Kael Draven had learned early that F-ranks weren't hunters.
They were porters.
He stood at the edge of the dungeon entrance, adjusting the frayed straps of the crate on his back. Inside were potions, spare weapons, and emergency rations—everything the real hunters might need if things went wrong.
If things went right, they wouldn't remember him at all.
"Hey. Don't lag."
A B-rank glanced back, irritation plain on his face. His armor gleamed with enchantments Kael could only identify by color. Blue runes. Clean edges. Expensive.
Kael nodded and stepped forward without a word.
He always did.
The dungeon swallowed them whole.
The air inside was thick and wet, carrying the smell of rust and old stone. Torchlight danced along the walls, revealing cracks, claw marks, and dried blood that no one bothered to clean. Kael followed several paces behind the main group, footsteps measured, eyes sharp.
Lowest rank meant lowest expectations.
But it also meant no one watched him.
His fingers brushed the handle of a throwing knife hidden at his waist. The blade was dull from overuse, the grip worn smooth—but it was his. One of the few things he trusted.
The party moved deeper.
Then the ground shifted.
A heavy click echoed beneath their boots.
Kael's breath caught.
"Trap—"
Too late.
The floor split apart.
Stone collapsed. Shouts echoed. The world tilted violently as Kael was thrown forward, crates tearing from his shoulders. He slammed into jagged rock, pain exploding through his ribs as darkness swallowed him whole.
He came to with blood in his mouth.
Dim blue light pulsed faintly above him, illuminating broken stone and shattered wood. The supply crate lay splintered nearby. Potions crushed. Rations scattered.
Kael tried to move.
Agony flared.
Something warm trickled down his side.
Above him, faint voices echoed.
"…not worth it."
"Leave him. He's just an F-rank."
Footsteps faded.
Silence followed.
Kael stared at the ceiling, chest tight—not from the pain, but from something worse.
Of course.
He laughed weakly, the sound scraping his throat raw.
"Figures…"
The dungeon answered with a distant growl.
His vision blurred. Strength drained from his limbs. If he stayed here, he would die—slowly, forgotten, just like every other time they left him behind.
As his consciousness began to slip, something cold and sharp settled deep in his chest.
Not fear.
Rage.
[System Notification]Enhancer Authority DetectedF-Rank Exclusive Access Granted
Kael's eyes snapped open.