The air in the E-Rank Gate smelled like ozone and damp concrete, the stale metallic odor that always clung to low-tier dungeons. For Leon Vancian, it was the smell of two months of grinding, two months of desperately trying to close the gap between his past life as Leon Kael and his current precarious existence.
He was currently crouched behind an overturned sanitation truck in what used to be the Lower Sector of Seoul, deep inside a permanent dungeon known only as the Rust Belt.
E-Rank. The designation was less a badge of honor and more a neon sign advertising your expendability. It meant you were strong enough to risk your life, but not strong enough to live safely afterward. You were paid by the kilo for the monster parts you dragged out, and an E-Rank Awakener barely pulled enough weight to cover rent and the mandatory Gate Tax.
Crunch.
Leon froze. He gripped the chipped hilt of his short sword, the thin leather wrap slick with sweat. His power—a pitifully weak, self-sustaining Mana Shroud that could absorb maybe two decent hits—flickered nervously around his skin. It was his only ability, and it was why the Guild had stamped him with the minimum rank possible.
A Rusted Dreg shuffled into view. It was a ghoul-like humanoid, its skin covered in flaking brown chitin that looked like iron oxide. Its mouth was a gaping, tooth-filled cavern, and it moved with the jerky, unnatural gait of a corpse given electricity. It wasn't fast, but it carried enough strength in its ruined arms to snap an un-shrouded neck.
Two months, Leon thought, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs. Two months and I'm still fighting trash mobs for scraps.
He could take this thing. But Dregs never traveled alone.
He shifted his weight. The key to surviving as E-Rank was efficiency—kill fast, avoid damage, and don't waste the little Mana he had.
He burst from behind the truck, shouting to draw the Dreg's attention. The monster turned its head, its milky, dead eyes focusing on the sudden movement. Leon didn't hesitate; he plunged his blade, not at the tough carapace, but straight through the weak, papery joint of its knee.
The Dreg fell with a scraping shriek, its limbs flailing uselessly. Before it could recover, Leon brought the sword down, aiming for the soft spot beneath its chin. The Mana Shroud provided the oomph he lacked, turning the cheap metal into a functional killing tool.
The sword bit deep, and the Dreg's cries choked into silence as black, viscous fluid—monster blood—splashed across the pavement.
A system notification, audible only to him, chimed in his mind.
[Rusted Dreg vanquished. Experience gained: 5]
Leon didn't relax. He wiped the blade on the Dreg's tattered coat and scanned the shadows. He needed more. He needed to hit Level 10 before the next quarter's rank evaluation, or the Guild would cut his minimal allowance.
His gaze fell on the Dreg's mangled form. The rank of the Awakener was everything. The rank of the monster you killed was nothing. The truth was, the world didn't care about justice or heroism. It cared about the number next to your name.
Leon adjusted the grip on his sword, the feeling of the familiar weapon unsettlingly comforting. In another life, Leon Kael had been a salaryman, staring at spreadsheets instead of the eyes of a creature trying to eat him. He couldn't shake the coincidence, the feeling that his old name was an echo—a forgotten instruction manual he desperately needed to find.
I need a better Gate, he concluded, pushing the thought of Kael away. This isn't enough.
He kicked a loose stone into the shadows, waiting for a reaction. Nothing. Good.
He took out his utility knife, knelt beside the dead monster, and began the messy work of extracting the Core Gem—the only thing of true value in this rotting world. It was a tedious, brutal task for a man who used to complain about paper cuts, but every gram of that Core Gem was a step up the ladder, a step away from being monster fodder.