This F-Rank Bubble Mage Is Too OP!

River opened his eyes slowly, the ceiling above him unfamiliar. A moment passed before the fog in his mind lifted—then the memory hit him like a crashing wave.

The tent. The crying. The light.

"Serian…" he muttered under his breath, voice rough with sleep. Pushing himself upright, River blinked a few more times, as if hoping clarity would settle in.

The dream hadn't been just a dream. It was a memory.

Shaking the grogginess away, he reached for his phone and glanced at the screen.

[02:11 AM]

He had only been asleep for two hours, but it felt like a day had passed within that dream.

He dragged himself to the table in the corner of the room, where his clothes were lazily folded from earlier. The worn-out motel lights flickered above him as he slipped into his shirt and pants, each motion mechanical. Then he grabbed the envelope on the table—the one containing his newly issued Hunter Card—and returned to the edge of the bed, sinking into the mattress as it creaked beneath him.

But he didn't open it yet.

Instead, he simply tapped the envelope gently against his palm, eyes fixed on nothing in particular as his thoughts spun.

This wasn't the first time River had dreamt of his past life. Ever since returning to the past, those memories had begun to bleed through more frequently. Each dream more vivid. Each memory more unbearable.

And that was why, for the past week, his emotions had been riding a fragile edge. He was haunted—by both guilt and longing. Maybe if he was stronger, things would have been different.

Outside, the muffled pulse of the Red Light District carried through the paper-thin walls of the run-down motel. Neon lights bled through the curtains in waves of red, violet, and gold. Laughter echoed from the streets, mingling with music, drunk singing, and the distant purring of engines.

From the adjacent rooms came moans and rhythmic creaking—temporary connections forged by coin and flesh.

River shut his eyes. The noise wasn't new. But tonight, it dug into his chest.

It reminded him just how far he was from the future he once fought for.

"Serian," he whispered again, this time more firmly. "We are not giving up."

He'd been trying to suppress this feeling. The desperate hope—the fragile, trembling thought—that maybe Serian was still out there. Somewhere. In some other timeline. Alive. Fighting. Defying the impossible with that same relentless will that once changed River's fate.

But if time travel was no longer just a theory…

If River and Serian's return to the past was proof of its terrifying truth…

Then Serian using his final Skill to send him here likely meant erasure. Not just from this timeline—but from all of them.

It was a paradox River didn't want to face.

"I want to believe you're still alive," River whispered. His voice cracked, barely audible in the dim room. "That we'll meet again… even if it breaks the rules of causality."

But belief and logic were oil and water. Hope and probability rarely shook hands.

As his thoughts drifted back to the baby in the dream—the one born under a glowing womb, screaming into life, the one he treated as his own son—River's fists slowly clenched.

Even if the universe insisted Serian was gone, River would chase proof otherwise. He needed something. A sign. An anchor. Anything to stop this slow erosion of conviction that threatened to break him from the inside.

This search—this obsession—wasn't his only goal. He still had to uncover the hidden dungeons and the ancient artifacts before the others find it. Still had to plan, to prepare for the inevitable confrontation with the 4th Dimensional Beings.

But in the quiet between battles, in the space between strategy and survival, River was still a man longing for certainty.

"There are too many paths I'll have to walk… Better to take them one step at a time," he murmured, grounding himself again.

He exhaled sharply, glanced at the envelope, then tore it open with firm fingers. Inside was his new Hunter Card.

Matte black. Cold to the touch.

His name gleamed faintly in silver across the bottom left, beside the embossed insignia of the Hunter Association—an intricate spiral around a vertical sword, meant to represent convergence and strength.

And in the top right corner, branded like a silent judgment:

F-Rank.

The lowest possible rank.

River stared at it for a moment, then let out a breathless chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"F-Rank…," he muttered.

Ranks are useless in front of those beings.

River rested one hand under his chin, eyes narrowed as he stared at the pitch-black Hunter Card. His face reflected faintly on its glossy surface. "I'll probably just waste time trying to rank up," he muttered under his breath. "And if I draw attention to myself… that's a no-no."

Quietly was how he needed to move—like a shadow slipping through the cracks of the world. His plans couldn't afford the spotlight, not with the Government and the Hunter Association constantly probing each other, playing a chess match of power and deception. If either of them caught wind of what he was truly after…

They would either try to recruit him—or erase him.

River leaned back against the creaky bed frame, sighing through his nose. Right now, stealth was his best ally. His strength didn't lie in titles or rankings. It lay in the knowledge of what was to come—and in the truth buried deep in forgotten dungeons and ancient artifacts.

The Hunter Association flaunted rules, while the Government hoarded secrets. Both masked their greed behind polished smiles and false unity. River had seen how far they would go. He had lived through the cost of their ambition.

"If they weren't so blinded by power," he said bitterly, voice low and tight, "maybe the world wouldn't have needed a Chosen One."

His grip on the card tightened slightly before he let out a long, steadying breath.

One step at a time.

River slid his Hunter Card into his inventory, a shimmering interface appearing before him as his hand slipped through the invisible space.

When he pulled it back, his gaze flicked to one of the slots—there, resting like a silent puzzle piece, was the white book.

"And this thing…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "Still no clue what you are."

He clicked his tongue in frustration. The book hadn't reacted, hadn't offered a single hint besides the requirement in order to use it. Mysterious and inert.

"Max Level," he said under his breath. "I have to hit my Max Level first."

Only then would the book awaken—or reveal the knowledge sealed within.

Fortunately, with the number of Dungeons emerging and the sheer volume of hidden treasures yet to be claimed, it wouldn't take long. Especially not for someone like him.

The Dungeons with real potential—the ones that held relics from the past or traces of future anomalies—were either beginning to appear or still waiting to be unearthed. River would find them. He had to. Each one brought him closer to his true strength and beyond it.

His eyes lingered on the white book a moment longer before shifting to the Heartstone resting in a lower slot. A glowing, crystalized gem, softly pulsing like a heartbeat.

Crafting material. Powerful.

But River had no idea what made it special. Not yet. For that, he needed a skilled blacksmith—one who knew how to work with materials.

"One step at a time," he said, standing.

There was still so much to do. Secrets to uncover. Weapons to forge. Mysteries to tear open.

And time… time clenched his neck.

Waving his hand, he dismissed the interface, which scattered into a flurry of particles, dissolving into the air.

"I have to move now," River said with quiet resolve, his footsteps already echoing towards the door.