"Welcome to the Future."
The neon blue sign flickered arrogantly above the grand stage of the AI Corp Initiation Center. Klein stood at the very back of the line, his rough hands gripping the hem of his faded gray jacket. All around him, thousands of teenagers exuded the scent of expensive perfume—a sharp contrast to the stench of orphanage dust and sweat clinging to Klein's skin.
To the citizens of the Upper World, today was a celebration. To Klein, it was a trial.
"Asset No. 492, step forward!" The mechanical voice of the AI speaker echoed, cold and soulless.
Klein stepped out. The marble floor was so polished he could see his own reflection—hollow cheeks and sleep-deprived eyes staring back at him. In the center of the stage stood a silver pillar topped with a transparent crystal sphere—the Awakening machine. It was a device that determined a human's fate based on their genetic compatibility with Core energy.
"Place your hand on the sphere," an AI Corp official commanded. The man didn't even look at Klein; his eyes were glued to a holographic tablet, scanning for any shred of productivity that could be squeezed out of the youth before him.
Klein took a deep breath. The air here was incredibly pure, the result of first-class oxygen filtration he had never experienced in the slums. He pressed his palm against the glass. A chill crept from the crystal, piercing his pores, searching for a spark of power hidden within his blood.
Please, give me a Combat Class. Anything. Warrior, Archer, even a lowly Mage... his mind screamed.
The crystal sphere vibrated. A faint blue light swirled inside, then slowly congealed into a grim, pitch-black hue. A holographic display manifested in the air, large and flashing blood-red.
[Awakening Result: F-Rank]
[Talent: Cursed Merchant]
The hall went silent for a heartbeat, and then, the front rows erupted in laughter.
"A Merchant? In the middle of an energy crisis?" A blond youth laughed so hard his shoulders shook. "What's he going to sell? Rocks? And look at that tag—'Cursed.' That's not a talent, that's a literal death sentence!"
"F-Rank," the official muttered, finally looking at Klein. But there was no sympathy in his eyes—only the disgust one might feel toward an insect dirtying their shoe. "Zero combat potential. Zero administrative value. Unproductive unit."
Klein froze. Cursed Merchant? In a world where combat power was the primary currency for surviving Rift monster attacks, being an F-Rank Merchant was a delayed death penalty.
"Wait, I can train! I can—"
"Silence," the official cut him off, tapping his holographic screen. "AI Corp does not allocate resources to trash. Under the Emergency Energy Protocol, unproductive assets are to be relocated to the extraction sector."
Two robotic peacekeepers—Enforcers—marched forward with heavy, hydraulic thuds. Klang! Klang!
Before Klein could react, the cold metal of energy-binding handcuffs snapped around his wrists. The sensation was different from the crystal ball; this was a chill that sucked the warmth right out of his veins, locking away whatever energy had just awakened in his body.
"What are you doing? I'm not a criminal!" Klein struggled, but the strike of an electric baton to his gut sent his world spinning. Nausea hit him like a wave, followed by a searing pain that traveled through every nerve.
"You aren't a criminal," the official's voice drifted from a distance as Klein collapsed onto the floor. "You are simply a unit that failed to meet the quota for existence. Take him to the Lower Sector."
Klein was dragged away like a sack of grain. Automatic doors hissed open and shut behind him, sealing him away from the brightly lit Upper World. He was tossed into a cramped metal box—the Mine Lift.
The lift doors slammed shut with a heavy thud, locking Klein in total darkness.
Wusss!
Gravity seemed to vanish for a moment as the lift plummeted at a maddening speed. Klein's ears rang violently from the sudden change in air pressure. His stomach felt like it had been left on the floor above. The smell of pure oxygen was replaced by the sharp scent of machine oil, rust, and the pungent stench of sulfur seeping in through the cracks.
One minute. Five minutes. The lift continued its descent into the bowels of the earth, heading toward depths where sunlight never reached.
Every second felt like an hour. Cold sweat soaked Klein's back. He tried to mentally trigger his system, hoping for a miracle from his new Talent. However, the status screen displayed only a single line of text that felt like a mockery:
[Cursed Merchant (F): You have no valuable items to sell.]
[Current Status: Candidate for Slavery.]
"Dammit," Klein hissed through gritted teeth.
Suddenly, a violent tremor rocked the lift. The screech of metal grinding against metal was deafening as the emergency brakes kicked in. The lift stopped with a jolt that nearly snapped Klein's neck.
The air inside the metal box grew hot and suffocating. Klein could hear faint sounds from behind the door—the rhythmic strike of iron against stone, human groans, and the occasional roar of a distant, terrifying predator.
Sshhh...
The lift doors opened slowly.
A blast of hot steam rushed in, carrying black dust that immediately sent Klein into a coughing fit. His eyes, only just adjusting to the darkness, were forced to witness a horrific sight. Before him was a gargantuan cavern illuminated by flickering, dim neon lights. Thousands of people, backs hunched and faces covered in soot, were hammering at the stone walls with rusted pickaxes.
Every single one of them wore the same handcuffs as Klein.
"Get out, new asset!"
A giant of a man with a jagged scar across his face stood in front of the lift. He held an energy whip that glowed with a sickly purple light. The AI Corp logo was pinned to his chest, but his version was far grittier and more savage.
Klein stepped out, his legs trembling as they touched the hot, jagged ground.
The man approached, the stench of alcohol and cheap tobacco stinging Klein's nose. He roughly grabbed Klein's handcuffs, scanned the code, and then grinned wide—revealing a row of yellow, uneven teeth.
"F-Rank Merchant, huh? Well, at least your bones are still young. You might last a week or two before becoming a corpse," the man spat near Klein's shoe. "I'm Mandor Garek. Down here, there's no such thing as 'trading.' There's only work, or death."
Garek threw a heavy, rusted pickaxe at Klein's feet.
"Pick it up, 492. Start mining now if you want your oxygen ration tonight."
Klein stared at the pickaxe, then at his surroundings. The lift doors behind him hissed shut; the only path back to the surface was gone. He was now a thousand meters underground, in a cage without bars that humans called a mine—but monsters called a dining room.
The overseer leaned in close, his voice dropping into a low, menacing growl.
"Welcome to hell, Asset No. 492."