This F-Rank Bubble Mage Is Too OP!

By the time River stepped out of the Fallen Sky's bar, the sky had begun to lighten with the faintest shades of dawn. A faint chill lingered in the air, and the streets of the Red Light District had quieted, with only a few stragglers stumbling through the alleys.

"It's already past four," River muttered, glancing at his phone.

"You're lucky," a voice said behind him.

He turned to see the same woman who had escorted him out. Her arms were folded, her eyes sharp and unwavering beneath the soft glow of the streetlamp.

"Why?" River asked, tilting his head.

"You're still alive," she replied matter-of-factly, as if she were stating the weather.

River chuckled. "She seemed nice."

"I wouldn't call her that," the woman said. "And if you value your life, you won't come back until you've proven your worth. She gave you a chance. Most people don't get that."

River smirked. "We'll meet again."

"I'd rather not," she replied. "But no matter where you go, we will find you. Don't mistake this for a favor. It was a warning."

River's smirk faded slightly. "I don't doubt it."

"Good." She nodded once and stepped back, closing the bar's entrance with a firm metallic clang that echoed down the empty street.

River stood there for a moment, his expression unreadable, then turned and made his way back through the quiet, narrow lanes. The neon lights had dimmed, and the usual noise of the Red Light District had quieted to a hum of distant traffic and flickering signs. It was the calmest it had been all night.

Eventually, he reached the Mooncrest Inn, its modest, boxy structure nestled between a pair of towering, rundown buildings. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered his room without much thought—but the moment he stepped inside, he stopped.

Something felt... off.

At first glance, everything appeared the same. The sheets were slightly creased just as he left them. His bag sat by the wall, half-zipped. The scent of hotel soap still clung to the air. Even the loose tile near the door hadn't been touched.

But River's instincts screamed otherwise.

This wasn't paranoia. It was the refined intuition of a man who had once lived as the Last Hunter—someone who had walked battlefields, escaped assassins, and survived countless ambushes. He knew the subtle tension of a disturbed space. This wasn't just unease. It was certainty.

Closing his eyes, River silently activated the Mana Gathering technique he'd modified for his own use. It wasn't flashy. No visible aura. Just a whisper of energy that extended from his body like a spider's web, feeling every corner of the room.

His senses brushed over each object with surgical precision.

And there it was.

The window.

He walked toward it casually, as if drawn by a passing breeze. He tugged it open slightly, producing a soft thud against the sill. The frame looked untouched—but when he examined the lock, his brow furrowed.

It wasn't fully engaged.

Only halfway.

That wasn't how he left it.

River pressed his finger against the latch, sliding it into place until it clicked with a dull snap.

"Freya is terrifying," he muttered under his breath, a hint of respect in his voice.

He didn't know the exact time someone had entered, but if he had to wager, it had been shortly after he asked about the Fallen Sky. The moment his name had reached Freya's ears, her people must've moved. Discreet. Professional. Clean.

Even more impressive—they'd left without a trace. No broken seals. No misplaced fibers. Nothing that a normal person would notice.

But River wasn't normal.

And now, he was sure—Freya had eyes everywhere.

Though he admired her efficiency, he also understood the message: We're watching you.

Still, he wasn't shaken.

In fact, he grinned as he sat down on the bed, pulling his bag closer.

"This is going to be fun," he whispered to himself.

He had their attention.

Was it a good thing that Freya was already investigating him? Of course not.

There was a high probability it would ruin his plan, but from her perspective, River couldn't fault the decision. After all, what if he really was lying? What if he was just manipulating her?

It wasn't unreasonable to suspect that someone who claimed to know the future might weaponize that very knowledge for their own gain. If Freya were smart—and River was certain she was—she would consider the idea that he might be crafting a false prophecy. That he could fabricate a coming disaster just to earn her trust, only to exploit her resources the moment she let her guard down.

Would Freya entertain such thoughts?

Maybe. Maybe not. Because realistically, how many people would go so far as to invent a catastrophe and shape entire strategies around a lie?

That wouldn't be "predicting" the future anymore.

That would be declaring it.

And in River's case… he was about to declare it. No, not entirely. Just a portion of it.

Most of what he'd told Freya was true. She would rise to prominence. She would come to oppose the government. But there was one part he had twisted—the timing.

The event he told her about, the flooding of Voulton City and the sea monsters breaking through the coast, wasn't due to happen for another month in the original timeline. But River couldn't afford to wait that long. He didn't have the luxury of letting things unfold naturally. Not this time.

He had to trigger the catastrophe himself.

If he wanted Freya to move, to commit fully to his cause, then he needed urgency. The kind that could only come from undeniable proof. And nothing screamed "truth" more than a disaster foretold becoming a disaster realized.

Her power, her network, her access to underground intelligence and untapped resources—they were too valuable. If River wanted a fighting chance against what was coming, he had to have Freya on his side now, not a month later.

Time was not on his side. At this time, they are making progress, and River couldn't let the enemy best his preparation.

With her backing, River could start scouting for those unawakened dungeons, the ones that hadn't even begun to leak mana yet. There were treasures scattered across the earth, some hidden beneath layers of myth and others buried under concrete cities. And he needed to be the first to find them. Every artifact, every shard of power—it would all tip the balance.

Then there were the people.

The ones who would eventually be called the Last Hunters. His future comrades. Allies he had bled beside, died beside. He needed to start bringing them together, one by one.

Most important of all… was him.

The man who would one day raise a sword against the gods. The one who would be known as the Chosen One's father.

"I just need to push the mouse beneath the Mayor," River murmured, eyes narrowed. "He's already restless, already preparing. One little push, and in two weeks, he'll move."

And then the chaos would begin.

The city would burn, the coast would fall, and monsters from the deep would rise. It would be a tragedy—again. But this time, River wasn't going to stand by and watch it happen.

This time, he had two weeks.

Two weeks to get stronger.

Two weeks to prepare for war.

Two weeks to make sure that when the sea came for Voulton City, he'd be standing between it and the people.