THE LAST GOD SYSTEM

CHAPTER 4: THE BOY WHO REMEMBERS

Ronan had an enemy now, and the problem was he barely understood how deep that enemy’s roots went.

The hallway outside the F-rank classrooms felt even smaller than usual, dim and squeezed tight. Ronan kept his head down, counting his steps. Old habits from the orphanage numbers were a shield, something to hold onto when the noise in his head got too loud.

He didn’t get far.

“Hey.”

Ronan froze.

Darian Voss leaned against the wall ahead, arms crossed. Two boys in Combat Division uniforms stood behind him, both wearing the red hawk crest. They looked bored, the cruel kind of bored that comes right before an easy win.

“Walk away from me again,” Darian said, eyes hard, “and I’ll break your legs.”

Ronan glanced at the two boys, then back at Darian. He couldn’t help it. “Why?”

Darian blinked, thrown for a second. “Why what?”

“Why do you care?” Ronan asked. “You’re Combat Division. You have a crest, a future. I'm F-rank with a rusted sword. There’s nothing I can take from you.”

Darian’s jaw clenched. “You embarrassed me. In front of everyone.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“You walked away,” Darian shot back, like that was some crime.

Ronan frowned. “That’s it?”

“That’s plenty.”

Darian pushed off the wall, stepping into Ronan’s space. His friends closed in, making the narrow hall squeeze even tighter. Instinct moved Ronan’s hand to his sword, fingers pressed on the hilt but not drawing it.

[COMBAT SENSE: ACTIVATED.]

The words pulsed at the edge of his vision, low and quiet, but there.

[THREAT ASSESSMENT: LOW.]

[HOST CAN WIN.]

He almost laughed. Low? After what he’d seen in the dark, this was nothing. A school bully with a fancy crest trivial.

Still, Ronan didn’t want a fight. Not here. Not over something as pointless as bruised pride.

He eased his hand away from the sword.

“I’m sorry,” he said, steady as he could.

Darian paused, confused. “What?”

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you. I didn’t do it on purpose,” Ronan replied. “I'm just trying to get through the day.”

Darian’s glare faltered; his friends shifted uncomfortably. For a moment, something flickered in Darian’s eyes confusion, maybe even a spark of guilt. Then he snapped the mask back on.

“Whatever.” Darian shoved past, shoulder slamming into Ronan. The three walked off, leaving the hallway empty and quiet.

Ronan stood there for a moment.

[QUEST COMPLETE: ATTEND YOUR FIRST CLASS.]

[REWARD: 1 WAR ENERGY.]

[CURRENT WAR ENERGY: 2]

He let out a shaky breath. Two. Only two. Not enough. He needed to figure out this System, why he was here, why the crystal shattered, why the thing in the darkness called him a “shell.”

And the Forbidden Division. He had to find it.

The petition office was on the third floor, tucked away in the academy’s central tower. Ronan climbed slowly; his wounds were gone, but the deep ache stuck around. War Energy could fix the surface, not exhaustion.

Inside the cramped office, a tired-looking clerk sat behind a lonely desk. She had salt-and-pepper hair, glasses sliding down her nose.

“Name?”

“Ronan Ash.”

She looked up just for a second. “F-rank?”

“Yeah.”

She barely paused. “You’re wasting your time.”

“I know.”

“All seven slots are filled,” she said, flat. “Petition window closed two weeks ago.”

“I’m aware.”

She sighed. “Then why are you here?”

Ronan hesitated, thinking of the shadows, the System, that strange gut feeling—like someone was waiting for him.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I just feel like I’m supposed to be here.”

She studied him, quiet for a long moment.

Then, surprising him, she reached into a drawer and pulled out an old, yellowed piece of paper. Dust clung to the corners; it looked fragile, out of place in all the clutter.

“This showed up three days ago,” she said. “No sender, no seal—just your name.”

She slid it across the desk.

Ronan took the note. The handwriting was too neat, too perfect. It looked like a machine had drawn every letter.

It said:

The seventh seat is empty.

It has been empty for 743 years.

It is waiting for you.

His hand tightened. “Who sent this?”

The clerk shrugged. “No idea. It was on my desk when I got here. Figured it was a prank.”

743. The same number the System flashed at him. Meaningless, or maybe everything.

He folded the note and stuck it in his pocket. “Thank you.”

As he left, he missed the clerk’s frown. She glanced down at her desk and realized again the drawer she’d opened was empty.

It had been empty for years.

That night, Ronan sat on his thin cot and stared into the dark. He didn’t even try to sleep. He just waited, tense, listening for the System’s voice.

For the first time, he was scared what it might say.