Planet X – District 4 Residential Zone
Seven Years Later
Iwaizumi Han, Age 17
Morning light crawled through the cracked blinds of the narrow apartment window. Faint and dusty, it barely made a dent in the gray hush of the room.
Iwaizumi Han woke before his alarm. Again.
"You get used to it," he muttered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Waking up before the city does. When you don't have a Pulse, you learn to move ahead in other ways—early trains, extra shifts, cheap protein bars for energy.
His voice was hoarse, dry with morning and memory.
"I tell myself it's all part of the grind. But some days… it just feels like breathing with weights strapped to your legs."
He sat up slowly, the mattress springs groaning beneath him. His room was small, spartan—bare walls, except for two things: a framed photo of his family—his younger self smiling between his mom and dad—and a worn poster of Prime.
Prime: the last real hero. Cloak rippling, crystalline eyes blazing, gold-trimmed armor cracked from battle. In the image, Prime's fist was mid-swing, driving into the snout of a colossal beast. The shockwave behind him flattened lesser monsters like dominos.
Beneath it, a caption:
"Strength isn't in the Pulse itself, but in how it's used—and only the one who dares to use it wisely becomes truly strong."
Iwaizumi reached out and tapped the corner of the poster. A daily ritual. One that used to spark something in him.
He stood and pulled on his gray T-shirt from the chair. It still smelled faintly of disinfectant and spice bread from the bakery across the street. He didn't mind. Work meant money—and money meant progress toward his dream: buying an F-Rank Dungeon Permit.
But today wasn't about work. He'd just quit his last job. Burned out, maybe. Or maybe just tired of hustling for scraps. Either way, he needed a break. And besides, he'd finally landed a decent deal.
He brushed off his shirt and gave himself a quick once-over in the mirror. The outfit was simple—worn but clean. Good enough. He was about to head to the bus stop to pick up the man his mother had agreed to take in. A former detainee. No Pulse. That part stung a little—something he shared in common with the person.
It wasn't charity—it was just a way to bring in some extra cash. Taking him in meant a steady government stipend, enough to keep the rent paid for a while.
For months, Iwaizumi had scraped together credits through odd jobs—loading cargo in the transport yard, delivering synth meals, sorting scrap from alley tech-dumps. The work was tough, inconsistent, and barely enough to get by. But every credit he saved brought him one step closer to his goal: getting into a dungeon—legally.
And if that meant sharing his cramped apartment with a stranger fresh out of prison?
So be it.
Most citizens couldn't care less about dungeon permits. They cared about safety, routine, and the next episode of whatever hero celebrity was trending. But not Iwaizumi. He wanted a crack at the system.
A legal dungeon license meant freelance contracts. Gear access. Guild interviews. If he could survive long enough to build a team, he might even gain status.
At seventeen, fresh out of high school, he was finally free to chase that dream—no matter how hopeless it seemed. Everyone knew: the older you got, the lower your chances of awakening. Age eighteen was the final cutoff. After that… It was just delusional dreams.
He dropped to one knee and pulled out the plastic crate from under his bed. Inside were sixteen shoeboxes, neatly stacked and labeled. Each box was packed with saved bills. Faded ink on the lid of one read:
"Dream Fund: 30,000 hunts."
Still short. An F-Rank permit started at 250,000 hunts—more, if bidding wars broke out.
His gaze flicked back to Prime's poster. Below it sat the family photo frame. Him. Mom. Dad. All smiles. Back when the world felt kinder.
He whispered to himself, as he did every morning, "Today's the day."
He glanced at the time—6:45 AM. A bit too early, but his body had grown accustomed to it, even when he tried to sleep in. The appointment was at 11:00 AM, yet here he was, already wide awake. Now, he just had to wait and see how much the government would send—and whether his mom could spare him some after covering all the expenses.
***
FLASHBACK
District 4 – Han Residence, few weeks Earlier
The cracked screen of his old phone flickered to life. Iwaizumi had begged for weeks—side gigs, online surveys, every hustle he could find—just to scrape together more money. Nothing worked.
Then, a rare opportunity came up: a state-funded initiative designed to place former detainees from K-Penitentiary into stable homes. It helped the inmates. It helped families. Iwaizumi remembered how his dad had volunteered for programs like this when he was younger, though none that involved a stranger staying in their home.
And now, it offered payments—something it hadn't done back in the day.
His mom had hesitated. She hadn't been around much lately, working double shifts just to keep them afloat. But eventually, she agreed.
He remembered the moment vividly—her sitting beside him at the kitchen table, filling out the forms while he scrolled through the list of profiles.
"They let you choose the kind of detainee you want?" his mom asked, surprised.
"Yes, that's the best option, in my opinion," Iwaizumi replied.
"Let me see them then," his mom muttered.
"I want one with no Pulse," Iwaizumi said without hesitation.
She blinked. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "I don't want someone who's going to remind me of everything I'm not."
His mother didn't press further. She understood—just like she'd understood when he gradually started pulling away from his friends at school. Not all of them, but enough to notice. Enough to see the distance growing between who he was and who he wanted to be.
His mom tapped on a name.
"Gin Maximus," she read aloud. "What a weird name."
Iwaizumi leaned over. A man in his late twenties smiled on the screen like he didn't have a care in the world.
"He was in prison? Why does he look so... happy?"
She scrolled through his profile.
Behavior Record
Activity Attendance: 100/100
Library Usage: 100/100
Sanitation Duty: 100/100
Conflict Reports: 0
Medical Incidents: 0
"Wow," she murmured. "This is way better than the ones your dad used to mentor."
She chuckled. "Personal interests: cameras. Ongoing rivalry with... Prime?"
Iwaizumi stared at the screen. "The hero Prime?"
"That's what it says. No Pulse. Age: 27."
Something about Gin Maximus intrigued him. First, his perfect record. Second, the strange rivalry with a legend—especially for someone with no Pulse. Yet, here he was.
***
K-Penitentiary X, District 6 — Government Reserved Area (GRA)
Gin Maximus stood clean-shaven and sharply dressed in Chief Megnon's office. The years of confinement were hidden beneath a neat nice fit and calm demeanor. His rough edges had been smoothed out—but his eyes still burned with something sharp. Something feral.
Across the room, a flickering monitor displayed dossiers and live data feeds.
The Han Family
Husband: David Han – presumed dead in a dungeon, missing for over 11 years.
"How tragic," Megnon muttered under his breath.
Wife: NiNi Han, 38 — works at a local restaurant and juggles multiple side jobs. It's clear the family could use the extra income.
"Iwaizumi Han," Chief Megnon read aloud, fingers drumming on the desk. "Seventeen. No Pulse."
He glanced at Gin. "Interesting. Seems like you and this kid have something in common.
Probably why they picked you. He's definitely the type to get bullied in school."
Gin said nothing, his eyes fixed on the monitors—watching officers, tracking movement, his gaze constantly shifting.
"Focus, Gin," Megnon said flatly.
"I am," Gin replied with a grin. "I'm great at multitasking." He repeated the file's summary without missing a beat. "David Han. NiNi Han. And finally, Iwaizumi Han."
Megnon studied him for a moment. "You know, I was surprised. This family actually agreed to take you in at first."
"Really?" Gin raised a brow. "Is it usually that hard?"
"Oh yeah "After reading this file, I get it," Megnon said. "Most families either want someone useful—or no one at all. No Pulse cases rarely get picked. And someone like you?" He gave Gin a pointed look. "Seven years inside? You're not exactly first-round draft material.""
Gin's lips quirked. "Guess it's fate, Chief."
Megnon chuckled as he skimmed the file again. "You'll like this—her kid's favorite hero is Prime. I made sure to include that note for you."
Gin's smile curved, subtle but sharp. "Interesting. I've got a few questions for him, then."
Just then, the door slid open with a soft hiss. A young officer stepped in, posture crisp, eyes sharp.
"Sir. Officer Nanami reporting."
Megnon nodded toward Gin. "You'll be shadowing him. HQ wants full compliance with Observation Protocol. Make sure the Hans don't regret taking him in."
Nanami gave a firm nod. "Understood sir."
Gin smirked. "Don't worry. They'll find me... entertaining."
"Now, back to more pressing matters," Megnon said, tapping a key on his console. "During your seven years in our facility, I didn't mention this intentionally—we run a reward system. It's designed to motivate long-term detainees. We've tallied everything up, and HQ approved the transfer. Your personal account has been created."
He glanced up. "You've been compensated. Total: 3,000,000 hunts."
Officer Nanami coughed sharply behind him.
Gin turned, amused. "That much?"
Nanami held his professional stance, but his eyes betrayed surprise.
Megnon smirked. "You'll find out what that means once you're out in the real world."
Gin returned the smirk. "Thank you, Chief Megnon. I've learned a lot in here. Now it's time to go… and face Prime."
Megnon shook his head, already turning back to his screen. "Yeah, yeah. Just get out of my office before I change my mind."
He stood, brushing invisible dust from his jacket. No cuffs. No chains. Just a man with too many unknowns, stepping into a world that had moved on without him.
And he was ready to catch up