Ling Xi stared blankly at the hotel lobby's marble floor, her expression calm and composed—but her heart was doing somersaults like a caffeine-crazed squirrel. The polished white tiles reflected more than just expensive chandeliers; they bounced back the silent questions she had been asking herself since arriving in America.
Why did I ever leave China?
Why did I think it would be safer here?
Why do people keep asking if I'm a K-pop idol?
The broadcast had changed everything. Overnight, those like her—awakened individuals—went from anonymous strangers to walking anomalies, catching the attention of governments, syndicates, secret labs, and every nosy grandmother with a smartphone. In short: everyone.
America, with its promise of freedom, felt more like a zoo. Everywhere she went, people stared. Whispered. Took photos. Men tried to flirt. Women either complimented her skin or questioned her surgically enhanced features in hushed tones. She had mastered the art of looking politely confused while muttering Mandarin under her breath and pretending she spoke no English. It worked. Until it didn't.
Now, sitting on a hotel lobby couch that was far too plush to be this stressful, Ling Xi was waiting. Waiting for a sign. Waiting for someone else—anyone—who might be awakened. She had been told to look for the signs: aura flares, unnatural reflexes, and the faint shimmer in the air when someone's soul was stronger than their body.
Instead, she got a man in a suit.
"Excuse me, miss. Do you have a minute?" he asked, suave and polite. Too polite.
Ling Xi blinked and gave her best confused smile. "Wǒ tīng bù dǒng," she replied in Mandarin, shaking her head.
But instead of walking away awkwardly like most people did, the man gave a sigh of mild amusement. "Then I'll ask you again in your mother tongue. Please come with me peacefully."
Her blood ran cold.
As she stood, feigning agreement, four more men appeared behind her like shadows with better tailoring. Black suits. Sunglasses. Expressions carved from granite. She had seen enough spy movies to know how it ended.
"Don't make a scene," the first man added in perfect Mandarin.
Scene? "I'll give you a Broadway performance," Ling Xi thought grimly. She was already flipping through her skills in her mind like a panicked magician with a half-deck of cards.
Destruction, which will cast numerous useful damaging spells like Heat Bomb and Winter's Grasp. One spark could turn the lobby into a sauna… then a glacier.
Illusion. One skill: a massive, shimmering dragon. Impressive. Also extremely traceable.
Beast Senses. Enhanced instincts, strength, and speed from the wild predators she defeated back in the forest. She could knock over a van. Probably. But not without making headlines.
What do I do? What do I—
"Marcus! Are you bailing out on me again? What about our dinner date?" she called out suddenly, her voice loud and clear.
The suit's eyebrows lifted in confusion.
Across the lobby, a flash of teeth and expensive sunglasses appeared through the crowd of reporters.
Marcus. NBA superstar. Charmer. And hopeless flirt. She had met him yesterday when he insisted on buying her coffee. Twice. She said no. Twice. But now…
Marcus grinned like a man who'd just been gifted front-row seats at a Drake concert. "How could I forget about you?" he said, turning and strolling toward her like a hero in a perfume commercial.
Reporters swarmed him like wasps. Cameras clicked. Questions flew.
Ling Xi stepped forward quickly. "I'm starving waiting for you," she said with theatrical exasperation. "Shall we go?"
Marcus took her hand without missing a beat. "Let's go, babe. The press won't give us a break otherwise."
And just like that, they glided toward the exit. Photographers followed. Suit-men hesitated. The lobby exploded into noise.
"Marcus, is she your new girlfriend?"
"What about Sabrina?"
"Is she Asian royalty?"
Marcus glanced over his shoulder. "What about her?" he said breezily, dragging Ling Xi into his sports car like a pro.
They zoomed out of the hotel with a squeal of tires and a cloud of gossip behind them.
Ling Xi exhaled.
"Well," she muttered. "That was dramatic."
Marcus smirked. "You owe me dinner."
*********
Callum's duffel bag thumped against his knee as he trudged through Heathrow Airport, the strap biting into his shoulder with every step. The bag was far too long for a gym kit and just slightly too suspicious for a violin case. It dragged behind him like an irritable pet, making a dull scruff-scruff sound with every stubborn roll.
"Sir, that bag looks a bit… long?" a TSA officer asked, arching a dubious eyebrow as he motioned toward the overstuffed canvas strap. His badge gleamed under the sterile airport lights, and his tone was the kind reserved for those smuggling swords, questionable fruits, or mythical weapons.
Callum blinked innocently. "Just a few kilos of camping gear," he said in his most refined British accent, the kind that belonged in royal gardens or BBC dramas. "And I've got a permit, of course."
He reached into his coat pocket and produced a folded document thicker than most novels, stamped with official seals from three separate agencies—two real, one expertly forged. The officer gave it a once-over, frowned as if unsure what to be suspicious of, then reluctantly handed it back.
"...Take care then, sir."
Callum gave him a courteous nod and continued on his way. His boots echoed on the polished floor, a slow and steady rhythm beneath the buzz of overhead lights and hurried footsteps. His seat was in economy—naturally. He wasn't exactly broke, but he preferred saving his coins for weapons, arrows, and proper whiskey.
He slid into the narrow seat beside the window and exhaled deeply. One long sigh for the price of this ridiculous journey, another for the company he wasn't keeping.
"London to Manila," he muttered, unlocking his phone. "Then another puddle-jumper to Davao."
He wasn't traveling for leisure. The Philippines had never been on his bucket list, and he certainly wasn't flying thousands of miles for beaches or mangoes. He was going because the Sentient said so. That omniscient, vaguely snarky voice that had hijacked his life eight days ago and given him a choice: adapt, or die like the rest.
Apparently, Mindanao's forests were brimming with awakened energy—wild, ancient, and untamed. A sacred nexus where the veil between worlds thinned and something old stirred beneath the roots. Creatures, relics, maybe even other Chosen. His mission was simple, if not entirely sane:
Survive. Find the other Chosen
The flight crew began their safety demonstration, but Callum wasn't paying attention. He was thinking about Scotland—about those mossy glades and misty cliffs where he'd first discovered what he could do after the awakening. Seven days of intense combat, sleepless nights, and more near-death experiences than any twenty-five-year-old should reasonably survive.
He'd fought wolves with glowing eyes. Root monsters that screamed like children. A particularly nasty wraith near Loch Lomond that had tried to drag him into a centuries-old grave. He even took a detour through Ireland to investigate a few myth-riddled hills, only to find disappointed leprechauns and mildly offended sheep.
And when it was all done? The Sentient's cold, unfeeling message:
"The creatures have migrated. You've overstayed your welcome."
Charming.
The seatbelt light blinked on. The engine roared. The plane surged forward like a beast impatient to fly.
As the ground fell away beneath him, Callum stared out the window, watching the lights of London dissolve into a constellation of pinpricks. The world shrank, and so did his doubts.
Closing his eyes, he inspected his stats floating in his mind like a hologram of data.
Name: Callum McCloud
Race: Human (Evolved)
Age: 25
Class: Ranger
Title: Monster Hunter (300% attack against beast and monster)
Health: 200/200
Energy: 150/150
STATS:
Strength: 18 = 18
Wisdom: 15 = 15
Agility: 12 (x3) = 36
Constitution: 12 (x5) = 60
Intelligence: 15 = 15
Perception: 10 (x5) = 50
Vitality: 12 (x3) = 36
Stamina: 15 = 15
Acquired Abilities through DNA Integration:
Enhanced Vision
Silent movement
Peak Endurance
Cold resistance
Ancestor's Blessing: Elemental Resonance (Air and Water)
Ranger Class Skills:
Arcane arrow
Aimed shot
Rapid-fire
Windstep
Dimensional Sight (Passive)
Beast Summon—Level 1 (Hawk)
Beast Taming
Current Mission:
"Survive. Discover the other Chosen."
He smirked. Ranger. Not bad for a lad who almost dropped out of university and spent most of his time loitering in museums and bookstores.
The world was waking up. And not gently. All over the world, strange things were surfacing—monsters, magic, miracles, and madness. The news couldn't keep up. Politicians scrambled to control the narrative. Religious leaders claimed divine prophecy. The military tested new weapons, while ordinary people recorded impossible things on TikTok.
He glanced down at the duffel bag wedged under his seat. It held a long bow carved from rowan wood, reinforced with ironbark, and bundles of steel arrows with obsidian tips. Both are illegal in at least fifteen countries.
He didn't know what he'd find in the forests of the Philippines. But something told him he wasn't the only one being drawn there. The Sentient wasn't just picking Chosen at random. There was a pattern. A convergence.
And he meant to find it.