As I stepped into the room, it became clear to me that it was a competition of some kind. However, that's not what truly marked me. Instead it was the dozens of eyes who kept looking at me as if me entering made the atmosphere of the room crackle under a mix skepticism, curiosity and anticipation. Through the corners of the angel mask's eye holes, I could see the tiny shifts in body languages, the conversation that were abruptly stopped and the way people tried getting closer as if trying to check out my mask and identity.
I activated Scan, allowing my vision to overlay with names, occupations, and skill ranks.
Most of the competitors fell within D-Rank to B-Rank, their job titles ranging from Astrophysicist, Aerospace Engineer, Astronaut Trainee, Satellite Technician, and even some Pilots. Among them were a handful of A-Rank Judges, individuals designated to oversee the trial and determine who among the participants was worthy of advancing to the NASA hiring process in the U.S..
This wasn't just a simple game. This was an evaluation system built into modern society—a way to keep international tryouts efficient. If you weren't good enough, you'd know before you wasted your time. It was a process used by major organizations worldwide, ensuring only the best candidates made it through.
And I had just walked in without an invitation.
The stares intensified, but I didn't acknowledge them. Instead, I stepped forward to where the participants were gathered and directed my voice to one of the A-Rank Judges.
A murmur spread through the crowd. Some glanced at each other, whispers already forming.
The judge, a woman with sharp features and a uniformed stance, regarded me with a measured gaze. "This is an open trial. If you believe you are capable, then you may participate."
I nodded, stepping into position—but before I could fully settle in, a voice rang out.
I turned, my gaze locking onto the man who had spoken. He stood near the center of the crowd, with firm stance and his arms crossed over his chest. It was a B-Rank Astronaut Trainee, according to Scan. The name Elliot Vance flashing across my system's screen.
Elliot appeared as if he had put in relentless effort to get to his current position. His outfit, a fitted navy-blue jumpsuit adorned with a training badge, hugged his toned physique closely. His stance was stiff, controlled, indicating a person who valued their position. A defined jawline, a buzz cut, and a face full of contempt rounded out the portrayal of a man who was unwelcoming to strangers entering his territory.
He stepped forward, narrowing his eyes at me before throwing a finger in my direction, his voice carrying across the room.
"This guy's a fake," he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "You really expect us to believe he's associated with Mr. Fox or Mr. Dust? Look at him! He's just riding the wave of their fame!"
His remarks created a wave among the assembled contestants, as if a switch had been turned on. A whisper circulated, with some sharing knowing looks, while others regarded me with increased doubt.
I was able to catch fragments of their discussions.
"Yes, I mean look at his mask! It's way to bright!"
"If he truly belonged with them, we would have known about him by now."
"He suddenly appeared from nowhere and thinks we should accept he's at their level?"
Elliot took a step closer, emboldened by the murmurs of agreement. "Let's be real here—Mr. Fox and Mr. Dust are actual celebrities. They built a reputation through skill and power, not just by wearing a mask. But you?" He let out a scoff, shaking his head. "You're just some nobody trying to grab attention."
His words stung some part of the crowd, while others nodded in agreement. A few, however, crossed their arms, unimpressed by his outburst.
"Who cares if he's real or not?" someone countered. "If he's good enough, he's good enough. Let him prove himself."
Another voice chimed in, "Exactly! If he's a fraud, we'll see soon enough."
Elliot turned to them, exasperated. "That's not the point! The point is that he's acting like he's someone important, when he's done nothing to earn that recognition!"
For a moment, I wanted to argue. What is this guy talking about? I was just trying to participate in the competition and he's the one who brought up Mr. Fox and Mr. Dust in the first place. Not me! Despite this, I needed to calm myself, so I took a slow breath, calculating. This was a problem. Not because of their accusations, but because I couldn't afford to be linked to Mr. Fox and Mr. Dust. If people started drawing connections between them and Mr. Angel, the illusion of them being separate individuals would start to crack.
Then, a voice cut through the noise.
It was a teenager, probably no older than fifteen, his eyes filled with raw curiosity rather than hostility. "Mister... are you really connected to Mr. Fox and Mr. Dust?"
The question hit deeper than expected.
Because in truth, I was them.
Mr. Fox was the identity I had built during my time as a firefighter. Society perceived him as a hero, a man who would come to your rescues regardless of the situation.
On the other hand, Mr. Dust was far more mysterious. He was blunt, precise and he wasn't the type to joke around. A man skilled enough to catch Cipher and take him down.
He was something new. Something undefined.
And in that moment, I knew what I needed to say.
I straightened my posture, making sure my presence filled the space, making sure they felt the weight of my words.
"They are a part of me," I said, my voice calm but absolute. "They remain in my shadow. And I—" I lifted my head slightly, the golden gleam of my mask catching the light, "—stand above them."
The entire room stilled.
For a second, I could hear nothing but my own breathing beneath the mask.
Then, a ripple passed through the crowd—shock, confusion, awe. They didn't know what to make of me. Not a follower, not an imitator. But something greater.
And that was exactly how I wanted it.
Mr. Angel had arrived.