The plastic of my new K-Rank ID card felt unnaturally cold against my palm as I stepped out of the Association's monolith. For the first time in nineteen years, I wasn't just Oliver the freak; I was a registered Hunter. The air in the city felt different—sharper, more predatory. I wasn't just a bystander anymore; I was part of the ecosystem.
I spent the next hour navigating the subway, keeping my head down. Most people moved away from me, sensing the grime of the city's underbelly that seemed to cling to my skin. I didn't blame them. I was heading toward the industrial district, a place where the concrete was cracked and the streetlights flickered with a dying buzz. This was where the "Low-Yield" Gates typically manifested—the ones the high-rankers ignored because the loot wasn't worth their time.
I found my target in the basement of a condemned textile factory. The Gate was a jagged tear in the fabric of the room, shimmering with a sickly violet hue that pulsed like a dying heart. It was silent, save for the low hum of dimensional pressure.
Before stepping in, I knelt by a rusted drainage pipe in the corner of the basement. I closed my eyes, reaching out with that familiar, itching mental thread.
"Rat Call".
The scratching started almost instantly. From the shadows behind old machinery and the depths of the pipes, they emerged. Thirty pairs of red eyes blinked in the darkness, waiting for my command. They were my tools, my armor, and my only friends in a world that wanted me at the bottom.
I stood up, the swarm swirling around my sneakers like a grey tide. With a deep breath, I stepped through the shimmering portal.
The transition was a violent jolt to the senses. The air on the other side was thick with the stench of stagnant water and old blood. I was in a stone corridor, the walls weeping with a dark, oily moisture. Most Hunters would be checking their expensive swords or mana-infused shields right now, but I just tightened my grip on the mental threads of my swarm.
Dungeons are ranked for a reason. Even a K-rank Gate like this could become a tomb if you're careless. My Skill, Rat-King, was at Level 3, but my extensions like Rat Shield and Rat Wall were still in their infancy—barely sitting at 4% and 3% mastery. I wasn't a god; I was a tactician playing a high-stakes game with living pieces.
The first monsters appeared from a side fissure—hairless, pale scavengers. They were weak, but fast. I didn't waste time. As the first one lunged, I dodged a clumsy swipe and flicked my wrist. Ten rats launched themselves, their teeth sinking into the creature's neck. While it shrieked, I stepped in and slammed my fist into its temple.
The tunnel eventually opened into a wider cavern where a goblin stood guard, gripping a jagged wooden club. It was a wall of green muscle. It snarled and charged, swinging that club in a horizontal arc aimed to shatter my ribs.
"Rat Wall!".
Twenty rats swarmed together, piling into a dense, living cushion just as the club connected. The impact was a dull thud—the rats took the blow, their bodies absorbing the force so I didn't have to. As the wall broke, I lunged forward with a rat in my hand.
"Rat Enhanced Strike!".
I felt the rat's body harden like stone. I buried my fist into the goblin's chest. There was a sickening crack, and though the goblin stumbled, it wasn't dead. It raised the club again, but I was already inside its guard, another rat ready in my palm.
"Rat Enhanced Strike!".
I aimed for the throat. The thud was wet and final. The goblin collapsed, twitching until it went still.
I stood over the corpse, gasping for air as my hands shook. I'd lost a good portion of my swarm already. This was the reality of the crawl: it wasn't heroic, it was a desperate, dirty struggle for survival. But every kill brought me closer to Level 4.