For the first time in over a week, I woke without crunching mana costs in my head. No dungeon timer ticking insistently, no boss mechanics replaying like a broken record.
Just pale morning light drifting across the ceiling and the steady thrum of the city below.
I lay still, breathing in the ordinary sounds: cars humming beneath my window, muffled arguments through thin walls, a distant drone's low drone. Civilian life in motion.
Beneath my skin, my mana pulsed confidently—steady, honed, far stronger than the day I truly first opened my eyes. No longer raw energy, but calm, contained power.
I called up my status screen, skimming the familiar lines: Alexander Cain, twenty-three, Absolute Sage. Magic Missile, Rock Formation, Forest's Embrace, Greater Boost—all maxed out.
Body 2.2, Soul 1.6, Mana a full 3.1. Not bad for someone who'd only awakened days ago. In a world full of legendary heroes, it might barely register—but progress was progress.
I shut the window and swung my legs over the mattress. Solo runs through E-rank dungeons would keep building my strength, that much was certain. But raw power without direction felt hollow. If I wanted real influence, I needed structure.
By lunchtime I was weaving through the crowded commercial district, a canvas tote of groceries slung over my shoulder. Imperial banners of deep blue silk fluttered overhead, silver runes glinting as they soaked up stray mana from the air. In the center of each banner, the Heavenhire Empire's sigil: a radiant star encircled by shimmering rings.
Elegant and untouchable.
Holo-screens hovered above storefronts, flashing the Empire's latest bulletins: a royal address on interplanetary trade, Earth's dungeon stability holding at 78 percent, and player registrations eclipsing 1.3 million.
No need for iron fist or fear—the Empire ran on bureaucracy. Food convoys arrived on schedule, unrest was stamped out within hours, guilds were licensed, taxed, and discreetly monitored.
I passed the monolithic headquarters of Silver Horizon—its layered mana barriers humming softly, its carved stone crest forever untarnished.
Guild members marched in precise rows, their armor polished, their discipline unwavering. One lone Player might scrape by, but a guild of this size shaped policy itself.
I had no intention of bowing to Silver Horizon. I planned to outgrow it.
Back in my apartment I unpacked my groceries—warm bread, a jar of olives, fresh greens—and flicked open the Bureau portal on my tablet. The guild-registration screen was brutal in its demands: a hundred thousand credits just to start, plus license fees, lease costs, equipment contracts, staff registrations. My account showed forty-two thousand. I was halfway there, maybe two weeks of lucky dungeon runs away from the rest.
But credits weren't the real problem. People were. Five core members, disciplined and ambitious. Not warm bodies—real assets.
I sketched a plan: keep hammering E-rank dungeons solo for steady income, join D-rank parties for reputation and network, hunt down reliable allies, push toward C-rank status where players stopped being expendable and started mattering.
Armed with that outline, I headed back to the Bureau lobby. The air buzzed with quiet negotiation: players debating loot splits like generals plotting battle plans, terminals glowing with locked listings, one entry teasing me—Merit Status: Restricted Access. Eligibility Required.
I overheard two runners in plated armor. "Clear five more D-rank runs, hit Tier Two," one said. "Then we can waltz through those gates." Merit wasn't just bragging rights. It unlocked priority drops, imperial contracts, even off-world missions. A secret ladder above the ranking system everyone saw.
So coordinated raids meant merit, and merit meant rapid ascent.
I approached the first party by the main board: four strangers in mid-tier gear. "Need a fifth?" I asked. They looked me over. "Solo tag?" "Yes." "Role?" "Ranged offense, defensive constructs, sustained healing." A beat of silence. "We're full."
At the exchange counter, a second group paused their haggling. Sleeker armor, gleaming blades. I offered my credentials. "Recent awaken," I admitted. They exchanged wary glances. "Too risky," one said.
Fair enough. Newcomers were always liabilities.
On the far side of the lobby, a third group moved like clockwork—matching insignias, and synchronized gestures. Their leader met my gaze. "Recruiting?" I asked. "What do you bring?" he shot back. "High-efficiency ranged damage, D-rank defensive control, D-rank sustained healing—mastered." A flicker of interest passed between them.
The leader weighed me for a heartbeat, then nodded. "We're running Crimson Quarry tomorrow. Limitless dungeon—no entry cap, multiple parties competing for clear times. Chaos guaranteed, rewards even more." "When?" "Eight A.M. sharp. You support us exclusively unless told otherwise." I smiled. "Count me in." Names were exchanged, no needless pleasantries—just pure efficiency.
Walking home, the city felt sharper, every edge distinct. Credits translated to guild influence; influence to manpower; manpower to dungeon control. Information flowed up the chain, always favoring the strongest.
My clear times would be logged in the system soon enough. I didn't mind. I planned to be near the top.
I unlocked my door and stepped inside. Tomorrow I'd face my first limitless dungeon—and I wouldn't be alone. Good. Building an empire meant finding out exactly who could keep pace.