[POV: Ren Takashi] [Location: Royal Guest Quarters - The Hero's Suite] [Time: 7:00 AM]
Ren stared at the ceiling fresco, where painted cherubs were busy strangling demons with garlands of flowers.
He hadn't slept. Not really. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the King's face—that mask of benevolent tyranny. He heard Prince Valerius talking about "genetic assets" and "breeding programs" like Ren was a prize stud horse at a county fair.
First Wife. Second Wife. Children.
Ren sat up, dragging his hands down his face. The silk sheets tangled around his legs, feeling less like luxury and more like a net.
"Fuck," Ren whispered into the empty, golden room.
He looked at his hands. They were trembling. Yesterday, he had killed a Basilisk. He had faced down death in a damp cave. That was scary, sure. But it was simple. Monster roars, you stab it, you win.
This? This political cesspool? It was terrifying.
He got out of bed and walked to the tall mirror. He looked at the [Hero] title floating above his reflection in gold text.
[Class: Hero of Light] [Status: Mental Fatigue (High)]
"Why?" Ren asked the air. He looked up, past the painted ceiling, imagining he could see through the stone and sky to whatever realm the Goddess sat in.
"Hey! Goddess!" Ren shouted, his voice cracking. "Ishtar! Althera! Whatever your name is!"
Silence.
"Why the fuck did you give me this?" Ren slammed his fist against the mirror frame. "I didn't ask for it. I was just playing games in my room. I was a kid. Why did you put this... this fucking burden on me?"
He thought about Rika's face last night. The sheer horror in her eyes when the Prince suggested she could be a "mistress."
"You dragged us here," Ren hissed, tears pricking his eyes. "You gave me a sword and a title, and you made me a slave to these people. Is this your plan? To turn me into a weapon for some King who wants to conquer the world?"
No answer. Just the chirping of birds in the royal gardens, oblivious to the fact that the "Savior" was having a breakdown.
"Fuck you," Ren whispered to the divine silence. "I won't do it. I won't be their puppet."
But as he looked at the castle walls surrounding him, he didn't feel like a Hero. He felt like a prisoner in a very expensive cage.
[POV: Sora Amano] [Location: The Rusty Tankard Inn - Room 4] [Time: 6:30 AM]
Sora didn't have the luxury of existential dread. He had hunger.
He splashed the remaining water from the bucket onto his face. It was freezing, smelling faintly of iron, but it woke him up. He ran a hand through his damp hair, looking at his reflection in the cracked shard of glass he used as a mirror.
Dark circles under the eyes. Ribs showing a bit too much through the skin.
"Looking good, sunshine," Sora muttered dryly.
He dressed in his "new" black clothes—the cheap cotton shirt and vest. He grabbed his rusty machete, wrapped it in a strip of cloth, and shoved it into his belt.
He checked his pockets.
Five coppers.
Sora walked out of the inn. The morning air in the lower district was thick with the smell of coal smoke and unwashed bodies. The "Deadlands" had smelled like rot, but at least it was honest. This city smelled like desperation.
He found a street vendor selling bread from a wicker basket.
"How much?" Sora asked.
The vendor, an old woman with missing teeth, eyed him up and down. "Ten coppers for a loaf. Five for a half."
"It's hard as a rock," Sora noted, tapping the crust.
"It's yesterday's bake," the woman shrugged. "Take it or starve, boy."
Sora handed over his last five coppers. He took the half-loaf. It was dense, dry, and tasted like sawdust, but it was calories. He tore off a chunk with his teeth and started walking, chewing rhythmically.
Bank balance: Zero.
He needed money. Today. Or he was sleeping on the street.
He reached the Adventurer's Guild.
It was busy, but not like last night. The evening crowd was boisterous drunks and high-ranking parties showing off loot. The morning crowd was different. It was grim. These were the grinders. Men and women with scarred armor and tired eyes, looking for work to pay their tabs.
Sora pushed through the heavy doors. He scanned the room. No UI. No levels. Just threat assessment.
Guy with the axe: Hungover. Left leg drags. Elf with the bow: String is frayed. She's broke.
Sora walked to the reception desk. The same chestnut-haired girl from yesterday—Mila—was there, sorting through a stack of papers with the speed of a machine.
"I'm back," Sora said, leaning on the counter.
Mila didn't look up. "We aren't buying hyena fangs today. Market is saturated."
"I'm not selling," Sora said. "I want to register."
Mila finally looked up. She blinked, recognizing the dark-haired boy who had hustled old man Jareth.
"Registration fee is two silvers," she said.
"I don't have it," Sora said flatly. "But I read the Guild Charter on the wall outside. Section 4, Paragraph 2: 'Indigent applicants may defer the fee against their first three mission payouts.'"
Mila stared at him. "You read the Charter?"
"I had time," Sora shrugged.
"Nobody reads the Charter," she muttered, pulling out a form. "Fine. Name?"
"Sora Amano."
"Class?"
"None."
Mila's quill stopped scratching. She looked at him. "None? As in, you haven't awakened one yet? Or you're a Villager?"
"As in, I don't have one," Sora lied smoothly. "And my mana is trace amounts. Barely enough to light a candle."
Mila sighed, putting the quill down. She looked at him with a mix of pity and annoyance.
"Look, kid. Sora. Listen to me."
She leaned over the counter, lowering her voice.
"You think this is a game? You think you're going to grab a sword, kill a few slimes, and become a legend? Without a Class? Without Mana?"
"I think I need to eat," Sora said. "And I'm good at not dying."
"That's what the last guy said," Mila pointed to a memorial board on the wall covered in small wooden tags. "He lasted two days. A Goblin poked a hole in his lung."
She gestured to the hall behind her.
"Being an Adventurer isn't about being a hero. The bards lie. Being an Adventurer is about being a glorified exterminator. It's digging through shit, sleeping in mud, and getting paid less than a royal gardener to risk your neck. If you're F-Rank, you are meat. You are the buffer between the monsters and the people who actually matter."
She looked him dead in the eye.
"If you die out there, we don't send a search party. We don't send a priest. We just burn your card and open a slot for the next idiot. Still want to sign?"
Sora finished the last bite of his stale bread. He swallowed it dry.
"Where do I sign?"
Mila shook her head, muttering something that sounded like "suicidal moron." She pushed the parchment toward him.
"Sign at the bottom. Since you have no Class and no Mana, you are automatically assigned to Rank F: Porcelain."
She handed him a small, white metal tag on a chain. It felt flimsy.
"Porcelain?" Sora raised an eyebrow. "Because we break easily?"
"Because you're cheap to replace," Mila said, returning to her paperwork. "Board is on the left. Don't take anything above your rank or the Guild Knights will break your legs."
Sora took the tag. F-Rank. The bottom of the food chain.
Perfect. Nobody looks at the bottom.
He walked over to the Request Board.
It was a mess. The board was divided by Ranks. The A and B sections were empty—the high rollers had already snatched the good quests (Dungeon dives, Boss hunts). The C and D sections had a few "Escort Caravan" or "Hunt Wolf Pack" missions.
The F-Rank section was basically the garbage bin.
Most of the papers were yellowing, meaning they had been there for weeks.
Sora read them.
[Cleaning Duty]: Clean the Royal Stables' manticore pens. Reward: 5 Silvers.
[Gathering]: Collect 20 "Stink-Shrooms" from the Whispering Woods. Note: Highly volatile smell. Reward: 8 Silvers.
[Lost Item]: Find Mrs. Gable's cat, "Mr. Fluff." Last seen in the sewer entrance. Reward: 4 Silvers.
[Delivery]: Haul a crate of iron ore to the outpost at the forest edge. Reward: 6 Silvers.
Total: 23 Silvers.
Most adventurers would look at this and vomit. Manticore shit? Sewers? Stink-Shrooms? It was degrading.
Sora looked at it and saw dinner, a room for the night, and a new whetstone.
He reached up and ripped all four papers off the board.
"Hey!"
A heavy hand clamped onto Sora's shoulder.
Sora didn't flinch, but he tensed his muscles, ready to drop his center of gravity. He turned around.
Towering over him was a man who looked like he ate rocks for breakfast. He was wearing polished steel plate armor with a blue cape. A massive greatsword was strapped to his back. A silver tag—B-Rank—dangled from his neck.
Behind him stood two other adventurers, laughing.
"You blind, rat?" the big man grunted, his breath smelling of ale and onions. "You're blocking the board."
"I'm just leaving," Sora said calmly, glancing at the hand on his shoulder. "If you could let go."
"You took all the F-Rank slips," the man sneered. He looked at the papers in Sora's hand. "Cat finding? Shovel duty? Hah! Pathetic."
He leaned down, his face inches from Sora's.
"You're devaluing the guild, kid. Walking around with that rusty piece of scrap metal you call a sword. You look like a beggar."
"I am a beggar," Sora said, keeping his voice flat. "That's why I'm taking the jobs you're too important to do, Sir."
The man blinked. He expected defiance. He expected fear. He didn't expect total apathy.
"Smart mouth," the man growled. He squeezed Sora's shoulder hard. Sora felt his collarbone creak, but he didn't wince.
Analysis: Opponent: B-Rank Vanguard. Strength: High. Intelligence: Low. Ego: Massive. Action: If I fight him, I lose my license. If I beat him, I attract attention.
Sora let his shoulders slump. He looked at the floor.
"I apologize, Sir," Sora said, injecting a tremor into his voice. "I'm just trying to survive. I didn't mean to offend a high-ranker like you."
The man grinned, satisfied by the submission. He shoved Sora backward.
"Know your place, Porcelain," the man laughed, spitting a glob of phlegm onto Sora's boot. "Clean that up while you're cleaning the stables."
The man turned to his friends. "Let's go. The air stinks of poverty in here."
They walked away, laughing.
Sora stood there. He looked at the spit on his boot. He looked at the retreating back of the B-Ranker.
Gareth. Level 34. Weak point: Back of the knee. No helmet.
Sora wiped his boot on the floor. His expression hadn't changed, but his eyes were cold enough to freeze water.
"Someday," Sora whispered. "Just not today."
He turned and walked out of the Guild.
[Time: 12:00 PM - The Grind]
The Manticore pens were a special kind of hell.
The smell was a mix of sulfur and rotting meat. The Manticores—lion-like beasts with scorpion tails—hissed at Sora from behind iron bars as he shoveled mound after mound of toxic waste into a cart.
"Fuck my life," Sora muttered, sweat dripping into his eyes.
He didn't use mana. He used his back. He shoveled for two hours until his muscles burned.
[Quest Complete: Stables Cleaned. +5 Silvers.]
[Time: 2:00 PM]
The sewers were worse.
"Mr. Fluff" turned out to be a demon-cat with three eyes and a biting problem. Sora spent an hour wading through knee-deep sludge, tracking the little bastard.
When he finally cornered it, the cat hissed and shot a fireball the size of a marble at him.
Sora dodged, grabbed the cat by the scruff of its neck, and shoved it into a sack.
"You bite me," Sora told the sack, "and I'm turning you into a hat."
[Quest Complete: Cat Retrieved. +4 Silvers.]
[Time: 4:30 PM]
The Stink-Shrooms lived up to their name. They released a cloud of yellow spores that smelled like old socks and vomit.
Sora tied a rag around his face. He crawled through the underbrush of the Whispering Woods, picking the glowing yellow fungi with gloved hands.
He looked like a swamp monster, covered in mud, slime, and spores.
[Quest Complete: Gathering. +8 Silvers.]
[Time: 6:00 PM]
The sun was setting, casting long, bloody shadows across the forest floor.
Sora was exhausted. His arms felt like lead. He smelled terrible. But his pouch was heavy. He had made 17 Silvers so far.
He adjusted the heavy crate of iron ore on his back. It weighed at least fifty kilos.
"Last one," Sora panted. "Just drop this at the outpost, get the 6 silvers, and then... a hot bath. A real one."
He was walking along a dirt path near the edge of the Whispering Woods. The trees here were thick, ancient oaks with twisted roots that looked like grasping fingers.
The outpost was another mile away.
Step. Step. Step.
Sora stopped.
He held his breath.
The forest was silent. Too silent. The birds had stopped singing.
Then, he heard it.
A sound drifting from the dense foliage to his right.
Sob...
It was faint. Weak.
Sob... please... no...
A girl's voice. Young.
Sora stood still. He looked at the path ahead. The outpost was straight. The money was straight.
He looked to the right. The woods were dark, thickening into twilight.
"It's a trap," Sora whispered to himself. "It's a classic lure. Bandit ambush? Mimic? Siren?"
He shifted the crate on his back.
"Not my problem. I'm F-Rank. F-Ranks don't investigate suspicious noises. F-Ranks survive."
He took a step forward on the path.
...mommy...
The voice cracked. It sounded terrified. Genuine, visceral terror.
Sora froze again.
He closed his eyes. He saw the Elf woman in the dungeon. He saw her hand reaching out. He saw the light fading from her eyes because he had been too weak to save her.
"God damn it," Sora cursed. "God fucking damn it."
He dropped the crate of iron ore. It hit the ground with a heavy thud.
He pulled the rusty machete from his belt.
"If this is a trap," Sora muttered, stepping off the path and into the dark woods, "I'm going to be so pissed."
He moved silently, his boots sinking into the moss, heading toward the crying. The shadows swallowed him whole.