The sun barely crested the smoggy skyline of New Arcanis, a sprawling city of steel and neon where dreams clashed with reality. Leo Varn tugged his threadbare jacket tighter against the morning chill, his boots scuffing the cracked pavement of the Low District. At seventeen, he was scrawny, with messy brown hair and eyes that carried a stubborn spark despite the world's best efforts to snuff it out. To everyone else, he was just another nobody, a Low District rat with no mana signature and no prospects. But Leo had a dream—one that burned brighter than the dungeon gates glowing on the city's edge. He wanted to be a hunter.
In New Arcanis, hunters were gods among men. They plunged into dungeons—rift-like portals that spewed monsters and treasures from other dimensions—and emerged as heroes, wielding powers that bent reality itself. The power system was simple but brutal: mana, a mystical energy that flowed through every living thing, determined your worth. Those with strong mana signatures could awaken as hunters, gaining abilities like elemental control, superhuman strength, or even time manipulation. The stronger your mana, the higher you climbed in the Hunter Guild's ranks, from F-Class to the legendary S-Class.
Leo, though, was a blank. No mana signature. No awakening. The Guild's scanners had laughed at him last year, spitting out a flat zero when he'd scraped together enough credits for a test. "Stick to sweeping streets, kid," the clerk had sneered. The memory still stung, but Leo refused to let it bury him.
His days followed a predictable rhythm. By 6 a.m., he was at the fish market, hauling crates of slimy river carp for Mr. Kessler, a grizzled vendor who paid him just enough to cover rent and instant noodles. The work was grueling—his hands were calloused, his back ached—but it was near the river, where Leo could sneak away to fish during breaks. Fishing was his escape, a quiet rebellion against a world that told him he'd never be enough. He'd cast his line into the murky water, imagining he was reeling in a dungeon relic or a monster's core instead of a half-dead trout.
"Leo! Quit daydreaming and move those crates!" Kessler's bark snapped him back to reality. Leo wiped sweat from his brow and hefted another crate, ignoring the snickers from a group of D-Class hunters lounging nearby. Their sleek combat gear and glowing mana tattoos marked them as everything Leo wasn't. One of them, a tall girl with lightning crackling in her palm, smirked. "Look, it's the wannabe. Still dreaming of dungeons, blank?"
Leo bit his tongue. Talking back never ended well. He'd learned that the hard way after a C-Class hunter had "accidentally" singed his jacket for mouthing off. Instead, he kept his head down and worked, the weight of their laughter heavier than the crates.
After his shift, Leo grabbed his fishing rod—a cheap, secondhand thing he'd saved for months to buy—and headed to the riverbank. The river was the one place he felt free. Sitting on a rusted pipe, he cast his line and let his mind wander. He pictured himself as a hunter, storming a dungeon with a blade of fire or summoning storms to crush a wyrm. He'd read every scrap of news about hunters, memorizing their abilities: pyrokinesis, telekinesis, beast summoning. The power system fascinated him, even if it had rejected him. Mana came in three types—Elemental, Physical, and Arcane—each with subtypes that hunters honed through training and dungeon runs. The best hunters, the S-Class elites, could blend types, like conjuring ice blades (Elemental-Physical) or warping space (Arcane). But without mana, Leo was locked out of it all.
School was no better. He attended a rundown academy for Low District kids, where the curriculum barely touched hunter training. Most of his classmates had given up on dreams of awakening, settling for factory jobs or street hustling. Leo's refusal to quit made him a target. "You're embarrassing yourself," his friend Mira had said once, her voice soft but pitying. "Not everyone gets to be a hero." Mira had a faint mana signature, enough for an F-Class license, but she'd chosen a safe clerk job instead. Leo couldn't understand it. Why settle when dungeons held infinite possibilities?
By evening, Leo was back in his one-room apartment, a cramped space with peeling wallpaper and a flickering lightbulb. He ate dinner—noodles with a side of stale bread—while scrolling through a cracked phone, watching shaky videos of hunters battling in dungeons. A B-Class team had cleared a rift yesterday, pulling out a glowing core worth millions. Leo's chest ached with envy and hope. One day, he'd be there. Somehow.
As night fell, he lay on his lumpy mattress, staring at the ceiling. The city's hum—distant sirens, dungeon alarms, the buzz of mana-powered lights—filtered through his window. Tomorrow, he'd be back at the market, back at the river, back to being invisible. But Leo clung to his dream like a lifeline. He didn't know how, but he'd find a way to become a hunter. The world could laugh all it wanted. He'd prove them wrong.