Alex chose work that didn't ask questions.
The border empire was good for that.
People here cared less about pedigree and more about whether you finished the job without causing problems. Low-rank combat work existed in abundance—messy, underpaid, and mostly ignored by anyone important.
Perfect.
He started with escort contracts.
Not caravans worth robbing—those drew attention—but short routes between nearby towns, merchants who couldn't afford guild-backed guards and didn't expect miracles from an F-rank drifter.
Alex wore plain clothes, blade visible but unimpressive. He walked, watched, and listened.
The first ambush came on the second day.
Three men.
Too confident. Too sloppy.
They stepped out from the treeline, weapons raised, voices loud.
"Easy coin," one of them said.
Alex sighed.
He didn't draw his blade.
He stepped forward.
The first man lunged. Alex shifted half a step to the side, caught the wrist, and twisted—not hard enough to break bone, just enough to redirect momentum. The man stumbled past him, off-balance.
Alex's elbow drove into the second man's ribs. Not a strike—placement. The man folded, wheezing.
The third hesitated.
Alex kicked his knee sideways.
The joint bent wrong.
The man screamed and went down.
It was over in four seconds.
Alex stepped back, breathing steady.
No blood.
No corpses.
The merchant stared at him like he'd just witnessed something impossible.
"You— you didn't even—"
"Stay behind me," Alex said calmly. "They'll wake up in a minute."
They didn't wake up.
They limped away an hour later.
The system spoke only after the contract ended.
{Threat neutralization achieved.}
{Method: Balance disruption, joint control, psychological dominance.}
Alex nodded.
"Good."
{No lethal force detected.}
"Also good."
There was no rank increase.
Alex smiled.
The arena came next.
Not the grand kind—no crowds, no banners. Just a dirt pit behind a tavern where low-rank awakeners tested themselves for coin and pride. The rules were simple: first to yield, or first to be unable to continue.
Alex signed up under his real name.
No one reacted.
He was paired with a D-rank man twice his width and half his patience.
"Try not to die," the man laughed.
Alex didn't respond.
The bell rang.
The man charged, mana flaring wildly, reinforcing muscle without finesse. Powerful.
Wasteful.
Alex slipped inside the swing, tapped the man's elbow at the wrong angle, and stepped behind him.
One shove.
The man faceplanted.
Laughter erupted from the onlookers.
The D-rank snarled and surged to his feet, swinging again—harder this time.
Alex ducked, pivoted, and swept his leg.
The man hit the ground again.
Alex didn't follow up.
He waited.
The man stood. Breathing heavier now.
Again.
Again.
Each time, Alex ended the exchange without striking—redirecting force, exploiting momentum, letting the man defeat himself.
After the fifth fall, the man stayed down.
"I yield," he growled.
Alex stepped back.
The crowd booed—disappointed by the lack of spectacle.
Alex didn't care.
{Timing optimization increased.}
{Energy expenditure minimized.}
The system sounded… approving.
The last work was monster control.
Border zones where beasts wandered too close to settlements but were protected by treaty or ecological law. Kill too many and you'd draw attention—from authorities, from factions that monitored such things.
The goal was deterrence.
Alex worked with a small team—mostly F and E ranks. Nervous. Loud. Brave in short bursts.
A boar-class beast charged from the brush, tusks flashing.
Alex moved first.
He threw a weighted line around its legs, twisted, and pulled—not to trap, but to force it to stumble. When it fell, he slammed the butt of his blade into the base of its skull.
Hard enough to stun.
Not enough to kill.
The beast fled when it woke.
The team stared at him in silence.
"That thing kills people," one whispered.
"Not today," Alex replied.
The system logged it.
{Non-lethal neutralization of hostile entity.}
{Risk mitigation achieved.}
That night, Alex sat on the edge of his bed, muscles sore but intact.
No injuries.
No escalation.
No attention.
He stretched slowly, feeling his body respond exactly as intended—no wasted movement, no panic, no lingering adrenaline.
"This is better," he said quietly.
Chaos stirred.
(It is inefficient.)
Alex snorted. "For conquest, maybe."
(For survival,) Chaos said, (it is acceptable.)
Alex smiled faintly.
The system chimed again.
{Combat metrics updated.}
{Control: Increased.}
{Timing: Improved.}
{Threat Assessment: Enhanced.}
{Rank: Unchanged.}
Alex leaned back against the wall.
"Good," he said.
{Clarification requested.}
"I don't want my rank to move," Alex explained. "Not yet."
{Acknowledged.}
No argument.
No override.
That alone told Alex something important.
The system didn't care about power.
It cared about results.
He closed his eyes.
The screams from before didn't return.
No restraints.
No forced circulation.
Just clean motion and quiet endings.
Fighting without killing wasn't weakness.
It was discipline.
And discipline, Alex had learned, kept you alive longer than raw strength ever did.
For now—
That was enough.