Eight years ago, the sky didn't just crack — it split open like a festering wound across the heavens. It wasn't a storm's fury or the earth's tremor. From those incandescent rifts, grotesque shapes writhed and spilled forth — a tide of monstrous flesh and shadow that drowned the world in immediate, brutal chaos. And then, as if the very fabric of reality recoiled from this invasion, a spark ignited within some of us… a nascent power blossomed in the face of annihilation. This cataclysm birthed the Hunter Ranking system, a stark hierarchy of survival. From the ignoble depths of E-rank to the mythical heights of SSS-rank, your place was etched in stone, an immutable truth. But raw strength wasn't the only path. There was Aura. Seven distinct currents of power were discovered, each a unique conduit to strength: Dragon, Sword, Angel, Beast, Fire, Water, Air. For those too weak to claw their way up the ranks through brute force alone, Aura became a lifeline — a wellspring of untapped potential. The richer your Aura, the more formidable you became. The system settled, a fragile order amidst the lingering chaos.
But then, a tremor in the unseen world heralded a new arrival. Not a monster from the rifts, but something older. A supreme, divine demon — its form ravaged and broken, barely clinging to life — whispered its final words: "Those who try to kill the creator... must die." It stumbled through the shadows, its fading aura a mere flicker of malevolent energy on the verge of extinction. Human scavengers, quick to exploit even the most bizarre weakness, moved to strike. But something primal, something ancient, held them back. This was no mere beast. This was… other. In one last desperate act, a final surge of dark power forced the demon's essence into the fragile vessel of a sleeping human child.
STORY BEGINS
"Grandma! Grandma! Please, tell us a really good fantasy story!" The old woman's gaze softened, a familiar twinkle igniting within her depths. A low chuckle rumbled in her chest. "Hmm… and what sort of fantastical tale calls to you tonight, my dears?"
"Ooh! One with gods! But a sad one! A god who was betrayed!" Her smile deepened, a hint of melancholy gracing its edges, as if a long-held memory stirred. "Ah, that reminds me of a very old story..."
"In the dawn of existence, before time itself began, there was a being known as the God of Beginning — the first spark of divinity. To shepherd the nascent multiverse, he willed others into being: gods and their shadowed reflections, the evil antitheses, to weave the tapestry of light and darkness, of creation and destruction. But over time, as eons bled into millennia, a corrosive ambition festered within his creations. They coveted his primordial power. Every god. Every antithesis. A silent betrayal. The God of Beginning, ancient and wise, felt the shift, the hunger in their gazes. Weakened by creation, he knew a direct confrontation would be his undoing. So, he chose a path no one else could have conceived — with a sorrowful sigh that echoed through the void, he shattered his divine form, splintering his very soul into fragments, and vanished. Gone… a whisper in the winds of creation. 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 suffocating embrace of a grimy alley, a small girl wept soundlessly, her thin body a canvas of bruises. The cold concrete was her only comfort. Loneliness clung to her like a second skin — a constant ache she had come to accept.
"Why… why does this always happen? Their eyes slide right over me. No one reaches out. They just… walk past, pretending I'm invisible. But still… a foolish ember of hope flickers within me. Every time the tears fall, a whisper insists that someone will come. Why do I feel that absurd certainty?"
Then, slicing through the oppressive silence like a beacon, a voice. "Xiyau! Hey! Can you hear me? You're hurt again. Just hold on! Reach for my hand!" Her tear-blurred vision struggled to focus, but through the shimmering haze, he was there — her brother, a familiar silhouette against the encroaching darkness.
"It's always him. My steadfast star in the storm. My brother. No matter how shattered I feel, how utterly broken… Whenever the tears well up and spill over… he always finds me."
"Xiyau, can you try to move? Wait – there's blood. Stay still. I'll rip my shirt to make a bandage." A sharp tearing sound echoed through the quiet. "There. All done. You okay?" She managed a small nod, a fragile smile forming at the corners of her chapped lips.
"Thank you, Rantaro… but your shirt—"
"Don't even think about it. Let's just get you home."
Back in the cramped warmth of their home.
"Mother! We're back - Xiyau's hurt again." "Oh, my poor sweetheart." Her mother's voice, laced with worry, softened the air. "This might sting for a moment – close your eyes tight and hold your brother's arm, okay?"
"Can I… can I really hold your arm, Rantaro?" Her voice was small, hesitant.
"Y-Yes! Of course you can…" A nervous tremor ran through him.
(Wait… last time her grip was like a vice. I swear she almost dislocated my shoulder…)
A sickening crunch echoed through the room. "UUUHHH!" Rantaro's breath hitched, a strangled cry escaping his lips.
(She did it again… that innocent face hides a surprising amount of strength.)
"Alright, there. The medicine is applied. Open your eyes now, dear." Her mother's tone was gentle, oblivious. Xiyau's wide, innocent eyes fixed on her brother. "Brother… are you in pain? Was it… because of me?"
"No! Pain? What pain? I'm completely fine! Not hurting at all! Ugh… okay, maybe just a tiny bit…" He winced, rubbing his abused arm surreptitiously.
As twilight painted the sky in hues of bruised purple and fading orange, the front door creaked open — a familiar sound that usually brought comfort. "I'm home," their father's voice called out, the usual jovial tone tinged with weariness.
"Papa! You're back! Let's play! Oh wait – you look tired. Are you hurt?" Xiyau's small face crumpled with concern.
"Yeah, a bit of a rough day. So, we'll do something calm today. Indoor games. Your mother's just out buying groceries." He forced a smile, ruffling her hair. "Let's play chess then!"
Rantaro's face brightened instantly, his usual boundless energy returning. "It'll raise Xiyau's IQ!" He nudged his sister playfully.
"Hey, Rantaro," his dad chuckled, warmth lacing his voice. "Sometimes, you need to think less, not more." He winked.
They unfolded the checkered board, the familiar pieces clicking softly as they were arranged. That night, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, they played. Laughter filled their small home — unrestrained and carefree. They shared a simple meal, the comforting aroma of their mother's cooking filling the air. For a few precious hours, they were just… happy.
That was the rhythm of our days. My ordinary, perfectly imperfect today.
A jarring shift — the cold, silent vacuum of outer space. Across the immeasurable gulf of the cosmos, a streak of pure golden light, disturbingly interwoven with tendrils of dark, roiling aura, tore through galaxies with impossible speed. It was a silent scream across the void, an unstoppable trajectory aimed squarely at Earth.
Then, they arrived. Gods, radiant and terrible in their majesty. And their eternal counterparts, the evil antitheses, twisted reflections of power and malice. And then… the delicate balance shattered once more. Chaos, silent on a cosmic scale, yet pregnant with violent intent.
"It's ours! The echoes resonate with our essence!" a chorus of malevolent voices shrieked across light-years. "Silence, you defilers! We sensed its arrival first! The birthright is ours!" boomed the righteous fury of the divine.
Neither faction, wary of the immense power they sensed and the potential for mutual annihilation, dared to ignite a full-scale war. Not yet. Instead, they scattered across the globe, their celestial senses straining, each driven by the singular, desperate need to find… it.
Later that night, the silence in their small home was heavy, absolute. All of Rantaro's family… had vanished. As if plucked from reality by an unseen hand. In their place, lying starkly white against the worn wooden floor, a single folded note:
We've gone to take care of something important, something we cannot explain right now. But we promise you, our dearest children, we will be back. Soon. Today, you turn eighteen, Rantaro – Happy Birthday, our precious son. Until we return, please, take care of yourselves… and especially, take care of your sister. We are counting on you both. More than you can ever know.
Somewhere far away, in a place devoid of warmth or light. A voice, cold and devoid of any human inflection, sliced through the stillness.
"Have you ensured the complete erasure of all records indicating the existence of two children?"
"Yes, Ma'am. Every trace has been purged. They will believe there was no one."
Two years have bled into the past. Now, on the eve of his twentieth birthday, Rantaro stands at the precipice of an awakening he cannot yet comprehend, the weight of a fabricated solitude pressing down on him.