Understood. Below is the full first chapter of your webnovel, written in a professional, cinematic tone with your chosen genre blend of Futuristic Earth + Portal Fantasy (LitRPG) and a character-driven opening that starts in the criminal underworld be
Somewhere in the neon guts of New Manhattan…
The rooftop reeked of smog, piss, and burnt synth-oil.
Bobby "Body Builder" Calzone leaned against the edge of the building, sucking down a cigar that hissed with micro-plasma ignition. His thick shoulders strained against a coat that had once been high fashion in 2099, now stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood and motor grease. The city lights below cast long shadows over his face, making the deep scowl in his brow look more like a crater than a wrinkle.
He didn't like the cold. Or heights. Or the man standing across from him.
Vincent Seretti stood like a blade—lean, clinical, precise. His biotech suit adjusted minutely every time he moved, responding to stress like a second skin. Silver-threaded pinstripes glinted under the broken holographic billboard behind them, which blinked between a real estate ad and a recruitment poster: "BEYOND THE PORTALS—YOUR LEGACY AWAITS."
Vincent didn't glance at it. His eyes were fixed squarely on Bobby.
"Ahhh c'mon," Bobby grunted. "The kid wouldn't know what to do with a mil. I gave him enough to tide him over till he gets back on his feet. Plus a little extra to get something nice. Everybody oughta treat themselves now and then." He gave a greasy smirk, revealing teeth like chipped gravestones.
Vincent didn't return the smile.
"So what about the rest of the cash?"
Bobby shrugged, almost casual. "C'mon, paisan. Don't bust my balls. I invested it, okay?"
"Where?" Vincent asked, voice silk over steel.
Silence stretched between them like a wire about to snap.
Then Vincent raised an eyebrow. "You went to the track, didn't you?"
Bobby's face turned crimson, jaw flexing. "I got the rest—most of it—okay!? Don't make this into a thing, guy!"
A vein bulged on his temple. His massive fists clenched and unclenched.
Vincent didn't flinch.
"Christ," he muttered. "You gotta get some help, Bobby. If this shit fubars, it's all on you. You understand me?"
"I told ya," Bobby growled. "The kid ain't gonna cause any problems."
Vincent took a slow breath and finally looked away, toward the city. Hovercars drifted between high-rises like glowing insects. Below, in the gutter districts, synthetic rain filtered through broken neon signs and rained down on people who were mostly forgotten—except when they were useful.
Like the kid.
Five blocks south, in the shadow of a collapsed magrail station…
James Aston was elbow-deep in a vending machine.
His arms were scraped and bruised from slipping between the shattered casing and rusted mechanical frame, but he wasn't stopping now. Not when he saw it. Near the back, just behind a jammed snack spiral: one unopened, untouched, mint-condition Power Crunch Bar – Gunmetal Berry Flavor.
"C'mon, you bastard," James muttered, twisting his arm.
His stomach growled like an angry drone. He hadn't eaten a full meal in two days, and even synth-smokes were starting to taste like disappointment.
With one final grunt, he hooked the edge of the wrapper and yanked.
It came loose—along with half a tray of expired protein wafers and something unidentifiable that squelched.
He landed flat on his ass, food in one hand, soot-stained jacket flaring out behind him like a cape. A victorious grin cracked his face as he tore the wrapper open and took a bite.
Hard. Dry. A bit like chewing gravel laced with cough syrup.
Perfect.
He leaned back against the cracked metal and stared up at the towering city above. Billboards flickered. One of them flashed with words he'd memorized by now:
PORTAL PROGRAM ENLISTMENT – JOIN THE FRONTIER.
HOUSING. CREDITS. FUTURE.
REGISTER AT ANY CONSORTIUM BRANCH.
James spit out a bit of wrapper. "Future, my ass."
He didn't trust programs.
Any of them.
Not the Consortium's Corporate Welfare Initiatives, not the Frontier Development Fund, not the Portal Program where teenagers were trained to die on other worlds for minerals and magic stones. Sure, a few came back rich. Most didn't come back at all.
And James wasn't a "chosen one."
No golden blood. No legacy. Just a broken family name and a dying grandfather in a state-funded care cube they were about three missed payments away from losing.
James stood, wiping grime from his jeans. The jacket he wore was an old Federation military model—three generations out of date and patched in more places than it had original fabric. It had belonged to his father. So had the scars.
He lit a synth-cig from a crumpled pack and inhaled.
Today was his sixteenth birthday.
No cake. No candles. Just rust, smog, and the creeping dread that tomorrow was going to be worse.
Elsewhere, in a room lined with obsidian glass…
"Is he ready?"
The voice came from a woman in a crimson suit. Her skin shimmered faintly—a sign of dermal nanotech and high-tier bio-enhancements. Her eyes were golden. Literally. The kind only people with deep vaults and deeper secrets could afford.
"Yes, Madam Hilton," her assistant replied. "Subject: James Aston. Civilian Class. No enhancements. No criminal record—at least, not officially. IQ flagged at 142. Emotional control sub-optimal. Exhibits traits of tactical adaptation and situational learning. Scores within acceptable deviation for Omega Culling Cycle."
Madam Hilton steepled her fingers.
"Has he been marked?"
"Yes. The funds have already been routed through the appropriate channels. The handler reports minimal resistance. Portal Program registration will trigger automatically at midnight."
"And the grandfather?"
"Terminal. Four weeks, at best."
A pause.
"Make sure the boy survives the first mission."
"...Ma'am?"
"I want to see what he becomes."
Midnight.
James was asleep in an alley behind a fried noodle kiosk when his world changed.
No blinding light. No angel chorus. Just a cold prickling behind his eyes, followed by a ding that sounded eerily like an old elevator chime.
Then—text. Glowing letters, floating in the air.
[CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED FOR THE PORTAL COMBAT TRAINING INITIATIVE]
You have been assigned Class: UNRANKED
Initial Affinity Detected: [Assassin-Type]
Stat Generation: Rolling...
"What the hell—"
Another ding.
[STATUS SCREEN ACTIVATED]
Name: James Aston
Level: 1
Race: Human (Baseline)
Class: Initiate [Assassin-Type]
Health: 100/100
Stamina: 50
Mana: 10
Strength: 5
Dexterity: 7
Constitution: 6
Perception: 9
Agility: 8
Luck: 3
Equipment: None
Legacy: N/A
Affiliation: Unaligned
"Holy shit."
He tried waving it away. The screen followed.
"Nope. Nooope."
James scrambled to his feet. He hadn't taken any drugs. Not even the cheap kind that made you hallucinate technicolor god-snakes. This was real.
He tapped the screen.
It responded.
Menus unfolded. Tabs opened: Inventory, Skills, Perks, Missions.
Under Missions, a new one blinked in red:
[MAIN QUEST: INITIATION]
Objective: Report to Central Portal Facility 09-A within 3 hours.
Failure to comply will result in Termination Protocol.
Reward: Class Activation, Basic Gear, Survival Guarantee (30%).
"Survival guarantee," James muttered. "Only thirty percent?"
The screen didn't answer.
He looked around. The alley was empty, cold. Rain trickled from a broken pipe and pooled near his boots.
Then something shifted.
The shadows near the wall began to ripple.
A figure stepped out—tall, cloaked in matte-black armor. Its face was hidden behind a featureless mask, save for two glowing red slits where eyes should be.
James froze.
The thing cocked its head, like a curious predator.
Then, in a voice that made his bones ache:
"Runner-09. Target James Aston. Extraction initiated."