[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 stone path leading back to the town's edge. Sora was exhausted. His arms felt like lead, and he smelled of sweat and damp earth. But his pouch was heavy—he had made 17 Silvers today. He adjusted the crate of iron ore on his back; it weighed at least fifty kilos.
"Just drop this at the outpost, get the 6 silvers, and then... a hot bath," Sora panted.
As he neared the main thoroughfare, he saw them.
Under the warm glow of the street lanterns, four figures were walking together toward a brightly lit tavern. Daigo was laughing, his massive frame dominating the space as he playfully slapped Riku on the back. Riku was gesturing wildly with his hands, likely explaining some new "prodigy" level invention. Itsuki walked slightly behind them, flipping through a book even while moving, his expression as unreadable as ever. In the center was Ren, looking calm and steady, the golden aura of his [Hero] title almost visible in the way people stepped aside for him.
Sora stopped.
He watched them for a moment, his hand tightening on the strap of his heavy crate. Part of him—the part that used to sit in the back of Class 3-G with them—wanted to call out. He wanted to drop the iron ore, run over, and join the conversation. He wanted to be part of the "Hero Team" again.
But then he remembered the grey, jagged text from the appraisal: [TITLE: NONE].
His ego flared, a sharp, cold sting in his chest. He looked at his own dirt-stained hands, the nails caked with iron dust, and then at their clean, polished gear that shimmered under the lamplight.
A memory flashed in his mind, unbidden and sharp—the smell of sweat and old stone in the back corner of the old barracks.
He saw Sergeant Kaelen's face, the captain incharge of the old barrack. The veteran had hated Sora from day one, calling him a "mana-less mistake" every chance he got. But that afternoon, Kaelen had stopped mid-stride to watch as Sora, bruised and bleeding, finally pinned a regular infantryman twice his size to the dirt, choking him out with nothing but raw, desperate leverage.
Kaelen hadn't cheered. He hadn't even offered a hand up. He had just looked at Sora with those cold, calculating eyes and spat on the ground.
"You think that's enough?" Kaelen's gravelly voice echoed in Sora's head. "Look at your 'friends,' boy. They were born with the wind at their backs. They have titles. They have destiny. You? You're a glitch in the system. You want to stand next to them? You want to walk that path? You don't work as hard as them. You work five times harder. You bleed while they sleep. You crawl while they fly. Because the moment you stop, the world will remember you're supposed to be nothing."
Sora's grip tightened on the crate straps until the wood bit into his palms.
He wasn't ready to walk side-by-side with them yet. He wasn't at their level, and showing up now, smelling like a laborer and carrying "dead weight," felt like an admission of defeat. He didn't want their pity, and he certainly didn't want their charity. He needed to put in the work Kaelen spoke of.
Sora turned his head, pulling his grey jacket tighter, and stepped into the shadows of a side alley to let them pass. He walked away, heading toward the distant outpost near the Whispering Woods.
POV: Ren Takashi
"And then I told the blacksmith, if you don't use the thermal-convection method, the mana-conductivity is trash!" Riku was saying, his voice full of its usual manic energy.
Ren nodded politely, but his mind was elsewhere. He glanced toward the dark alleyway they had just passed. For a split second, he thought he'd seen a familiar flash of grey—a slumped, heavy posture he recognized from the back of the classroom.
"Wait," Ren said, stopping in his tracks. "I think that was Sora."
Daigo, who had been laughing a second ago, went quiet instantly. He turned around, his large shoulders tensing as he scanned the shadows. "Sora? Where?" Daigo's voice was uncharacteristically soft, laced with a worry he'd been trying to hide all day. "I've checked his room at the inn three times. He won't open the door."
"You know where he lives?" Itsuki asked, his voice low as he adjusted his glasses, his eyes lingering on the dark space where the shadow had vanished.
"Yeah, of course," Daigo replied, a small spark of pride cutting through his worry. "He told me back at the party. Said some kind soul took pity on him—gave him a roof over his head, rent-free and no strings attached. At least the idiot isn't sleeping on the street."
"He's probably just clearing his head," Riku said, placing a hand on Daigo's arm. "Look, Sora's tough. He's probably out there grinding or finding a way to make things work. We'll probably see him right here on this street tomorrow. When we do, we'll just tell him: no more 'Alone' or aura farming type of bullshit. He's joining our team, whether Valdorn likes it or not. Right?"
Daigo let out a long breath, a small, hopeful smile cracking through his worry. "Yeah. You're right. Tomorrow. I'll make sure the idiot knows he's still got us."
Ren nodded, but the heavy knot in his stomach didn't loosen. His worry wasn't just for Sora; it was for the walls closing in on his own life.
Ren's gaze drifted to the front of the group, where Rika was walking with Ayaka. Rika was laughing at something, her messy hair catching the light of the torches. She was his girlfriend, the only thing that made this insane world feel like home.
If I'm forced to do what the King wants... if I have to marry Elana and other girls to satisfy some breeding program... Rika will hate me, Ren thought, his heart sinking. She'll never forgive me. And I'll have no choice.
"Ren? You coming?" Itsuki asked, noticing him lingering in the dark.
"Yeah," Ren replied, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. "I'm coming."
He took one last look at the alleyway where Sora had disappeared. In a way, he envied Sora. Sora had nothing, no titles, and no expectations. Sora was free. Ren, the "Hero" of the world, felt more like a prisoner than ever.