"Zelpher! Wake up!"
The voice was distant at first — a ripple in the haze of exhaustion. Then a hard shake jolted him upright.
"Did you see how Inferna vaporized that villain yesterday?" Jael said, practically vibrating with excitement beside him.
Zelpher blinked slowly, groggy from another sleepless night. His part-time shift had run until dawn again. Unlike the academy's elite, Zelpher had to work just to put food on the table.
Around him, the classroom buzzed like a beehive. Students clustered in groups, heads bent over glowing holographic screens projected from their phones. Snippets of yesterday's Superhero Association broadcast looped endlessly — the new obsession of the hour.
On-screen, Inferna appeared like a goddess of destruction. Red hair whipping in the wind, she raised her arm and unleashed a wall of fire that tore through the battlefield like a living dragon. The horned villain she faced barely had time to scream before vanishing into ash.
"She's so badass," Jael muttered, eyes locked on the image like a worshiper at a shrine.
"One move. Just one. That's what it means to be an Evolver."
Zelpher said nothing. He didn't even lift his head fully — just leaned his cheek into the palm of his hand and stared at the flickering screen through half-lidded eyes. The fire looked almost beautiful from behind a layer of glass. Like art. Like it couldn't touch him.
But it did.
"I bet she's at least B-Rank," someone near the back said.
"No way, she's got A-Rank written all over her! You're seriously underestimating her again."
Zelpher clicked his tongue softly — a sound only Jael might've heard.
Inferna was a B-Rank. Always had been. Always would be.
It didn't matter how much power she had. In this world, ranks didn't rise. Not by effort. Not by heroism. Not even by public adoration. Ranks were fixed — branded into Evolvers like cattle tags.
His eyes drifted downward to the news ticker beneath the broadcast, each word stabbing deeper than the last:
CIVILIANS LOST IN SECTOR SEVEN: 13 DEAD, 41 WOUNDED.
HEROES DEPLOYED: 1. INCIDENT CLASSIFICATION: LOW-LEVEL.
Zelpher inhaled sharply through his nose, then exhaled slowly. He clicked his tongue again, this time in frustration.
"Thirteen people," he thought bitterly. "Probably just normal humans. The kind that couldn't fight back. The kind that always die first."
Low-level, they'd called it.
Low-level.
Thirteen dead. Forty-one wounded. What the hell does 'low-level' even mean?
His stomach churned. He could already imagine the headlines: Casualties unfortunate but acceptable. Hero hailed for quick response.
A slap on the back. A standing ovation. A damn statue, maybe.
"Zelpher," Jael said, nudging him. "If you were an Evolver, what would your power be?"
Zelpher blinked, dragged out of his thoughts. He hesitated.
"I don't know," he said finally. "Something… subtle."
Jael laughed — not cruelly, just with the kind of carefree energy Zelpher could never quite summon. "Subtle? Man, come on! Go big or go extinct. Super speed! Gravity fists! Telekinesis! You gotta think larger than life."
Zelpher turned to look at him, eyes half-shadowed by fatigue.
"I'd want to disappear," he muttered. "Fade like fog at dawn. No expectations. No mistakes."
The words hung there like smoke.
"That way… no one would expect you to save them," he continued.
The group of boys fell silent. Even the ones who hadn't been paying attention looked over. The lighthearted mood cracked — just a little.
Jael's grin faltered. "Man… that's cold."
Zelpher didn't reply. He just turned back to the screen, where Inferna walked away from the wreckage like a victorious warrior.
Untouched. Unbothered.
She probably was.
In a world where only 4.3% of humanity evolved, the remaining 95.7% watched from the sidelines. Behind barriers. Behind policies. Behind fear. Or worse — behind envy and illusion.
Illusions. That's all it ever was.
Zelpher was used to it.
The door slammed open. Their teacher, Mr. Ryn, strode into the room carrying a massive textbook that looked like it could snap a lesser man's spine. He set it down on the podium with a heavy thud.
"All right, class," he said in that deep, commanding voice. "Last week we covered human physiology. Who can remind me of something we discussed?"
"Humans have 207 bones!" a voice called from the back.
"We've got a weaker sense of irritability compared to other animals," another student chimed in.
Mr. Ryn nodded, arms crossed. Then his gaze settled, unwavering, on Zelpher.
"Zelpher," he said, "tell us — what happens if humans go extinct? I expect you to recall the answer from our last discussion."
Zelpher felt every eye in the room shift toward him. The heat of their gaze felt heavier than his backpack. He rose slowly, every joint creaking like rusted hinges. Sleep had become a luxury he couldn't afford. He barely remembered even being there last week.
Still, he knew he couldn't admit that.
He swallowed, throat dry.
"…The Evolvers would rule," he said softly.
The room waited.
"…But they'd still fall."
The silence that followed was longer than expected — deeper than discomfort.
Then someone laughed. Then another. And another. Soon, the room erupted into howls and cackles, bouncing off the walls like cruel echoes.
Zelpher didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stood there — still, composed, quietly burning.
Mr. Ryn raised an eyebrow but said nothing. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he turned back to the board and continued with the class.
Zelpher sat down slowly. The laughter still buzzed in his ears, but it didn't sting.
He was already used to this. No power. No brilliance. No hope.
Just the stubborn desire to live a peaceful life in a messed-up world.
Class ended soon after. Zelpher's alarm buzzed — a shrill, unmerciful ding reminding him it was time for work.
He silenced the alarm with one tap.
Back to the real world — where survival was its own kind of superpower.