The hall is quiet enough that the evaluation platform's hum sounds louder than it should.
The whine rises and falls in a thin loop, like the machine is stuck between two choices.
Tell the truth.
Or pretend it never saw it.
The instructor stares at the tablet with the same bored expression he has worn all day, but his fingers tap the screen twice in quick irritation. The motion is small. The shift in his eyes is not.
A few students lean forward. Most pretend they do not care, waiting for someone else to react first so they can copy it.
In the back row, one of the scouts straightens. Not casually. Not like a stretch. Like something just decided he might need to remember my face.
I keep my posture relaxed and my expression empty.
If I look tense, I look guilty.
The screen finally updates.
D Rank.
Sound ripples through the room, the kind that spreads when people watch someone else fall and feel relieved it isn't them. A couple of snickers. A whisper. One laugh that comes out too loud, then dies when it finds no support.
It does not hit me the way it used to.
In my first life, that letter felt like a wall sliding into place.
Today it feels like a lie trying to become permanent.
The instructor clears his throat, voice flat again. "Kang Jaehyun. D Rank. Step down."
As if the stall never happened.
As if the platform didn't hesitate.
I step off at a normal pace. Not slow. Not rushed. Not angry.
A lot of people think dominance is loud. They think power needs to announce itself to be real.
The strongest hunters move like they belong wherever they stand.
I return to the line while the next name is called. The room forgets me quickly. That is how it works. People move on the moment you stop entertaining them.
Good.
Let them move on.
I lower my gaze slightly and focus inward.
The hidden layer answers immediately.
Primary Trait: LockedAccess Condition: Authority RequiredPotential Ceiling: Unreadable
Unreadable.
That is what matters.
D Rank is a public label. Unreadable is a warning.
In my first life, I believed I was below average at awakening. I believed I had to grind for years just to reach the bottom of what other people were handed for free.
Now I understand my potential was never measured.
It was sealed.
The evaluations continue.
A student steps up and the platform flashes C Rank. Applause, polite and shallow. Another gets B Rank. Scouts tilt their heads. Another gets A Rank and the back row shifts like someone tossed meat into a cage.
I watch without staring. I watch ceilings instead of letters.
A future A Rank comes out as C. Suppressed.
A future nobody comes out as B. Elevated.
The pattern is not random.
It is curated.
My peripheral catches Lee Minho laughing quietly with his friends. He is still wearing that confident smile, but his eyes keep drifting toward the platform. Not curiosity. Inventory.
He's the type who collects leverage and calls it talent.
In my first life, I let people like him exist too long because I was busy surviving.
This time, I won't.
The main roster ends. The instructor checks his tablet and exhales like he is finally done dealing with children.
Then he turns toward the row of secondary rigs along the side wall.
They look like oversized gym equipment mixed with medical scanners. They are not used to change official rank results. They exist for placement, for optics, for giving low ranks the comfort of effort.
They exist for one other reason too.
They give the crowd a stage.
And the crowd loves a stage.
The instructor raises his voice. "Those who received D Rank and below will proceed to the secondary assessment. You will demonstrate basic output and control. This does not change your evaluation grade. It determines training placement."
A few people laugh softly.
Not cruel enough to get scolded. Just cruel enough to feel safe.
I step out of line with the other low ranks and walk toward the rigs.
Some of them look embarrassed. Some look angry. One girl stares at the floor like she is afraid her tears will count as failure. A boy beside her mutters that the platform must be broken.
The platform isn't broken.
It's doing exactly what it was designed to do.
Decide who deserves to be seen.
I stop at an empty rig and wait. The screen displays instructions in clean text.
Place hand on sensor.Release mana output.Maintain control.Repeat.
My authority overlay sits at the edge of my vision like a coin I can spend.
Hidden Authority: 1Detection Risk: 0%
One point.
One chance to crack the seal.
If I do nothing, I stay D Rank publicly. That means no decent resources. No access. No one taking me seriously until I force them to.
If I use authority in a public hall, I risk being noticed by something I still do not understand.
But I already know what happens if I stay sealed.
I die at the end of the world.
I already did.
The instructor walks down the line with a clipboard. He pauses near me. His eyes flick to my face, then away, pretending the stall earlier was nothing.
He remembers it.
He is trying to convince himself it didn't matter.
Behind me, a voice mutters, loud enough for me to hear, quiet enough that the instructor won't bother.
"D Rank still thinks he can impress someone."
I don't turn. I don't react.
If I answer, I give him a moment.
If I ignore him, I take it away.
The instructor gestures at the first student. "Begin."
A shaky pulse of mana. A low number. A nod. A note on the clipboard.
Normal.
My turn comes.
I place my hand lightly on the sensor pad, not pressing hard, just enough for it to read contact.
The rig hums.
I keep my expression calm, like I'm thinking about nothing.
Inside, I focus on the lock.
Primary Trait: LockedAccess Condition: Authority Required
A faint line appears beneath it, as if it was always there and I simply could not see it.
Override AvailableCost: 1 Authority
My fingers don't move.
My breathing doesn't change.
But the decision is already made.
Not because I want to show off.
Because I refuse to spend another life crawling while the System pretends I'm small.
I trigger the override.
Hidden Authority: 0Detection Risk: 3%
A cold pressure slides behind my eyes, like a camera lens turning toward me.
The rig's display flickers once, then stabilizes.
The instructor's voice cuts through the hall. "Output. Controlled. No spikes."
I release a small, steady thread of mana. Nothing dramatic. Nothing flashy.
The needle jumps anyway.
Higher than a D Rank should reach.
Not to the top.
Just enough to be wrong.
The rig's hum changes pitch.
The boy behind me stops laughing.
The instructor's head turns.
For half a second, the rig stalls. The same hesitation the platform showed earlier.
Then the number updates again.
Higher.
The instructor takes one step toward me, eyes narrowing.
I lower my output immediately, like I'm correcting a mistake.
The needle dips. The rig stabilizes.
The instructor arrives at my side and looks at the display, then at me, then back at the display.
"What did you do," he asks.
His voice isn't accusing yet.
It's uncertain.
"I followed the instructions."
His mouth tightens. He taps the rig casing once. The machine beeps.
"Reset," he calls.
A technician hurries over and starts entering commands into a side panel. The rig lights flicker. The display clears.
The instructor points at the sensor pad again. "Repeat."
The hall shifts.
Not everyone. Not the whole room.
But enough.
This is how it starts. A small wrong thing that becomes too interesting to ignore.
I place my hand on the sensor again.
This time I release even less. Almost nothing. A controlled thread so thin it should barely register.
The needle still jumps.
The rig's hum climbs into a strained whine. The display flashes once, twice, then locks on a warning.
Output exceeds calibration threshold.
The technician's hands freeze mid command.
The instructor doesn't blink.
In the back row, the scout who straightened earlier steps away from the wall.
I lift my hand off the pad.
The whine doesn't stop.
It keeps rising, thin and angry, like something inside the rig is overheating because it refuses to accept what it's reading.
The instructor looks from the machine to my face and back again. He's trying to decide whether I'm a glitch or a problem.
My overlay updates.
Detection Risk: 6%
The cold pressure behind my eyes stays steady. Watching.
The instructor's voice drops, lower now, meant for me but loud enough that the nearest students hear it.
"Kang Jaehyun. You're coming with me after this."
He pauses, then adds, as if he isn't sure whether it's a warning or a promise.
"And do not touch the rig until I tell you."
I nod once.
The rig squeals again, louder, like it's about to tear itself apart.
The hall doesn't laugh anymore.
They're waiting.
And I can feel it, that silent attention behind the world's rules, the thing the System never lets normal people notice.
Watching.
Measuring.
Deciding what happens to someone who shouldn't exist.
If you're enjoying it, add it to your library and drop a Power Stone. It helps a lot.