Rain lashed against the grimy ferrocrete of Neo-Seoul, each drop a tiny, desperate drumbeat against the city's ceaseless hum. Below, in the shadowed alleys, Han-sol hunched, the weight of his oversized porter's pack a familiar ache in his shoulders. He was nineteen, but the perpetual stoop and the weary lines around his eyes made him look far older. His System, a shimmering blue interface only he could see, floated idly in his peripheral vision, a constant, mocking reminder of his inadequacy.
[Han-sol, Lee]
Rank: F
Class: Porter
Skills: Error Detection (Passive)
Status: Malnourished, Exhausted, Debt-ridden
Error Detection. The bane of his existence. While other Awakened boasted flashy offensive spells or robust defensive barriers, Han-sol's System had blessed him with the ability to see… glitches. Not in the grand, reality-bending sense, but mundane, irritating imperfections. A flickering streetlamp would have a faint red box around it, labeled [FAULTY WIRING]. A cracked pavement slab, [STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY COMPROMISED]. It was less a superpower and more a chronic, annoying visual tic that made the world a perpetually broken place in his eyes.
Today, the red boxes were everywhere. The rusted chassis of a hover-taxi, [CORROSION: 73%]. The frayed strap of his own pack, [TENSILE STRENGTH: 12%]. Even the cheap, synthetic ramen he'd scarfed down for breakfast had glowed with a faint [ARTIFICIAL FLAVORING: EXCESSIVE]. He sighed, the vapor of his breath quickly swallowed by the damp air. The constant visual noise was exhausting, a perpetual reminder of the world's imperfections and, by extension, his own.
His current task was a delivery to the 37th floor of the Genesis Tower, one of the countless colossal structures that had erupted from the earth fifteen years ago. These 'Towers' were the source of the System, the wellspring of humanity's sudden evolution. They were also death traps, filled with monstrous creatures and labyrinthine corridors, each floor a unique ecosystem of danger. For the Awakened, they were a path to glory, wealth, and power. For Han-sol, they were just another job site, a place where he risked his life for meager credits, hauling supplies for those brave—or foolish—enough to delve deeper.
He navigated the bustling lower levels of the Tower, a chaotic marketplace where vendors hawked System-infused trinkets and weary adventurers traded tales of near-death experiences. The air thrummed with latent mana, a sensation that always made his skin prickle. He saw a group of fresh-faced F-Ranks, their cheap steel swords gleaming, their eyes wide with ambition. He remembered that feeling, briefly, when his System had first manifested. It had quickly faded, replaced by the crushing reality of his 'useless' skill and the mountain of debt his family had accumulated.
His client, a haughty C-Rank mage named Lady Seraphina, had ordered a rare mana-infused crystal from the black market. It was a delicate, glowing thing, currently nestled in a shock-proof container within his pack. The delivery was urgent, and the penalty for delay was severe. Han-sol couldn't afford another deduction from his already meager pay. Every credit counted, every delivery was a step, however small, towards paying off the medical bills for his ailing younger sister.
He reached the express elevator, reserved for those with higher clearances or urgent deliveries. A burly guard, his System displaying [ENHANCED STRENGTH: ACTIVE] around his biceps, eyed Han-sol with disdain. The guard's own System interface, a more robust version than Han-sol's, likely showed Han-sol's F-Rank status, his low mana reserves, and the pathetic Error Detection skill. Han-sol felt the familiar sting of judgment, a feeling he'd grown accustomed to since his Awakening.
Han-sol ignored him, presenting his delivery manifest to the automated scanner. A soft chime, then the elevator doors hissed open. Inside, the air was sterile, a stark contrast to the vibrant chaos of the lower levels. He pressed the button for the 37th floor, the ascent a silent, swift journey. The guard, a hulking figure named Officer Kang, stepped in after him, his heavy boots echoing in the confined space. Officer Kang didn't bother with pleasantries, merely grunting as he leaned against the wall, pulling out a small, glowing data-pad to pass the time.
As the elevator climbed, a faint red box flickered into existence on the corner of the control panel: [ELEVATOR CABLE: STRESS FRACTURE - CRITICAL]. Han-sol's breath hitched. Critical? He'd seen minor stress fractures before, on rusted pipes or worn-out machinery, but never one labeled critical. His System, usually so annoyingly precise, was now screaming danger. The red box pulsed with an alarming intensity, demanding his attention.
He glanced at Officer Kang, who was engrossed in a game on his personal System interface, a holographic display of glowing runes and charging mana bars. Should he say something? What would he say? "Excuse me, sir, my useless skill says the elevator cable is about to snap"? He'd be laughed out of the Tower, or worse, accused of sabotage. His reputation, already hanging by a thread, couldn't take it. Besides, who would believe an F-Rank porter with a passive skill that only pointed out flaws?
The elevator shuddered. A metallic groan echoed from above, a sound that seemed to vibrate in Han-sol's very bones. The red box around the cable intensified, pulsing ominously. [IMMINENT FAILURE]. Han-sol's heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the rising tide of panic. This wasn't a flickering light or a cracked pavement. This was real. This was a death sentence, hurtling towards them at an alarming speed.
He frantically scanned the interior of the elevator. No emergency brake lever, no visible access panel. The guard finally looked up, a frown creasing his brow, his game forgotten. "What was that?" he grumbled, his eyes scanning the ceiling, oblivious to the glowing red warning that only Han-sol could see.
Before Han-sol could respond, the shudder became a violent lurch. The lights flickered, then died, plunging them into darkness. A scream tore from Officer Kang's throat as the elevator began to plummet. The sound of tearing metal was deafening, a symphony of impending doom. The precious mana-infused crystal in his pack clattered, a sound lost in the cacophony.
In the chaos, Han-sol's mind raced. His System, usually a passive observer, was now a frantic alarm bell. The red box around the cable was a blinding crimson, accompanied by a new, terrifying label: [SYSTEM OVERLOAD: CABLE INTEGRITY - 0%]. He was going to die. The rare mana-infused crystal, his meager pay, his debt – all of it would be meaningless. His sister's face flashed before his eyes, a silent plea for him to survive.
Then, something shifted. Amidst the terrifying descent, a new kind of error appeared. Not a red box, but a shimmering, almost ethereal blue outline around the falling elevator car itself. And within that blue outline, a series of complex, almost mathematical symbols began to scroll, too fast for him to comprehend. But one word, stark and undeniable, burned itself into his mind:
[GLITCH: UNHANDLED EXCEPTION]
It wasn't a flaw in the physical world. It was a flaw in the System itself. The Tower, the very source of all Awakened abilities, was glitched. And for the first time, Han-sol felt a strange, almost electric surge. His useless skill, Error Detection, was no longer just detecting. It was… reacting. The blue outline pulsed, drawing him in, demanding a response.
The symbols coalesced, forming a single, urgent prompt:
[INITIATE REWRITE PROTOCOL? Y/N]
Panic warred with a nascent, desperate hope. Rewrite protocol? What did that even mean? He had no idea. But the alternative was certain death. With a primal scream, a silent, desperate prayer for his sister, he slammed his mental 'Y' onto the prompt. A blinding flash of blue light erupted from his body, engulfing the elevator car. The tearing metal sound abruptly ceased. The plummeting sensation vanished, replaced by an impossible stillness.
For a moment, there was only silence, and the faint hum of the System. Then, with a gentle thud, the elevator came to a complete stop. Not at the bottom of the shaft, but suspended, impossibly, between floors. The emergency lights flickered on, revealing Officer Kang, wide-eyed and trembling, staring at Han-sol as if he were a ghost, or perhaps something far more terrifying.
The red box around the cable was gone. In its place, a faint, almost invisible blue shimmer outlined the repaired, reinforced cables. And in Han-sol's System interface, a new notification glowed, a beacon of his impossible transformation:
[SKILL EVOLVED: ERROR REWRITE (ACTIVE)]
He looked at his hands, then at the still-glowing blue outline of the elevator. He hadn't just detected an error. He had rewritten reality. The useless skill, the bane of his existence, had just saved his life. And in that moment, Han-sol knew his life as a mere porter was over. The Glitched Tower had just found its Sovereign, whether it knew it or not. His journey had just begun, and the world, riddled with errors, was his to debug.