A 17-year-old boy stands by the window, his breath fogging up the cold glass as he gazes out into the storm. The rain falls in delicate sheets, a soft symphony of droplets against the world outside, though it's heavy enough to blur the lines between sky and city. The trees, twisted and reaching like silent figures in the night, sway under the force of the wind, their branches creaking as if whispering secrets to the unseen. The city below, drenched in the dim light of flickering street lamps, hums with a quiet energy—beautiful, yet heavy with shadows.
People walk by, their faces hidden beneath umbrellas, their eyes distant, lost in a world where smiles seem forced, like the laughter that rises from street corners—joyful, yet hollow, like a song that's been played too many times. The boy watches them, feeling the weight of something unspoken in the air, the fear that clings to the city, a slow pulse beneath the facade of normalcy.
He can almost taste the loneliness in the rain, as if the world itself were sighing. The darkened streets gleam with the sheen of a thousand untold stories, and somewhere, just beyond the horizon, there's a light flickering—just barely enough to remind him that even in the deepest night, there is still hope, however faint.
The boy stands quietly by the window, a slight figure caught in the dim light of the room. His hair, blonde like the pale rays of a distant sun, tumbles softly to his brow, just long enough to hint at a wildness, yet still neat enough to carry a quiet restraint. It dances slightly in the breeze that sneaks through the crack in the window, like the whisper of a secret. His blue eyes—pale as glacial waters—hold an ocean of thoughts, distant and deep, though they flicker with an unsettling clarity, as if they've seen too much too soon.
At barely 5'3", his body is slender, almost fragile, yet there's a quiet strength in the way he stands—an elegance in the curve of his shoulders, as though he's learned the art of holding his own against a world that pushes harder than it should. His skin, pale as the rain-washed streets below, seems to catch the faintest light, making him seem almost ethereal, like a dream half-remembered. He doesn't seem to belong to the present, his presence almost a shadow, suspended between moments, a young man poised on the edge of something vast, something unknown.
A little over a year ago, the world shifted. The sky—once a calm blue, serene and familiar—was broken by a sudden, strange shadow. They called it the Darkness. No one truly knew where it came from, but its arrival was like the first breath of a new era, a breath that filled the air with something both exhilarating and terrifying. The world trembled as it fell upon them, a weight on the heart of every living being.
The Darkness did not speak, but it left something behind: a System, a mysterious force that granted everyone over the age of fifteen a power beyond comprehension. Bodies that had once been frail or ordinary were transformed. Senses sharpened to the point where the smallest detail could be discerned from miles away. Strength flooded their muscles, and minds became as clear as polished glass, capable of feats that were once mere fantasies. Every person, at some point between their fifteenth and twentieth year, felt the change—their essence unlocked with the promise of something greater.
But there was a price. A gift, if you will, of magic. Each person received a unique ability, something that tethered them to the unseen currents of the world, an untapped force that pulsed within them, waiting to be mastered. A fire to control, shadows to command, the power of the winds or the ability to bend reality. No one's gift was the same, and yet, it was theirs alone.
Then, on the eve of their twentieth birthday, the Darkness moved again. Without warning, without explanation, the System did what it had been created to do—it sent them to another planet. A new world, raw and untamed, filled with monstrous creatures and a relentless sense of danger. The air there was thick with hostility, every corner a battleground. The monsters were terrifying, vast and vicious, and the land itself seemed to pulse with ancient, forgotten energy. This new planet was a place of trials—every mission set by the System, every challenge, every battle, was a test to see who would survive.
Those who succeeded, who completed their missions and returned, were given the title of Challenger. It was a mark of their strength, a step into something greater, a first rank in a hierarchy that stretched beyond their understanding. Challenger was only the beginning, but it felt like everything—the first tangible proof that they were more than what they had been, more than simple people trying to survive in a broken world.
But beneath it all, there was an undercurrent of fear—a knowledge that the Darkness was not done with them. It was watching, always, waiting to see how far they would go, how much they could endure before breaking. The system might have made them stronger, sharper, more powerful, but it had also made them prey.
The System was an enigma, a force that tied itself to each person who had been chosen by the Darkness. It was not merely a set of instructions, nor was it just a map guiding them through this new world. It was a presence, a silent overseer, embedded into their very essence, a constant companion. It had no form, no voice, yet it spoke to them—through their minds, through their thoughts, and through the notifications that flashed before their eyes.
When a person first felt the power of the System, the first thing it gave them was a name. Not their birth name, but a title of sorts—an identifier that was unique, tied to their essence, to what they had become. It was not something they chose; it was something the System decided, based on who they were now, what they had become.
Following the name came their Class—a category of power that defined the nature of their abilities. The class was a reflection of their gift, their role in this new world. Some were Warriors, others Mages, some Assassins, and others still, strange hybrids of various powers. The class determined their strengths and their weaknesses, their fighting style and the way they would interact with the world. It was their framework, their guiding principle.
And then, there were the Skills. These were the tools, the unique abilities granted by the System, things that no one else possessed. Each skill was a mark of a person's potential—some were destructive, some were subtle, others were healing or supportive. Some were passive, providing small enhancements to their everyday lives, while others were active, calling forth bursts of power when needed most. Each skill grew in strength as the person grew, unlocking new tiers, new depths of mastery as they completed challenges and faced dangers in the alien world the Darkness had cast them into.
The System wasn't a kind benefactor. It was cold and indifferent, offering no explanation for its choices, its methods, or its endgame. It simply was. People learned to accept it, for there was no other choice. It guided them, yes, but also forced them into situations that would either break them or make them something else entirely.
For every person, their System page might have looked something like this:
Name: Ethan Solis
Class: Shadowmancer
Skills:
Shadow Step (Rank 2): The ability to meld into shadows, becoming intangible and invisible for a brief time.
Night's Grasp (Rank 1): Manipulate the darkness around him to restrain or blind enemies.
Silent Strike (Rank 3): A strike that can silence sound within a certain radius, making it nearly impossible for enemies to hear movements.
Void Veil (Rank 2): A protective barrier of darkness that absorbs physical attacks and weakens magical ones.
As the ranks rose, so did the skills, each becoming more potent, more refined, until they were forces of nature in themselves. The class and skills defined them, shaping their destiny, forging them into something new. But with every gain, with every improvement, the system never asked if they were ready—it only gave them more. More power. More trials. More reasons to question why the Darkness had chosen them, and what its true intentions were.
For some, the System became their greatest ally. For others, it was a constant reminder of what they had lost—and of the path they would never be able to turn away from.
The boy's System was unlike any other. While the world around him buzzed with the chaos of new power and strange, unexplainable abilities, his was different. His System, more intricate, more peculiar, and, perhaps, more burdensome, worked on levels—an endless array of numbered tiers that kept track of everything. Every person, every monster, every creature in his field of vision had a level—a number floating above them, silent yet stark, revealing the essence of their power.
Unlike others who could only feel the surge of their power within, he could see it—see how strong someone truly was, from the highest Challenger to the weakest, the lowest rank in the System. It wasn't just numbers, though—it was a language. A language he had learned to read in silence. He could gauge the distance between himself and the others, judge who was an ally, and who might be a threat, with a simple glance. This gift was a weight—a knowing of everyone's potential, their weakness, and their strength all at once.
Monsters, too, were marked by this same strange, invisible language. Beasts of the alien world that the Darkness had cast them into—massive, terrifying creatures that had once sent grown men running in fear—now appeared as little more than statistics to him. The sight of a level above a monstrous beast's head, something like Lv. 45 Hydra or Lv. 38 Nightmare Wyrm, was a calm reminder that the world was full of threats, but nothing that his eyes couldn't measure. The System was clear with him, almost brutally so.
But that wasn't all. There was another layer to the boy's System that set him apart even further from others. It was an anomaly, something no one else had—an inventory. It wasn't something spoken of, and it wasn't something others even knew was possible. While everyone else had to rely on their skills, their strength, and their limited resources, he could reach into the unseen space within him, a kind of pocket dimension that held weapons, tools, and items that others could only dream of. A knife, a map, a flask of water—whatever he needed, there it was, waiting, ready to be summoned from his mind. It was a gift, an oddity, one that made him feel both special and distant.
The strange thing about his System was that it didn't wait until his twentieth birthday to decide his class. Where others had to prove themselves, facing monsters, completing missions, climbing the ranks, his class was chosen for him well before he could even consider becoming a Challenger. The System's decision was swift, but it was also cryptic. At just seventeen, his class was already set: Observer. It was a class unlike any other, one that didn't belong to the expected hierarchy. It wasn't a warrior, it wasn't a mage, nor an assassin. It was something… different.
As an Observer, his role was to watch—to see the world through the eyes of the System itself. His powers were rooted in the ability to perceive everything around him with perfect clarity, and he was granted the ability to influence the world in subtle, unseen ways. He could manipulate information, know the weaknesses of his foes, track the trajectory of battles, and even alter the course of events by understanding the larger picture. But with this power came a burden—he saw the truth of the world laid bare before him, and it was often a darker truth than he wanted to know.
And then there was his family—the Climbers. His mother and father had faced the Darkness twice, not as mere challengers, but as Climbers, a rank beyond even the first. Climbers were rare, legendary figures who had gone through the trials of the System more than once, emerging victorious each time. They had conquered the Darkness not once, but twice, defeating its monstrous creations and returning from the alien world stronger, wiser, more dangerous than before. His parents were untouchable, paragons of strength and resilience, and their power eclipsed even the most seasoned of challengers.
But the boy, with his Observer class and his strange abilities, felt like a mere echo of them. At seventeen, far younger than they had been when they became Climbers, he already knew the weight of the world, the sense of something greater pressing in on him. His path was not the same as theirs. While they were Climbers, warriors who could face the Darkness head-on and return triumphant, he had something else—a deeper vision, a way to understand the fabric of reality itself. But could he ever be more than that? Could his own power ever rise to match their legacy?
He often wondered if his class, his abilities, were a blessing or a curse. Because in a world of monsters and climbing ranks, where power was everything, the ability to see so much—yet be so young, so fragile in comparison—was both a gift and a weight too heavy to bear.
Name: Ethan Solis
Class: Observer
Skills:
Flash Step (Rank 1): A technique that allows the user to move instantly to a destination within line of sight. The cost is immense—each use causes severe, burning pain as the user's soul is torn and tested by the Darkness itself. The more it is used, the more unbearable the strain becomes.
Unlike the others, Ethan didn't gain his skills through trials or effort. Flash Step was his—given to him by the System from the moment his abilities first manifested. His power was instantaneous movement, a flash of light that allowed him to travel short distances with a speed that no one else could match. The problem was that it came at a cost that no one else could understand.
Each time he used Flash Step, the world around him seemed to shift. The air would burn, his body would lurch forward with the force of a thousand suns, and the pain would surge—not just in his muscles, but deep within, where no physical injury could reach. It was as if the very core of his being—his soul—was being set alight, as if the Darkness itself was testing him, probing him, pushing him to the limit of his endurance.
His body burned, yes, but it was his soul that screamed in agony. The more he used it, the more the pain threatened to consume him entirely, and the more he felt the pull of the Darkness, trying to tear apart the fragile threads that held him together. It wasn't a simple cost—it was a sacrifice, one that chipped away at him, piece by piece, with every flash, with every burst of motion. There were times when it felt like it would break him, like the price would be too much to bear.
Yet, there was something almost addictive about it, something that called to him every time he saw the need for speed, for action. Because even in the face of that unbearable pain, Flash Step gave him something others could never have—control, swiftness, the ability to move beyond the limitations of his own body. But it was a cruel gift, one that demanded more of him than he could ever repay.
The Solis family was well-known, a family forged in the fires of the Darkness. Ethan's mother, Emily Solis, was a woman of quiet strength and infinite resilience. At 48, she had faced the Darkness as a Climber, and her power was legendary. It was said that her skills were so refined, so powerful, that no one dared underestimate her. She had risen through the ranks with grace and unwavering determination, a force to be reckoned with. And though her power had softened over the years, she was still an indomitable force in the world.
Cassandra Solis, Ethan's older sister, was a legend in her own right. At 24, she was already a figure who commanded respect, a warrior born of the same steel as their parents. Strong, precise, deadly—her skills were honed by years of fighting, of climbing the ranks and conquering the challenges the Darkness sent her way. She had inherited the best of both her mother and father's abilities, and there was a fire in her that matched the intensity of their family legacy.
And then, there was Ethan—faster than them all, but at a terrible price. While his mother and sister had ascended to the ranks of Climbers, Ethan was still young, still feeling his way through the system. His power was not a sign of greatness yet, only a flicker of potential, a flash of something larger, something terrifying in its implications. Observer was his class—he saw the world differently, understood its language, its layers, its truths—but that was all. He was not yet a Climber, not yet a Challenger. Not yet anything. And yet, the weight of his family's legacy was heavy on his shoulders, the burden of what they had accomplished and the path they had carved for him.
They had faced the Darkness, defeated it twice. But Ethan could feel the system watching, always watching, as if it were waiting for him to break, waiting to see how far he could go before the darkness consumed him entirely.
Their family had faced the trials of the Darkness. But Ethan was still standing at the edge, with his own power burning him from within, his soul fractured by every step he took forward.
Ethan's power, his System, was a secret that burned within him—one that he could never share, not even with his family. It was something dangerous, something too precious, too alien to let anyone see. If the world knew about what he could do, the way his power worked, they would hunt him, dissect him, steal from him. The System he carried wasn't just a gift—it was a mark, a target. There were people out there, people who would tear him apart to possess his abilities, who would turn him into nothing more than a weapon or a tool, stripping him of his freedom, his identity. To have a power like his was to hold a secret that could break him, or worse—destroy everything he knew.
He couldn't trust anyone with it, not even his family. There was too much at stake. If someone knew what he was capable of, it would be the end of him. The world was a cruel place, and there were always people lurking in the shadows, waiting for an opportunity to exploit something like him. Observer wasn't just a class; it was a prison, one that bound him to a life of silence, of isolation.
But the strain of keeping it hidden, of pretending to be just another boy in the Solis family, was beginning to tear him apart in ways he couldn't always control. His family—the very ones who should have been the ones to protect him—saw only the facade, the illusion of a powerless child. His sister, Cassandra, was perhaps the harshest of them all. She had always been the strong one, the proud one. She was everything their family stood for—strong, fearless, capable. And Ethan? To her, he was nothing but a shadow, a disappointment, a disgrace to the Solis name.
She never spoke to him much, never acknowledged him beyond the barest of words. He was beneath her, in her eyes—a weak link in a chain of power, a failure to live up to the family's legacy. She was a Challenger, after all. She had conquered the Darkness, earned her place among the elite. And Ethan? He couldn't even make it past the trials on his own. No amount of his Flash Step, no amount of his hidden potential, could erase that deep-rooted sense of inadequacy that he felt every time she looked at him with those cold eyes.
His father, too, was distant. Always busy, always focused on his work, his missions, his own struggles with the Darkness. Ethan was never the son his father had hoped for. In his eyes, Ethan was a failure—a boy who could never measure up to the high expectations placed on him. His father was a man of few words, and those words, when they came, were always sharp, pointed, and full of disappointment. Ethan's accomplishments were always overshadowed by what his sister had done, by the strength of their parents. He was never enough for them. Not the strong son, not the prodigy. He was just… there.
But then, there was Emily—his mother. She was different. She had always known that Ethan was hiding something. She was a woman of perception, a Climber herself, and even though she couldn't put her finger on it, she could feel the weight of the boy's power, the burden he carried within him. She knew there was more to him than what the world saw. Still, even Emily, in her quiet wisdom, had never pushed him to reveal it. She simply cared for him in her own way, with a tenderness that wasn't overt but always present. She didn't need to understand everything; she simply needed to know he was safe.
At times, Ethan felt as though his mother was the only one who truly cared. Her presence, though often distant in her own way, was like a quiet refuge in a storm. She would look at him with a knowing gaze, and for a brief moment, he felt seen—not as a weak boy or a disappointment, but as something more. A son. Her son. Still, she didn't press him. She didn't ask about the things he kept hidden. She didn't ask because she already understood, in some way, that the boy she loved had his own burdens, his own demons, and she could never ask him to bear the weight of their family's expectations, too.
But that understanding didn't change the reality of Ethan's world. He was alone, even in a family full of people who were supposed to be his greatest support. His sister's scorn, his father's neglect, his mother's quiet concern—they were all parts of a fractured whole. Ethan stood in the middle of it all, a young man with a gift that was both a curse and a burden, a power that made him more than he should be—and less than he needed to be.
He couldn't help but wonder sometimes if the world was made to break him. His power, his isolation, his fractured relationships—they were all pieces of a puzzle that didn't quite fit. And he knew, deep down, that as long as the world remained unaware of what he carried within him, he would always be a stranger in his own skin.