The price for a factory was weakness.
Jack felt it as a deep, unshakable chill, a fragility in his bones that had nothing to do with the cold morning air. His mana, which had felt like a deep well just yesterday, was now a shallow puddle. He was Level 1. This pathetic state was the cost of his new power, but the temporary vulnerability was a problem. Therefore, he had to hide it at all costs.
Before him was a mental blueprint of his first dungeon. It was a chaotic mess, a maze of illogical corridors and poorly placed chambers, the final psychic imprint of his victim, David. A terrible foundation. But he couldn't change it for a month. Therefore, today's mandatory raid was no longer a chore. It was a research trip. A factory owner about to tour the competition.
The orphanage grounds were a buzzing hive of anxiety. Two dozen newly Awakened kids were herded into lines by a pair of grim-faced Hunter Bureau proctors. Their armor was not polished and ceremonial. It was scarred, practical, and it told a story of a world that did not care about their feelings.
"Listen up, fledglings," the lead proctor barked, his voice like grinding stone. "Today is your first and only warning. The System gave you a gift. We are here to see if you are worthy of it. You will enter the 'Collapsed Mine' F-rank dungeon. Your performance will determine your future. Do well, and you might get a decent guild offer. Fail, and you will be designated as non-combat personnel. You will spend the rest of your short lives hauling gear and cleaning latrines."
It wasn't training. It was a culling. They were weeding out the liabilities before they could cost a real guild any money. Jack approved. He stood among them, his face a perfect mask of mild apprehension, another sheep in the flock.
The entrance to the Collapsed Mine was a jagged crack in a hillside. It smelled of wet stone and something metallic, like old blood. As they crossed the invisible threshold into the dungeon, Jack's senses sharpened. He wasn't looking at the crumbling wooden supports or the moss on the rocks. He was analyzing the architecture.
A sharp cry from the front of the group announced first contact. Goblins. A pack of them swarmed out from a blind corner, their rusty knives glinting in the dim dungeon light. The fledglings panicked, but the proctor's roar cut through the chaos.
"Formation! Warriors to the front, ranged to the back!"
Mike let out a clumsy war cry and charged, his F-rank strength just barely enough to parry a goblin's wild swing. But his enthusiasm left him wide open. A second goblin lunged at his exposed side. An amateur mistake. A damaged asset.
Jack raised a hand. He felt the pathetic trickle of mana he could draw upon. He had enough for maybe five casts. Six at most. Every shot had to be an investment. He couldn't afford to stand out, but he also couldn't afford to lose his primary social camouflage. A small orb of blue energy, a Mana Bolt, shot from his palm. It wasn't powerful. It wasn't flashy. But its timing was perfect. It struck the second goblin in the knee, causing it to stumble for a critical second. Therefore, Mike had just enough time to recover and slam his sword into its skull.
"Thanks!" Mike yelled over his shoulder, thinking it was just lucky support fire. Jack simply nodded, already fading back into the group. The cost of that single shot was a fifth of his entire combat potential. An expensive, but necessary, expenditure.
He watched the fight unfold like a strategist observing a simulation. A boy named Tom fumbled an arrow, his hands shaking. He was too slow. A goblin's knife slashed across his leg. He screamed, and the sound made the others flinch. The lead proctor moved like a blur and cleaved the goblin in two, but he made no move to help Tom. The boy was a liability, already culled.
The skirmish ended. The proctors ordered them to collect the magic cores. As the others harvested the loot, Jack was analyzing the system. He saw how experience points flowed, a larger share going to those who landed the final blow. He saw how a single, low-quality chest appeared after the "nest" was cleared. Contribution influenced reward, but the System's underlying rules were rigid. Predictable.
They think they are fighting monsters, Jack thought. They are proving systems. Systems that I now own.
This blind corner is an effective ambush point. I will add three of these to my own layout. The monster placement here is inefficient. Clustering them would create better conflict.
Their journey deeper was a catalog of failures. Another boy, frozen by fear, was swarmed by Giant Rats. He screamed for help, but the proctors only watched as his body dissolved into particles of light. The System cleans its own mess. Jack watched the boy's friends cry, and he analyzed their reactions. Fear was a contagion. Morale was a resource. A resource to be managed, or broken.
The raid finally ended. Two dead. Three wounded. The survivors stumbled out into the sunlight, dazed. Mike was exhausted, his arm bleeding from a shallow cut, but his eyes were bright with the manic energy of survival.
"We did it, Jack! We actually did it!" he said, clapping Jack on the shoulder.
Jack just nodded, his mind a million miles away, already redesigning David's chaotic foundation with the cold, hard data he had just acquired. The sheep celebrate surviving the field. The month of waiting will be an annoyance. But the renovations will be exquisite. I am building the slaughterhouse.
As they were herded back onto the transport truck, the second proctor, a quiet woman who hadn't spoken the entire time, read from a data slate.
"Assessment results are in," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "For those of you who survived, your performance was adequate. Except for one."
Every head turned. The proctor's eyes locked directly onto Jack.
"Jack Vernon. Your combat output was minimal, but your mana efficiency was recorded at one hundred percent. Every single bolt you fired struck a target's weak point. Explain this."