This world is called Astea.
A world where the sky has never once been clear.
From the moment people are born to the moment they die, they live beneath a ceiling of thick, unbreaking rain clouds—an endless mass of gray that smothers both day and night alike. The sun has not been seen for generations. No blue sky, no stars, no dawns painted gold. Only rain. Constant, ceaseless rain.
No one remembers when it started.
No one knows why it never ends.
At some point, the people of Astea stopped asking questions and learned how to survive instead.
Cities were rebuilt inward rather than outward. Artificial sunlight was invented—massive, humming luminance arrays suspended above indoor farmlands, bathing crops and livestock in false warmth. Entire ecosystems were recreated beneath steel ceilings. Life continued, not because the world was kind, but because humanity refused to disappear.
Yet rain was not the only thing that fell from the sky.
On exceedingly rare nights—so rare that entire generations might pass without witnessing one—the rain would change.
Among the countless dull droplets, something else would descend.
Crystal-clear. Glimmering. Almost unreal.
They were called Astea Tears.
No one could predict when they would fall, nor where they would land. Some claimed they appeared only during absolute silence. Others believed they responded to despair, or desperation, or fate itself. Whatever the truth was, one fact remained absolute:
If an Astea Tear touched human skin, there was no escape.
The moment of contact forced the body to accept a transformation—a violent, irreversible awakening. The recipient would be granted a power beyond human limits, something grandiose and unnatural.
A miracle.
And a curse.
This power was known as an Asten-Drive.
Every Asten-Drive was unique. Some allowed their users to bend elements, reshape matter, distort movement, or violate the very logic of reality itself. But no matter how miraculous the ability appeared, it always came with a guaranteed price.
A defect.
A lethal flaw etched into the body, the mind, or both.
Some bled uncontrollably after use.Some lost their senses.Some suffered organ failure, paralysis, or gradual self-destruction.
An Asten-Drive was never a blessing alone—it was a contract written in pain.
And because of the Tears, the rain clouds themselves became priceless.
Control the clouds, and you controlled power.
Across Astea, families, associations, syndicates, and factions rose and fell over harvesting zones, black-market trades, human experimentation, and monopolies built upon suffering. The sky was no longer just weather—it was currency, influence, and fear made manifest.
Beneath that eternal gray ceiling, entire empires were born.
And entire lives were ruined.
Among them walked a young man who had already lost more than most.
His name was Nichola Amacaria.
Nickle, to those who knew him—though few truly did.
He moved through the world wearing a mask, not of cloth or metal, but of restraint. His eyes carried the weight of someone who had fought too many battles and buried too many regrets. Once, he had been a vigilante in a far-off city, a shadow that hunted criminals in alleyways slick with rain. Once, he had believed that justice could be carved out with his own hands.
That belief had died with his parents.
Now, Nickle was neither hero nor villain—just a man drifting forward because standing still hurt more.
So when a letter arrived—sealed, deliberate, and dangerous—he did not throw it away.
It was an invitation.
A recruitment offer from a rising Family-Association based in the sprawling city of Eura-unichario. A name whispered with equal parts admiration and unease. A group whose goals, disturbingly enough, aligned perfectly with Nickle's own buried grudges.
They promised purpose.
They promised action.
They promised a chance to change the world beneath the rain.
Nickle did not believe in promises.
But he believed in forward motion.
And so, with nothing left behind him and something uncertain ahead, he accepted.
This is where his new journey begins.
Beneath the unbreaking sky.
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~{Inside the Yukenoia Express Train, heading straight to Eura-unichario City}~
Steel wheels screamed softly against soaked rails, the sound steady and hypnotic, while endless sheets of water battered the reinforced windows. Beyond the glass, the world blurred into streaks of gray—cities, structures, and distant lights dissolving into nothing more than shadows beneath the unbreaking sky.
Inside the train, warm artificial lights hummed faintly, casting a dull amber glow across rows of polished seats.
Seated alone near the window was a young man who looked out of place in his stillness.
Nichola Amacaria.
Nickle sat in a relaxed, almost nonchalant posture, one arm resting loosely on the armrest, his gaze unfocused yet alert. His ash-gray hair was neatly kept, framing sharp green eyes partially hidden behind thin-rimmed glasses. He wore a crisp white collared shirt, its cuffs carefully buttoned, paired with dark suspenders that held his tailored trousers in place. His shoes—dark brown and well-maintained—were planted firmly on the floor, as if grounding him to the moving world around him.
A leather briefcase rested beside him on the seat, its surface worn just enough to suggest it had followed him through more than a few chapters of his life.
After a moment of quiet hesitation, Nickle reached for it.
The metal clasps clicked softly as he opened the briefcase and withdrew two envelopes. They were different in texture and weight—one official, clean, and deliberate… the other slightly creased, the paper softened by time and handling.
He glanced at both.
His fingers paused.
Then, without a word, he chose the second.
The envelope was addressed in familiar handwriting.
His mother's.
Nickle inhaled slowly, as if bracing himself, before carefully opening the letter. He unfolded the paper with deliberate care, smoothing it out as though afraid it might tear if he rushed.
His eyes moved across the page.
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Dear Nickle, my precious Nickle,
If you are reading this, I am so sorry to leave you so soon.
Thank you—for everything.
For staying by my side these past five months. For pretending to be strong when you were tired. For smiling when you thought I couldn't see the pain in your eyes.
I loved you with all my heart.
I'm sorry that I… that your father and I couldn't give you the happiness you deserved. But please know this—we loved you more than words could ever say.
Please stay strong.
Explore the world.
And this time… finally find your own happiness.
Find the happiness that we could never give you.
I love you.
We love you.
Please make our wish come true.
—Your mother,Natalie Amacaria.
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The words blurred.
Not because of tears—Nickle had cried enough in the days before—but because his chest felt too tight to breathe properly.
His fingers trembled slightly as he folded the letter and held it against his palm, as if warmth might still linger in the ink.
I love you too, Mom…
His jaw tightened.
Dad…
His gaze shifted back to the rain-streaked window, watching the world rush forward while he remained still.
"I miss you both…"
He slowly exhaled.
Nickle closed his eyes, steadying himself. He loosened his grip, smoothing the creased paper back into shape with deliberate care, as if respecting the weight it carried. Carefully, he folded the letter once more and placed it back into his briefcase, tucking it away as gently as one might lay a fragile memory to rest.
That part of his heart would stay there—for now.
There was another letter waiting.
Nickle's gaze shifted to the remaining envelope.
Its paper was thicker. Cleaner. Untouched by time or emotion. The seal bore a name he had already read more times than he cared to admit.
The Wingarde Family.
His expression hardened.
After a moment's hesitation, he opened it.
His eyes scanned the page, focus sharpening as the noise of the train seemed to fade into the background.
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Mr. Nichola Amacaria,
This letter serves as a formal invitation to join our Family—the Wingarde Family.
We have been made aware of your combat capabilities and… unpredictability, dating back to your previous activities during what some might refer to as your "vigilante days."
A little bird has informed us that such skills are currently without purpose.
We would like to change that.
Should you accept, you will be provided with living quarters, daily necessities, and fair treatment befitting your contribution. In return, we ask that you lend us your strength, refine your abilities, and allow us to place them in service of a greater goal.
You are under no obligation to remain with us once that goal has been achieved.
This decision is yours, and yours alone.
Please consider it with sincerity.
—Izaac fau WingardeHead of the Wingarde Family
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Nickle let out a quiet scoff.
"Still kinda creepy that they know about my past…"
Without ceremony, he folded the letter and slid it back into his briefcase. The latch clicked shut with finality, and Nickle leaned back into his seat, running a hand through his hair as he released a tired sigh.
His eyes drifted to the window.
Beyond the glass window, rain poured endlessly over the scapes—streets washed in dull reflections, towering structures fading into mist, and a sky that never changed. Just gray upon gray upon gray.
"Man, I'm tired of this scenery," he muttered under his breath. "It's all so bland… just rain and gray and nothing else."
Another sigh escaped him.
"I hate this rain…"
His gaze sharpened slightly, green eyes narrowing as they traced the shapeless clouds looming overhead.
"God, I despise these damn clouds…"
Silence followed.
Then, a thought.
Nickle leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee, his fingers pressing against his temple as he stared at nothing in particular.
"But… my skills," he murmured. "Huh…"
A faint chuckle escaped him—dry, almost self-aware.
"I'm honestly pretty rusty. Ever since I gave all that up… I wonder if I still have it in me."
He paused.
Then shook his head.
"Man… I gotta let go of the past."
Straightening slightly, Nickle leaned forward with renewed intent, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips—subtle, but real.
"Time to make a new start. New experiences. Maybe even make some friends."
The rain continued to fall outside.
Nickle didn't look away.
"Let's just put everything into the now… and the future."
A sudden thought crossed Nickle's mind.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.
The train continued to hum beneath him as rain streaked endlessly across the windows, but his attention shifted to the glowing screen in his palm. If he was really heading into the heart of Astea's most dangerous city, then walking in blind would be suicide.
His fingers moved quickly.
Search results flooded the screen—news articles, underground forums, archived reports, half-redacted documents. He scrolled past the surface-level nonsense and settled on a familiar-looking site: a compiled intelligence index used by traders, freelancers, and anyone foolish enough to operate in Eura-unichario.
The title alone was enough to make him pause.
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Eura-unichario CityMain Metropolitan Hub of Astea
Trade capital.Operational nexus.Business empire.
And beneath all that—
A city also infamous for its crime rate.
Disputes.Wars.Power struggles between families, associations, syndicates, and factions that treated entire districts like chessboards.
Nickle scrolled.
One section stood out immediately.
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The Circle of the Seven
The most influential powers within the city. Not rulers—but close enough...
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Maggenolia Association — Association
A combat-focused organization known for producing highly disciplined fighters.
Neutral to helpful toward the city, often acting as trainers, escorts, or emergency responders during large-scale conflicts. They were respected for their battlefield ethics and professionalism, feared only by those who underestimated them.
Elite combatants. Not conquerors.
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Pscyber Syndicate — Syndicate
Nickle's jaw tightened.
Infamous for cybernetically enhancing their members beyond human limits. Mechanical limbs, neural accelerators, reinforced skeletal frames.
They were a direct threat to the city.
Brutal. Efficient. Relentless.
People didn't challenge Pscyber.
They survived them.
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Valorian Phalanx — Faction
A militarized organization boasting a vast army of Asten-Drive users.
Mostly neutral—but only until they weren't.
They claimed zones under the excuse of "stability," occupying districts with overwhelming force. Entire neighborhoods flew their banners out of fear or necessity.
Order through dominance.
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Wingarde Family — Family
Nickle paused.
The page described them as Astea's premier technological powerhouse.
Advanced weapons.High-grade equipment.Precision-crafted gear.
They aided the city through innovation, but controversy followed them like a shadow. Their long-term plan—to disrupt or disperse the Astean Clouds—posed a direct threat to those who profited from the rain.
Respected by many.
Feared by the rest.
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Noctryx of the Veil — Syndicate
A secretive network of night assassins.
Neutral by reputation. Invisible by design.
They accepted contracts quietly and vanished without trace. Most people never saw them—only the aftermath.
If you knew they were involved, it was already too late.
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Ferrum Anathema — Faction
Researchers and manufacturers specializing in producing Tear-forged equipment.
They used Astea Tears directly in their production processes, creating weapons rumored to be terrifyingly powerful—and unstable.
Neutral on paper.
Dangerous in practice.
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Aurex Vault Consortium — Association
A business association overseeing massive storage and trade of Astea Tears.
They kept the city supplied, stabilized prices, and ensured distribution.
Mostly helpful.
But monopolies always came with quiet fear.
Nickle leaned back slightly, scrolling further.
The site didn't stop there.
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Other Major Powers:
Calderis Union — Industrial Coalition
Controllers of artificial sunlight and energy grids.
They powered indoor farms, infrastructure, and entire districts. Without them, the city would starve.
Helpful.
But terrifying in how easily they could shut everything down.
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Virelux Covenant — Religious Faction
Rain worshippers.
They viewed Astea Tears as divine relics and believed the clouds were sacred judgment.
Fanatics.
They opposed any attempt to clear the sky, calling sunlight heresy.
Nickle frowned.
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Gravewright Combine — Syndicate
Black-market specialists in corpse recovery and bio-enhancement.
They profited from death itself—reviving bodies into controllable undead soldiers.
Feared.Illegal.Persistent.
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Auralis Transit Guild — Association
Controllers of airships, underground rails, and logistics routes.
Neutral.
But capable of strangling the city by cutting supply lines.
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Lathmere Scholars — Faction
Researchers of Asten-Drives and the Astean Clouds.
They hoarded knowledge, suppressing discoveries deemed "too dangerous."
No one knew what they truly understood.
That alone made them frightening.
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Ravelion Mercantile House — Mega-Family
Trade empire dealing in both legal and illegal Tear commerce.
They maintained markets—and broke them when convenient.
Their wealth could crash economies overnight.
At the bottom of the page, one final line stood out.
All major powers operate under the observation and regulation of Eura-unichario's High Government.
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Nickle locked his phone and exhaled.
"So even with all these powerhouses in one city… the government still has leashes on them."
He stared back out the window, rain distorting the neon-lit skyline ahead.
"Or maybe…" he muttered, eyes narrowing, "the government's the one tightening the leash. Choking them. Forcing them to do its bidding?..."
The thought lingered.
Then—
A sharp chime echoed through the train.
"Attention all passengers. Now arriving at Eura-unichario City Station. I repeat, Eura-unichario City Station."
Nickle stood and grabbed his briefcase.
He looked out the window as the city rose before him—towering spires, sprawling districts, artificial lights cutting through endless rain.
"I guess I'm finally here," he thought.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass.
Eura-unichario City.
The main metropolis of dreams... AND nightmares...