The dagger felt heavier than it should.
Ethan Reed turned the blade over in his hands, watching bathroom light glint off the cheap steel. Rusted Fang, the pawn shop owner had called it. Twelve percent durability left. Two hundred dollars he'd needed for rent.
Worth it now.
He sat on the cold tile floor, back against the tub, knees pulled to his chest. The studio apartment was silent except for the distant wail of sirens outside.
Always sirens in Seattle. Always another portal, another monster, another hunter who wasn't him saving the day.
His hands shook. They always shook.
Coward, Jake's voice echoed in his head. Fucking coward. The other hunters had laughed when Ethan screamed, when he'd frozen up in the Goblin Den, when he'd hidden in that barrel for six hours while they looted the boss room and left.
The video had two million views now. Two million people watching him run from a single goblin, watching him trip over his own feet, watching him sob.
Trash Ethan. Human Shield Reed. The weakest E-rank in the country.
They were right.
Ethan's phone buzzed on the sink. He didn't look. Probably another payment reminder. The medical bills from the Direwolf incident. The gear repair he couldn't afford. The eviction notice—five days to pay three thousand dollars he didn't have.
His bank account had forty-seven dollars.
His fridge had a carton of expired milk and half a convenience store sandwich.
His future had nothing.
"Okay," he whispered to the empty bathroom. His reflection stared back from the mirror—hollow eyes, unwashed hair, the face of someone already gone. "Okay."
He pressed the blade against his wrist. The metal was cold. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Do it. Just do it. You wanted this.
But first—
"Fuck you," Ethan said to no one. To everyone. "Fuck you, all of you."
His voice cracked, words tumbling out faster.
"Fuck the Gods who play favorites like it's a popularity contest. Fuck the S-ranks who wouldn't spit on me if I was burning. Fuck Jake and his party for using me as bait. Fuck the people who filmed me and laughed. Fuck the Bureau for charging me five hundred dollars a year to be called trash."
Tears ran hot down his face.
"I didn't ask for this. Didn't ask to Awaken. Didn't ask for... for 0.7 units—" His voice rose, hysterical. "What God looks at a kid and gives him just enough power to qualify for the meat grinder but not enough to survive it?"
He was shouting now, blade shaking in his grip.
"I'm nineteen years old! My parents died in a portal eruption when I was nine! I've got nothing! I AM nothing! Just—just E-rank garbage in a world that only wants S-rank gods!"
The apartment swallowed his words. No one answered. No one ever did.
Ethan laughed, bitter and broken. "You're right. Everyone's right. I'm a coward. I'm trash."
He looked down at the dagger.
"So fine. FINE. You want me gone?"
He dragged the blade across his wrist. Deep. Deeper than he'd meant. Blood bloomed, shockingly red against pale skin, and the pain—
Oh God, the pain—
Ethan gasped, vision blurring. The dagger clattered to the tile. His arm felt like fire, blood pooling around him, so much blood, and the bathroom tilted sideways as he slumped against the tub.
I did it. I actually did it.
Darkness crept in from the edges. The sirens outside faded. His heartbeat slowed, each thump weaker than the last.
Finally.
Finally, it's over.
The world went black.
Silence.
Not the silence of sleep. Not the silence of unconsciousness.
The silence of nothing.
Ethan floated in a void so complete he couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. No body. No bathroom. No pain.
Just... darkness.
Is this death?
Then—light.
Golden light, piercing the black like a sunrise. Shapes materialized around him, spinning, glittering. Coins. Hundreds of coins made of pure radiance, orbiting him in spirals.
And a presence.
Massive. Ancient. Amused.
"How delightfully pathetic."
The voice boomed from everywhere and nowhere, reverberating through Ethan's non-existent chest. Deep, rich, laced with laughter.
"You cursed the Gods with your dying breath. Most mortals beg. Plead. Pray for mercy."
The coins spun faster, light intensifying.
"But you? You spat at the heavens and called us out. You've got spine after all, boy—buried deep under all that cowardice, but it's there."
Ethan tried to speak. Couldn't. Had no mouth, no throat, no body.
"Don't bother. You're dead. Properly dead. That wrist-cutting job? Thorough work for an amateur."
The presence laughed, and the sound was like avalanches of gold crashing together.
"I am Chrysos, God of Wealth, Lord of Fortune's Wheel. Your world's hunters borrow power from beings like me, strength, magic, weapons. Divine gifts for mortal flesh."
The coins slowed, forming a ring around Ethan's consciousness.
"But you? Your mana capacity is so pitiful, boy, you couldn't borrow a rusty spoon from me. Point-seven units. I've seen corpses with more potential."
Anger flared in Ethan's chest—somehow, impossibly, he felt it.
Then why are you here? To mock me too?
"Mock you? No, no, no."
The presence drew closer, weight of attention crushing.
"I'm investing in you."
The void shifted. A figure materialized—tall, draped in robes of flowing gold, face obscured by light. Only the smile was visible. Wide. Sharp.
"See, wealth isn't given to the worthy, Ethan Reed. It's earned by those desperate enough to do what others won't. You died cursing gods and men. That takes audacity. That takes rage. I like rage."
Chrysos extended a hand—or something like a hand, made of coins and light.
"Here's my offer: I cannot make you stronger. Your mana will always be E-rank trash. But I can make you rich. Every act of courage you perform, real courage, facing fears when you'd rather run—earns you Wealth Points. Points buy power. Weapons. Artifacts. Treasures beyond your S-rank dreams."
The coins spun into a vortex.
"There's a catch, of course. If you die again, it's permanent. No third chances. And if you slide back into cowardice, if you stop trying, the system shuts down. Courage or death, boy."
The golden hand extended closer.
"Choose."
Ethan's mind raced. This was insane. Impossible. Gods didn't offer deals. They didn't care about E-ranks. They didn't—
But I'm already dead.
What did he have to lose?
Everything. A second chance means I can lose it again.
The thought terrified him more than the void.
And yet—
Courage or death.
"I—" His voice came out, somehow. Weak. Broken. "I'll try."
"Good enough."
Chrysos's smile widened. Golden chains erupted from the void, wrapping around Ethan's soul, burning into him like brands. Pain exploded through his being, worse than the wrist, worse than anything, and he screamed—
Ethan Reed gasped awake.
The bathroom ceiling stared down at him. Fluorescent light buzzed. His chest heaved, lungs burning, heart hammering like it wanted to escape.
He shot upright. The dagger lay beside him, blood-slicked.
His wrist—
Clean. Uncut. Not even a scar.
His blood still pooled on the tile around him, still stained his hoodie sleeve, but the wound was gone.
"What—"
A notification materialized in front of his face. Golden text, hovering in midair, impossible and real.
[ Wealth System Activated ]
[ Host: Ethan Reed ]
[ Rank: E (Unchanged) ]
[ Wealt point: 0 ]
QUEST: FIRST BREATH
Do not kill yourself.
Reward: 100 WP
Failure: Permanent Death
Ethan stared at the screen.
Touched it.
His hand passed through, but the interface responded, flickering.
"Oh God," he whispered. "Oh God, I'm insane."
Or this was real.
He didn't know which was worse.