The air in the Patriarch's chamber shifted — not colder, not warmer, just… expectant. Drust Ironcreed let the silence sit long enough to squeeze the truth out of weak men.
Unfortunately, I wasn't weak. Just too clever for my own good.
"Before we discuss your assignment," Drust said, folding his hands on the obsidian table, "indulge me in a question."
Great. Philosophical questions. My favorite.
"Tell me," he continued, "why is being born a noble better than being a commoner?"
I blinked.
Lenna stood perfectly still beside him — a statue carved from arrogance and silver.
I cleared my throat. "Because nobles have magical Bloodlines?"
Drust looked at me like I'd just claimed gravity was optional on weekends.
"Incorrect."
Well, there went my confidence.
His gaze shifted to his daughter.
"And you, Lenna?"
She didn't hesitate. "Opportunity and resources. Wealth. Education. Exposure. Nobles can rise higher because they are given more to rise with."
Drust's expression softened by exactly one micrometer.
"Better," he said, "but still not the answer."
Lenna's brows lowered by a hair. Seeing her get it wrong was… enlightening.
Or terrifying.
Drust leaned back in his chair, and the floating scrolls rotated behind him like lazy satellites.
"No," he said. "The true privilege of nobility is something far simpler. Something absolute."
He paused.
"Choice."
Before either of us could question it, he continued.
"Young people love to believe nobles are superior because of Bloodlines or ancient glory. But Bloodlines existed long before titles. And many commoners possess them as well."
He lifted a hand, and the scrolls halted mid-air.
"The true difference is this: Nobles can choose their class and skills. Commoners cannot."
I stared. Even Lenna's fingers twitched — a tiny, almost imperceptible break in her composure.
Drust continued calmly, as if explaining simple arithmetic.
"Every human soul matures naturally. When it does, ambient spiritual energy stimulates their dormant soulforce. At that moment, the System connects mostly around the age of 20."
A pulse of silver light rippled through the room.
"That is an Awakening. A real Awakening. The original one."
I frowned. "But… isn't the System impartial to everyone?"
"Yes. But nobles and powerful factions circumvent that impartiality through Awakening Artifacts."
His eyes locked onto mine.
"For those without one — usually commoners — the System assigns everything directly: class, skills, stat distribution. All based solely on natural talent."
He tapped the table once.
"They do not get to choose. Not even once."
A cold weight settled in my stomach.
Drust continued, voice steady.
"If someone has talent for swordsmanship and… cleaning, for example…"
His lips twitched.
"…and their affinity for cleaning exceeds their affinity for the sword, what do you think happens?"
"Oh gods," I muttered. "They get a Cleaner class?"
"They do."
"And… they can't reject it?"
"No."
"That's… cruel."
"That," Drust said with a sigh, "is the System."
Lenna's voice cut through the stillness — calm but thoughtful.
"So nobles are privileged because our artifacts let us choose our path?"
Drust nodded. "Exactly. A commoner may be born with talent — genius even — but they walk the road the System assigns. Nobles walk the one we carve."
He folded his arms, gaze like thunder wrapped in silk.
"That is why noble houses guard their Awakening Artifacts jealously. Why we train our children from birth. Why we do not tolerate incompetence."
Then he added, almost too casually:
"Because the rare commoners who are directly assigned powerful classes by the System… are usually so talented that privileged idiots like us cannot compete."
That line hit like a hammer.
Then his attention snapped to me.
"Someone with your stats and personality might have been assigned a Berserker class directly. No questions asked."
A quiet chill crawled up my spine.
Oh great. He had investigated me.
Lenna finally spoke again, voice level as a blade's edge.
"…Then what do you expect from us now, Father?"
Drust's gaze shifted between us — sharp, assessing, dangerous.
"I expect you," he said slowly, "to make the first true choice of your noble lives."
Lenna straightened.
I swallowed.
Drust leaned forward, fingers interlocking.
"From this moment on, you are no longer children of the House."
His voice rolled across the chamber, slow and heavy.
"You are heirs. And heirs do not drift. They decide."
His eyes locked onto mine.
"Today, you will choose the path that will define your future.
Your Role. Your Division.
Your identity as nobles of Ironcreed."
He paused — letting the weight settle.
"Choose wisely. Men who make careless choices… rarely survive them."
And, with my luck stat of eight, I had a very, very bad feeling about where this was going.
But Lenna didn't hesitate.
"I choose the Dungeon Division," she said.
Of course she didn't. Why choose anything normal when you can walk directly into a meat grinder blessed by the System?
The air shifted — again — but this time it was Drust's mood that changed.
The Patriarch actually smiled.
Not a twitch.
Not a microscopic softening.
A smile.
He looked genuinely pleased.
"Excellent," Drust said, his voice warm in that terrifying, carved-in-stone way only he could manage. "Dungeons forge true strength."
Forged.
Right.
Like iron.
Or corpses.
Meanwhile, my soul quietly took a knee.
"Hold on," I said, raising a hand. "Dungeon Division? As in the division that dives into literal death traps? The ones where one wrong move gets you erased from existence? Those dungeons?"
Lenna didn't even turn her head.
"Yes."
Short, cold, absolute.
The kind of "yes" that didn't register my existence as a speaking organism.
"But," I tried again, "dungeons are unpredictable. Randomized. System-governed. Unescapable once inside. Shouldn't we… I don't know, discuss this? Strategize? Consider not dying?"
Drust waved a hand, like I was an enthusiastic puppy yapping about the dangers of fire.
"There is nothing to discuss. The Dungeon Division is where true potential shines. A perfect choice."
Perfect.
Not terrifying.
Perfect.
"Sir," I said patiently — painfully — "respectfully, as someone whose life expectancy relies heavily on good decisions made by other people, I'd like to propose—"
"No," Lenna said.
No hesitation.
No eye contact.
Just a verbal guillotine, swift and clinical.
"You're coming with me."
My jaw dropped. "I didn't even finish my sentence!"
"You didn't need to." She still didn't bother looking at me. "Your perspective is predictable."
PREDICTABLE?
Excuse me?
What part of me screams "predictable"?
The sarcasm?
The overwhelming desire to survive??
Drust nodded approvingly. "She is correct. Your hesitation only proves she made the right choice."
Wonderful.
So now I'm an example of cowardice?
Perfect.
Let's just stamp "Certified Spineless" on my forehead and call it a day.
I tried again, because apparently I hate myself.
"Look, I understand the whole 'choose your path' lesson, but shouldn't my opinion matter—"
"No," Drust said.
This time he cut me off.
A clean execution.
My brain short-circuited.
Why did they even summon me?
For decoration?
To fill empty chair space?
To nod respectfully in the background while decisions about MY life are made by people who consider me slightly above furniture?
Lenna stepped forward, formal and composed, addressing her father.
"I request immediate clearance to form a squad under my name. Augustus will serve as my first member."
I choked.
Actually choked.
"Request granted," Drust said smoothly. "Prepare for a preliminary dungeon assessment. Your team deployment begins within the week."
I stared at the two of them — father and daughter — calmly arranging my funeral between themselves.
Finally, I said the only thing my brain could manage:
"…Does anyone here care that I don't want to go into a dungeon?"
Lenna blinked once.
A slow blink.
A blink that said, This is adorable. It thinks it has agency.
"No," she said.
Drust added, "You will grow in the Dungeon Division. It is the proper crucible for people like you."
PEOPLE LIKE ME??
Is he legally blind?
What about me says "throw him at an eldritch maze and see if he comes back"?
Lenna finally turned to actually look at me, her expression unreadable.
"You said just a little while ago, you wanted to live a long life," she said.
I narrowed my eyes. "…Yes?"
"Then you will follow me."
"That makes ZERO sense—"
"Long life," she repeated slowly, as if explaining basic math to a toddler, "is built through power. And dungeons provide it fastest."
I stared at her.
That's her logic?
Her reasoning??
She wants to live long so she's choosing the most lethal division?
This woman is clinically insane.
Drust rose from his seat — the signal that the audience was over.
"Prepare yourselves. Report tomorrow. Lenna — you may take him."
TAKE him?
I wasn't a puppy.
Lenna stepped past me toward the door, her presence slicing the air cleanly.
"Come. We have preparations."
I stood there frozen for half a second, then muttered under my breath:
"You two didn't want my input at all, did you…"
Neither of them even bothered pretending to hear me.
Lenna paused at the doorway and glanced back, eyes sharp with expectation.
"Move, Augustus."
I followed, dragging my dignity behind me like a defeated mule.
Dungeon Division.
Fantastic.
At this point, with my Luck stat of eight, I'm honestly shocked I haven't died again already.