The morning air was cold enough to sting my lungs.
I stood outside the Hunter Association headquarters for a full five minutes before I worked up the courage to walk through the doors. Not because I was scared—okay, maybe a little—but because I wanted to remember this moment. The way the sun hit the glass facade. The way the flag with the Association's emblem—a silver sword crossed with a staff—snapped in the wind. The way my reflection looked in the polished granite steps: a skinny eighteen-year-old with dark hair that kept falling over my eyes, wearing the only clean shirt I owned.
This is it, I told myself. You've been waiting for this since you were old enough to hold a toy sword.
I pushed the door open.
---
The lobby was enormous. I'd seen pictures online, but nothing captured the scale. The ceiling arched at least four stories above me, all glass and steel beams filtering the morning light into pale rectangles on the marble floor. A massive digital board hung on the far wall, displaying real-time gate activity, raid schedules, and emergency alerts. To my left, a row of reception desks stretched across the entire east wing, each staffed by someone in a crisp blue uniform. To my right, a waiting area filled with benches, most occupied by hunters in various states of armor and exhaustion.
And everywhere—everywhere—there were people.
Hunters. Dozens. Maybe hundreds.
I stopped walking and just stared.
A woman in heavy plate armor walked past me, her boots clicking against the marble. A massive sword was strapped to her back, the blade so wide it could have been a shield. Her shoulders were broad, her jaw set, and she moved with the confidence of someone who had never been told she couldn't do something.
Warrior. The most common combat class, but also the most respected. Warriors were the backbone of any raid—frontline fighters who soaked up aggro and dealt out punishment. The best ones could cut through steel like paper.
A few feet away, a man in flowing blue robes sat on a bench, reading a book. His fingers traced symbols in the air as he read—practice, or just habit. A faint glow surrounded his hands, shifting from blue to red to green.
Mage. The intellectuals of the hunter world. They channeled mana into elemental spells—fire, ice, lightning, wind. A good mage could clear a room of monsters before the warriors even drew their weapons. But they were fragile. If something got past the frontline, a mage was as good as dead.
A third figure emerged from a side corridor. I almost didn't see him. He was dressed in dark grey—nothing that would stand out in shadows. His movements were economical, silent. He didn't walk so much as flow through the crowd, parting it without anyone seeming to notice.
Assassin. The class everyone loved to hate and secretly wanted to be. Assassins didn't fight fair. They struck from behind, from above, from the spaces between heartbeats. Their entire existence was built on speed, precision, and ending fights before they began.
A loud laugh drew my attention to a group near the coffee stand. At their center stood a man who looked like a brick wall given human form. He was easily six and a half feet tall, with shoulders that strained the fabric of his jacket. His arms were thick as tree trunks, and when he crossed them over his chest, they looked like they could stop a truck.
Tanker. The unsung heroes of every raid. Tankers didn't do the most damage or get the flashy kills. They stood in front of monsters and didn't die. They absorbed hits that would turn other classes into paste.
A woman with kind eyes and a white robe sat in the corner, talking softly to a young hunter who looked pale and shaken. She placed a hand on his shoulder, and a soft golden light spread from her palm across his chest. His color returned almost immediately.
Healer. The most thankless job. Healers kept everyone alive—fixing broken bones, sealing wounds, purging poisons. The best could bring someone back from the brink of death. Legends said some could even raise the dead, but I'd never seen proof.
I was about to turn toward the reception desk when something made me stop.
A young man—maybe a few years older than me—leaned against a pillar, arms crossed, completely at ease. He looked ordinary enough. Brown hair, average height, nothing special about his clothes.
But his eyes were wrong.
They were yellow. Not the yellow of illness or jaundice—the yellow of a predator. When he blinked, his pupils contracted vertically, like a cat's.
Beast Transformer.
The rarest class. The one that didn't fit any category.
Beast Transformers could shift their bodies—partially or fully—into animal forms. Wolves for speed. Bears for strength. A few—the truly dangerous ones—could transform into mythical creatures. Dragons. Griffins. Things that shouldn't exist outside of nightmares.
People were afraid of Beast Transformers. Not because they were evil, but because they were different. Their powers came from something primal, something that didn't always listen to reason. I'd heard stories of them losing control mid-raid, turning on their own party.
But I'd also heard stories of them saving entire cities.
The young man caught me staring. His yellow eyes met mine, and for a second, I felt like prey.
Then he looked away, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
---
Six classes, I thought, walking toward the reception desk. Warrior, Mage, Assassin, Tanker, Healer, Beast Transformer.
Six ways to be valuable.
Six ways to belong.
I stopped in front of the desk. The receptionist—a tired-looking woman in her thirties—didn't look up from her screen.
"Name and purpose," she said flatly.
"Arlen Vale. I'm here for my class assessment."
She glanced up then. Her eyes scanned my face, my clothes, the cheap shoes I'd patched twice. Something flickered across her expression—pity, maybe. Or just exhaustion.
"Third floor. Room 307. Don't be late."
I nodded and walked toward the elevators.
---
The assessment room was smaller than I expected. A long line stretched across the marble courtyard outside—boys and girls my age, standing nervously, whispering among themselves.
"Do you think I'll get Mage?"
"I heard only one in fifty awakens as a Warrior..."
"Shut up, I just don't want to be Support..."
I stood at the very back of the line, patient. My messy black hair fell across my face. My blue eyes stayed calm.
I just need... anything.
Inside the hall, everything changed.
The moment I stepped in, I felt it—the pressure. The scent of mana, heavy in the air.
At the center stood a glowing crystal sphere. The Affinity Core.
That was where futures were decided.
"Next."
One by one, candidates stepped forward.
A girl placed her hand on the crystal.
FLASH!
"Fire Mage—B Rank!"
Cheers erupted.
Another stepped forward.
"Tanker—C Rank."
Some clapped. Others sighed.
Then—
"Next."
It was my turn
I walked forward slowly and placed my hand on the crystal
"Please remain still," a voice said through a speaker. The lead examiner—grey hair, thick glasses, bored expression—didn't even look at me. He was staring at his monitor, fingers hovering over a keyboard.
I nodded, even though I wasn't sure he could see me.
The crystal began to spin.
Arlen nodded.
He placed his hand on the glowing sphere.
Silence.
Nothing happened.
The glow didn't change. No light. No reaction.
The examiner frowned. "...Increase mana input."
Arlen clenched his jaw and tried again.
Still—nothing.
Murmurs spread through the hall.
"Did it break?"
"No... wait..."
"That means—"
The examiner stepped back, his voice now sharp. "Remove your hand."
Arlen did.
The crystal remained dull.
Dead.
The verdict came down like a blade.
"No Class Affinity detected."
Silence.
Then laughter.
"HAHA—what?!"
"That's even worse than E-rank!"
"He's literally NOTHING!"
I shook my head. "That's not possible. Everyone has a class."
"Class affinity isn't about effort," the female examiner said, leaning toward the microphone. Her voice was softer than the lead's, but it cut just as deep. "It's about your soul's natural alignment with mana. Some people simply don't have one. It's rare, but it happens."
Rare. That word echoed in my head. I'd always been different—no parents, no last name, no history. Now I had another thing to add to the list. No class.
"Then what can I do?" My voice cracked on the last word. I hated how weak I sounded. "I came here to become a hunter. I saved up for this assessment. I—"
"You can register as a supporter," the lead examiner interrupted. He wasn't being cruel—he was just efficient. "Carry supplies. Clean gear. Assist parties from the rear. It's honest work, and it pays enough to live on. You won't get rich, but you won't starve."
Honest work.
The words hit me harder than any punch ever had. I'd been doing "honest work" my whole life. Cleaning. Carrying. Scrubbing. Being useful but never valuable.
I looked down at my hands. Calloused. Strong enough to lift fifty kilos without stopping. Strong enough to carry someone else's gear, someone else's food, someone else's hopes.
But not strong enough to fight.
I thought of the orphanage. The kids who needed new shoes. Sister Maria's arthritis getting worse every winter. The roof that leaked right over the bed of a seven-year-old named Hana who cried during thunderstorms.
"Fine," I said. My voice was quiet. I wasn't looking at the examiners anymore. I was looking at my reflection in the dark crystal—a boy with pretty eyes and no future. "Register me as a supporter."
That word echoed in my head as I walked out of the room. As I rode the elevator back to the lobby. As I stood in front of the job board, staring at listings I couldn't apply for.
Two days later, I found myself standing in front of the Hunter Association's job board.
The board was a massive digital display on the second floor of the main building—easily ten meters wide and three meters tall. It was divided into sections by rank, class, and region. Names and listings scrolled by in different colors: red for emergency, yellow for high priority, white for standard.
I stood there for a long time. Long enough that a few people bumped into me and muttered apologies. Long enough that a security guard glanced my way twice.
C-rank party seeks mage for long-term contract. Minimum B-rank. Experience with fire magic preferred.
A-rank gate raid in the eastern district. Warriors only. Tankers given priority. Payment negotiable.
D-rank party needs healer. No experience required, but must have basic certification. Low pay, but good for beginners.
Every listing demanded a class. Every single one. Even the D-rank parties—the ones that barely cleared goblin gates—wanted people with affinities. Wanted people who could fight. Who could heal. Who could do something other than carry bags.
I was about to give up and go back to scrubbing boots when I saw it.
At the very bottom of the board. Small text. White on grey. Almost invisible if you weren't looking for it.
B-rank party 'Iron Maw' seeks supporter. Pack mule. Carry supplies. No combat expected. Pay: 200,000 won per gate. Contact: Guildmaster Dorian, third floor, room 312. In-person inquiries only.
200,000 won.
My heart jumped. That was more than I'd made in three months of cleaning guild halls. And "no combat expected" meant they wouldn't care about my class. They just needed someone with a strong back and a weak sense of self-respect.
I memorized the room number and walked toward the stairs.
The third floor smelled like cheap cigarettes and expensive leather.
Iron Maw's temporary quarters were at the end of a long hallway, behind a door that had a piece of paper taped to it with "IRON MAW - KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING" written in blocky red marker. I knocked twice.
A voice from inside—deep, rough, like gravel being dragged across concrete—shouted, "It's open."
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The room was a mess. Not dirty, exactly—just lived-in. Weapons leaned against the walls: a massive shield with claw marks across its face, a staff with a red gem at its tip, a pair of short swords that gleamed even in the dim light. Empty ale bottles sat on a wooden table, next to a half-eaten plate of rice and meat. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, leather, and something metallic—maybe dried blood, maybe just old mana residue.
Four people looked up when I entered.
The leader—Dorian—was sitting in a chair that creaked under his weight. He was a mountain of a man. Tanker class, clearly. His shoulders were so broad they seemed to block out the light from the window behind him. A thick scar ran from his left temple down to his jaw, pulling at the skin when he talked. His eyes were small and dark, and they moved over me like I was a piece of furniture he was deciding whether to keep.
"You're the supporter applicant?" His voice was exactly what I expected—low, rough, and dripping with casual contempt.
I bowed. Not a deep bow—just enough to show respect without groveling. "Yes, sir. Arlen Vale. I registered two days ago. No class, but I'm strong. I can carry up to fifty kilos without stopping, and I'm used to long hours."
Dorian didn't respond right away. He just stared at me, like he was waiting for me to laugh or cough or do something to prove I was lying.
The woman next to him—the one with the sharp features and the red gem at her throat—snorted. "Fifty kilos? That's it?"
I met her eyes. "I said without stopping. I can carry more if I take breaks."
She smirked. She was pretty in a harsh way—high cheekbones, dark eyes, lips that seemed permanently curled into a sneer. Her mage robe was expensive, the kind that regulated temperature and repelled dirt. A fire affinity, based on the gem. Probably strong. Probably knew it.
"Pretty boy," she said, looking me up and down. "Orphan?"
I felt my jaw tighten, but I kept my voice neutral. "Yes."
"Figured." She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Only orphans take supporter jobs. Nobody else is desperate enough." She paused, letting that hang in the air. "I'm Vex. Party mage. Try not to die in the first five minutes. It's annoying to report."
I didn't respond. I just nodded.
In the corner of the room, barely visible in the shadows, sat a man I hadn't noticed at first. He was lean—almost unnaturally thin—with pale skin and eyes that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. He wore dark clothing that blended into the chair behind him. An assassin type, I guessed. He didn't say anything. He just stared at me with an expression that could have been curiosity or hunger or nothing at all.
Next to him, sitting on a crate, was a young man with glasses and nervous hands. He was the healer—I could tell by the faint white glow that clung to his fingertips, even when he wasn't doing anything. He gave me a quick, sympathetic glance, then looked away.
Dorian stood up.
The chair creaked in relief. He was even taller standing—easily six foot four, maybe more. He walked toward me until he was close enough that I could smell the alcohol on his breath.
"Here's the deal, boy." He spoke slowly, like he was explaining something to a child. "You carry our supplies. You stay in the back. You don't touch anything that isn't yours. If a monster looks at you, you run the other way. You don't fight. You don't try to be a hero. You just carry."
I nodded. "Got it."
"If you slow us down—"
"You leave me." I finished his sentence without thinking. Then I caught myself. "I understand."
Dorian's eyes narrowed. He didn't like being interrupted. But he didn't correct me either.
"We have a B-rank gate tomorrow," he said instead. "Be here at 6 AM. Don't be late. Don't eat anything heavy beforehand—we won't wait for you to throw up."
"I understand."
"Good." He turned his back on me, walked to the table, and picked up an ale bottle. "Get out."
I bowed again—shallower this time—and turned to leave.
As my hand touched the doorknob, Vex's voice cut through the room.
"Hey, orphan."
I paused.
"Don't thank us." Her smirk was audible. "You're replaceable."
I walked out. The door closed behind me with a click that felt heavier than it should have.