CHAPTER 33: INTRO: THE SPIRIT GATE

Standing in front of the mirror and looking back at me was a young man cloaked in darkness, his presence both regal and foreboding.

’Well. That’s certainly dramatic.’

A long cape spilled from his shoulders, its edges frayed as though eaten by shadow itself—or, more likely, by whatever rat-infested storage chest Lira had pulled it from. Beneath it, layers of black and deep gray fabric draped around him in the manner of a traveler’s garb that had been reforged for war. His high-collared cloak fastened at the neck with a tarnished clasp shaped like a broken sigil, and over his chest, faint scorch marks traced the outline of old battle scars.

The scars weren’t his, of course. Someone else’s glory, someone else’s pain. Just borrowed aesthetics.

A wide belt cinched his waist, supporting a host of small pouches meant for utilitarian tools—lockpicks, perhaps, or coins, or whatever mysterious implements made one look competent. His gloves were fingerless, the leather worn thin at the knuckles from use he’d never experienced. His boots were tall and strapped, reinforced at the heel and toe.

A white shirt peeked faintly beneath the dark layers, its sleeves bound tight at the wrists. The contrast gave him an air of restrained precision, as if every thread had a purpose. As if he knew what he was doing. His trousers were simple but fitted for movement, tucked neatly into those boots with their buckled guards.

A mop of dark black hair fell over his eyes, veiling them almost completely. Beneath the fringe were his eyes—inky black, wholly uncharacteristic of this world, but holding a deep relevance that most would miss entirely.

Lira curved her fingers into an "Okay" sign from where she stood by the doorway, looking pleased with her handiwork.

I nodded, and together we stepped out of her manor, making our way toward the academy.

***

After a while, I arrived at the academy gates, heading first to the classroom—but it was empty. Naturally. I’d managed to be late on the one day punctuality actually mattered. In the hallway, I met another latecomer: a boy with black hair, the sides shaved into a clean fade.

’Misery loves company.’

Together, we ran toward the training ground where the rest of my classmates had already gathered. Two instructors stood at attention, alongside one man in flowing ceremonial robes.

Bishop Thomas. The same man who had addressed us when we were first summoned to this world, and the dean of the academy besides.

The other boy and I slipped into the back of the formation as quietly as possible, trying not to draw attention. Bishop Thomas continued speaking, his voice carrying that practiced cadence of authority.

"You’ll be guided by Instructor Stanley and Lady Mirabel here." He gestured to the instructors flanking him. "While a C-rank Spirit Gate can pose certain dangers even to Heroic Summoners of your caliber, you have guidance. The Light Paladins will secure the surrounding area and await any emergency."

He smiled benevolently.

"Fear not, children."

’Oh, wonderful. Anytime someone says ’fear not,’ that’s exactly when you should start worrying.’

He slowly clasped his hands together and bowed his head in that theatrical way priests did. "Let us pray to the Eternal Sun."

Everybody immediately clasped their hands together. I followed suit—we did this every morning, after all, so it had become routine even for me. Muscle memory. The motions of faith without the conviction.

’When in Rome, pray to their sun god.’

"May the Radiant Judge arbitrate our steps, illuminate our paths, and guide us to the purpose of eternal relevance."

"Amen," everyone said in unison.

"Amen," I echoed, a beat too late.

Afterward, the bishop walked out of the training ground, escorted by two paladins in heavy white and golden armor. They were different from the Knights who had seized me that day—these ones were more imposing, their presence almost suffocating. Each step they took seemed measured, purposeful. Dangerous.

Instructor Stanley tucked his hands into his pockets, his permanent scowl deepening.

"Well? What are you lacklusters lurking for? Move it!"

The mood shifted instantly.

"Haha, Mister Stan, always angry!"

"Finally! We’re going to defeat some real monsters!"

"I was starting to get bored of the classes, honestly. My Shadow Stalker is already hungry for some action!"

My classmates were all giddy and excited about the experience, their voices overlapping in barely contained enthusiasm. They all looked different too—everyone donning proper armor sets. Not too heavy, not too light either. Each set was matching, from the chestplate to their vambraces and boots. Some even had helmets with open faceplates, showing their grinning faces. They were stacked and ready for adventure, for glory, for whatever awaited beyond that gate.

Me, on the other hand?

I glanced down at my borrowed theatrical costume. ’I look impressive until you actually compare me to anyone with real equipment.’

The envy twisted in my chest for a moment—sharp and bitter and entirely unproductive. I quickly reined it in, repositioning my focus on what was actually going to happen today.

We were going to a Spirit Gate.

A C-rank gate, specifically.

While that designation made it sound manageable, almost safe, Instructor Stanley had once pointed out something crucial: a gate’s rank was not equivalent to a summoner’s rank. A summoner’s rank operated on a scale of one. A Spirit Gate’s rank operated on a scale of one hundred.

That meant a C-rank gate was equivalent to facing a hundred C-rank threats.

But there was something even more fascinating—terrifying—he’d mentioned.

If a hundred C-rank regular summoners entered a gate, there was an eighty percent chance they would all die. All of them. If a hundred Heroic Spirit Summoners entered the same gate, that number only dropped to fifty percent.

Fifty percent.

’A coin flip. Heads you live, tails you don’t.’

This was how truly terrible Spirit Gates were. A C-rank gate wasn’t something to scoff at—it was a meat grinder dressed up in bureaucratic classification.

And as if that danger weren’t enough, there also existed several categories of Spirit Gates, each classified by environmental traits. Aquatic gates. Volcanic gates. Labyrinthine gates that shifted and changed, trapping parties inside for weeks.

"When preparing for a Spirit Gate raid, we can never be too careful," Instructor Stanley had said, his expression grim.

I was going to understand why today.