The holographic screen didn't appear with a triumphant fanfare or a shimmer of golden light. It flickered into existence with the sickly, pale blue light of a dying neon sign, accompanied by a high-pitched whine that made my molars ache. It looked like a software error, and based on the text scrolling across it, that's exactly what it was.
[ERROR: Statistical Calibration Failed.]
[Target Biology: Incompatible with Standard Quantitative Metrics.]
[Status: Unquantifiable.]
I sighed, the sound lost in the humid air of the staging area outside the Grey-Stone Grotto. "Story of my life," I muttered under my breath. "Too broken for the system, even when the system is magic."
Around me, the staging area was a chaotic symphony of modern-day dungeon crawling. Heavily armored men and women checked their enchanted blades, small drones with humming rotors hovered like metallic dragonflies, and the smell of expensive coffee mixed with the ozone of mana-saturated air. These were the "Awakened"—the lucky few whose bodies had synced perfectly with the System when the Gates first opened ten years ago. They had levels. They had stats. They had futures.
I had a canvas bag full of their spare socks and mana potions.
"Hey, 404! Stop staring at the air and check the straps on my secondary shield!"
The voice belonged to Bradley, a Rank-C Warrior whose chest plate was polished to such a high mirror finish that I could see my own tired, dark-circled eyes in it. He called me 404 because of my system error. It was his idea of a joke. Being a Porter meant more than just carrying gear; it meant being a verbal punching bag for guys who thought a high Strength stat made them philosophers.
"Straps are fine, Bradley," I said, my voice rasping slightly. I tightened a buckle on his pack, feeling the immense weight of the gear that he was too "important" to carry himself. "Just keep your center of gravity forward when we cross the threshold. The Grotto is damp this time of year."
"Damp? Listen to the Porter," Bradley laughed, turning to face a floating camera drone. He flashed a smile that was clearly practiced in front of a mirror. "Did you hear that, fans? The help is worried about the damp. Don't worry, once we get inside, my 'Blaze Aura' will keep us nice and dry. Smash that like button if you want to see me turn some Goblins into charcoal!"
I looked away. The drone was live-streaming to a platform called DungeonHub. People sitting in their safe, climate-controlled apartments paid good money to watch "Elites" like Bradley stomp through low-rank dungeons. It was high-stakes reality TV, and I was just the extra in the background who didn't even get a credit in the description.
We moved toward the Gate—a swirling vortex of violet energy nestled in the mouth of a jagged limestone cave. As we crossed the "Veil," the transition felt like stepping into a cold pool of water. The sounds of the modern world—the distant highway, the shouting vendors, the hum of the city—vanished instantly. It was replaced by the heavy, oppressive silence of the Dungeon.
The Grey-Stone Grotto was a Rank-E dungeon, typically home to slow-moving slimes and the occasional cowardly Goblin. It was supposed to be a "training run" for Bradley's team.
But as we moved deeper into the winding tunnels, something felt wrong. The air didn't smell like wet earth; it smelled like burnt metal and rotting flowers. The moss on the walls wasn't green; it was a bruised, pulsating purple.
"The mana density is spiking," one of the mages whispered, her glowing staff trembling in her hand. "Bradley, the readings are all over the place. This doesn't feel like a Rank-E."
"Relax, Sarah," Bradley said, though I noticed his hand was gripping his sword hilt a little tighter. "The System doesn't make mistakes. It's probably just a localized anomaly. More XP for us, right?"
He was wrong. The System did make mistakes. I was living proof of it.
We reached a large central chamber where the ceiling vaulted up into darkness. Suddenly, the temperature plummeted. My breath hitched in my chest, coming out as a white plume of frost.
Then, the shadows began to move.
They didn't just move; they detached themselves from the walls. They were Shade-Stalkers—creatures made of solidified smoke and malice, with elongated limbs that ended in claws like curved surgical steel. They were Rank-B predators.
"Shade-Stalkers?" Bradley's voice hit a register that was definitely not for the cameras. "What are they doing here? This is an E-Rank hole!"
"Bradley, look out!" Sarah screamed.
One of the shadows lunged. Bradley swung his glowing longsword with all the grace of a man who had paid for his training but never lived through a real fight. The blade, crackling with fire, passed right through the Stalker's chest as if it were nothing but mist. The creature hissed, a sound like steam escaping a pipe, and swiped its claws across Bradley's expensive chest plate. The dragon-scale alloy, meant to withstand a tank shell, peeled back like a tin can.
Bradley fell, scrambling backward in the dirt, his bravado replaced by a raw, naked terror. The camera drone hovered nearby, dutifully recording his humiliation for the thousands of people watching at home.
The other party members were in no better shape. Their spells were fizzling against the Stalkers' incorporeal forms. The System logic was simple: these monsters were too high-level for their stats to overcome. They were trying to fight a ghost with a hammer.
I stood in the back, my heart hammering against my ribs. I should have run. I should have looked for the exit. But my blue screen was back, and this time, the text was different.
[Condition Detected: 'The Dull Blade's Edge']
[Requirement: Wield a weapon with 0% Durability.]
[Effect: Ignore 100% of Physical and Magical Armor. Damage scales with the 'Worthlessness' of the object.]
I looked down. My hands were empty. I wasn't a warrior. I didn't have a sword. But tucked into the side of my Porter's harness was a piece of rusted rebar I'd picked up from a trash heap outside the dungeon. I'd used it earlier to pry open a jammed crate.
[Object: Rusted Rebar (Trash Grade)]
[Durability: 0.05% (Broken)]
[Worth: Effectively Zero.]
It was the most useless thing in the room. And according to my broken system, that made it the most dangerous.
I pulled the rebar from my belt. It felt heavy, cold, and utterly pathetic.
"Hey! Over here, you smoke-smelling bastards!" I yelled.
One of the Stalkers, which had been closing in on Sarah, paused. It turned its eyeless head toward me. To a creature that lived on mana and statistical power, I must have looked like a pebble. I had no aura, no mana, and no threat-level.
It lunged at me, moving with a speed that should have been impossible to track.
But as it got closer, my screen flickered again.
[New Condition Unlocked: 'The Coward's Courage'.]
[Requirement: Engage an enemy while your heart rate is above 150 BPM.]
[Effect: 'Adrenaline Sight'—Perception increased by 1000% while terrified.]
The world slowed to a crawl. I could see the individual swirls of smoke in the Stalker's body. I could see the tiny chips in its obsidian claws. I could hear the heavy, frantic thumping of my own heart—lub-dub, lub-dub—like a war drum.
I didn't try to be a hero. I didn't try to use a "technique." I just swung that piece of rusted, worthless metal as hard as I could at the center of the creature's mass.
There was no explosion of light. No magical hum. Just a sickening, wet crunch as the rebar connected with something solid that shouldn't have been there.
The Shade-Stalker shrieked, a sound that tore through the air, and then it shattered. It didn't dissipate; it broke into thousands of pieces of black glass before dissolving into fine grey ash.
I stood there, gasping for air, the rusted rebar still clutched in my hand. The 'Adrenaline Sight' snapped off, and the world rushed back in at full speed, making my head spin.
Bradley, Sarah, and the others were staring at me. The camera drone was zoomed in so close I could hear the whir of its lens.
"You..." Bradley stammered, his face pale and covered in dungeon dust. "You killed it. With a stick?"
I looked at the rebar. It had a new crack running down its center. "It's not a stick, Bradley," I said, my voice finally finding its edge. "It's trash. And in this dungeon, trash is king."
The blue screen flickered one more time.
[Enemy Slain. Experience cannot be processed into Stats.]
[Converting Experience into 'New Conditions'...]
[Calculating Reward for 'Absolute Underdog' performance...]
I didn't wait for the notification to finish. I could hear more hissing in the dark. The dungeon wasn't done with us, and my heart rate was still dangerously high.
"Get up," I told the Elites. "I think I just broke the rules, and the Dungeon is going to want them back."