"Welcome to Frosties' Fire-Baked Wonders, Where Every Slice is an Adventure! How can I take your order?" The voice on the other end was crisp, rehearsed, a routine born from countless shifts.
"I'd like a double-stuffed pizza with pepperoni and cheese...and a 2L Coke on the side," came a woman's voice, tired.
"Give us your address, and we'll deliver it while it's still hot and fresh." The man jotted down the order, exhaling as he hung up the phone.
He turned to a frail young man tightening the frayed laces of his worn-out sneakers. His glasses, held together by duct tape, perched precariously on his nose, reflecting the dull glow of the kitchen lights.
"Hey, kid. One last delivery, and I'll give you five bucks," said the man, voice gruff but not unkind.
The boy sighed. "Mr. Segreto, I start at university tomorrow. I need to wake up early."
"I'll make it ten and you can buy yourself, new glasses for your first day," Segreto added, pressing his cigarette into the ashtray, leaving behind a swirl of dying embers.
Another sigh. This one heavier. "Fine. But this is my last run, Mr. Segreto. After this, I'm going straight home."
Segreto nodded, passing him a ten-dollar bill, the edges curled from years of circulation. The boy took the soda in one hand, balanced the pizza box in the other, and stepped outside.
A long breath.
Then—he was gone.
A gust of wind followed as Atlas soared into the night sky, slicing through the darkness with nothing but sheer will and a half-baked dream.
Year 1945-The Age of Monsters
The world rejoiced at the war's end, but peace was an illusion. The sky tore open with silent screams, and from the abyss came nightmares.
Drifts, rifts between realities, unleashed horrors beyond comprehension. Clawed beasts, serpentine horrors, creatures that twisted the very fabric of sanity itself. Guns? Useless. Bombs? Laughable. Nuclear fire? A matchstick against an ocean.
Then, they emerged, humans who defied all logic, wielding powers once confined to myth and legend. They struck back, driving the monsters into the abyss, but the drifts never fully closed. Instead, they transformed into something else. Dungeons.
And so, a new era began.
The Age of Hunters.
A hierarchy formed, dictated by power:
E-Rank – The weakest, barely above normal humans.
D-Rank – Slightly stronger, can participate in lower-tier dungeons.
C-Rank – The average hunter, capable of handling mid-tier dungeons.
B-Rank – Capable fighters, respected in the field.
A-Rank - elite warriors who stand above the rest, their skill and strength unmatched. Chosen by prestigious guilds, they are battle-hardened masters, feared and revered alike. To bear this rank is to embody power itself.
S-Rank—the untouchable, the legends, the monsters among men. Rarer than relics, they are walking calamities, revered as national treasures. Many lead the most elite guilds, shaping history with every battle.
Those who grew stronger beyond their limits underwent Reawakening, an evolution that could rewrite their fate.
To harness these abilities, humanity built Institutes, training grounds where the gifted could sharpen their skills, rise in rank, and etch their names into history.
Year 2025 – The Boy With a Useless Gift
Atlas never reawakened.
At twenty-three, he was already years behind. The world had moved past him.
He could fly, sure. Just like the caped heroes in childhood comics. But in a world where monsters lurked in the shadows, flight meant nothing.
There had been a man once, a hunter with angelic wings. People called him divine. They worshipped him.
Then, the first time he entered a dungeon, a beast ripped him apart.
Flight was useless without power to back it up.
Atlas had spent the last two years knocking on Vortex University's door, only to be denied time and time again. But he never gave up.
To support his single mother and two younger siblings, he worked as a delivery boy for a small pizza joint, Frosties' Fire-Baked Wonders. A place where the ovens burned hotter than his ambitions.
Tonight, he delivered the order without fail. The pizza was still warm when the door swung open.
"Here's a two-dollar tip," the woman said, shutting the door before he could respond.
Atlas forced a smile. "Thank you, ma'am."
Then, as soon as the door closed, his expression soured.
"He flicked a middle finger at the door. 'Two bucks won't even cover a bite of that pizza you're stuffing your face with."
With that, he took to the skies, heading toward home, if it could even be called that.
The building stood like a forgotten relic, swallowing hope whole. The kind of place where ambitions suffocated in silence.
Atlas unlocked the door to their cramped one-bedroom apartment.
Inside, two teenage girls, twins, sat in front of a flickering TV. Their high school uniforms still on. A woman sat on the couch, staring at nothing, lost in thought.
Then—darkness.
The TV shut off. The lights flickered out.
"No!" the twins cried in unison.
Atlas chuckled. "Well, isn't that a shame? And here I thought I was bringing home an ultimate movie companion." He kissed his mother on the cheek, handing the twins slightly burnt leftover pizza.
"Catherine, Caitríona," their mother called. "What do we say to your brother?"
"Thank you," they mumbled, mouths already full.
Then, she handed Atlas an envelope.
Vortex University.
His heart pounded as he tore it open.
Inside, his student ID.
His name. His details. His rank.
D-Rank.
His mother watched as his lips curled into a smile. "It's real, Mom. Tomorrow, I'm finally going."
She pulled him into a tight embrace.
"How will we get pizza now?" one of the twins grumbled.
Atlas laughed. "Is that all you're worried about?"
Morning came too soon.
The alarm screamed at 5 AM. Atlas dressed in the new clothes he had spent a month saving for, he sat at the table with his family, savoring a breakfast his mother had poured her heart into. A feast of eggs, bacon, and waffles lay before him, far more than they could afford, yet she had somehow made it happen. It was her way of saying goodbye, of giving him one last moment of warmth.
On the TV, reporters gushed over an S-Rank player who had just cleared an S-Rank dungeon. His mother scowled and changed the channel.
6:30 AM. The bus pulled in.
"Let me walk you to the stop," she said.
Atlas hugged his sisters before stepping outside.
At the curb, his mother handed him a small, wrapped gift, a letter attached. "Be safe," she whispered. "If anything happens…don't forget I'm here, sweetie."
The bus honked. Atlas turned to board, but before he could, his mother snatched his glasses right off his face.
Stunned, he sat down in his seat and unwrapped the gift.
Inside—a brand new pair of glasses.
He unfolded the letter.
"I knew you wouldn't buy new ones yourself. And I could already hear you complaining about me wasting money when I could've put it toward the bills—or whatever excuse you were planning to make."
"So, I got them for you. You'll need them for your first day."
"Stay safe, sweetheart. The world you're stepping into…it's not a kind one."
—Love, Mom
His fingers trembled.
For the first time in years, the world looked just a little clearer.
And for the first time in years—
Atlas felt like he was finally soaring.