Chapter 1: Association
In the year 20XX, a catastrophic radioactive outburst from a distant supernova had swept across the cosmos, reaching Earth and altering life as we knew it. Humans, animals, and even plants were affected, their very DNA rewritten by the cosmic radiation.
From this chaos emerged terrifying irradiated creatures—ICs—monstrous beings that prey upon humanity.
But not all mutations led to destruction.
Some humans developed extraordinary abilities, ranging from the trivial—such as levitating small objects—to the extraordinary, like glimpsing the future or reading minds.
The most powerful of these individuals with abilities became known as the ''Abiliters,'' those capable of standing against the IC threat. At the pinnacle of their ranks stood the Abiliters Association (AA), an elite organization dedicated to training and recruiting the strongest among them.
Every year, the AA held a brutal entrance exam, drawing thousands of hopefuls from across the world. Yet, with a passing rate of less than 1%, only a select few made the cut.
And now, the 50th annual AA entrance exam was about to begin.
***
Los Angeles – Day
Screams echoed through the streets. People ran in all directions, desperate to escape the nightmare unfolding before them.
A monstrous IC loomed above the fleeing crowd—a giant, winged armadillo, its grotesquely deformed body riddled with open sores, its bleeding eyes dripping crimson as it shrieked in hunger.
Then, a man appeared.
He walked with slow, measured steps, moving against the tide of panic. Dressed in black from head to toe—coat, shirt, pants, boots—he was a shadow given form. In his right hand, he held a simple black katana, unadorned yet deadly. His sharp gray eyes held no fear, only cool detachment.
A small girl, frozen in terror, had yet to escape. The IC snarled and lunged for her.
The swordsman moved.
In a blur, he was there, sweeping the girl into his arms just before the creature’s claws tore through the space where she had stood. She clung to him, trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He tried to smile—reassuring, though imperfect—and gently nudged her toward her panicked family in the distance.
Then, the beast turned its full wrath on him.
With a screech, the winged armadillo lashed out, a massive claw slicing through the air. The man sidestepped effortlessly, his movements fluid, controlled. His katana gleamed, looking almost too delicate to stand against the IC’s hardened hide.
Then, with a single graceful stroke, he severed the creature’s paw.
The IC shrieked in agony.
Unfazed, the swordsman got to work. Strike after strike, he cut through the monster with a lethal elegance, dark blade flashing in the sunlight. The IC writhed and thrashed, but it was already over.
Moments later, its grotesque form lay in pieces. The battle was won.
With a quiet sigh, the man deactivated his katana. The beautiful dark blade shimmered out of existence.
A moment of stunned silence—and then cheers erupted from the crowd. The police arrived too late, but they recognized him immediately.
A familiar officer—a Black man with a friendly demeanor—approached with an exasperated shake of his head.
"Well, well. Blaine Carver—always swooping in to save the day before the cops even show up."
Blaine smirked. “Yes, you’re welcome.”
“The bounty—same account as usual?”
“No,” Blaine said. “Cash this time.”
The officer frowned. “Going somewhere?”
“Actually, I am.”
“Where?”
"The Association exam. It’s next week. I’m catching a flight to D.C. tonight."
The officer let out a low whistle. “Ah, yeah. Finally stepping into the major leagues, huh?”
“Looks like it.”
The officer nodded, crossing his arms. “Eh, you’ll make it. You’re the best I’ve seen, Blaine.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Good luck, B. The city won’t be the same without you.”
Blaine’s smirk softened. “I’ll be back. It’s my hometown too.”
The officer gave him a knowing look. “Only if they let you. I hear they hold onto the good ones until they’re dead, fighting off the worst ICs out there.”
Blaine exhaled, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Sounds fun.”
“You’re weird, Blaine,” the officer chuckled. “But I like you. Be careful out there. I’ll get the cash now.”
***
Blaine’s Studio – Sunset
Blaine’s studio was small but orderly. A simple desk, a bed, and a window that framed the city—a place both breathtaking and filthy, where neon lights flickered over cracked pavement. The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the skyline, while the distant wail of sirens filled the air. Night in Los Angeles was chaos incarnate—both humans and ICs got wilder after dark.
His bag was packed. He was ready to leave.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
The Abiliters Association exam wasn’t for another week, but that didn’t mean he had time to waste. The only information given to applicants was that the testing grounds were somewhere in Washington D.C. and that the exam would begin on March 31st. Everything else, he would have to figure out when he got there.
Blaine took a final look around the room that had been his home for the past five years. He had started as an IC-hunting Abiliter at sixteen—a natural, thanks to his ability to summon the ''Everblade.''
The Everblade—his black katana. Why it took that form, why it was black, he had no idea. Maybe, despite his undeniably Caucasian features, he had a Japanese ancestor somewhere down the line.
The blade had two defining traits that made it formidable. One: it never dulled. Two: it never broke.
With it, Blaine had hunted down hundreds of ICs in Los Angeles. And now, for the first time, he was leaving his hometown behind to chase something bigger.
The room felt emptier than usual in the fading light, touched with an unfamiliar sense of finality. But there was no point lingering.
Blaine turned, stepped out the door, and walked toward the darkening streets.
***
Washington, D.C. – Five Days Later
Blaine had arrived in D.C. days ago, spending his time gathering information on the upcoming Abiliters Association entrance exam. It was all part of the test. And soon, he noticed he wasn’t alone—hopeful applicants like himself crowded the once-proud capital of the United States, their presence an unspoken confirmation that the exam was drawing near.
The radioactive cataclysm fifty years ago had left its mark everywhere, but Washington, D.C. had been hit especially hard. The government had long since retreated underground, the White House and other key buildings buried beneath layers of reinforced earth. The city above was unrecognizable from its pre-IC days.
On the surface, it was a sleek, futuristic metropolis—a carefully planned reconstruction of what had been lost. But beneath the streets lay a vast network of bunkers and defense systems, hidden from the world yet always watching.
The Abiliters Association Headquarters was housed in one of these underground fortresses, a place practically inaccessible to outsiders and the only true point of contact between the AA and the remaining government bodies. The New York branch was the public face of the organization, but for reasons unknown, this year’s entrance exam had been set in D.C.
Coincidence? Blaine wasn’t so sure.
In previous years—at least from what he had been able to piece together—the five-phase exam had been held all over the world. From the streets of Paris to the depths of the Sahara Desert, from the frozen peaks of Everest to an uncharted island lost in the ocean.
All Blaine knew for certain was that the ''first'' phase of the exam would begin in D.C.
And he still needed more clues.
Blaine had spent the past few days gathering intel from the city''s so-called ''information traders''—vendors, pedestrians, and drifters who masqueraded as ordinary citizens. Most of them were liars, feeding him half-truths and misinformation, either out of ignorance or for the thrill of deception.
Still, he had managed to confirm one thing: the date was set. In two days, at exactly 8:00 PM, the Abiliters Association entrance exam would begin. He had cross-checked this detail with multiple sources and was confident in its accuracy.
The location, however, was another matter.
The majority claimed it would take place at the New Washington Monument, while a handful insisted it would be held at the Old Capitol Site, now a solemn museum dedicated to the fallen era.
Blaine was good—very good—but even with his strength and skill with a blade, he couldn’t be in two places at once. He needed certainty.
That meant going to the one intel trader he actually trusted.
The problem with trustworthy informants, though, was that they were either expensive, eccentric, or both.
At the top of Blaine’s list was ''Samuel Wolfrunner''—a half-Native American, half-Black information broker with a reputation for toughness, belligerence, and an uncanny ability to know things before anyone else did. He was also an arms dealer, which meant he had little patience for a man like Blaine, who had no need to stock up.
After all, what use was a weapons merchant to someone who carried an indestructible sword?
Blaine had tried to pry information from Wolfrunner before, but the man had been cold—distant, almost irritated.
Still, if there was anyone who could confirm the truth, it was him.
And Blaine was running out of time.
***
Guns and Howls – Samuel Wolfrunner’s Store
Blaine stepped into ''Guns and Howls,'' the scent of gun oil and metal filling his lungs. Behind the counter, Samuel Wolfrunner looked up—a bald, dark-skinned man in his fifties, his expression as stern as ever. But there was something in his sharp brown eyes—a flicker of confidence, a hint of mischief.
"You again," Samuel greeted, unimpressed.
Blaine didn’t waste time. "Four grand, Wolfrunner. That’s all I have. Take it or leave it."
Samuel leaned back, folding his arms. "And my answer’s still no. The intel’s worth at least ten."
Blaine exhaled sharply. "What do you want, then? Tell me what I can do to make up the six."
Samuel considered for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. "You’ve never bought a damn thing from me. What’s your ability, son?"
"I don’t need to tell you that."
"Then there’s no deal."
"Fine." Blaine lifted his hand, and in an instant, his Everblade materialized—a sleek, black katana that absorbed the dim store light.
Samuel raised an eyebrow, mildly impressed. "Nice-looking sword. No wonder you never so much as glanced at my inventory."
He gestured toward a display of knives and swords—polished steel, gleaming edges, all designed to ''look'' sharper and deadlier than they actually were. But Samuel was no fool. As an experienced information broker—and likely someone with AA ties—he had an eye for real weapons. He could see Everblade’s worth.
"All right, kid," Samuel said finally. "You look strong enough. Here’s the deal. There’s an IC lurking around town at night—Level C at best. I’d take care of it myself, but I’m not what I used to be. Got family to look after. You clear it out, and I’ll sell you the exam intel for four grand."
"Level C?" Blaine echoed, considering.
ICs were categorized by size and threat level (unofficially).
- Level F: the weakest—irradiated sewer rats.
- Level E: dog-sized ICs.
- Level D: human-sized threats.
- Level C: elephant-sized, like the winged armadillo he’d cut down back in L.A.
- Level B and above? Those were AA-level threats. A freelance Abiliter like Blaine, without official membership, was only permitted to hunt up to Level C.
"Yeah, I can handle that." He nodded. "What does it look like?"
Samuel shrugged. "City’s too damn dark at night. Most people didn’t get a good look. But a few say it’s some kind of giant toad."
"You need proof?"
"Yeah. Just snap a photo of the corpse with your phone—I don’t care how."
"Where does it show up?"
Samuel frowned briefly, searching his memory.
"Let me think... Ah, yes. Near the old Arlington Cemetery. Right by the river."
"Got it." Blaine adjusted his coat, then met Samuel’s gaze. "Four grand, Wolfrunner. You promised."
Samuel smirked. "Just get it done, son. Sammy Wolf never bites the hand that pays."
***
Arlington National Cemetery – Night
Blaine moved along the edge of what used to be two parks and a bridge. Now, only the skeletal remains of a city stood against the backdrop of a murky, radioactive river. The night was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional flicker of dying streetlights.
His Everblade was already drawn when he heard a sound—soft but distinct.
He tensed, ready to strike. Then, just as quickly, he forced himself to relax. Human? Or was it something just pretending to be?
No. Human.
The figure across from him seemed just as startled to see Blaine. They approached each other warily, and as the dim light caught the stranger’s face, Blaine took in the details—blonde hair tied back in a loose ponytail, a fortified jumpsuit obscuring any clear indication of physique. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman. The features were pleasant, almost delicate, but something about the posture, the way he carried himself, gave Blaine his answer.
Male. Around his age.
The blond man smirked, a half-greeting, half-taunt. "Weird place for a midnight stroll, don’t you think?"
His voice was smooth, teetering on androgynous. His smile was too casual, too practiced—an attempt at effortless masculinity. Blaine had a feeling he’d spent his whole life correcting people’s assumptions about his gender—and probably hated every second of it.
Blaine ignored the small talk. "Don’t tell me you’re here for the toad too."
"Aw, man. You too?"
"Did Wolfrunner send you?"
The blond raised an eyebrow. "Wolfrunner? Who’s that? Oh—wait. You mean that cranky old guy at the gun shop? Yeah, hate that guy. Charges an arm and a leg for everything."
Blaine’s gaze dropped to the twin pistols strapped to the stranger’s hips. Not all Abiliters had summoning abilities like him. Most needed weapons, armor, and strategy to survive.
"No," the blond continued. "I got the gig from Madam Claire."
"You mean that phony fortuneteller?"
The blond scoffed. "Phony? She’s a global celebrity. Her ability’s legit—she ''actually'' sees the future."
"Yeah, sure. Look, this toad IC is supposed to be Level C. Still dangerous for brain-dead kids who believe in fortune-telling, so you’d better leave."
The stranger’s easygoing smile faded.
"Who you calling brain-dead, ''emo?''"
Blaine blinked. "... Emo?"
"You''re decked out in all black. Just missing the makeup. What happened—too busy brooding over suicidal thoughts tonight?"
The air between them thickened.
Then they both heard it.
A deep, wet ''thud.'' The ground trembled beneath their feet.
They turned just in time to see it rise from the river—a hulking, truck-sized toad IC, its slimy bulk glistening in the dark. Bulging eyes, unblinking. Motionless. Indifferent. But dangerous nonetheless.
Blaine’s grip on his Everblade tightened. "...That’s not Level C."
The blond smirked, unimpressed. "Yeah? I’ve seen bigger—"
The creature lunged.
A whip-like tongue shot toward them at impossible speed. They both leapt aside just in time, the tongue slamming into the ground where they’d stood.
The earth hissed. Sizzled.
The spot where the tongue had landed was melting.
"Okay, definitely not Level C," the blond muttered, paling.
Then it hit Blaine.
"... This isn’t an errand... This is ''part'' of the test."
"What?" the blond asked, not hearing him.
But Blaine wasn’t waiting for an answer. He drew his Everblade higher, its dark edge gleaming under the dim light—
And charged.