Shane stopped walking and stared. Whitley, who seemed to have been hoping Shane would hear him, shifted his body angle toward him, dropping the pretense of cleaning his bow.

  “I’m just saying. If I was your age… Awakening young is the best thing that can happen to anyone.”

  He continued talking even when Shane didn’t respond.

  “I mean, well, if you were really lucky, you would’ve gotten a higher rank. Hey, don’t make that face. Keep grinding like that, and who knows? Maybe a real guild will finally look at your application one day.

  “I guess you really can’t compete with guys born with a silver spoon. Everyone here paid in blood and sweat to get into our guild, you know. But you? You just got lucky. Awoke as a fire mage and stumbled into a Wynn Guild party.”

  Whitley Barlowe was running his mouth so much it was becoming a chore to even pretend to listen.

  It wasn’t Shane’s fault the guy sucked.

  This was a life-or-death situation for Shane, too. There was a literal apocalypse approaching. How could he afford to go easy on anyone?

  “Alright, back in formation. Let’s clear the next horde clean,” said the team lead.

  Whitley resumed to providing ranged support. And promptly shot one of the melee fighters by accident.

  Typical.

  By the time they cleared the dungeon, the leader was singing Shane’s praises, while a few of the others, including Whitley, were shooting him jealous looks.

  Ah, the pecking order.

  It was almost refreshing. He hadn’t felt this kind of hostility since he became a Legion Commander in his old life.

  He didn’t mind it because it meant these hunters actually saw him as competition. Quite a feat for an F-rank.

  His dungeon runs over the last week usually went one of two ways.

  People either loved him for what he could do, or hated him for the exact same reason.

  Except, there was a certain hunter that was really starting to get on Shane’s nerves.

  Four times.

  In the past few days, four dungeons he’d been planning to clear had been wiped clean by someone else first.

  This B-rank hunter kept showing up at the low-level gates Shane was going to use for practice. And obviously, with that rank, he cleared them in a flash. The faces of the other hunters who were there had soured, too.

  To top it off, before leaving the last gate, the guy had singled Shane out.

  ‘You there. The one with the gray hair? Are you an F-rank? No offense, but if you keep going into dungeons, you’ll end up dead. Fast.’

  The truth was, Shane had been doing fine before Mr. B-rank showed up. It was a low-rank dungeon to begin with. And he’d been performing at about a D-rank level thanks to his [Fireball]. Maybe a strong D. But the guy, somehow, had pegged Shane’s actual stat rank.

  He’d even said something similar to what Troy Winter, the number two rookie hunter, had once said in the game.

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  ‘It’s nothing personal. Frankly, the fault lies with the Association. Allowing an F-rank into a dungeon is no different than letting a child play in traffic.’

  Honestly, the guy had a point. F-ranks were usually pretty useless in combat.

  That wasn’t what annoyed Shane, though. It was the way he kept clearing all the monsters and stealing Shane’s testing ground that did.

  Shane hadn’t bothered to learn his name. If he didn’t already know it, that meant the hunter was a minor character.

  And he was. He died early-game.

  At their last meeting, the guy left with a warning.

  ‘Don’t let me catch you in a dungeon again. Next time, I will remove you myself.’

  Shane stayed silent, letting the B-rank’s words roll off his back.

  The man would never get the chance to kick Shane out, anyway.

  He was scheduled to die tomorrow.

  After the raid, Shane headed out for a neighborhood patrol. Every registered license holder owed a set number of patrol hours in their home district. The Association kept a roster by address and pulled names at random, then assigned a date and time to search for any new portals that might’ve just materialized. If you couldn’t make it, you could swap shifts with another hunter, but skipping wasn’t allowed.

  This was why some Awakened avoided registering. But Shane didn’t want the hassle of sneaking into dungeons constantly. Besides, finding an undiscovered gate would benefit his growth. It was actually a shame knowing that nothing new would pop up here tonight.

  The next morning, Shane headed to the portal of another C-rank dungeon.

  It was a static gate that was cleared regularly by guilds in Manhattan. This one was a Wave Type because it didn’t have a boss, just waves of C-rank monsters, which made it a much bigger challenge than the last raid, though their ranks were the same. The System assigned a rating according to the rank of the strongest monster, which was why judging a dungeon by its label was dangerous.

  But because there were enough data on this dungeon and it had been swept dozens of times, it was considered safe for D and C-rank rookies to clear if they were with a professional party.

  He hadn’t slept well because of his [Insomnia], and the headache from his [Chain Smoker] quirk was already kicking in. He clamped a cigarette between his teeth and lit it with a small flame from his fingertip.

  His destination was 42nd Street station.

  The portal was located at a lower level platform beneath the active A/C/E tracks that was used for an Aqueduct Racetrack train years ago.

  Thankfully, it was currently abandoned and sat below the feet of thousands of commuters, making it easier for hunters to clear the static dungeon regularly.

  It was right before rush hour, so 8th Avenue was less crowded than usual. The beeping of a backing delivery truck and the crash of metal gates rolling up on storefronts opening for the day faded behind him as he stepped off the street and headed down the stairs.

  Since the station wasn’t warmed by body heat yet, the place felt unusually cold and damp.

  Shane passed benches that were full of people napping while waiting for the train and a construction crew that was eating sandwiches in silence.

  At the far north end of the platform, past where most passengers wait, there was a steel door with peeling paint. It had a standard sign that read, [RESTRICTED AREA] on it. Someone had slapped a “Supreme” sticker over the word “Restricted.”

  With a swipe of his hunter license, the lock clicked. As he pulled the heavy door open, a gust of cold air rushed out, as if he were stepping into an abandoned tomb.

  The stairs going down were lit by bare bulbs strung along the ceiling with extension cords that buzzed like angry wasps. Parts of the floor were covered with black soot, but the steps were wiped clean from hundreds of passing hunter boots.

  As the door closed behind him, the roar of the train became a muted, rhythmic rumble. The heartbeat of the steel giant followed him down.

  Finally, he reached the ghost platform.

  The place looked older than the station above, and the low ceilings made it feel more suffocating. The floor tiles were stained with rust and covered in trash that had fallen from grates above.

  In the middle of the track was the green portal, swirling vertically in the air.

  Shane leaned against a support pillar that was vibrating from the trains upstairs. The smoke from his cigarette pulled horizontally toward the portal, as if it was enticing him to enter.

  [C-rank Dungeon: The Sandbox]

  The vast canyon was carved by the dragging footsteps of ancient Titans that stained the towering red cliffs with their blood. The creatures that rise from the red dust are manifestations of the Titans’ undying rage, endlessly spawning to crush any intruders who disturb their eternal sleep.

  He stared at the hole.

  Because unfortunately, this dungeon was going to jump to a B-rank during the run.

  And if Shane didn’t step in, everyone inside would be dead long before it became an A-rank breach and tore up the surrounding area.