The screen flickered.
In the corner of the holding room, Gin sat cross-legged on the floor, refusing the cold, uncomfortable metal bench. His eyes stayed fixed on the glowing rectangle mounted on the wall. It shimmered with movement—flashes of light, sound, and smoke. A man in gold and white armor hurled monstrous beasts through chaos in a burning dungeon.
Gin's new clothes sagged off his lean frame—standard issue for detainees. Oversized cargo pants, a thermal shirt, and the dark jacket he refused to take off. The same jacket thrown at him in panic by the angels.
A gift, he called it.
He leaned forward slightly, whispering like the screen might respond.
"…A divine mirror?"
An officer nearby snorted without looking.
"This ain't no divine mirror, buddy," he muttered, chewing gum like it owed him money. "It's a TV. You seriously never seen one?"
"Tea… Vee?" Gin echoed, brows knitting. "Is it a relic?"
The younger officer beside him raised an eyebrow.
""Yep. Definitely came from a Gate." no way he's from around here."
"Mountain shack or a Gate—doesn't matter," the first said, tapping his badge. "Doctor's on the way. It's testing time."
Gin blinked as a blade on the screen cleaved through a buglike creature's carapace.
"Is this… how they scry in this world?"
Across the room, a wiry man with half-shaved hair and glowing tattoos on his arms tilted his head curiously.
"You're the naked guy from Sector E, huh?" he said after a beat.
Gin turned his head slowly.
"You're real famous right now. Thought you were some S-Class threat with the way they scrambled. Pulse officers don't show up unless it's real serious. And no one knows where you're registered."
He leaned forward, voice lowered.
"You a feral?"
Gin blinked. "Feral?"
"Unregistered. Born outside the cities. Most get lost in the dungeons and crawl back out years later. People say they don't even bleed red anymore."
"I bleed," Gin said simply. "Quite a bit, recently."
The man laughed. "So… what's with the jacket? You cold?"
Gin looked down at the dark fabric draped over him like a mantle.
"A warrior does not discard a gift of honor. Even if it was thrown in panic."
"…Okay. Yeah. You're weird," the man muttered, leaning back."Figures they tossed you in here."
A loud bzzt echoed. The wall-mounted speaker flickered to life. Every holding cell lit up in unison. A bored voice crackled over the intercom:
"Evening, detainees. Doctors arriving shortly. Increased security tonight. Lights out remains in effect. Don't try anything stupid."
The screen resumed its chaos.
A monstrous A-Class beast slammed into a cliffside, screeching. Smoke and blood swirled in the air. The camera panned—
And there he was.
PRIME.
Gold-trimmed armor. Crystalline eyes. A fist like a cannon crashing into the beast with seismic force. The impact knocked lesser creatures flying. Cameras rattled. Viewers cheered from across the planet.
Gin froze.
Far from the Detention Center, in District 4's Residential Zone—home of the Tan family."
"Look, Mommy! It's Prime again!"
Ten-year-old Iwaizumi's voice rang out in the apartment, high-pitched and brimming with awe. On screen, his hero tore through an A-rank dungeon—blades flashing, monsters howling, explosions casting golden light across cave walls.
Bang. Bash. Boom.
The holoscreen's glow danced across the child's face. Eyes wide, sparkling, filled with wonder. He was only ten, but to him, no one stood taller than Prime—the number one hero on Planet X.
A titan.
Muscles rippling.
Cape trailing like storm clouds.
Gold-white energy pulsing from every strike.
Prime landed with a thunderous quake that shook the battlefield.
He hovered effortlessly, arms crossed and cape fluttering, a silent force above the chaos—like a god surveying the battlefield."
"I wanna be just like Prime when I grow up!" Iwaizumi shouted, jumping on the couch, tiny fist raised.
His mother smiled softly while folding laundry nearby.
"It's a dangerous job, honey."
"I don't care! I'm gonna get my pulse soon," he said proudly. "Just wait, Mom. When I awaken, I'll protect you. Like Prime does!"
She paused for a moment, the smile on her face thinning—gentle, but distant.
She had awakened early. So had his father… before the incident. Before the backlash. Before he disappeared in the depths of a Gate, never to return.
Everyone expected the boy to awaken soon. With two awakened parents, it was practically inevitable.
Boom.
With a thunderous crack, Prime drove his fist into the Hive Queen's skull, sending fractures webbing up the cavern walls. Her screech died mid-burst. The screen flashed gold.
The camera panned to Prime's back:
A mountain of muscle.
Cape billowing.
White-blue plasma still humming from his gauntlets.
The world watched.
And it watched heroes like Prime for hope and entertainment.
Iwaizumi leaned closer, eyes wide as saucers, bathed in the golden light of dreams.
Back at the Station
The air shimmered with raw pulse energy. It rolled off the figure on-screen in waves—each movement a miniature thunderstorm. The holoscreen displayed the label:
"LIVE — Prime vs A-Class Hive Queen: Sector 9 Raid"
Gin stepped forward, transfixed. His eyes narrowed, gaze locked on the towering figure of Prime.
No chi. No divine power.
Yet something stirred in his chest.
A memory. A longing.
"Who is that?" he asked softly.
His cellmate blinked, baffled. "That's Prime. The number one ranked hero. You really are from the backwoods, huh?"
Prime launched into the air, gold-trimmed armor gleaming, then crashed into the Hive Queen with a punch that cratered the entire dungeon floor. A fresh wave of monsters collapsed in the shockwave.
A commentator's voice echoed through the feed:
"—and once again, Prime proves why he's the cornerstone of humanity's Entertainment! No pulse user has ever matched his power, discipline, or record!"
From within the footage, the camera crew chanted:
"PRIME! PRIME! PRIME!"
Gin repeated the name, reverently. "Prime. So this is the strongest warrior of your land."
"Strongest in every land," the cellmate grinned. "They say if you wanna even get close to his level, you gotta clear at least fifteen A-class dungeons. Or... you just watch him shine and fell small."
Gin stared. In the screen's reflection, Prime's form overlapped with his own.
Something inside him stirred again—but it wasn't envy.
It was curiosity.
Then his eyes shifted.
"Wait," he murmured, pointing slowly. "Who are those men… following him? Tracking his every movement?"
The cellmate tilted his head, trying to follow Gin's finger.
"Oh, them? Those are the cameramen. Fodder to be honest. Just there to film his raids."
"…Film?" Gin repeated.
The cellmate sighed like a long-suffering teacher. "You know… with cameras? They record everything. Action shots, slow-mo, zooms—then they edit the footage and sell it to the Dungeon Entertainment Center. Make a killing."
He shrugged. "Most of them have minor pulse skills. Stuff that enhances sight, reflexes, or movement. Pairs well with their tech. Those camera boxes can capture everything—even keep up with Prime's speed."
Gin's eyes widened. For the first time since waking in this world, he looked utterly overwhelmed—not by power, but by wonder.
"Slow motion… replay… multiple angles…" he whispered, as if reciting scripture.
Then, aloud, with newfound conviction:
"My friend. Before I become a hero…"
He smirked. "I must become… the cameraman."
The cellmate stared at him.
"…He's lost it," he muttered. "Completely gone."
Gin's eyes sparkled—until they crashed down at the next words.
"Too bad you can't," the man said. "First off, you need a pulse. From the way you talk, I'm guessing you don't even know what that is. Second—you've gotta be registered with a Hunter's Guild. And third… good luck finding one that'll pay for a full filming crew."
He ticked points off his fingers like a death sentence.
"The government auctions gate access. Bidding wars. Politics. A nightmare."
Gin's face twisted in confusion. Too much information. He didn't care about bidding. He just wanted the magic box.
"Oh—and that camera?" the cellmate pointed. "Costs more than the damn dungeon. High-speed tracking, memory seals, live sync tech. That baby can keep up with Prime's punches. Worth a small fortress."
The man leaned back, rubbing his jaw. "Why d'you think I'm in here? Tried to steal one." He sighed. "Turns out, planning heists while drunk and loud in a bar isn't stealthy."
He flopped face-first onto the bench. "Mama was right. Not the brightest."
Click.
The screen went dark.