"Move out of the way!" A member threw a dagger behind Elian, slicing through an ant. The twitching corpse of the horned ant hissed faintly.
Its thorax bubbling, limbs spasming in post-mortem refusal to die cleanly. He exhaled through his teeth and tightened his grip on the satchel of mana potions strapped to his shoulder.
"Hey! Errand boy! You planning on hauling your own weight or waiting for us to hand you a leash? Hurry the fuck up!"
The voice sliced through the tension in the air. A stocky swordsman glanced back with a sneer stretched across his dirt-crusted face, sweat dragging grime down his temple.
Elian blinked. He adjusted the strap of the heavy bag, biting into his lips, refraining from arguing. "Haha. My bad! I'll be right… there."
Not when his system still hadn't assigned him a class. Not when every second he existed in a dungeon without one was a gamble against death.
The team was a patchwork of barely-synced mercs pressed deeper into the D-rank ruin. The dungeon smelled like an abandoned greenhouse someone had doused in napalm.
Vines curled around fractured pillars, and horned ants the size of Rottweilers scuttled between the cracks in walls that still wept with thermal residue.
A murmur rolled from the rear. Old man Gellor adjusted the wrap on his knee and spat something dark into the dirt.
"You hear 'bout that kid from Blackridge? Same face as him showed up at the guild the next day. New class, wearing the same set of clothes. But no memory of the old team." His voice dipped low, heavy with bone-deep unease.
"I say they're spreading. Graybloods dopplegangers of us. Worse than monsters."
Another member of the team piqued in. "Hey, as long as you don't find your look-alike, then your fineee. Ain't no thing to be worried about."
"There's a lot to worry about! Ever since those degenerate losers from that world mixed with ours, it's been shit over the years!"
Gellor's gaze darted to a heavy breathing Elian. "Elian, you sure y're okay? You can leave the hard work for us."
Elian kept walking. Every step echoed through his calf with the ache of someone who hadn't eaten a full meal in two days.
"No. No. I'm fine."
He shifted the satchel higher again… his fourth adjustment in ten minutes, and didn't bother replying. Graybloods or whatever, I don't care. Ever since the other world linked with us, it's been trouble.
A hand clapped his shoulder with the force of a shield slam. He staggered, blinked up into the flat, dark-eyed face of the team's temporary Rook class.
Alan, D-rank. Solid broad frame for a tank. He had scars carved beneath the eyes like medals.
"He can handle it," he muttered, just loud enough. "So shut it."
Elian nodded once, faking a smile. There was no comfort in borrowed defense.
The horned ants surged two waves later. A shriek bounced down the corridor like a warning ripped straight from the system.
They came fast.
Six-legged, carapaced and mandibles gnashed sharp enough to crack a thighbone.
They killed three. Elian threw potions. Duck, run, slide. Eyes open for fallen blades and team signals.
Gellor tripped, falling down with a grunt. An ant barreled toward him, reeking of acid.
This is a D-rank dungeon. Why are there so many big ants?!
The screeching sound of the giant red ants blocked his earring.
Should I help him? Old man Gellor is a Rook. He should be fine.
But Gellor remained on the floor. His barrier shield was breaking. And others were too occupied to spare a glance.
There's not even a healer in sight!
I haven't even gotten my class yet! How the hell can I even help him with no skills?
Gellor's grunt cut through his thoughts. The ant was overpowering him.
So Elian moved. If someone dies on my birthday, that's bad luck. I wouldn't want that.
His legs burned, his lungs screamed, and he threw himself between the creature and the man.
Pain ripped from his lower thigh. He felt the hotness seep into his skin. The creature tore through part of the flesh of his left leg.
He hit the floor hard, screaming in pain.
The giant ant overpowered him, biting through his stick—the only weapon he can afford to buy.
Then a female voice shouted a war cry.
Blade cleaved through mandible and brain. The ant twitched once, dying messily as the green goo gushed out of its open wound.
She stood over him—armor dented, expression unreadable. Taira, an E-rank Knight. Her sword hummed faintly as she twisted it in the ant's skull and drew it free.
"You're lucky," she muttered, her black hair covered in the ant's blood.
Elian stared at the dead creature, heart pounding as the blood soaked into his boot. "T-thank you."
Taira stared at him, dead eyed. "Do you even train?"
Huh? Train? Elian scratched his head. No matter how you train, if you're a FF rank holding the status of a [pawn] class. That's over. You can never evolve.
Then the air thickened. His pupils shrank. A buzzing static peeled across his brain like metal scraping wet glass.
Ping!
[System Processing Class Assignment...]
[Class: Realizing...]
Elian's eyes flew wide. He's getting his first class update in a dungeon?
Well finally! It's been Twenty freaking years of torture of his life. Sweet!
Maybe putting my life at risk is worth a while.
Maybe I can even be given a Knight class. Or a Rook! Being an E-rank wouldn't matter much!
Anything but a Pawn!
[Class Updated.]
[Class: Pawn]
[Tip: Ouch]
He lay there, limbs trembling, eyes glassy.
His mouth formed the word: No.
He had begged, prayed. Even whispered half-broken offers to constellations he didn't believe in. But this was what he got?! A pawn?!
Out of all the status in the whole chessboard!
He closed the system screen, and said nothing.
Standing up, he dusted his worn-out clothes, picking up the potion bottles spilled on the floor.
The dungeon cleared. Corpses turned to ash. Loot gathered. He limped behind the rest, silence thick in his mouth.
[Guild contribution: 30 Points.]
At least I can buy dinner with this. I haven't been home for three days. Hopefully mom won't scold me again.
When he reached home, the lock opened too fast. The small-spaced room smelled like fried eggs.
His stomach twisted. Quickly, he covered his nose.
The kitchen light buzzed overhead. His mother turned from the stove. She smiled too warmly at him.
"Oh! You're back. Dinner's ready."
There were eggs on the plate. Three of them.
He stared at the dinner, then back at his tired mother who had eye-bags under her eyes from working too late at night.
His little brother, Milo, looked up from the couch. He was speaking… fluidly. Words flowing out without the usual pauses, without the nervous tapping.
"Elian. Hi. We thought you'd be late."
Milo had a stutter.
His mom was allergic to eggs. She couldn't even bear the smell of eggs let alone cook them.
He hated eggs too.
He stared harder. Something frayed in his chest. His heart tightened up.
They've been replaced.
The… the graybloods got them.
But why?! His mother didn't even have a worthy class. An F rank Pawn.
What's so desirable about that class?
"Where's mom?" His voice dropped cold.
The smile on the woman across the kitchen stretched past comfort. Teeth bared just a little too wide. Her hands, still holding the spatula, flipping the eggs. The yolk hissed against the pan.
The woman turned slowly, spatula dripping grease.
His heart sank, eyes bulging out of his sockets as he staggered halfway to his 'mother'.
He stepped forward, grabbing her collar.
Fingers locked around her collar, dragging her forward. The spatula clattered against the floor with a metallic clang. His heart pounded behind his ribs like it was trying to escape.
Her breath smelled like egg yolk.
"Where is she?! Where is my real mother?!" he snarled. His knuckles shook. "You grayblood piece of dustwalker shit—where is she?!"
The smile widened. She tilted her head to the side.
"Your... mother?" she echoed. "I ate her."
He didn't notice the soft footsteps behind him, walking closer to him.
Not until he was slammed face-first into the dining table.
The corner cracked against his cheekbone. Blood rushed from his temple in a single hot line.
A boot planted itself between his shoulder blades, pinning him down.
"Too slow," said a voice. A voice exactly like his.
Elian choked on the breath caught in his throat. He twisted to look.
His own face stared back at him—same nose, same broken lips, same blood crusted on the corner of his brow. But everything else was sharper. His eyes were much colder. His shoes were cleaner, this version of him dressed smarter than Elian ever could.
The doppelgänger crouched beside him. Tilted his head, smirking like a deranged prince watching a dog die.
"You're… disappointing," he murmured. "I came here, thinking maybe you'd be a Queen. Or even a Bishop. Something I could use," the reflection said.
Elian tried standing up, but the pain shot up to his head in an instant. "Aghh!"
He crouched beside Elian, tilting his head.
[Unknown User Viewed Your Profile.]
"But you're a Pawn?"
A sound of disgust etched in his voice.
"What a waste."
The word stung worse than the blood pooling in Elian's mouth.
The fake Elian stood up, dragging someone into view by the scruff of a hoodie.
Milo, his little brother.
Alive, shaking and a crying mess. Milo's eyes were bloodshot red from excessive crying. Snot drawling up his nose.
He was held hostage like a puppy before the axe.
"No, no, please—" Elian's voice broke, raw with disbelief. "You don't have to… he's— he's just a kid! Take me! I'll give you anything—"
He was crawling now. One hand reaching, the other blood-slicked and trembling.
His vision doubled.
"I'll give you the class—take it—I don't care… just don't hurt him. Please don't—"
"Your class? Ha! No one wants that useless class. Even a pawn of a higher rank is still a pawn to others."
Elian kept begging, even as his knees scraped tile, leaving behind streaks of red. Even as his ribs screamed with every inch he moved.
The doppelgänger rolled his eyes, adjusting his grip on Milo's neck.
"Noisy."
Crack.
Milo's head jerked, slumped sideways Neck twisted like a broken hinge.
Elian's scream tore out of him like flesh from bone. His stomach twisted. His vision turned sideways. He scrambled forward and caught the boy's body just before it hit the ground.
But his look-alike kicked him in the stomach.
Elian was hurled back, clutching his abdomen.
He tried standing up, throwing himself at the look-alike, only to be flung sideways.
He stood up again, his skin colored purple from the impact. Face swollen and half his ribs fractured. He grabbed a fork by the counter, screaming and running as fast as he could to attack the doppelgänger .
But his attempt was pathetic.
The doppelgänger caught it mid-air, crushed it in his hand, and shoved Elian's face into the floor again.
His boot pressed unto Elian's broken face, ignoring the blood and the crushed bones.
"You just don't like giving up huh? Let's see how long you last."
Elian's vision blurred. The dull ringing in his ears has increased. His eyes were shutting closed. Ah… he's already dying from blood loss. Tears mixed into his blood.
It's pathetic. His whole life was pathetic. Being born in a corrupted world like this without any power or a cheat code was enough torture.
So it has to end like this?
All my life, I've been an underdog eating scraps and junks.
I don't—I don't deserve this!
I wish… I wish I can have—
A metal steel bit through his flesh, plunging itself into his brain, splattering his remaining essence on the cracked walls.
The floor blurred into black.
…
Ping!
His system notification popped up.
[Oops! You just DIED.]
[Auto Skill Used: Resurrecting...]
[Hey, look. At least, he's uglier than you.]
[This may take a while, okay? I'm kinda new to this whole process.]