anchors.
The words from the flyer echoed again. Thierry took a breath and began forcing his way through the tide of bodies moving left. He was heading right—toward the veteran.
The difference between the two groups was immediate. Barely twenty stood on the right. The left side looked like a battalion.
Please... please don't tell me there's a test.
Magnus gestured for them to follow as he walked deeper into the estate. Thierry kept his distance but stuck close, stepping through a greenhouse-like structure that reeked of iron and something far fouler.
"Does anyone here know why an anchor is important?" Magnus asked without turning.
Murmurs floated up. The usual lines. "It stabilises the chain," someone muttered. "It's necessary for awakening."
Magnus didn't even bother responding. His silence said enough.
"The true terror of an abomination isn't how many chains it has," he finally said, pausing. "It's how many anchors. Even a single chain, paired with five anchors, becomes something you can't pierce. A walking calamity."
Thierry stiffened. Anchors enhance you... not just support you. The logic clicked. So the more it has... the worse it becomes.
Magnus continued. "Anchors may come from the old world—relics soaked in meaning and touched by divinity. But those are rare. Most come from monsters—either their original anchors, or carved from their carcasses."
As he finished, a group entered—Thierry recognised them immediately.
Gallagher. The bastard, his smug grin hadn't changed one bit.
They wheeled in operating tables and a large box. Magnus reached into it, pulling free a grey shard shaped like a crude hilt.
"This is the anchor you'll receive. It came from a creature we called a 'Catastrophe.' I believe it became a mountain after death. Be grateful. Not many get such a gift."
Magnus's voice echoed as he departed, leaving Thierry with a rising sense of unease.
'That hilt... we're not embedding that into ourselves, are we?'
Before the thought could finish, Gallagher's voice whispered behind him.
"You should turn around and follow me quietly."
Thierry's body shuddered, betraying him. His limbs moved without his consent.
'This bastard... he's using his chain on me!'
He was led to a table. Gallagher grinned like a wolf. "Don't worry, kid. I had a tongue embedded in me once. Barely hurt."
Thierry stared at him, What the hell does that even mean!?
Just as he tried to lie down, a shadow loomed.
It was Bale—a bear-eared therianthrope who looked more mountain than man. Thierry flinched.
"Bale," Gallagher sighed. "Say something, damn it. You're scaring him."
The giant muttered, barely audible. Then extended a rag.
"Take this. You're gonna want to bite down."
Thierry slowly took the rag, eyes fixed on the operating table.
This is really happening...
He laid down, head in the cradle, the rag clenched between his teeth.
It was finally time.
The initiation had begun.