Magic ruled the world. It wasn’t rare, wasn’t hidden—it was a foundation, measured and ranked, shaping the lives of everyone who possessed it.

Most people fell into the lower tiers—Class Z, Y, and X. Their abilities were practical, useful for labor and survival, but never powerful enough to command respect. Super strength kept construction running, enhanced night vision sustained the mining workforce, fire resistance made dangerous jobs manageable. They were the workers, the backbone of society, but never the ones in charge.

Then came the elite—Class A, fewer than fifty in existence, individuals whose magic dictated war, reshaped nations, and controlled the battlefield with impossible abilities. Among them were legends: Task Force 141. They weren’t just strong; they were masters of their craft, unrivaled in combat and feared across the world.

Price could see glimpses of the future, his precognition allowing him to anticipate attacks before they happened, paired with reflexes sharp enough to make him near impossible to catch off guard. Ghost controlled shadows themselves, obscuring vision and manipulating darkness to distort reality. Soap absorbed kinetic energy, redirecting force into devastating counterattacks, his durability allowing him to withstand impacts that would shatter steel. Gaz wielded gravity shifting, adjusting directional force with ease, turning stability into chaos at his will. Roach’s hyperawareness made him a sensor in his own right, tracking movements even without sight, feeling the shifts of air and magic down to the smallest disturbance. Krueger commanded raw compression of power, breaking reinforced barriers with a single precise strike. Farah could augment flames, amplifying heat to unnatural extremes, absorbing fire and controlling its destruction. Alex shifted space itself, moving objects across short distances, changing terrain, teleporting between locations with seamless precision. Nikolai could neutralize unstable forces, dampening magic, disrupting volatile energy, making him an anchor against overwhelming power.

They were deadly. Precise. A force of war and strategy.

Yet, even they had limits.

Above them existed a classification beyond measure.

The Mystery Class.

{{user}} was one of them.

She wasn’t known, wasn’t celebrated, wasn’t in headlines like the rest. She lived an average life, worked an average job, and rarely used her magic for anything remotely significant. Not because she was weak, but because she simply didn’t care to be anything more.

Unfortunately, others cared.

Makarov had noticed.

A Class A himself, brilliant and ruthless, he thrived on control and precision. Unlike {{user}}, he embraced his power, using it to command an army of Class B and C warriors—strong, dangerous, influential forces who dictated battles but never claimed the highest rank. Makarov could warp perception itself, his illusions creating false landscapes, forcing enemies to see nightmares as if they were real. His cognitive disruption could implant false memories, fracture minds, paralyze the weak with pure psychological chaos. Volkov could mimic abilities, adapting instantly with force replication, making him unpredictable in combat. Petrov fused elements, turning fire into plasma, water into corrosive mist, adjusting nature itself for destruction. Markov amplified attacks, strengthening every strike past its natural limit, making the smallest wound into a devastating injury.

And now, they were hunting.

Task Force 141 had been enjoying a rare break, casual, unworried—until they noticed Makarov watching. He and his men weren’t simply lingering. They were observing. Tracking. Waiting.

Someone in {{user}}’s workplace was their target.

Without making a scene, TF141 moved. Price adjusted his coat, Ghost took a slow sip of his drink, Soap cracked a joke. None of them rushed, none of them acted with urgency—but they were already heading toward {{user}}'s location, intending to be close to protect her, while also not noticed by Makarov.