The factory needed raw materials, but the world was a chaotic and unpredictable supply chain. Therefore, Jack needed a system. He needed a reliable delivery service. The next morning, the Hunter Bureau gave him one.
All the survivors of the assessment raid were summoned to the orphanage's central hall. The air was thick with the smell of stale fear and childish hope. But the two proctors standing on the stage, Sarah and the man with the concrete jaw, were there to crush that hope.
"You are no longer children," the male proctor began, his voice booming through the silent hall. "You are State Assets. Your worth has been graded, recorded, and will now be used for the betterment of the nation."
A ripple of confusion and dread went through the crowd. This wasn't the heroic start they had all dreamed of.
"Each of you has been assigned a Combat Potential Score based on your performance yesterday," Sarah continued, her voice as sharp as cut glass. "This score determines your mandatory service assignment. High performers will be assigned to government-affiliated exploration guilds. Low performers will be assigned to logistical support and high-fatality cleanup squads." She paused, letting the weight of the words sink in. "There is no option to refuse."
A screen flickered to life behind them, displaying names and scores. Mike beamed with pride at his decent score of 68, a solid mid-tier placement. He was safe. He was useful. The list scrolled down, and Jack's name appeared. Combat Potential Score: 55. Deliberately, perfectly average. It was the best camouflage money couldn't buy.
But one boy, a lanky kid with an F-rank talent and a low score of 23, couldn't accept it. "You can't do this!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "We're not slaves! We have a right to choose! I want to go to an Academy!"
The response was immediate and brutal. The male proctor didn't even flinch. "State assets do not attend Academies. They serve. Any asset that refuses assignment will be branded a State Fugitive, with a kill-on-sight order." As if on cue, two armored guards moved through the crowd. The boy tried to run, but they were on him in a second. He was beaten into submission with cold, efficient strikes and dragged away, leaving a smear of blood on the polished floor and a chilling silence in his wake.
Jack watched it all with a detached, analytical gaze. He committed the enforcement rules to memory. There was no emotion. No pity. No fear of the cage. He was simply analyzing its design. The State Asset Protocol was not a cage for him. It was a cattle pen, and the government was delivering the livestock directly to his gate. Orphans couldn't enter Awakener Academies, which kept him off the elite radar. Mandatory service would create a steady stream of desperate, poorly trained bodies. Bodies that could be harvested.
Later, as the orphans were being processed, Sarah approached him. She moved with a quiet intensity that made the other kids shy away. "Jack Vernon," she said, her eyes scanning him as if trying to find a flaw in a perfect forgery. "Your file says you're mediocre. Your test score says you're mediocre. But mediocrity doesn't explain perfect accuracy."
Jack looked down, performing the role of a nervous boy being singled out by an authority figure. "I told you. It was just luck."
"Forgettable boys don't stay forgettable forever," she warned, her voice a low whisper. "I'll be watching." She turned and walked away, leaving him with the cold certainty that he had a predator of his own now. He logged her as a long-term threat to be managed.
He dismissed her from his mind. She was a problem for later. A more immediate opportunity was presenting itself. As the proctors finally dismissed them, a small group of the lowest-ranked orphans huddled together, their faces pale with despair. Their futures had been declared worthless.
"I'm not doing it," one of them whispered, a boy named Aaron. He was a runt, with a bitter twist to his mouth. "I'm not going to be goblin-fodder for some government guild. My sister... she needs medicine."
"What else can we do?" another asked. "They'll hunt us down."
"Not if we're smart," Aaron insisted. "We can make some quick cash freelancing. Slime nests are easy. We just need to be quick, get enough to get out of the city."
They were desperate. They were insecure. And they were about to make a fatal mistake. Sheep, drifting from the flock, looking for a patch of green grass. Jack's mind was already calculating the best way to approach them, the best lie to feed them.
A faint, ghostly white notification flickered in his vision.
[Dungeon Population: 0/6. Awaiting tenants.]
He felt the corners of his mouth twitch, a flicker of a smile that he quickly suppressed. A new, private notification flickered in his vision. [Themed Loot Table has been set: F-Rank One-Handed Swords]. He closed his eyes. The bait was ready. All he had to do was tell the sheep where to find the slaughterhouse.