It was morning in the White Clouds.
The sky was a soft silver-blue, with cloud-built towers rising like pale monuments into the air, their misty spires trailing off into nothing. Around them stood buildings of stone, wood, and steel—a mismatched patchwork of old-world charm and modern design.
Floating staircases linked rooftops. Bridges of light and reinforced vapor connected towers. The streets below bustled with life. Mostly humans, though the occasional horned merchant or cloaked four-armed traveler could be spotted here and there.
People walked briskly toward work, some stopping at breakfast stalls steaming with fresh bread and flavored drinks. Children chased each other through mist, while drones hovered overhead projecting job announcements.
Among the crowd, one figure stood out.
Not because of anything loud he wore—though the long red coat certainly didn't help him blend in—but because of what he was.
On a street dominated by F Rankers—most of them clinging to safe, Borrowed Stories—he was something of a myth. Not just above them. Far above. Not even an E Ranker. He was an A Ranker.
And not just any A Ranker. He had an Original Story.
That alone made him infamous. Whispers followed him wherever he walked, whether from newcomers in awe or veterans trying not to stare. He didn't just carry power—he defined it on this street.
This was Dante.
Story name: [Hiro Hunter].
Owner of the Story Guides Workshop, he was the one who trained those crazy enough to chase shortcuts inside every Fragment they entered.
The fact that names like [Root of All Things] and [Two Swords] worked under him only added to the legend. If this small region of the White Clouds had a face for ambition, it was his.
And this morning, as always, he moved like someone too used to attention to care—like the story he walked with had already been told a hundred times before.
The Hiros mentioned in his Story name were a mysterious species—one rarely seen, even within the vast expanse of the Story World. Sightings of them were few and far between, and those who claimed to have met one often returned with only fragments of memory or cryptic words.
The few Hiros that did exist chose to remain hidden, tucked away in secret corners of Fragments or lost in the folds between stories. Their origins weren't like the other species scattered across the Sea of Fragments.
Most beings in the Story World could trace their roots to a Fragment—elves born from forest epics, beastfolk shaped by survival sagas, and even the various oddities that came from horror and fantasy scripts. Even humans followed this rule—at least partially. But unlike other species, the human species had an anomaly in its history.
Some humans were born in Fragments.
Others came from an entirely different Dimension—one that sat far beyond the Sea of Fragments and outside the reach of any Reciter's call.
It was known simply as the Reader World.
The Hiros were the same—but unlike humans, they weren't a split lineage.
There were no Fragments that birthed them. No local origin stories or mythologized roots across the Sea of Fragments.
All Hiros came from another Dimension entirely—a place known only as the Hiro World.
Unlike the Reader World, which remained shrouded in mystery and theory, with no known entrance inside the Story World, the Hiro World was different. Its entrance was sealed—but not lost. Not forgotten. It existed, known and documented.
That entrance was located in what was called the Fourth Zone of the Story World.
The Zones—five in total—were places that existed outside the structure of typical Fragments. While Fragments held stories, these Zones held something else: rules, origins, exceptions, and ends.
The known Zones included:
The Edge of the Story – the outer boundary where reality frayed and deletion waited.
The Golden Space – the neutral realm above the Sea of Fragments, an entrance of sorts to Fragments.
The Sea of Fragments – the vast, ever-changing ocean that contained all story worlds.
The Fourth Zone – sealed, hidden, and forbidden. The entrance to the Hiro World.
The Fifth Zone was a land of war.
When Dante first moved into the White Clouds, the people couldn't stop asking questions.
Most of them were harmless F Rankers with Borrowed Stories, working odd jobs or chasing small dreams. To them, Dante was a walking legend—and not just because of his A Rank or Original Story. It was the name that sparked their curiosity: [Hiro Hunter]. The word Hiro alone was enough to ignite speculation.
"Are the Hiros real?"
"Did you fight one?"
"Are you part Hiro?"
"Can they kill Reciters?"
The questions came fast and bold.
Dante didn't shout. He didn't threaten. But his answers always came with a grin that didn't match his tone. And more importantly, they came with a price. A ridiculous one.
"Fifty White Cores," he once said casually when someone asked what the Hiros looked like. "Per letter."
White Cores were only produced by A Ranked Stories, and for F Rankers like them, that wasn't something they could even dream of getting. One White Core was supposed to be equal to a billion Green Cores (the type produced by F Ranked Stories).
After that, the flood dried up. Only a few ever dared to ask again, and those few were always serious—Players ready to trade something real for a sliver of truth.
Still, the strangest part wasn't his coldness. It was his openness.
Despite being an A Ranker, Dante treated the F Rankers on this street like equals. He spoke to them with the same tone he used for C and B Rankers. He listened. He gave directions when asked. He answered dumb questions—when the price was right.
That alone earned him a kind of loyalty money couldn't buy.
It wasn't unheard of for High-Rankers to show respect to those beneath them. But it was rare. Most walked like they were above the Fragments themselves, letting their Story Fame do the talking.
So when someone like Dante appeared—powerful, distant, but still fair—the Low Rankers responded in the only way they could. They boosted his name. They watched every replay of his Playthroughs. They followed his story, spread it, kept his legend alive and growing.
Because in the Story World, fame wasn't just reputation—it was fuel. And Dante, ever-calculating even behind that crooked grin, knew it better than anyone.
Dante sighed and shook his head, his boots tapping steadily against the mist-cooled stone.
He was on his way to one of the smaller prisons of the White Clouds—a modest facility tucked between a market ring and a maintenance tower. Places like these were common across the district, designed to hold the usual mix of local ruffians and low-level criminals, ranging from F Rankers to, at most, the occasional C or B Ranker who got too bold.
But that was the limit. Anything above that—A Rankers and beyond—was a different story entirely.
Those types weren't kept in neighborhood cells.
No, A to SSS Rank prisoners were held in high-security fortresses deeper inside the White Clouds. Massive, heavily-guarded compounds with layered systems of Art suppression.
The reason was obvious: only the Grey Rose Organization's top brass had the authority and ability to contain individuals of that level.
Once a prisoner reached SSS Rank, standard containment simply didn't apply. At minimum, you needed two X Rankers to guard them—and not just any X Rankers, but elite ones. The kind whose names echoed through the Sea of Fragments, the kind who could suppress a storyline just by standing near it.
If, by some miracle, a Z Ranker was available, even better. That was the safest option.
Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—an organization like Grey Rose had more than a few Z Rankers in their ranks.
Not that Dante ever wanted to meet one.
As for prisoners higher than SSS Rank, there were none.
Not because they didn't exist—but because they couldn't be contained.
Once someone reached the level of an X Ranker or, even worse, a Z Ranker, normal prisons became meaningless. Their power was too vast, their Stories too developed, and their resistance to suppression too absolute.
To imprison an X or Z Ranker, you'd need another X or Z Ranker with specialized containment abilities—and even then, that Ranker would have to dedicate their full attention, their time and energy, just to keep the prisoner from tearing reality apart.
And no high-level Ranker was going to waste their life like that—not for a single enemy, not even for two.
So, a rule had quietly settled into place across the entire Story World:
If you're found guilty and you're X Rank or above—you don't get a cell. You get an execution date.
Every major Faction, from the Blue Trade Organization to the CEM Hunters to the Grey Rose itself, followed this law. Not out of cruelty, but out of necessity. They simply couldn't afford the risk.
But even then, capturing an X Ranker—let alone a Z Ranker—was easier said than done.
There were only a few thousand X Rankers across the entire Story World. As for Z Rankers, their number barely cracked the one hundred. And most of them didn't wander alone. The stronger you became, the tighter your ties to power. Almost every X or Z Ranker aligned with a major Faction. Some even were the top of those Factions.
Which made capturing them not only hard—but political.
In the Story World, strength didn't just write the story.
It decided who got to survive until the final page.
But all of that—the X Rankers, the Z Rankers, the politics of execution and containment—was too far removed from someone like Dante.
He was still just an A Ranker.
Close to the peak, sure. Far beyond most. But A Rank all the same.
And in a world where the letters kept going—S, SS, SSS, and beyond—he knew exactly where he stood.
Dante sighed, his hands in his red jacket's pockets, a little bored with the slow pace of the walk. He could have flown to the small prison in moments, or used one of several abilities to blink across the rooftops. Travel wasn't restricted inside the White Clouds—not for someone like him.
But he chose not to.
Not because he had to walk. But because, in a way, he wanted to.
Even if he didn't like it.
Because walking kept him grounded. It reminded him of the small folk. Of the people crowding the stalls, the kids running through mist, the F Rankers chasing stories that weren't even their own. It reminded him where he started—F Rank, no allies, no name.
And more importantly, it kept his head level.
He wasn't special just because he made it to A Rank.
Not yet.
Some of the passersby greeted him as he walked, and Dante nodded back, offering a simple, "Good morning," here and there. He wasn't one for small talk, but he never ignored a greeting—especially not from the F Rankers who made up most of the district.
Then he heard a harsh, rattling cough behind him.
An old woman stumbled, her knees giving out as she clutched her side, her body shaking with effort. She seemed to have an F Ranked Borrowed Story too faded to read. Before she could hit the ground, Dante was there, catching her gently.
"Woah there, Grandma," he said, steadying her. "Take it easy on yourself. Where's that grandson of yours? Why's he not taking care of you?"
The woman smiled through the coughs, her eyes warm despite the strain.
"Young Dante, don't worry about me, I'm fine," she said softly. "Frank's playing a Fragment right now. I told him to go. He needs the attention and Cores. It'll be good for his future. He can't be stuck here, taking care of an old woman like me forever, can he now?"
Dante didn't answer right away. He just sighed, his expression unreadable, and helped her carefully across the street, making sure her balance had returned before letting go.
When she gave him a grateful nod and waved him off, he simply raised his hand in return and turned back toward his path.
His destination was close now.
Soon enough, he reached it.
A square, functional building—two floors tall, dark blue panels with crisp white lights running along the edges, illuminating it like a low-burning beacon in the early morning mist. The design was simple but efficient.
Two guards stood at the gate, both of them D Rankers, rifles slung across their backs, posture straight but relaxed. They gave Dante a quick salute the moment they saw him, eyes widening slightly.
After all, it wasn't every day an A Ranker showed up here.
Even though they were D Rankers, the two guards still worked long hours at a low-tier prison, standing at attention in the cold mist of the White Clouds.
They didn't have to.
They could have kept pushing forward, challenging higher-level Fragments, risking their lives for a shot at C Rank or beyond. But they didn't. And Dante didn't blame them.
Not everyone in the Story World chased power until the end. Not everyone wanted to become a legend or sail the Sea of Fragments forever.
Some, like these two, were content with where they'd landed. D Rank was respectable. It meant they had pushed past the limits of F Rank mediocrity, but not so far they'd drawn attention from bigger threats. It was the sweet spot for a quiet life.
Work a stable job for a few years, collect enough high-quality Cores, then move to a lower-ranked region where those same Cores could make you feel like royalty.
A D Ranker's Story naturally produced stronger, purer Cores than an F Ranker's ever could.
With a few years of smart saving, a D Ranker could live like a king in a backwater F Rank district.
That's why in nearly every low-tier region—places filled with struggling Borrowed Stories and barely-functioning F Rankers—you'd still find the occasional retired D Ranker. Sometimes even a low-key B Ranker living under the radar.
Not failed Players.
Just ones who had already won, and decided to stop while they were ahead.
The two guards straightened as Dante approached, saluting out of habit and respect. But Dante, as always, waved them off with a casual nod and a simple, "Morning."
No airs. No authority in his voice. Just another person passing through.
They were surprised to see an A Ranker, of course—who wouldn't be? But not too surprised. After all, it was Dante.
The white-haired young man had become something of a local legend in this quiet pocket of the White Clouds. He visited this small prison at least once a month, always for the same reason, always alone. And while most A Rankers wouldn't be caught dead walking into a low-tier facility like this, Dante made it routine.
Over time, they'd gotten used to seeing him stroll in—hands in pockets, jacket fluttering behind him, calm as ever.
What they liked most, though, was how he treated them.
No raised chin. No cold arrogance. No lectures or silent stares like they got from the other A Ranker stationed at the prison. That man—though technically their colleague—never missed a chance to remind them of the difference in rank. His eyes always measured, always condescending.
But Dante?
Dante was different.
He was stronger. More famous. Carried more weight in his name than anyone else in this district. And yet, he acted like none of that mattered. Just spoke to them like equals.
To the guards, that simple gesture meant more than any title.
The two guards stepped aside respectfully as the gate behind them slid open with a soft mechanical hum, granting Dante entry.
He walked through without a word, the gates closing quietly behind him.
Inside, the atmosphere changed. The outer mist of the White Clouds gave way to sterile brightness. The reception hall was massive, surprisingly clean for a low-tier facility—white walls, polished floor, and rows of soft LED lights glowing overhead in a grid pattern that gave the place a false sense of warmth.
A lone receptionist sat behind a curved desk, tapping idly at a translucent display screen. A few guards stood off to the side, chatting quietly, not in uniform formation but relaxed—another sign this prison wasn't high priority.
To his left, a tied-up ruffian sat on a bench, muttering under his breath, a thin stream of Core energy leaking from the cuffs binding his hands. A fresh catch, E Ranker.
To the right, a young girl clung to her father's coat as the two waited quietly, their expressions tight and patient. Visitation hour. Dante didn't need to ask who they were here for—everyone in the reception area shared a similar look when coming to see family behind bars.
He felt the weight of it settle over him too.
Because he hadn't come here on business.
He was here for the same reason they were.
To visit a family member.
His little sister.
Locked up in this prison for over a year now.
One of the guards near the wall noticed Dante and raised a hand in a friendly wave, a wide grin spreading across his face.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, his dark blue tactical vest fitted snugly over a loose combat shirt. A matching cop-style cap was tilted slightly on his head covering his slightly messy short white hair, and a pair of relaxed crimson eyes peeked out from under it. Despite the sharpness of his uniform, his laid-back posture and easygoing energy made him stand out among the otherwise stiff guards.
"Heyo, Dante. You here again?" he called out.
Dante's eyes flicked over to him, and a scowl automatically formed on his face as he walked over. It wasn't outright hostility—just the kind of face you gave someone who was too casual for their own good.
He didn't hate this guy. But he definitely didn't like him either.
"How is she doing?" Dante asked, cutting straight to the point.
The guard shrugged. "She's alright. Hasn't caused much trouble in the last month…" He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Which is surprising, honestly. Did you tell her something last time you came to visit?"
"Nothing new," Dante replied with a small sigh. "Just the usual talk. But I guess…" His voice lowered. "She took it better this time around."
The voices of the guards behind them grew louder—light banter mixed with the occasional laugh, echoing off the pristine walls of the reception hall. It was the kind of careless chatter that only happened when no supervisors were nearby.
But then the front gate slid open again with a soft hiss.
Dante and the laid-back guard both turned instinctively to see who had entered.
A young woman stepped through, her presence quiet but commanding.
She wore a dark blue cop cap tilted forward just enough to cast a shadow over her sharp crimson eyes. Her long, flowing grey hair swayed behind her like a banner of quiet authority.
A tactical vest over a combat shirt, matched with dark blue and black pants tucked neatly into polished boots. Her gloved hands rested naturally at her sides, but her posture was anything but relaxed.
Her gaze swept across the room, landing squarely on the noisy group of guards behind Dante.
They didn't even see her coming until it was too late.
The moment they caught her eyes, all the mirth drained from their faces. Her stern gaze hit them like a blade pressed to their backs, cold and unyielding.
The young man beside Dante stiffened. He quickly took a step away from him, raising his hands halfway in mock surrender. "Oh… Hey, uh, Lavia… Haha! We were just… you know? There wasn't much work to do this morning, so…"
The woman's eyes didn't soften.
Her voice came out crisp and cutting.
"Go back to work. Right now."
The room shifted instantly. The other guards scattered like startled birds, scrambling back to their stations without a single complaint.
Only the one who had been speaking with Dante remained in place, smiling awkwardly as the silence settled again.
Lavia's boots tapped steadily against the floor as she walked toward them, posture rigid, expression unreadable. She stopped right in front of the two.
Her sharp eyes flicked to the young man beside Dante.
"Jordan... How many times do I have to tell you to take this seriously?" she said with a sigh.
The young man—her older brother—looked away with a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his head. He was a C Ranker, and the owner of the story [Guard X].
"Sorry," he said, glancing between her and Dante. "Just… you know, from time to time we gotta relax a little, right, Dante? You get it, don't you?"
Dante gave him a flat look.
And said nothing.
Jordan laughed awkwardly under his breath.
Lavia, still unimpressed, shook her head in quiet disappointment.
She was also a C Ranker, and the owner of the story [Mysterious Prison].
She turned her gaze to Dante, her expression softening just a bit. "Good morning, Dante. You here to visit Nova?"
The white-haired young man nodded. "Yes. Do I have to wait, or is she already awake?"
Lavia glanced toward Jordan with a hint of command in her voice, though less harsh now. "Jordan, since you're not doing anything, would you be kind enough to go check?"
Jordan let out a resigned sigh but gave a quick nod. "Fine, fine, I'll be back in a sec." He waved one hand casually as he made his way toward the nearby receptionist.
Lavia watched her older brother disappear and sighed again, a trace of frustration in her tone. "Sometimes I don't know what to think of him, you know? He could do so much more… but he stays here instead, wasting his time talking to the other guards." She clicked her tongue softly.
Dante studied her for a moment, then a rare, faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
Inside, he understood Jordan better than most.
Because just like Jordan, Dante was an older brother too.
And just like Jordan, his parents were gone—leaving only him and his sister behind.
But unlike Jordan, who had the freedom to look after his sister side by side, Dante carried the heavy burden of watching over his little sister from inside a prison cell.
Lavia's brow lifted slightly, a hint of surprise in her voice. "Did I say something weird?"
Dante's smile slowly faded, and he shook his head. "Nothing, no."
A brief silence settled between them, thick but not uncomfortable—as Dante wasn't one for idle talk.
After a moment, Lavia took the initiative, her tone softer now. "How is... Gara?"
"He's doing well," Dante replied calmly. "He just left with a new friend to explore the [Rashanz] Fragment."
Lavia's expression changed instantly.
"Wait, what??? The... what? [Rashanz]? You mean the SS Ranked Fragment he tried to challenge once and failed miserably at?"
Dante gave a simple nod.
"But... Huh?"
It took her a few seconds to process it, her thoughts racing behind a furrowed brow. Eventually, she managed to steady her voice.
"Is the new friend that blondie I saw him with a couple of days ago?"
"It should be him, yes," Dante confirmed without much concern.
Lavia lightly touched her chin, her eyes drifting away in thought. A few seconds passed before a faint flush colored her cheeks. She cleared her throat awkwardly.
"Ahm... So... How... Do you think... Did he say anything about me?"
Dante shook his head immediately.
"He didn't, no. Lavia... I'm sorry to say, but I don't think Gara's interested in marriage at the moment. He's more focused on journeying from one Fragment to another."
Lavia let out a sigh, a mix of acceptance and frustration in her breath. She had expected that kind of response, but it still stung a little.
She muttered under her breath, "He can always journey through Fragments with me... Tsk."
"It wouldn't work. You're a C Ranker, he's still just an F Ranker," Jordan interjected as he returned from the receptionist's desk.
"Well, if we both tried to enter as Players, sure, it wouldn't," Lavia said, folding her arms. "But if I entered as his Story Guard, it would."
Jordan chuckled lightly, clearly amused by her persistence.
Dante, however, kept his tone neutral as he added, "Gara would rather die a thousand times inside a Fragment than hire a Story Guard. He doesn't like relying on others much."
Lavia sighed again, deeper this time. She already knew that. Of course she did.
Jordan, sensing the mood, tactfully shifted the subject and looked up at Dante.
"I checked. Nova's awake. You can visit her now if you want."
—End of Chapter.
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Private Conversation:
Lavia: Tsk! Why's Gara not marrying me already?
Dante: I just told you why...
Lavia: True, but it still doesn't make sense... Ugh! Oh well, whatever!!
Jordan: Hey, you know there are other men in the Story World, C Rankers or above.
Lavia: Bah! I don't care about them. I like Gara, and so... If I have to, guess I'll wait for him to come to his senses.
Dante: Sigh! Gara never said he didn't like you back, so I guess there is that...
Lavia: See?? Hehehehe!
Jordan: Don't give her hope man!