Steam slowly settled over the mirror.
In front of it, a young man in his twenties stared at his own reflection — bare-chested, black hair plastered to his forehead, dark eyes sunken with exhaustion, as if every night of his life had been a battle already lost. His body, though, was that of a survivor — carved by years of struggle, rage, hunger, and the stubborn illusion that he could still change something.
But that morning, all he saw was a failure dressed in flesh.
He stayed there, motionless, as the voices in his head began to echo again — inevitable, familiar, cruel.
— "Trash…"
— "Trash…"
— "Trash…"
His fist slowly tightened around the sink's edge. His knuckles whitened, his jaw clenched, and a twitch pulled at the corner of his lips.
He turned his head, desperate to look anywhere else but that judging reflection. But what he saw was worse.
On the wall-mounted screen, a pale blue glow revealed his status.
The words appeared, precise, merciless — carved like a sentence.
[Status]
Name: Eden Marron
Age: 24
Race: Human
Awakening Rank: Dust
Level: 20 (Limit Reached)
-----------------
Strength: 20
Agility: 20
Endurance: 20
Intelligence: 20
Willpower: 20
Perception: 20
Mana: Trash
Luck: -1
-----------------
Skill: Summon [Dust]
Allows the user to summon a being or familiar using mana. (If only he had any.)
Eden burst out laughing — a hollow laugh, closer to the last breath of a dying man than any real amusement.
— "Fuck… five years. Five years this world's been screwing me raw."
He ran a hand over his sweat-drenched face, eyes locked on those cursed numbers.
— "Five years telling myself it'll get better… that I'll get a sign, a spark, a damn divine revelation… but no. Just me. And this piece-of-shit system."
His reflection stared back — ironic, almost mocking.
He wanted to spit on it.
The words came again, stabbing at his mind.
— "Trash…"
— "Worthless…"
— "I tried everything," he muttered. "Low-rank gates, shitty quests, miracle potions, failed summons, sleepless nights begging the sky for a damn sign… and for what?"
He placed his hand against the screen, staring at the cold lines of text that seemed to mock him.
— "A level stuck for a year, negative luck, and mana ranked as 'Trash'. 'Trash', seriously?!"
A nervous laugh escaped him, trembling somewhere between fury and exhaustion.
— "The system doesn't even bother pretending anymore. It just spits it right in my face."
The voices returned.
— "Trash… pathetic little shit…"
His fist flew before he realized it. The mirror shattered with a sharp crack, shards scattering like razor-edged butterflies.
A thin line of blood trickled down his palm — bright red against the white sink.
Eden inhaled slowly. Deeply. Too slowly.
— "Calm down, Eden. Breathe. You promised you'd stop these damn fits, remember?"
He wiped his hand with a towel, watched the blood smear, then looked back up at the broken glass. Behind the cracks, his reflection was fragmented — multiplied into a dozen pathetic versions of himself.
— "Well… not everything's over yet. They say there are items in high-rank dungeons that can raise your Awakening rank."
He smirked bitterly.
— "That's why I became a porter, after all. Carry other people's bags, watch them shine… and sometimes die — just for a chance to grab a relic that might pull me out of this mess."
He lowered his gaze.
— "Hang in there, Eden. If you find that thing, maybe your dream can still come true."
The words sounded hollow — too often repeated to still hold meaning.
Then another voice echoed in his mind — not the cruel kind, but one belonging to a friend, or a ghost that refused to leave.
— "Honestly, man… you should just quit and work at McDonald's."
Silence. His smirk faded. His fist closed again. Another punch. The mirror exploded a second time.
Blood flowed freely now. He sat on the bathroom floor, panting, his hand trembling.
For a few seconds, only the steady drip of blood on tile filled the air.
Eden closed his eyes, exhaled a rough breath, then slowly got back up.
He grabbed a roll of bandages from the cracked first-aid box above the washing machine, wrapping his injured hand as best he could. The fabric turned red almost instantly, but he didn't care. He'd seen worse. Much worse.
— "No time to play the fragile type," he muttered.
A quick splash of water on his face, a fleeting glance at the shattered mirror — or what was left of it — and he turned away.
The bathroom reeked of iron and fatigue.
In the main room, his uniform lay draped over a chair — a reinforced gray suit, the knee pads worn, the Guild Union logo half-erased. The official outfit of a porter — the ones hired to carry bags, open doors, and pick mana stones off corpses.
He dressed without a word, slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. The familiar weight pulled on him — heavy, but somehow comforting.
He grabbed his access card, checked the time on his glowing wristband. 07:42.
— "Great. Just in time to get humiliated by another elite team."
His tone was tired, but there was still a faint irony in it — the kind of joke you tell yourself so you don't fall apart.
He opened the door to his small apartment. The corridor was silent, bathed in artificial yellow light.A wave of warm air hit his face.
— "B-rank gate, huh… yeah, another shitty day ahead."
He slipped in his earphones, adjusted the bandage around his hand, and jogged down the stairs. Below, the sirens announcing gate openings already echoed through the city.
The world kept turning, with or without him. Giant screens streamed guild reports, security drones hovered above the streets, and the crowd swarmed beneath the cold glow of neon lights — hunters, porters, civilians, all running after something: glory, money, survival.
Eden boarded the bus with them. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of metal and lukewarm coffee. He leaned his head against the window, watching the confinement towers glide by in the distance.
When the vehicle screeched to a halt, he stepped out, adjusted his bag strap, and tightened the blood-stained bandage. The wound had already bled through, but he ignored the pain.
On the sidewalk, the air shimmered faintly — a sign the gate was already stabilized. Around it, white-suited technicians set up beacons, soldiers checked registries, and hunters of every class gathered before the control tents.
Eden scanned his wristband at the checkpoint.
A soft beep, then a green flash.
— "Good morning, Eden!" said the receptionist with a polished smile. "Another beautiful day, huh?"
He forced a grin.
— "Yeah… beautiful day."
— "Good luck out there!"
— "Thanks. I'll need it," he thought, without saying it.
The gate stood in the center of the zone — a massive vortex of blue energy, swirling slowly, arcs of lightning crackling across its surface like living veins.
Ahead, he spotted his assigned team.
Lucas Yarkler. Rank A. Tall, lean, blond hair slicked back, a long sword strapped to his back, its guard etched with silver runes. Everything about him radiated confidence — the quiet disdain of someone who'd never tasted failure.
To his left stood Valentin Dustraq, Rank B tank. A solid block of muscle, a walking wall, his shield nearly as wide as his chest. The kind of guy who could take an ogre's punch without flinching — but couldn't stomach the idea of a "Dust-rank" walking beside him.
And finally, Anabelle Stanford. Rank B, healer. A woman with crimson hair, eyes the color of deep red wine — dark, alluring. Her outfit, half-light armor, half-provocation, clung to her chest so tightly it looked ready to burst; her breasts bounced with every step, firm and heavy beneath the fabric. She was made to draw attention — and she knew exactly how to use it.
When she saw Eden approaching, a faint smile curved her lips.
Lucas noticed him next.
— "Tch… five minutes late."
Eden's jaw tensed for a split second, but he kept his composure.
He scratched the back of his head, forcing a sheepish grin.
— "Ahaha… sorry, had some trouble with the bus."
Valentin rolled his eyes.
— "Seriously, dude? What the hell's wrong with you? We let you tag along — a Dust-rank — and this is how you repay us? Making us wait first thing in the morning?"
His voice rumbled like barely contained thunder.
— "Who the hell do you think you are, huh?"
Eden stifled a sigh.
— "Yeah, sorry. Won't happen again."
— "Tch…"
Lucas didn't bother replying. He just nodded to Valentin, and the two disappeared into the blue vortex without another word.
Anabelle lingered behind. She stepped closer to Eden, her tone soft and teasing.
— "Don't listen to them," she whispered. "You know how they are."
Before he could reply, she grabbed his bandaged hand. Blood had already seeped through the fabric.
— "Again with the bleeding hand, huh? You really need to take better care of yourself."
Her voice shifted — serious, protective, almost tender.
— "You should really look after yourself more, Eden."
He managed a faint smile.
— "Yeah… I'll be more careful next time."
She arched a brow.
— "Promise?"
— "Promise."
She gently squeezed his fingers, then let go.
— "If the raid goes well, I'll heal it for you when we're done, okay?" She added a playful wink and raised her pinky, sealing the promise.
— "Thanks," he replied flatly.
— "Come on, then. Let's catch up before they get themselves killed without you."
She laughed lightly, then stepped into the gate.
Eden stood there for a second, motionless. The wind whistled through the energy barriers, stirring the dust and cables.
He took a breath, adjusted his bag, and stepped forward.
The moment he crossed the shimmering blue surface, something changed. The vortex began to pulse, spinning faster, its glow shifting to a deep crimson. Black strands wove through the light like veins of ink. The gate trembled, roared, then burst out with a surge of lightning that struck the ground and nearby structures.
Technicians turned, panic spreading.
— "The flux… it's going unstable! The output's spiking!"
But Eden was already gone — swallowed by the other side.