🌌 Power Classification System

Power Levels, Skills, Martial Arts, Beasts, Demons, and Quests

From weakest to strongest:

F-Rank → Basic, starting level.

E-Rank → Slightly better than average.

D-Rank → Decent ability, reliable.

C-Rank → Solid strength, useful in most situations.

B-Rank → Strong, respected by others.

A-Rank → Very strong, often leaders or champions.

S-Rank → Rare and powerful, almost legendary.

SS-Rank → Extremely rare, their presence changes battles.

SSS-Rank → Peak of strength, almost beyond imagination.

Weapons, Metals, and Herbs

Classified by rarity and value:

Mundane → Everyday items, nothing special.

Common → Slightly useful, easy to find.

Uncommon → Better quality, takes effort to get.

Rare → Valuable, much harder to obtain.

Epic → Special items with unique traits.

Legendary → Famous, often tied to stories or history.

Ancient → Very old and powerful, from forgotten times.

Mythic → Almost unreal, said to be created by higher forces.

Divine → The highest tier, beyond ordinary limits.

Spirits

Ranked by their strength and rarity:

Common Spirit → Ordinary and widely seen.

Uncommon Spirit → Slightly stronger, with better growth.

Noble Spirit → Recognized as higher quality.

Prince/Princess Spirit → Rare and gifted, with great potential.

King Spirit → The top class, extremely rare and powerful.

✨ This system will serve as the foundation of the journey. And if readers grant this story their love, I promise to expand it seamlessly into multiverse arcs—crafted so flawlessly that one day, you will proudly say: "This is the greatest novel ever made." 😁

It was raining. Cold water dripped from the broken eaves and turned the cobblestones into rivers. In the narrow shadows of a backalley, a boy, no more than 11, lay crumpled against the wall. His right arm was cut, his face charred by fire, and his body so wasted that his bones pressed against his skin like the ribs of a starved beast.

For a moment he seemed no more than another forgotten corpse in the gutter of the city, one of many claimed by hunger and cruelty.

But his eyes were open. Faint, dim, and clouded with pain—yet alive.

The only thing going through his mind was one question. Why?

Why had it happened? Why was fate so cruel to him?

No answer came. Only the endless patter of rain against stone, only the bitter taste of iron in his mouth. His vision blurred, the world fading into black and silver shapes. Bit by bit the pain grew heavier, unbearable, pressing him down into the dirt.

And then—nothing.

He thought he had died. He welcomed it, even. Yet in that void, where silence reigned and breath had no meaning, something lingered. A presence, cold and vast, like a shadow crouched beside his soul. He was not gone. Not yet.

​---------------------------------------------------

In the vast expanse of nothingness, where even time seemed to afraid to breathe, a lone table stretched across eternity. Upon it sat ten beings, each cloaked in an aura that defied definition—some shimmered like galaxies condensed into form, others bled shadows that consumed even the silence around them.

They did not speak with mouths, for words were beneath them. Their voices rippled through existence itself, resonating across countless realms.

“Is this the fragment?” one asked, its tone carrying the weight of a collapsing star.

“Yes,” another replied, its form flickering between light and void. “The fragment has awakened.”

A pause lingered, as if all of creation held its breath.

“So,” a third being leaned forward, eyes burning with infinite script, “you plan to give it…the System?”

The question was not one of doubt, but of confirmation.

“Are the preparations complete?” another voice murmured, sharp and cold like fractured crystal.

Silence pressed down, heavy and absolute, until at last one of the ten answered:

“Yes. The board is set. All pieces have fallen in place.”

“Then it is settled,” another intoned, their presence bending the void itself. “The river of fate will now flow… and we are not to touch it.”

For the first time, the ten were silent together, their immeasurable power bound by agreement.

Finally, the decision was made.

Though each held dominion over powers beyond imagination, even they knew the cost of interference. Fate, once set in motion, devoured even gods who dared oppose it.

One of the beings, cloaked in endless shadow, whispered softly, almost with something like sorrow:

“May the fragment endure.”

And then, as if they had never existed at all, the ten vanished, leaving only the table suspended in the vast and empty dark.

​---------------------------------------------------

​

On the outskirts of the great human empire Aetherion, where cobblestone paths wound through quiet fields and the hum of cicadas filled the evening air, lay a small, forgotten village. In one of its humble cottages, the scent of burning wood lingered, mingling with the faint aroma of herbs drying by the window.

An old lady sat on a creaking wooden chair, her frail hands folded neatly on her lap, her gaze tender yet weary. Her skin was lined with the deep etchings of time, but her eyes carried the patience of one who had seen countless seasons pass. Beside her, on a modest bed covered with a woolen blanket, lay a boy no more than eleven.

His face was unlike that of the village children—sharper, refined, with the silent grace of nobility. Even in slumber, there was something regal in the tilt of his brow, the calm of his lips, as though he were carved from a lineage far removed from the rustic simplicity of the place he now lay in.

The old lady’s gaze softened further, almost protective. She shifted in her chair, the wooden legs scraping faintly against the floorboards.

And then—

The boy’s eyelashes quivered. A flicker of consciousness stirred within him. His breath hitched, shallow but steady, until finally, his eyes fluttered open, revealing depths that carried an unspoken weight, as though destiny itself had chosen to awaken with him.

​---------------------------------------------------

{1st person view}

Endless darkness stretched as far as I could see. My first reaction was relief—relief that at last I was free from that endless torture of hunger, from the suffocating fear of the Syndicate, and from the gnawing regret and hate that fate had carved into me. For the first time, I thought, maybe it was over.

But then a sudden realization struck me—why was I able to think? I was dead… wasn’t I? And yet, I felt warmth. Death isn’t warm. Death is supposed to be cold, hollow, harrowing.

My eyes fluttered open. A sharp breath escaped me. I’m not dead. The thought clung to me, desperate, almost frantic, as if denying reality would somehow shape it. I forced myself to glance around, afraid of what I might see.

And there she was. An old woman, seated by my side, her expression soft, almost glowing with happiness—like I was her long-lost son returned at last. My chest tightened with confusion. Who is she? Where am I?

Before I could drown in the questions, her voice reached me—gentle, trembling with warmth.

“Are you okay, son?”

My throat felt dry, my voice hoarse, yet the questions clawed their way out.

“Who… who are you? Where am I?”

The old woman smiled, her eyes kind but steady, like she had already expected the question.

“Don’t panic, son,” she said softly, her tone wrapping around me like a blanket. “You are safe here. Four days ago, I found you near the river by our village. You looked so frail, so malnourished, I feared you wouldn’t make it. So, I brought you home with me.”

Her words sank into me slowly, as if my mind was too battered to hold them all at once. Four days? By the river? My chest tightened.

“As for your first question,” she continued, her lips curling into a faint smile, “just call me Granny. Everyone does.”

“Village… river…” The words spun in my head, meaningless, foreign. None of it made sense. My chest tightened, and a cold fear crept into me, whispering that she was lying. That this was just another trick.

My eyes darted to the small wooden table beside the bed. A knife lay there, glinting faintly in the dim light. Without thinking, I lunged for it, my fingers wrapping around the handle.

“Stay back!” I hissed, holding the blade toward her with trembling hands.

Her eyes widened in shock, her wrinkled face paling. For the first time since I opened my eyes, she looked afraid.

“Calm down, child,” she said quickly, raising her hands, her voice shaking yet still gentle. “I mean no harm.”

But I wasn’t sane. Not anymore. Two years of torment, of hunger, of betrayal had carved the lesson deep into me—trust no one, believe no one.

I pressed the knife forward, my arms trembling, demanding the answers I so desperately needed.

My grip tightened on the knife as I forced the words out, my voice sharp and uneven.

“Where… where in the Aetherion Empire are we?”

She didn’t flinch. Instead, she answered with a calm steadiness that almost disarmed me.

“We are in the western outskirts of the empire, the monster front. The domain of Duke Blackmere. Please, child, I know you are afraid, but keep the knife down. It’s not good for you.”

I searched her face, desperate for cracks, for the smallest flicker of deceit. But her eyes held no lies. Only patience. Only concern.

My hand trembled, my breath uneven. She did save me—didn’t she? And even if I didn’t want to admit it, the warmth of the bed, the food-scent clinging faintly to the air, the fact that I was alive… they were proof enough.

Slowly, I lowered the knife, though I kept it close within reach. Just in case.

“I’m… sorry,” I muttered, the word foreign and jagged on my tongue.

“It’s okay, child,” she said with a small smile, like forgiveness was as natural to her as breathing.

I gazed at her in silence, my thoughts twisting in uneasy circles. The only logical explanation I could cling to was this: someone must have thought me dead, a corpse unworthy of even dirt, and tossed me into the river. And then… she saw me. She pulled me out. She saved me.

At least, that’s what I wanted to believe.

​---------------------------------------------------​