The shrill cry of the alarm shredded the fragile quiet of the pre-dawn apartment. It was not just sound but a needle burrowing into his skull, vibrating through the cheap plaster walls and the cramped bed that seemed smaller every day. Atlest groaned, half tangled in his threadbare sheets, and swatted blindly at the clock. His hand connected on the third try, silencing it with a hollow clunk.
The red digits still glared back at him: 6:30 AM.
Another school day. Another link in the monotonous chain of his life.
He dragged himself upright, body heavy, muscles aching with a tiredness that never seemed to leave. In the bathroom mirror, a stranger stared back at him — messy black hair, brown eyes dulled by exhaustion, and oversized glasses that slipped down his nose. His thin frame only emphasized the hollows under his eyes. Average, maybe less than average. The kind of boy people looked past without ever noticing.
And stamped across his very existence: Level 1.
An invisible brand, a reminder carved into the soul itself.
It meant weakness. It meant he was at the very bottom of the pyramid in a world that measured worth by power. No dazzling abilities, no talent to lift him higher, no shining future. Just a predestined life of labour — calloused hands, bent back, and, if he was lucky, survival against the beasts that prowled beyond the city walls.
Hatred coiled in his chest like a snake. He loathed this reflection. He loathed the life it represented. Yet, as he buttoned the faded grey uniform and tightened the fraying tie, a small spark flickered stubbornly inside him. A defiance too faint for anyone else to see, but real all the same. Like a weed pushing up through cracked concrete, it whispered: This story isn't finished. The ending isn't written yet.
The walk to the bus stop was a blur of concrete and faces worn thin by fatigue. Their apartment on the city's fringe — shared with his mother, Stella — was more shelter than home, wedged in a district of sagging walls and flickering neon. The higher zones, with their polished towers and streets of light, might as well have been another world. Here, the air stank of exhaust and the bitter tang of oil. Inequality wasn't hidden; it was the foundation of the city's design.
Still, Atlest walked with his shoulders squared, the straps of his backpack digging into his shoulders yet somehow feeling lighter than usual. A fragile seed of hope had taken root in him, stubborn and small but pulsing like a heartbeat.
The bus screeched to a halt, brakes crying out like an animal in pain. The doors hissed open, and a tide of weary Level 1s and 2s pressed inside. Atlest slipped through the crush of bodies and slid into a seat by the window.
Outside, the city unrolled itself in layers. In the distance gleamed the spires of the elite zone, glistening like blades catching the sun, taunting him with their unreachable promise. The colossal dome overhead — humanity's shield against the wilds — shimmered faintly, etched with heroic figures meant to inspire. To Atlest, it mocked him. Every shining mural of valour only reminded him how powerless he was.
Envy tightened in his stomach. To wield an ability, to etch his name alongside legends, to no longer be invisible. Fantasies as distant as the stars. He shut his eyes, trying to banish them, but the ache only grew. He was a leaf caught in a raging current, tossed wherever the world decided.
Or so he believed.
The jolt came without warning. A crackling surge of energy shot through his body, rattling his bones. His eyes flew open just as the world outside bleached white in a blinding flash of azure.
BOOM.
The bus lurched violently. Screams tore through the air. The front of the vehicle folded in on itself under an explosion of fire and metal. The world dissolved into chaos: bodies flung like rag dolls, crimson smearing against twisted steel.
Through the shattered glass he saw it — the impossible.
A dragon.
Its scales gleamed like obsidian in the fractured light, each plate a fortress of its own. Claws like curved blades raked across the dome's fractured surface. Eyes blazed with fire older than cities, older than civilizations. It was a Level 50 behemoth, a nightmare carved from legend.
It roared, and the sound was not just heard but felt — a bone-deep vibration that rattled the soul itself. The dome shuddered, cracked further, and fire poured into the bus.
Atlest's body was pinned beneath debris. His lungs seized; his screams shrank into choked gasps. The dragon's maw opened above him, revealing a furnace of molten gold. Death stared at him with cold reptilian eyes.
He braced for the end.
But it didn't come.
The world froze.
The dragon's flames, mid-spill, hung in the air like a painting of fire. Smoke curled upward in unmoving spirals. People — dead, screaming, or reaching for help — all locked in place. The roar of destruction collapsed into silence.
Atlest blinked. His heart thundered, loud in the unnatural quiet. His breath fogged in the still air. A bubble of azure light wrapped around him, thrumming faintly with power.
Time… has stopped.
The thought didn't feel like his own. It felt placed in his mind, like a truth whispered by something greater.
He stumbled free of the wreckage, weaving through frozen bodies and suspended flames. Each detail stood sharp and horrifying: the shine of molten metal, the terror etched on a woman's face, the dragon's claws caught mid-swipe.
The bubble quivered. The blue light dimmed. He felt it thinning, time pressing at its edges, eager to resume. He ran. He didn't fight, didn't play hero — he fled with the desperation of prey, sprinting until the bubble of silence shattered.
The world snapped back. Fire roared into being, the bus collapsing into a blazing pyre behind him. The dragon's roar carried across the city, answered by the distant clash of defenders already rushing to meet it.
Atlest didn't look back. He hid among the rubble until his heart slowed, then used the power again — another stolen fragment of frozen time — just to run further.
By the time he reached the shabby apartment, his body trembled from exhaustion. Stella was there, waiting at the door, her face breaking from terror into relief the moment she saw him. She pulled him into her arms, and for a moment, he let himself collapse into her warmth.
Words failed him. He couldn't explain the frozen dragon, the azure light, the terrifying beauty of flames stopped in midair. All he knew was this: his life, once nothing but grey routine, had been rewritten in fire and silence.
He wasn't a hero. Not yet. Maybe not ever. But he was no longer powerless.
Something inside him had awakened.
And the world — scarred, burning, waiting — would never be the same.
(A/N: First chapter of my original, will post a few more later on. Wish me luck!)