The night wind cut through Prospect City's bustling streets, carrying a chill.
Emily walked alone along the cold stone path, clutching that stack of ungiven business cards. As an intern agent at Blackwater, her situation had reached the most dangerous edge.
When it came to signing someone, just grabbing a warm body to meet a quota didn't work. The company's evaluation system was ruthlessly strict. If an agent signed a professional with abysmal talent and rock-bottom potential, not only would she earn no commission, she'd actually get hit with a credit score penalty.
In this world where data determined life and death, people with garbage-tier talent had pitiful affinity for magical elements. They got no extra stat bonuses, couldn't even break through the basic defense of high-armor monsters, and their leveling speed was despairingly slow. Their future combat strength? Pathetically low. They were bottomless pits that wasted company resources for nothing—couldn't even handle the most basic guild task like collecting low-level herbs out in the wilds. Signing someone like that would leave an ugly stain on Emily's professional record.
Blackwater's training supervisor loved to tell inspirational corporate legends during new-hire orientation. There was supposedly a story from the company's history: a desperate agent, down to her last chance, accidentally signed a rookie whose surface-level talent looked terrible. But it turned out that rookie had some incredibly rare hidden trait that exploded into terrifying combat power in real fights. That rookie skyrocketed, carrying the agent along to meteoric success—straight into a mid-to-upper management role in the company.
Emily knew better than to take those stories seriously. They were pure bullshit—management brainwashing and empty promises to keep the bottom-rung employees dreaming. In the real world, data and talent panels were absolute truth. Miracles didn't exist.
Having gained absolutely nothing, Emily pushed open the wooden door of a corner bar. She ordered a few shots of cheap, throat-burning liquor, trying to numb her strained nerves.
Just as the buzz began to settle in, her wrist communicator vibrated twice in rapid succession.
The first message was from her landlord. The words were razor-sharp: if she didn't pay next month's rent in full by tomorrow, all her belongings would be thrown onto the street.
The second was a cold, impersonal alert from the bank system. Her student loan was past due and would start racking up hefty late fees tomorrow.
The crushing financial pressure, combined with the image of Karen's smug, superior smirk from earlier, wrapped around Emily's throat like an airtight net, making her feel utterly suffocated.
Emily grabbed her glass and downed the remaining liquor in one go. The alcohol burned in her stomach, gradually morphing her dejection into a surge of reckless abandon.
She stumbled out of the bar and made her way to her next target: the Archers' Association.
The Archers' Association was housed in a spacious, arched building, its entrance bustling with people. Rookies in this class varied wildly in potential, but their early-game combat performance was impressively strong.
Archers had an extreme attack range of up to 40 meters. They could exploit that distance advantage to keep moving while maintaining their attack rhythm—a tactic known as kiting that let many archers solo low-level outdoor monsters without taking a single hit.
Come mid-to-late game, however, monster attributes would undergo a qualitative shift. They'd gain skills like Charge, Blink, or wide-area ranged magic. That's when the archer's inherent squishiness would be brutally exposed. Without a powerful talent providing serious damage or agility boosts, an archer simply wouldn't survive.
Of course, there were archers who'd awakened high-rank talents and boasted terrifying dominance through all stages of the game. But that depended entirely on individual stat panels. And those kinds of geniuses had been scooped up right after Awakening Day, whisked away in luxury carriages by exclusive agents from major companies. They'd never fall down to the level of a nobody intern like Emily, who kept hitting dead ends.
Emily stood at the foot of the Archers' Association steps. The alcohol had her wired and oddly hyped.
Her mentality had completely flipped to "screw everything." If the A-rank and B-rank geniuses all looked down on her, she'd just sign the most garbage F-rank nobody. She was getting fired anyway—might as well use her last intern privileges to screw the company out of some funding, then walk.
"Any F-ranks here?" she hollered toward the crowd at the entrance, riding the buzz.
A few nearby archers shot her looks like she'd lost her mind and hurried away.
People with F-rank talent were actually fairly rare. The vast majority fell above the average line; truly rotten F-ranks might not even appear once in a hundred. And those who were F-rank tended to keep an extremely low profile.
After all, F-rank meant nearly zero growth potential. Many who awakened with that result never even bothered to get their Guild Badge. They'd just strip off their combat gear, go back to civilian life, and end up tightening bolts in a factory. Nobody wanted to broadcast that they were a dead-end loser.
When Emily shouted that line, she'd only been venting. She was already mentally prepared to be escorted out by security.
To her surprise, a calm voice answered from the nearby shadows.
"What's up?"
Emily blinked and turned. A young guy in the cheapest, coarsest clothing stepped out of the darkness. Slung across his back was a battered training shortbow that looked like it was about to fall apart, and a crude quiver hung at his hip.
Emily's eyes widened, hardly believing her ears. "You... you're really F-rank?"
The guy looked at her, didn't directly spit out the label, and just said flatly, "What showed on the Awakening Pillar was F-rank."
The way he put it was understated, but to Emily it sounded like pointless hair-splitting.
In this datafied world, the Awakening Pillars in the squares were precision instruments enchanted by none other than the Supreme Archmage. Their judgment was absolute. Emily figured this guy was just trying to save face. He probably felt too ashamed to admit F-rank outright, so he used that "what showed on the pillar" line as a way to cling to some dignity.
Looking at his awkward, fake-it-till-you-make-it attitude, Emily suddenly felt a strange pang of sympathy. In him, she saw herself—the one being pushed around at the company, fighting tooth and nail just to hold onto her job.
"Alright." Emily took a deep breath, stepped forward in her heels. "I can sign you right now. Once you sign, you'll get the corresponding benefits from our Blackwater Company."
A flicker of surprise crossed the guy's eyes, like he hadn't expected anyone to actively seek out someone with his stats to sign.
Emily swiftly pulled a standard intern agent contract from her bag and held it out in front of him.
"Contract term is three months." She pointed at the clauses, explaining quickly. "In these three months, you just need to complete three very simple daily tasks for the company. Stuff like gathering certain herbs in designated low-level areas, or collecting materials from non-aggressive beasts. The task ratings are low, extremely safe."
For an F-rank newbie, sending them after high-level monsters was suicide. This kind of low-risk logistical work was the most sensible arrangement.
"In return, the company provides you with substantial material support." Emily held up a finger and stressed the key point. "As a new intern agent, I have a weekly budget of 5 gold coins."
In a world where commoners pinched every copper, 5 gold coins was an absolute fortune. In town shops, a standard iron sword cost only a few silver coins.
"But this money can't be given to you as cash." Emily continued outlining the company rules. "It has to be spent on your combat expenses. Meaning, I can directly use this budget to buy you attribute tonics, health recovery potions, mana potions, or stuff like first-aid bandages."
These consumables had immediate effects in combat. A basic recovery potion could yank back a chunk of your HP in an instant—essentially a second life out in the wilds. Tonics provided temporary strength or agility boosts, helping weak professionals barely scratch through a monster's armor.
The guy had been listening quietly the whole time, but when he heard these terms, his eyes lit up.
"That sounds great," he said, suddenly excited. "So can we go buy gear right now?"
Watching his eagerness, Emily sighed helplessly. The budget money would just go back to the company if unspent anyway—she wouldn't get a single copper. Might as well be generous and blow it all.
"Fine. Let's sign the contract first." Emily handed him the pen.
The guy took it and quickly scrawled his name in the blank space at the bottom of the contract.
Emily took it back and glanced at the signature.
Jack.
"Come on, Jack." Emily stuffed the contract into her bag, spun around, and headed toward the commercial district. "I'll take you shopping."