Chapter 1: The Beginning
The world was forever changed the day the first portal appeared.
Without warning, portals opened across the globe, leading to dangerous dimensions filled with monstrous creatures. These realms were called Dungeons. They couldn't be sealed. They couldn't be destroyed. But soon, people discovered they could enter.
And even more astonishing, some humans awakened strange powers—powers that set them apart. These individuals became known as Rankers. Society quickly assigned them ranks, from E to S. The Rank determined their strength within the Dungeons.
But this Rank was permanent. It was an unchangeable fate, entirely based on luck. Once assigned, it could never be altered.
From that moment onward, society divided sharply:
Those with high Ranks lived like royalty.
Those with low or no Rank were left behind.
Yet, there was still hope.
For those without a Rank, or with a weak one, another path existed. A path not governed by luck, but by perseverance.
This path was called Aura.
Aura was not a gift of chance. It was something deeper, more ancient. It could not be given by luck—it could only be earned through years of effort.
It took approximately 20 years to master Aura. Unlike Ranks, there was no age limit to its acquisition. Anyone could learn it, whether young or old, rich or poor. But it demanded discipline, sacrifice, and unyielding patience.
Once mastered, Aura could make its wielder stronger than even the highest-ranked individuals.
And beyond Aura, there was something even greater: Dura.
Dura was the advanced form of Aura, a mastery that took 50 years to achieve. It was the pinnacle of personal power—a testament to those who refused to give up.
Aura and Dura became the last hope for the weak. For those abandoned by the system. For those who lacked the luck of the gods. But most people chose not to take this path. They were too lazy. They never even tried.
There were two faces in this world: Aura and Ranks. One was born from effort, the other from fate.
And this is where our story begins.
---
The Story Begins
"Grandma! Grandma! Tell us a really good fantasy story!"
The old woman's gaze softened, and a familiar twinkle lit up her eyes. A low chuckle rumbled in her chest. "Hmm... and what kind of fantastical tale do you want tonight, my dears?"
"Ooh! One with gods! But a sad one! A god who was betrayed!"
Her smile deepened, touched with a hint of sorrow—like a long-forgotten memory stirred from slumber. "Ah, that reminds me of a very old story..."
In the dawn of existence, before time itself was born, there was only one: the God of Beginning, the first spark of divinity. From his will, the multiverse came into being. He created others to aid him: gods of light and gods of shadow—opposites meant to weave the endless cycle of creation and destruction.
But as eons passed, ambition corrupted them. The gods, even the shadowed ones, turned their eyes upon their creator. They coveted his power. Each and every one of them, even the divine antitheses, betrayed him in secret.
The God of Beginning, weakened by the burden of creation, knew he couldn't defeat them all. So, with a heavy heart, he shattered himself—his divine soul breaking into countless fragments, scattering throughout the very fabric of existence.
He vanished… but perhaps, just perhaps… not forever.
"Grandma! So… is the God of Beginning really dead?"
"No one truly knows, little one. No one truly knows..."
---
Eight years later
In the cold shadows of a grimy alley, a small girl wept silently. Her body, bruised and fragile, trembled against the cold concrete. No one looked. No one helped. People passed by, eyes vacant, pretending she didn't exist.
"Why... why does this always happen?" she whispered to no one. "Why does no one see me? But… every time I cry, I feel like someone will come. Why do I believe that?"
Then, a voice.
"Xiyau! Hey! Can you hear me? You're hurt again. Hold on! Reach for my hand!"
Through tear-blurred vision, she saw him—an unwavering figure, a beacon of hope in the darkness.
"It's always him. My brother. My unshakable star. No matter how broken I am… he always finds me."
"Can you move? Wait—you're bleeding. Don't move! I'll tear my shirt for a bandage."
A sharp tear of fabric. A touch of warmth. "All done. You okay?"
She nodded weakly. "Thank you, Rantaro… but your shirt—"
"Forget it. Let's get you home."
---
Back in their cramped home
"Mother! We're back—Xiyau's hurt again."
"Oh, my poor darling. This might sting—close your eyes and hold your brother's arm."
"Can I really... hold your arm, Rantaro?"
"Y-Y-Yes! Of course!" he stammered. (Please don't squeeze too hard like last time…)
Crunch
"UUUHHH!"
(She did it again… that cute little grip hides the strength of a monster.)
"There. All done. You can open your eyes now."
"Brother… did that hurt? Was it… because of me?"
"No! Pain? What pain? I'm totally fine! Ugh… okay, maybe a little…"
---
Evening. The sky painted in fading orange and purple. The door creaked open.
"I'm home."
"Papa! You're back! Let's play! Wait… you're hurt?"
"Just a rough day, sweetheart. Let's play something quiet. Indoor games. Your mom's out shopping."
"Let's play chess!" Rantaro beamed.
"It'll raise Xiyau's IQ!" he added proudly.
His father chuckled. "Sometimes, son, you need to think less, not more."
They set up the board. The clicking of pieces. Laughter filled their warm home. A simple meal, the comforting scent of home-cooked food—it was an ordinary, perfect day.
And yet… everything was about to change.
---
Somewhere across the stars…
A streak of golden light, interwoven with dark, swirling energy, shot through space. A silent scream echoed through the cosmos, directed straight at Earth.
They followed.
Gods—radiant, terrifying, divine.
And their Antitheses—twisted, malevolent reflections of all that was holy.
Balance shattered. War loomed on the horizon.
"It's ours! We sense it!"
"No—this signal belongs to us!"
Neither side dared move first. Instead, they scattered, searching. Desperate. Frantic. A single target.
---
That night, silence consumed the house.
Rantaro's family was gone.
No trace. No clue.
Only a folded note lay on the floor:
We've gone to take care of something important. We can't explain. But we promise—we'll be back. Today, you turn eighteen, Rantaro. Happy Birthday. Take care of your sister. You both matter more than you know.
---
Far away, in a dark place:
"Are all records of the children erased?"
"Yes, Ma'am. No one will remember they existed."
---
Two years later
On the eve of his twentieth birthday, Rantaro stood alone. The weight of false solitude pressing on him. A fate he couldn't yet understand closing in around him.