It was early.
Way too early. Honestly, if I went back to my room to shower and crash now, people in this city would think I was dying. In this place, "lazy" isn't a personality flaw—it's a cause of death. Nobody gives you a "mental health day" when rent is due, and nobody's cutting the local werewolf any slack.
"Relaxing is a luxury I can't afford," I muttered, dodging a cart of hay. "The grind is the only thing that's real."
I forced down a breakfast that was basically the bare minimum of human (well, demi-human) fuel. It was a hunk of bread so hard I'm pretty sure I could have used it as a blunt weapon. It tasted like nothing. It made me wonder what the 1% were eating right now. Hot soup? Roast beef? Some fancy dessert with a name I couldn't even spell?
Whatever. Fantasies don't pay the bills.
I headed back to the Adventurer's Guild.
The vibe was completely different now. The morning "dead time" was over, replaced by the roar of peak hours. Clanging armor, heavy boots, and the smell of people who actually had places to be. I slipped through the side door, the hinges giving that familiar creak that sounded like it needed a gallon of oil.
I checked the quest board, my brain automatically running the numbers. I usually clear two or three solo contracts a week. At twenty to thirty copper each, I was barely breaking even. My weekly "subscription to life" costs about thirty copper. I was essentially hard-stuck in a loop of "just surviving."
Days like today—where I actually had a silver coin in my pocket—were the only times the meta shifted. But those opportunities were rare as hell.
The receptionist caught my eye. This time, her smile wasn't that "customer service" mask. It was real. I noticed the change instantly. Before I could even open my mouth, she was already flipping through my file.
"I took a look at your records, Arthur," she said, her voice steady but serious. She looked me dead in the eye. "If you fail one more quest, you're getting demoted."
I felt my shoulders lock up.
"Going from Tier III back to Tier II is basically a career-ender," she continued, stating the obvious like a death sentence. "You've seen those guys. The demoted ones usually just quit the Guild. Or they... disappear."
I knew exactly what she meant. In this city, "disappearing" doesn't always mean you're dead, but it's a lateral move at best.
She leaned in, lowering her voice. "That job this morning? That was a private contract. It was technically higher than a Tier III difficulty, but since it wasn't through the Guild, it doesn't help your rank. It's off the books."
My throat went dry.
"However," she added, catching my expression, "there's a Tier III team recruiting for a temporary slot before sunrise tomorrow."
My heart did a little kick-flip.
"It's an 'Advanced' Tier III quest," she said. "But the party includes an Intermediate Apprentice mage, so they should have decent crowd control. A remote village is getting hit by a Kobold tribe. They've got Novice Warrior class Kobolds, and the village guards are getting absolutely bodied."
I just nodded. I didn't need a sales pitch.
I wasn't taking the demotion. If I got kicked back to Tier II, I'd never climb out again. I'd be stuck doing odd jobs in the slums until the city chewed me up and spat me out.
I started organizing my thoughts. Power in this world isn't some vague "vibes" thing; it's a rigid system that everyone—monsters included—is locked into.
There are six Tiers for people:
Tier I: Apprentice
Tier II: Practitioner
Tier III: Expert
Tier IV: Master
Tier V: Legendary
Tier VI: Mythic
(And each tier has its own Novice, Intermediate, and Advanced sub-ranks.)
It looks clean on paper, but it's a meat grinder. Whether you're a werewolf, a mage, or a nun, you're all fighting for the same spots on the ladder. We just use different "muscles." Werewolves use raw instinct and bloodline; mages use theory and mana-control; nuns use faith and divine response.
Even the monsters follow the same script:
Tier I: Juvenile
Tier II: Warrior
Tier III: Ascendant
Tier IV: Chieftain
Tier V: King-Class
Tier VI: Divine Beast
It's just the same system with different names. Eighteen layers of power, and no shortcuts.
The problem? I have no idea where I actually stand on that scale. The Guild doesn't tell you your "Power Level." Their ranking system isn't a badge of honor—it's Risk Management.
It's like being a driver for a rideshare app back on Earth. Being "Active" doesn't mean you're a Formula 1 driver. It just means the platform thinks: "You probably won't crash the car today, and you're unlikely to kill the passenger."
That's it. Being able to take a job doesn't mean you're strong.
If you want an actual certification—the kind the city or the kingdom recognizes—that's a whole different nightmare. Tests. Paperwork. Fees. It costs at least one silver coin just to apply.
I had to laugh. It's the ultimate "Poor Man's Trap." You want a stable job? You need the cert. Want the cert? You need the money. Want the money? You need the job.
It's a perfect, cruel loop designed to keep the bottom tier exactly where they are.
I exhaled slowly, pushing the bitterness down. I looked at the receptionist.
"Anyway... thank you," I said, and I meant it. "I won't forget this."
She blinked, then smiled. For real this time. "Arthur, I actually want to see you rank up."
I gave her a nod and walked out. I headed straight back to my motel.
Tomorrow is the turning point. If I want to survive and keep climbing, I need to be sharp, clean, and completely locked in tonight.
No excuses. No safety net.
Tonight, I prep. Tomorrow, I fight.