The first thing Alex learned about being F-rank was this:
No one cared.
That was both a relief and an insult.
He woke before sunrise in a room barely larger than a storage closet. One narrow bed. One chair with a cracked leg. A window that let in more dust than light. The boarding house smelled like damp wood and boiled vegetables, and the walls were thin enough that he could hear the man next door coughing himself awake every morning like it was a ritual.
Cheap lodging.
Safe.
He sat up, letting the system's suppression settle into place again. His mana remained dull, shallow—barely more than a flicker.
Rank 9.
F — Mid.
He could feel how artificial it was now. Like trying to breathe through cloth.
Still, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood without complaint.
Today was work.
Manual labor didn't require credentials.
The job board near the south gate was already crowded when he arrived. A chalkboard leaned against the wall, names and rates scribbled and crossed out as fast as they were posted.
"Dock unloading—three copper a shift."
"Stone hauling—four copper if you finish."
"Warehouse sorting—two copper, no injuries."
Alex scanned the list.
Three copper was enough for food and a bed.
Four meant he could save.
He stepped toward the stone hauling notice.
The foreman looked him over once—skinny, young, no visible scars.
"You awakened?" the man asked.
"Yes."
"What rank?"
"F."
The foreman grunted. "Figures. You'll last half a day. Grab gloves."
That was the extent of the interview.
The quarry was loud, dusty, and brutal.
Alex spent hours lifting stones heavier than his body should have comfortably handled—rough slabs hauled from carts, stacked, moved, stacked again. F-rank augmentation barely took the edge off the strain. His muscles burned. His palms blistered even through the gloves.
Around him, others worked the same.
Men and women with dull mana signatures, some stronger than others, all moving carefully. No flashy techniques. No spells. Just small, efficient boosts—reinforcing joints, easing breath, dulling pain.
This was how weak awakeners survived.
They didn't fight monsters.
They didn't duel.
They worked.
By midday, Alex had learned three things:
First—F-rank awakeners rarely used mana continuously. Short bursts conserved stamina.
Second—injuries ended careers. No healers for the poor.
Third—no one romanticized awakening at this level.
"This isn't power," a middle-aged worker muttered beside him as they paused to drink. "It's just not being helpless."
Alex nodded.
That felt accurate.
By the end of the shift, his arms shook. Sweat soaked through his clothes. His hands throbbed.
He was paid four copper anyway.
The foreman looked surprised.
"Didn't quit," the man said. "Come back tomorrow if you want."
Alex left without answering.
As he walked back through the city, the system chose that moment to speak.
{Physical strain analysis complete.}
Alex didn't slow.
"And?"
{Conclusion: You are inefficient.}
He snorted. "I carried more than half the workers there."
{Using suppressed parameters.}
"That's your fault."
{Correction: It is optimal.}
Alex stopped walking.
"Optimal for what?"
A pause.
{Survival.}
He exhaled slowly and resumed moving.
"Keep telling yourself that."
{I do not possess self-deception routines.}
"You're learning sarcasm," Alex said.
{Observation acknowledged.}
He ate a cheap meal that night—bread, stew thin enough to be mostly water, and a piece of dried fruit he didn't remember ordering but accepted anyway. Then he returned to his room and collapsed onto the bed.
His body hurt.
Not the clean pain of training.
The ugly kind.
(You are wasting time,) Chaos said lazily.
Alex stared at the ceiling.
"No," he replied. "I'm gathering data."
(You already know this life is beneath you.)
"That's arrogance talking," Alex said. "I need to understand it."
(Why?)
"So I don't underestimate people again."
Silence from the dragon.
Alex rolled onto his side.
"System," he said, "what percentage of awakeners stay at F-rank their entire lives?"
{Approximately 63%.}
He absorbed that.
"And how many die early?"
{Statistical variance high. Estimated: 41% before age forty.}
Alex closed his eyes.
"That's… bad."
{Correction: It is expected.}
"Expected doesn't mean acceptable."
{The world disagrees.}
Alex opened his eyes again, staring at the cracked ceiling.
"This life isn't sustainable," he said. "Not long-term."
{Correct.}
"So what do they do when their bodies fail?"
{They adapt. They rely on community. Or they die.}
Alex was quiet for a long moment.
Then he sat up.
"No magic," he said. "No fancy techniques."
{Clarify.}
"F-rank reality," Alex continued. "Means physical skill matters more than mana."
He flexed his aching hands.
"Weapon training," he said. "Efficiency. Leverage. Killing power that doesn't scale off rank."
Chaos stirred with interest.
(A blade does not care about rank,) the dragon said. (Only precision.)
Alex nodded.
"And control," he added. "Mana control."
{Your mana control exceeds current rank parameters.}
"I know," Alex said. "But it can't look like it does."
{Constraint acknowledged.}
He lay back down, exhaustion finally pulling him under.
Tomorrow, he'd work again.
Tomorrow, he'd be invisible.
And tomorrow night, he'd start planning how an F-rank nobody learned to fight like something far worse.
Because if this world only respected power—
Then he'd learn how to wield it quietly.
Even at the bottom.