Chapter 1: The Jobless Hunter
Panel 1: The Grand Entrance
The muster yard of the Hunter Academy thrummed with chaotic energy. Hundreds of aspirants milled about—Warriors polished enchanted shields, Mages muttered incantations, Archers fletched arrows, and Assassins practiced vanishing into thin air only to reappear with dramatic flourishes. The air smelled of ozone, sweat, and desperate ambition.
Then, the sea of specialized classes parted as a new figure walked through the colossal gates.
A deafening silence fell, followed immediately by a tsunami of whispers. The young man was breathtakingly handsome—chiseled features, calm gray eyes, an easy smile—but that was almost secondary to the mountain of gear he carried. He was a one-man armory, a walking tactical supply depot, and every item was chosen with a jarring, cross-class specificity.
· On his back, a massive, olive-drab military duffel bag, bulging with unknown contents, was secured with heavy-duty straps. Slung over it was a pristine Barrett M107A1 .50 caliber anti-material sniper rifle, its elongated barrel and monolithic suppressor hinting at devastating long-range precision.
· Across his chest on a three-point tactical sling hung a modified KAC SR-25 combat rifle, its rail system equipped with a holographic sight, magnifier, and infrared laser designator.
· At his right hip, a Benelli M4 Super 90 pump-action shotgun was mounted, a shell carrier on its stock holding eight rounds of buckshot.
· On a drop-leg holster on his right thigh rested a Heckler & Koch Mk23 Mod 0 SOCOM pistol, large and menacing. A matching SIG Sauer P226 was in a shoulder holster under his left arm.
· Strapped to his left thigh was a bandoleer of balanced throwing knives.
· On his left side, a European-style longsword rested in a functional, unadorned scabbard, its plain pommel at odds with the ornate weapons around him.
· Across his shoulders, a leather spear case held what appeared to be a collapsible tactical spear.
· In his left hand, he casually carried a compact, hexagonal ballistic shield made of opaque polycarbonate and alloy.
· Tucked into his belt at the small of his back was a tightly coiled bullwhip of braided leather.
· In his right hand, he held an ornate, crystalline staff that pulsed with a soft blue light, utterly clashing with the modern military hardware.
He looked less like a Hunter aspirant and more like a dimensional anomaly, a confluence of eras and specializations that defied all logic.
Panel 2: The Crowd's Judgment - Mockery Edition
A cluster of Acolytes near the fountain stared, their faces a gallery of disbelief.
Elara (a Healer-in-training, holding a glowing crystal): "Oh my stars, look at him! He's like a painting come to life! But why does he look like he raided every weapons shop in the city—across multiple centuries? Is he a porter? A lost merchant from a time-traveling caravan?"
Mira (a Support class, adjusting her spectacles): "A walking identity crisis! Is he a Ranger? A Battle Mage? A Special Forces operative from some lost mundane world? The only class that uses that much gear is 'overcompensating.' But... okay, fine. At least he's aesthetically pleasing. A beautiful, chaotic disaster."
Lyn (a Mage, swirling arcane energy around her fingers): "Such a waste of a good face! All that gear and probably zero talent. You know what they say: 'The fuller the pack, the emptier the skills.' He's probably a Porter class. So... basic."
Nearby, a group of bulky Tank aspirants led by Brond snorted with derision. Brond himself was all gleaming plate armor and a shield as tall as he was.
Brond (to his friends, loud enough for everyone to hear): "See that? Textbook case of Gear Fear. Thinks if he carries every weapon known to man, elf, and dwarf, one of them might accidentally do something cool. It's the law of the universe, boys: the more you show up with, the less you can actually use. He's a library with all the books but can't read a single one."
His friend Dirk, a bruiser with a spiked club, guffawed. "Maybe he's here to sell it! A walking flea market! Hey pretty boy! How much for the shield? My grandma needs a new baking tray!"
Panel 3: Registration & Revelation - The Flustered Receptionist
The registration desk was manned by Rika, a B-rank Crafter known for her no-nonsense attitude and ingenious, if explosive, inventions. She looked up from her holographic terminal and her brain short-circuited.
Rika's Thought Bubble: [Sweet solar winds... he looks like he was carved by the gods of aesthetics and then lightly dusted with 'trouble.' But... what in the twelve realms is with the armory? A sniper rifle for goblins? A magic staff with no visible mana pool? A shield next to a sword next to a... whip? Is he lost? Did he misunderstand 'entrance exam' for 'multi-versal invasion'? He's a beautiful, confusing, heavily-armed garage sale.]
She forced a professional smile. "Hello, sir. Are you here to register for the Hunter Academy entrance examination?"
The young man set his enormous duffel bag down with a soft thud that vibrated the stone floor—a sound impossibly heavy for its size, suggesting contents of extraordinary density. "That's the plan."
"Name for the roster?" Rika asked, fingers poised over her holographic keyboard.
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a warm, playful murmur that seemed to exist just for her. "My name is Rocky. And you know, I never believed in celestial beings until this very moment. Because I'm pretty sure I'm looking at one."
Rika's fingers froze. A blush erupted across her cheeks and traveled to the tips of her ears.
Rika's Thought Bubble: [HA! A walking interdimensional armory with a pickup line smoother than my polished gyro-gears! My one weakness! Fine... you want to play? I'll put you first on the list. Serves you right for making my internal wiring overheat!]
"Luh!" she squeaked, then coughed violently into her fist. "I-I mean, noted! Candidate Rocky!"
Rocky's smile widened, a devastating curve. "It's the truth. Your beauty is so radiant, I think I need a healer. Or maybe just permanent blindness, because nothing else will compare."
Rika's Thought Bubble: [GRAH! Nanggigil ako! I want to lock him in my workshop, feed him my experimental volatility-cupcakes, and make him take it back! Or say it again. I haven't decided!]
"A-ah, sir, I have to... calibrate a thing! Urgently!" she stammered, vaulting over her chair with practiced, panicked grace and sprinting towards the restrooms like a woman possessed.
Panel 4: The Spark of Conflict - Jealousy Ignites
From the shadowed archway of the main coliseum, Senior Bolas watched, his knuckles white on the hilt of his plasma-edged greatsword. He was a third-year Champion, top of his class, and had been hopelessly, obviously in love with Rika since first year. Seeing her transform into a flustered, blushing mess over this... this pack mule made his blood boil.
He strode forward, his champion's aura—a palpable pressure of confidence and power—pushing lesser aspirants aside like wheat before a scythe. He stopped squarely in front of Rocky, looking him up and down with open contempt.
Bolas: (Voice dripping with sarcasm) "Hey. Ugly. You some kind of scammer? Is this your game? Use that face to peddle junk gear to starry-eyed newbies? How many girls have you made cry with your fake charm, huh?"
Rocky didn't flinch. He tilted his head and chuckled, a sound of genuine, amused delight. "Hahaha. Wow, serious deja vu. Let me guess your next line... 'Do you even know how to use any of that, idiot? Want me to teach you?' Am I right? Classic third-rate web novel dialogue. What's the title... The Jealous Swordsman's Petty Wrath? You should read more, bro. It's good for expanding what seems to be a... remarkably blank slate."
The surrounding crowd, which had been watching the confrontation, erupted.
Boy 1: "OH, BURN! He called his script!"
Boy 2 (holding up a phone, recording): "This is going viral! 'The Pretty Pack Mule vs. The Salty Sword Simp'! Streaming live!"
Girl 5 (a Bard aspirant): "The dramatic tension! The wit! I'm composing a ballad already!"
Bolas's Thought Bubble: [SHIT! He knows the script! That's my favorite hidden gem novel! How does he know? Who IS this guy?!]
As Bolas's hand twitched toward his sword, his face purpling with rage, Rika reappeared, her earlier fluster replaced by stern anger. "Bolas! What are you doing? Bullying newcomers is beneath a Champion!"
Bolas forced a grimace that was meant to be a smile. He threw a heavy, armored arm around Rocky's shoulders, squeezing with enough force to crush a normal person's collarbone. "Wrong, Rika! We're just joking around! We're buddies already, right, pal?"
And then Rocky laughed. Not a chuckle, but a deep, booming, theatrical villain's laugh that echoed off the ancient coliseum walls. "HAHAHAHAHA! Oh, we're the best of friends!"
The crowd gasped, then buzzed with electric excitement. The sound was unnerving, confident, and utterly out of place.
Panel 5: The Authorities Arrive - The Stakes Are Set
A wave of silent, oppressive pressure—the combined aura of true power—washed over the entire muster yard. Every laugh, whisper, and clatter of armor died instantly. On the high observation balcony, the Academy Elders and a cadre of veteran Pro Hunters had appeared.
Pro Hunter Vance, a man whose face was a map of scars and whose eyes held the chill of countless dungeons, spoke. His voice, amplified by magic, brooked no argument. "Enough circus! Line up, maggots! The wheat gets separated from the chaff today. Rule is simple: pick a dungeon gate, clear it within fifteen minutes. Fail, and you're out. Die inside, and you're dead. No resurrections, no retrieval. Your choice of dungeon and difficulty is your first test of judgment. Choose... wisely."
A nervous ripple went through the aspirants. The test was straightforward, brutal, and final.
Panel 6: The Truth Unveiled - The Jobless
Elder Elara, the Head of Admissions, stepped forward. Her silver hair seemed to hold starlight, and her eyes, the color of a galactic nebula, swept over the silent crowd. She took the digital roster from a now-professionally-composed Rika.
"The first aspirant for the preliminary clearance," she announced, her voice cool and clear as ice. "Rocky. Registered Class: Porter."
Rocky's voice cut through the quiet, calm and firm. "Elder. A correction. My registered class is not Porter." He paused, letting the anticipation build to a breaking point. "It is Jobless."
A beat of utter, profound stillness.
Then the entire yard exploded in derisive, incredulous laughter.
Brond (doubling over): "HAHAHAHA! JOBLESS?! That's not even a class! That's a condition! My pet rock has more class!"
Dirk: "Why is he even here? The trash bin is that way, buddy!"
Lyn the Mage: "Jobless? So he gets... nothing? No stats, no skills? He's a Level 1 civilian for life! This is pathetic!"
A snide Rogue: "Hey Jobless! My dungeon run will be faster than your career prospects! Which is zero!"
An armored Knight: "He must be here to clean the latrines after the exam! Makes sense now!"
Elder Elara raised a single hand. The laughter died as if severed by a blade. Her narrowed eyes fixed on Rocky. "Jobless. Classless. The rarest and most... unfortunate classification of all." She now spoke to educate the mocking crowd. "You laugh from ignorance, so listen. A Jobless gains no automatic stat bonuses per level. No class-exclusive skills. Their growth is a flat, meager line in a world of exponential curves. They cannot specialize, and without specialization, one cannot advance past the mundane. To be Jobless is to be forever Level 1 in spirit, even if your body struggles to climb. They are barred from Guild leadership, cannot own enchanted property in some districts, and are often considered... bad luck. History remembers them not as heroes, but as footnotes of failure, cautionary tales of wasted potential."
She stared down at Rocky, her gaze piercing. "The dungeon awaits. Your choice will be your answer to history. And to this crowd."
Rocky's Thought Bubble: [Footnotes of failure. Bad luck. They're not wrong about the rules. No bonuses. No guided paths. Just... raw, unclassified understanding. And a lifetime of being looked at like something you scrape off your boot.] For the briefest second, the playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by the cold, hard flint of someone who had climbed a mountain of scorn no one else could see. His hand brushed almost imperceptibly against a simple, worn leather bracelet on his wrist before falling back to his side.
Panel 7: The Gauntlet Thrown - Impossible Difficulty
Rocky turned without another word and walked toward the row of shimmering dungeon Archways. The control panel beside the first gate glowed, listing dungeons from E-Rank (Harmless - Slime Gardens) to A-Rank (Lethal - Inferno Pits), with a glowing difficulty slider below ranging from F (Training) to SSS (Abyssal Nightmare).
Everyone watched, expecting the humiliating but safe choice: E-Rank, Difficulty F. A few snickers remained, waiting for the final confirmation of his cowardice.
Rocky's finger tapped the screen. E-Rank. The dungeon name appeared: "The Caverns of Echoes." The snickers grew.
Then, with a deliberate, slow swipe of his finger, he dragged the difficulty slider. It glided past C, B, A... past S... past SS... There was a final, resonant CLICK as it locked into place at the very end of the spectrum.
SSS Difficulty.
The laughter died, strangled in a hundred throats. Jaws hung open. Elder Elara leaned forward, her galactic eyes widening a fraction. Pro Hunter Vance whistled, long and low. Bolas's sneer collapsed into confused disbelief. Rika covered her mouth with both hands.
Boy 1 (whispering in horror): "SSS on an E-Rank... the monsters don't just get stronger... they become infinite in number. The terrain shifts into nightmare logic. Gravity fails, walls scream, shadows consume. Environmental hazards on a cosmic scale. It's not a test of combat; it's a test of survival against pure, relentless, reality-bending chaos."
Boy 2: "He's not suicidal... he's declaring war on the exam itself."
Mira the Support: "Or he's the most arrogant being to ever live. This will be a historic failure."
Without a single glance back, without any dramatics, Rocky hefted his mountain of gear—the sniper rifle, the shotgun, the staff, the sword, the shield—the arsenal of a one-man, classless army, the tools of someone who could learn anything but was recognized as mastering nothing. He stepped through the shimmering Archway.
The portal sealed behind him with a sound like reality itself gasping in shock.
In the sun-drenched muster yard, surrounded by the specialized, promising best of the new generation, there was only a void of stunned, utter silence. The first test had begun, and the first aspirant had just chosen a path of glorious, impossible madness.
Final Panel:
A close-up on the dungeon Archway control screen, still displaying:
SELECTED: E-RANK DUNGEON "THE CAVERNS OF ECHOES"
DIFFICULTY: SSS (ABYSSAL NIGHTMARE)
STATUS: OCCUPIED - TIMER: 14:59... 14:58...
And in the dark, reflective glass of the screen, we see the mirrored, distorted faces of the crowd—Brond's mocking grin gone slack, Bolas's jealous fury mixed with confusion, Rika's worried awe, and Elders Elara and Vance watching with intense, unreadable focus. All mockery is finally, utterly erased, replaced by pure, uncomprehending shock and the dawning question: What have we just witnessed?