Talk about rotten luck.
On a bench in a lush park, teeming with life and the echoes of children's laughter, Mark sat in utter isolation. He leaned his head back, staring up at the sky as the afternoon reached its peak.
His fingers brushed over his new Player ID card. This time, the frame had a genuine silver luster, displaying a photo that looked even more miserable than his previous one. It was clear he hadn't been in the best of moods when the picture was taken.
As he sat there alone, a thought crossed his mind: instead of exhausting himself with hiding and stalling to keep his secret, why not just confess and save everyone the trouble? But he quickly shut down the idea of surrendering. If he were revealed to be an SSS-rank, he would undoubtedly be expected to save the world—and he could barely save himself.
For a moment, he felt like he was playing a solo game against the entire world that was hunting him down. Even the policy preventing players from resigning, which he hadn't known about, felt as though it had been specifically designed to crush his dreams.
Ultimately, he had left the Guild after being forced into a re-evaluation anyway. He ended up with a rank of F+, while his "Slime Warrior" class was categorized as Rank C.
This damn profession was nothing but shackles.
It was a system designed so that governments and organizations could keep players under the thumb of the powerful, using the excuse that to use your supernatural powers, you needed a Player ID—as if they were the ones who granted those powers in the first place. Mark felt the weight of the injustice; no one had the right to bind him like this.
After several minutes of sitting in silence, a notification chimed on his phone:
{Dear Awakened Mark Hao, please ensure that 2,000 Royal Pounds are available in your bank account by April 2nd to cover your monthly loan installment.}
"Get lost..." Mark muttered.
He swiped the message away, but his eyes caught today's date: March 29th. Only five days remained until the payment was due, and his account was nowhere near that amount.
"No other choice, then..."
He pulled out a paper he'd been carrying for a while, his mind racing with possibilities. It was a list of dungeon missions where he was supposed to pick one to join a party. The list featured several dungeons that didn't exceed Rank D—all specifically designed for low-level players.
He scanned the descriptions:
< The Dense Mold - Rank F+ >
Description: Limited danger involving toxic gases and Slime monsters of Rank F. The Dungeon Boss is the "Mold Lord" (Rank F+). There is a 5% chance of obtaining a rare weapon: (The Mold Scythe).
Mark rejected it instantly. That place was undoubtedly his worst nightmare regarding filth.
< The Yellow Mist Forest - Rank D >
Description: The greatest threat here is the hallucinations that afflict you. Otherwise, the "Illusion Monkeys" are extremely weak. You need true willpower to pass through; beyond that, the dungeon is short and the boss is easy.
"Willpower?"
That was the last thing he possessed right now. Clearly, this didn't suit him either, and it seemed there was no easy way to make quick money here.
< The Ferocious Dogs - Rank D >
Description: A dangerous pack of hounds. Although this dungeon relies on pure brute strength, it is not as simple as it seems, as some of the dogs carry a numbing venom.
Mark was lost in thought as he rode the bus back home, his hair still damp after washing it with clean water in the park. Sitting by the window, he re-read the missions, feeling that none of them were quite right. Ultimately, he didn't want to kill, but he desperately needed the money and couldn't resign from his profession.
While scrolling through his phone, he came across a post on a player community page about a newly discovered dungeon, also named "Ferocious Dogs," in North Orska—relatively close to his home. Estimates suggested it was only Rank F-.
"What about this one?" he wondered.
He researched further as he reached the entrance of his apartment building. Unfortunately, this dungeon was out of reach; it was owned by the "Wild Lion" Guild (Rank A), which had purchased it from the government to train its recruits. This meant he'd have to be a member to enter, but he recalled the previous owner's memories of applying there and being rejected. Naturally, it wasn't the first or last rejection, as he had been considered utter "trash."
Frustrated, he was about to settle for the Rank D dungeon when his train of thought was suddenly derailed by a breathtaking figure. With violet eyes, jet-black hair, and effortless elegance, she stepped down the stairs.
"Hi Mark... Were you at the Guild for a re-evaluation?"
She smiled as she walked toward him. Mark's breath hitched; his heart raced, and sweat broke out on his brow. Memories flooded back—waves of nostalgia, regret, and... love. These weren't his feelings, but the original owner's. Mark had been an orphan in his past life, just as this body was, and he had never truly known warmth.
Yet, looking at this woman, he felt physiological shifts he had never encountered before. In his previous life, he had briefly questioned his orientation, but now he realized the truth.
"Heh... Hello... Marsa... How are things? How's your studying going? You're doing well, aren't you?"
For the first time, he stammered out of bashfulness, not fear. For the first time, he didn't feel a sense of immediate danger from someone. This was entirely new and exhilarating for someone like Mark, who lived in a constant state of paranoia.