The rain in Minato City was a dull, gray sheet that turned the neon signs of the Grand Aether Hotel into smears of electric blue on the pavement. Behind the obsidian front desk, Arata stood with the kind of perfect posture that usually hid a very deep desire to be anywhere else.
He glanced at his reflection in the polished stone. Floating just three inches above his dark hair was his soul's official rating—a pale, flickering holographic number.
[ 0.01 ]
'Look at that,' Arata thought, staring at the number with a practiced weariness. 'It's not even a solid color today. My soul is literally a low-battery notification. If I sneeze too hard, do I just cease to exist?'
He reached into his vest pocket, his fingers grazing a stack of vintage "21 and Up" greeting cards. They were "affectionate" relics from a century ago, full of soft colors and cursive handwriting. In a city where everyone was obsessed with Aether-levels, these cards were his secret rebellion. They reminded him that humans used to be more than just decimal points.
"Hey! Zero! Are you meditating or just rebooting?"
The voice hit Arata like a wet sack of flour. He didn't have to look up to know the air in the lobby now smelled like an expensive campfire and a mid-life crisis.
[ 64.2 ]
Kaito Sato marched toward the desk, draped in a coat of synthetic white fur that seemed to vibrate with its own golden light. Sato was a "Solar-Tier," a man whose rating was so high he probably didn't have to use a microwave—he just looked at his food until it cooked. Behind him, two bodyguards in charcoal suits followed like shadows, their own ratings hovering in the mid-forties.
"The Penthouse," Sato barked, slamming a gold-plated ID onto the desk. "Now."
"Welcome back, Mr. Sato," Arata said, his voice flat and professional. "Unfortunately, the penthouse is currently undergoing a mandatory Aether-purge. The previous guest was a Level 80, and the residual energy needs to be neutralized before it's safe for occupancy. It will be ready in six minutes."
Sato leaned over the counter, his golden eyes fixing on Arata's 0.01. "Did you just give me a 'six-minute' ETA? To my face? Do you have any idea what my time is worth? I could buy this hotel and turn it into a parking lot for my sentient motorcycles before you finish that sentence."
Sato's hand shot out, grabbing Arata by the silk tie and yanking him across the desk.
Arata's feet left the floor. He didn't struggle. 'Great,' he thought, his vision swimming. 'This tie was dry-cleaned yesterday. That's five credits I'm never getting back.'
"Listen to me, you glitch," Sato hissed. His free hand began to glow, a searing golden heat blooming inches from Arata's throat. "You are background noise. If I burned you to ash right now, the police wouldn't even file a report. They'd call it a janitorial service."
Arata felt the heat singeing the hair on his neck. Panic finally broke through his exhaustion. As Sato's palm moved closer, Arata instinctively reached out, his fingers trembling as he tried to push Sato's arm away.
His palm landed flat against Sato's forearm.
The world didn't just stop; it went silent. The hum of the air conditioner, the rain on the glass—everything vanished. In the void of Arata's mind, a screen appeared. It wasn't the public blue. It was a deep, aggressive Yellow.
[ WARNING: UNKNOWN SOUL-CONTACT DETECTED ]
[ RULE 10 ACTIVATED: COLLECTING THE 10% SERVICE FEE ]
'Service fee? Am I... am I having a stroke?' Arata's mind raced.
A surge of liquid warmth flooded his veins. It was the most intense sensation he had ever felt—a rush of raw, vibrant heat that felt like a long-forgotten memory. He felt a golden thread, thick and heavy, tear away from Sato's core and fuse into his own nervous system.
Sato's face went pale. The bronze glow in his eyes flickered like a dying bulb. He let go of Arata's tie, stumbling back as if he'd been kicked in the chest.
The bodyguards lunged forward, but they stopped dead three feet away. Their own holographic numbers started spinning wildly, throwing [ ERROR ] codes across the lobby. They looked at their HUDs, then at Arata, their faces twisting with a sudden, instinctive fear.
"My... my breath..." Sato gasped, clutching his chest. He looked at his reflection in the obsidian counter.
[ 64.2 ] → [ 57.8 ]
Sato let out a raw, desperate sound. "My rating... it's leaking! What did you do? What are you?!"
Arata stood there, his hands shaking so violently he had to grip the edge of the desk. He felt sick. He felt powerful. He felt like his blood was made of carbonated lightning. 'What is this? Why is everything so loud?' He could hear the hum of the lightbulbs in the ceiling. He could see the individual fibers of the carpet.
"Mr. Sato," Arata said. His voice sounded different—deeper, vibrating in his own skull. He looked at his hands, expecting them to be glowing, but they looked normal. Only that strange, yellow screen remained in the corner of his vision. "You seem to be... having a technical difficulty. I suggest you sit down before you drop into the forties. It would be a shame to lose your executive parking spot over a lobby dispute."
Sato backed away, his bodyguards finally grabbing his arms. They didn't try to attack. They moved with the frantic energy of men trying to get a wounded king away from a monster.
As the elevator doors slammed shut, Arata let out a long, shaky breath. He stared at the yellow screen in his mind, waiting for it to go away. It didn't.
[ CURRENT HARVEST: 6.4 AETHER UNITS ]
[ STATUS: UNREGISTERED ]
'This isn't happening,' he thought, his heart thudding against his ribs. 'I'm a 0.01. I don't do this. I don't do... whatever this is.'
He looked up at his own number.
[ 0.01 ]
The public system still called him a loser. The yellow screen in his mind said something very different.
He leaned against the obsidian desk to steady his jelly-like legs. Cr-rrack. Arata jumped back, his eyes wide. The heavy stone didn't just break; it shattered into black dust under the spot where his palm had been resting. He looked at his hand, then at the wreckage of the desk. The sheer weight of what just happened finally hit him.
"Oh, god," he whispered, his voice cracking. " There goes my paycheck."