[POV: Alaric]
The morning air was heavy, or maybe it was just my lungs that had forgotten how to process oxygen without feeling uncomfortable.
I locked the door to my house.
Another day... Unfortunately.
I walked through the streets with my head down.
It's funny how society works. They put a label on your forehead, and suddenly everything you do is filtered through it.
It doesn't matter if the label was stuck on because of a mistake you made or not.
The walk to the 'Public Adventurers' Agency' isn't very far, so I can walk there.
That's good, because I don't have money for a bus ticket.
While the "talented" were now waking up in their two-story houses or at their guild headquarters, enjoying the good life that contracts offer, such as health insurance and financial stability, I was on my way to a wooden counter to beg for dangerous missions, without assistance, just me for myself. If I die, they wouldn't even have to pay compensation.
To try to dispel the emptiness in my chest, I began to visualize the work. I needed money, which meant I needed to kill something. I imagined encountering a giant insect or perhaps a band of goblins.
"The movement must be strong and accurate," I thought, closing my right hand in the air.
I stopped in front of the Agency building. I sighed, preparing my face to be as neutral as possible to face the attendant. I put my hand on my hip to adjust the sheath before entering...
"No."
I tapped my hand again.
Nothing.
I looked down at my left side, where the leather strap should have been crossing my chest.
Empty.
I was at the agency's door. The place where I was supposed to prove that I was still useful, that I could still fight. And I had forgotten the only tool that separated me from a common beggar.
"Oh, fuck! Damn it, Alaric, how am I supposed to kill without a sword?" I whispered indignantly to the floor.
I turned my back.
"Last spots for newbies, there won't be another chance until next week."
Inside, a line began to form at the reception desk. That means I can't go home.
In two days, the owner of the studio apartment will collect the rent, and if I don't have 400 gold coins, I'll be evicted, and Mingau, my lazy, gluttonous kitten, will no longer have a home to protect him from the cold nights in this city.
It's now or never.
I walked to the entrance and dragged myself to the end of the line, trying to shrink my shoulders to become invisible.
"Did you hear that?" an adventurer in front whispered to his colleague. "There are three contracts left. Two are high-risk escorts and the other is a Rank C monster nest cleanup of the plague and swarm type."
I felt a chill run down my spine. Plague and swarm? I didn't come here expecting it to be easy, but... This is insane.
Panic overwhelmed me.
"Calm down, Alaric. Breathe. Maybe there's something F-level at the bottom of the mural..."
The line moved forward. My feet felt like lead. When I finally reached the counter, the attendant—a woman with deep dark circles under her eyes who looked like she had lost faith in humanity at least a decade ago—didn't even look up from her papers.
"Name and Rank."
"Alaric. Rank F."
She finally looked up. Her eyes scanned my body, stopping at my empty hip. Where the sword should have been, there was only emptiness.
"Where is your weapon, Alaric?"
I swallowed hard. I couldn't say I had forgotten it. For some reason, the reception desk is very strict about these kinds of things.
"I... I changed my style," I stammered. "Actually, I have... skills with my fists. I'm a close-range fighter now."
She raised an eyebrow, typing something into the computer.
"The system says your only recorded skill is 'Basic Sword Handling'. And you are described by former comrades as 'weak in combat'," she said, her voice devoid of any empathy. "Lying to an Agency official can result in banishment. You would know that if you had read the manual."
I lowered my head, feeling my ears burn.
"Listen," she sighed, stamping a form. "I can only give you missions if I find a group with at least two people. You can participate in missions if you can do that. Next!"
I was pushed aside. The agency hall seemed bigger and more hostile than ever. I started wandering between the tables, trying to make eye contact with anyone.
"Hey, do you guys need one more? I'm Rank F, but..."
"Get lost, kid. We don't want dead weight."
I tried another group.
"Excuse me, I..."
"No chance. You don't even have a sword. Go hunt rats in the sewers."
The whispers began to follow me like flies on a corpse.
"Why is this guy still here?" "Doesn't he have a family?" "Why doesn't he go work as a bagger or cashier at a supermarket? He would be more useful to society."
Each word made me feel a mixture of anger and sadness. I was about to head for the exit, accepting that hunger would be my only companion that night, when the attendant, who was leaving for her break, stopped beside me.
"There," she discreetly pointed to a corner. "Those three are Rank F rookies. They're nervous. Maybe they'll accept anyone."
She left without waiting for a thank you. I gathered the last vestiges of dignity I had left and walked over to them. They were young, with leather armor so new it still shone.
"Hi... I saw you're missing a fourth member. I'm Alaric and..."
They exchanged glances. The leader, a boy who couldn't have been more than eighteen, cleared his throat, looking genuinely uncomfortable.
"Ah, man... it's just that, like... we've already finalized the strategy, you know?" He scratched the back of his neck, unable to look me in the eye. "And, well, you're unarmed. We don't mean to be rude, but... I think it's better not to. Good luck next time."
The friendly rejection hurt more than the previous insult. Being rejected by someone on the same level—or even below—was rock bottom. I was a complete failure. A Rank F that even Rank F members didn't want.
At that point, I wasn't even feeling sadness, I was feeling a lot of anger.
What difference does it make if I'm Rank F? If I have to die trying, it won't hinder you guys at all, damn it.
People act like I'm going to cause everyone's death just by being in the group.
I turned my back, my vision slightly blurred. Towards the exit. I just wanted to disappear from this place as quickly as possible. Suddenly, a heavy, firm hand landed on my shoulder.
"Hey man, you. Looking for a group?"
I turned around and came face to face with a tall man wearing light armor. Behind him, two other burly men smiled at me.
I'm Rank F, considered useless, but I can tell just by looking at them, these guys are Rank D.
The elite compared to me.
"Yes!" I replied too quickly, it sounded so desperate. "But I don't have my sword..."
"We don't need a sword," the leader laughed, a friendly laugh. "We need a porter for a Rank D Dungeon that just opened. We'll do the hard work, you just carry the loot and supplies. The payment is fixed and guaranteed, 250 gold coins per week. What do you think?"
A Rank D Dungeon? With professionals?
"I accept! Absolutely!" I said, feeling relieved.
Finally, things are working out. With money, I can pay a combat instructor to increase my Rank.