The first thing I smelled was bleach. It wasn't the metallic, iron-tang of the factory or the sulfur of the sewers; it was a sharp, aggressive clinical sting that burned the back of my throat and made my eyes water before I could even manage to peel them open.
I tried to shift my weight, a simple movement to adjust my shoulder, but a white-hot spike of agony shot through my chest. It pinned me back to the thin, crinkling hospital mattress as if a spear had been driven through my sternum. My lungs felt small, like two dry sponges struggling to expand against the pressure of my taped ribs. I was hooked up to a rhythmic, hissing machine that breathed for me with a mechanical wheeze, and a maze of plastic tubes ran into my veins like transparent, life-giving vines.
For three weeks, time was a flickering candle in a dark room. There was no day or night, only the white ceiling, the hum of the air conditioner, and the blurred, weary faces of nurses who checked my vitals with a detached, clinical pity. I was a "Kino" to them—another bottom-tier hunter who had flown too close to the sun and got his wings clipped.
"You're lucky to be breathing, kid," a nurse told me on the fourteenth day as she changed my IV drip. Her voice was flat, the sound of someone who had seen a thousand boys like me come in broken and leave in a bag. "Someone found you collapsed in a heap near the industrial slums after that gate closed. They said you looked like you'd been through a trash compactor. Broken ribs, shattered arm, internal bleeding, a Grade-4 concussion... by all accounts, you should be dead. The doctors didn't think you'd make it through the first night."
I didn't mention the Dark Red Gate. I didn't tell her about the man with the black katana who looked at me like I was a piece of trash he'd accidentally stepped on while walking to something important. I just looked at the small, clear plastic container on the bedside table. Inside, two small, grey rats huddled together in a nest of shredded paper, watching me with wide, dark eyes.
My heart ached looking at them. Just two. Out of the forty-eight I had taken into that rusty hell. I could still feel the "phantom limbs" of my connection to the others—the silence in my mind where forty-six heartbeats used to be was a deafening, hollow ache that no amount of hospital painkillers could touch.
The day they finally discharged me, the midday sun felt like a physical weight on my skin. I stood outside the hospital gates, the city of Tokyo roaring around me, indifferent to my survival. My ribs were taped so tight I could barely take a full breath, my left arm was locked in a removable brace, and my body felt like it was held together by nothing but sheer, stubborn spite and a few dozen surgical staples.
But the hospital wasn't a sanctuary; it was a debt trap. Every day I spent in that bed, the world outside was sharpening its knives. I pulled out my phone as I hobbled toward the train station, my stomach sinking with every notification that lit up the cracked, flickering screen. The Hunter Association didn't care if you almost died. The landlord cared even less.
[Notice: Rent Overdue - Unit 402] Base: ¥50,000 Late Penalty (20%): ¥10,000 Total Due: ¥60,000
Note: This must be paid immediately. Next month's rent is due in 12 days.
[Hunter Association: Past Due Balance: ¥22,000 Penalty Interest (12%): Total Outstanding: ¥24,640]
I stared at the numbers until they blurred into meaningless symbols. I had less than ¥3,000 in my account. I was nearly ¥85,000 in the hole, and the interest was ticking like a time bomb in my pocket. Being "excused" from payments during my hospital stay was a lie told by social workers—it just meant I had more time for the interest to grow teeth and sharpen them on my neck. I was drowning in a city made of glass and steel.
"I need to restock," I whispered, my voice raspy and thin. "I can't be a King with only two subjects. I can't even pay for a bowl of ramen like this."
I headed toward the damp, shadowed alleys behind the industrial district's fish markets. In the past, catching rats was a physical struggle—a desperate, muddy game of traps, bait, and quick hands. But as I sat on a rusted crate in a corner that smelled of salt, diesel, and rot, I felt the shift in my core. My 55.1% Overall Mastery was a massive jump, but it was my specific growth in Rat Call that mattered now.
I closed my eyes and focused on the Rat Call.
Before, it felt like I was shouting into a void, hoping something would hear me. Now, with the sub-skill sitting at 31% Mastery, it felt like a silent, irresistible vibration pulsing from my very marrow. I didn't need to hunt them anymore. I projected my will into the shadows, a psychic scent that promised order, safety, and power.
The scratching began almost immediately.
From the clogged sewers, from behind the rusted dumpsters, from the cracks in the ancient brickwork—they came. One by one, then in dozens, they emerged. They didn't scurry away in fear of the human; they lined up with a chilling, military precision. At 31%, my capacity was exactly 62 rats. I felt each one of them click into my consciousness, a series of tiny lights turning on in the darkness of my mind.
By the time I stood up, I had the full sixty-two tucked into the shadows of my oversized hoodie and the deep pockets of my cargo pants. It was fourteen more than I'd ever had before, and yet, because of my higher overall mastery, the mental strain was actually lower.
[Swarm Count: 62/62]
[Rat Call Mastery: 31%]
[Overall Skill Mastery: 55.1%]
I didn't go home. If I went home, I'd fall into my bed and sleep for a week, and if I did that, the debt would swallow me whole. I needed a clear. I needed a payout that could at least put a dent in the interest.
I found a Dark Blue Gate (K-Rank) tucked between two abandoned warehouses on the edge of the district. It was "The Sunken Vault," a dungeon notorious among low-ranks for its intricate traps and fast-moving insectoids. To me, it looked like an ATM that I just needed to punch the right code into.
I stepped through the blue film. The air inside was damp and smelled of old copper, wet stone, and something sweet and sickly—the scent of the vault's guardians.
Usually, a K-Rank gate would be a life-or-death struggle for someone with three broken ribs and a braced arm. But as I moved through the first corridor, the floor tiles clicking under my boots, I realized the old man in Shinjuku had given me a gift more valuable than any artifact.
I wasn't just using a skill. I was the skill.
A pack of Vault-Gnawers—hairless, dog-like monsters with elongated, needle-thin fangs—rushed out from behind a fallen, moss-covered pillar. There were six of them, eyes glowing with a mindless hunger. In the past, I would have panicked, fumbling to form a wall and praying they didn't break through.
Now? I didn't even break my stride.
"Jump," I said aloud.
I didn't need to focus on a mental "ping." I simply willed the movement, and the rats under my boots responded with a synchronized power that felt like hydraulic pistons. They launched me into a perfect, controlled backflip, clearing the pack by three feet. While mid-air, I flicked my wrist toward the ground.
"Rat Blade."
Twenty rats spiraled around my forearm, interlocking their bodies with a metallic snick. At 55.1% overall control, the blade didn't just look like fur and bone. It was so dense it looked like polished black stone, the fur hardened into razor-sharp filaments. I came down behind the lead Gnawer and sliced in a single, fluid motion.
I didn't feel any resistance. The blade passed through the monster's neck as if it were made of mist.
I moved through the vault like a surgeon. I wasn't taking risks. I wasn't using the Rat Cannon or the Rat Splat—I couldn't afford to lose a single one of my 62 soldiers yet. I was being clinical. My high mastery allowed me to sense the monsters' muscle tension before they even lunged. I was parrying their claws with the flat of the Rat Blade and counter-attacking with lethal precision.
Every room I cleared felt like a dance I had practiced a thousand times. The "phantom" pain in my ribs was still there, but it was distant, muffled by the sheer focus of my connection to the swarm.
I reached the Boss room—a cavernous hall filled with giant, calcified webs. The Giant Vault-Spider dropped from the ceiling, its eight eyes reflecting the blue light of the dungeon. It hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe, and lunged with its front legs, which were tipped with jagged chitin.
In the past, I would have been terrified. Now, I just watched the way its weight shifted.
"Rat Jump," I whispered.
I didn't just jump; I glided. I used the rats to slide across the slick, wet floor, moving under the spider's massive, hairy abdomen. I didn't need sixty rats for this. I just needed my mastery. I drove the Rat Blade—now reinforced for extra density—into the spider's soft underside and twisted with everything I had.
The creature shrieked, a high-pitched wail that echoed off the stone walls like a dying siren, and collapsed. Its legs twitched in the air for a few seconds, scratching fruitlessly at the air before going still. The blue light of the dungeon began to flicker and fade, signaling the gate's end.
I stood up, wiping a mixture of sweat and purple ichor from my forehead. I hadn't been touched once. Not a single scratch on my already battered body. I was exhausted, trembling from the internal strain of suppressed pain, but my skill was finally starting to outpace the low-rank world.
[Gate Cleared.] [Overall Mastery: 55.1% -> 56.4%]
The jump wasn't as massive as the N-Rank gate, but it was consistent. Every kill was refining the link, making the rats an extension of my own nervous system. I checked my phone as the exit portal formed. The payout hit: ¥12,000.
It was a drop in the bucket compared to the ¥85,000 I owed. It wouldn't even cover the late fees for the rent. I stood in the middle of the dissolving vault, looking at my hands. I had 62 loyal subjects, a body that was barely holding together, and a mountain of debt that was ready to crush me.
"I need something bigger," I muttered, my voice echoing in the emptying room. "¥12,000 a clear isn't going to save me. I need to push for Level 4."
I walked out of the portal and back into the cold night air of the industrial district. The debt was still there. The hunger was still there. But for the first time, the fear was starting to disappear, replaced by a cold, calculating hunger of my own.
I wasn't just a survivor anymore. I was a King in debt, and it was time to start collecting.