Morning. Ren sat on the floor with his back against the damp wall. Phone in hand—screen cracked at the top left corner, but still on.
Guild registration: deadline in 3 days.
He read that line once more, then pressed the side button until the screen went dark. From the bedroom, Mira's breathing came through steady. Last night's fever had come down, but Ren knew his sister's temperature could spike again at any time.
He stood, pulled the biscuit tin from under the loose floorboard. One bill left inside—enough for two days if he skipped lunch. He put it in his pocket, closed the flat door quietly, and headed out toward the guild district.
The guild district was somewhere he'd never been.
Large buildings rose on both sides, iron and glass signboards: Golden Dragon Guild, Black Dawn Guild, Eternal Thunder Guild. Elaborate logos on every door—dragons, swords, shields, fire.
The line in front of Golden Dragon already snaked out onto the sidewalk. Ren glanced over: dozens of people, some already in uniform, some still in regular jackets. Behind him, a man exhaled loudly and muttered to himself, "Queuing again, always queuing. Same every year."
Along the road, an announcement board listed active dungeons. White text on black, updated in chalk:
Dungeon Level 3 — Location: East City — Reward: 50 million
Dungeon Level 2 — Location: West — Reward: 15 million
Dungeon Level 1 — Location: South — Reward: 2 million
Ren scanned the numbers, then his eye caught a line at the very bottom.
Dungeon Level 1 — Zone C — Reward: 500 thousand — Status: Open
No dungeon name. Just a code. Beside it, small red text: Minimum rank D recommended.
Ren looked around. Nobody was looking at that board. Everyone passed it like it wasn't there. But the board was clean—no dust, no scrawled notes, like it had never been touched. The board beside it was covered in taped papers and handwriting. That red line stayed clean.
He raised his phone and took a photo. Then walked toward the first building.
Steel Dawn Guild
A large glass door opened into a room with gleaming marble floors. Behind the reception desk, a woman with her hair pinned up smiled professionally.
"Good morning, how can I help you?"
Ren stood at the desk. "Registering."
"Please show your ID and stat panel."
Ren pulled out his student card—still valid until next month—and opened his stat panel.
NAME: REN
RANK: F
SKILL: SYNTHESIS (RANK F)
STAT: STR 7 | AGI 9 | INT 15 | VIT 6 | MANA 8
The woman read the panel. Her smile didn't change, but the corners of her eyes tightened—like someone reading a price tag and realizing they don't have enough.
From behind Ren, whispers started. "Rank F? Seriously."
"Look at his skill. Synthesis? What even is that?"
"No idea. Sounds like a support skill."
The woman didn't look toward the whispers. Her eyes stayed on Ren. "I'm sorry," she said, "we don't accept rank F."
Ren didn't ask why. "Understood," he said, and turned around.
The glass door closed behind him. The two who'd been whispering—a man and woman in academy uniforms—glanced at him. The woman stifled a laugh behind the back of her hand. Ren didn't look back. He pulled out his notebook and wrote:
Steel Dawn — rejected. Reason: rank F.
Eternal Thunder Guild
The receptionist here was male, short hair, tired face. He read Ren's panel without expression.
"Rank F?"
"Yeah."
"Synthesis? Never heard of it."
"New skill," Ren said.
The man shook his head. "Sorry, our minimum is rank E."
Beside Ren, a Hunter in a camo jacket was filling out a form. He glanced over, read Ren's panel from the side, then shook his head. "Rough," he muttered—not quietly enough.
Ren noted it down and left.
Golden Dragon Guild
A long queue. Ren stood behind five people. In front of him, a young man in a leather jacket kept tapping his thigh.
"So much waiting," the young man muttered—to no one in particular.
Ren didn't respond.
Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. Finally his turn.
The receptionist—an older woman with glasses—looked at Ren's panel. Her eyes narrowed.
"Rank F?" Voice flat.
"Yeah."
"Skill: Synthesis?"
"Yeah."
The woman took off her glasses and exhaled. "Young man, try looking for a guild that's… smaller. We can't take rank F."
"Any recommendations?" Ren asked.
The woman blinked—like she hadn't expected to be asked back. "It won't matter," she said finally. "Rank F is rank F. Same wherever you go."
From behind, a voice cut in. "Hurry it up, lady. Others want to register too." Another added, "If you're getting rejected, step aside. Wasting everyone's time."
Ren didn't turn around. He noted it down and left.
On the sidewalk, he stopped and opened his notebook.
Eternal Thunder — minimum rank E.
Golden Dragon — same. No recommendations.
He closed the notebook and looked at the fourth building across the road: Silver Garuda Guild.
Before he could cross, someone tapped his shoulder from behind.
"Hey."
Ren turned. In front of him stood a young man, maybe mid-twenties, worn jacket and messy hair. On his chest hung a guild badge—not from any of the big buildings, but a plain badge of cheap metal with faded lettering.
"You just finished registering?" the man asked.
"Yeah."
"Rejected?"
Ren didn't answer. The man laughed.
"Me too. Four guilds, all rejected." He held out his hand. "Bima. Rank D."
Ren shook it. "Ren. Rank F."
Bima blinked. "Rank F? And you tried the big guilds?"
"Yeah."
"Of course you got rejected." Bima laughed again. "Rank F won't get through at places like that. What's your skill?"
"Synthesis."
Bima frowned. "What's that?"
"Combining things."
Bima stared at Ren, then laughed—startled laughter, the kind that comes with relief that it wasn't him. "Combining things? Like glue?"
"Like glue, but permanent."
Bima's laughter stopped. He looked at Ren longer. "You serious?"
"Serious."
"Damn." Bima scratched his head. "Rank F with a weird skill. I'm rank D, skill: [Temperature Boost]. Sounds cool, but all it does is warm up a cup of coffee. Can't get it to boil, can't use it for fire."
He held out his palm. "Look. Just warm."
Bima's palm was warm—like a hand that had been holding a mug.
Ren thought: Glue skill. Interesting, actually.
"I've tried dozens of guilds," Bima said. "None want me. They say my skill isn't marketable."
Ren looked at his notebook, then at Bima. "You've tried all the guilds here?"
"Not yet. Still just four."
"Same."
They stood on the sidewalk while an angkot passed and a woman in a suit pushed past them without slowing.
Bima looked at Ren. "You're not giving up?"
"Not enough data yet to conclude it's useless."
Bima blinked. "What?"
"If I haven't tried every guild, I can't know."
Bima went quiet for a moment, then laughed again—different this time. Not pity. Confused, half-impressed. "You're weird. But I like you."
Ren didn't react. "Where are you headed next?"
"Silver Garuda. Though I'll probably get rejected again."
"Try anyway," Ren said.
They crossed the road together. Halfway across, Bima asked, "Rank F, weird skill, rejected everywhere. Why not find other work? Factory labor, security guard, whatever."
"My sister needs medicine," Ren said.
Bima stopped and looked at Ren. He didn't say anything.
They parted at the Silver Garuda entrance—Bima went in, Ren didn't. Ren had already spotted a small board at the end of an alley beside the building. A wooden board with handwritten text, barely readable from a distance.
Guild Tanah — Accepting all ranks.
The alley was narrow—two people couldn't walk side by side. The smell of urine and damp cigarettes hit immediately.
Guild Tanah's door was rusted iron with no proper handle. Just a hole where someone could slip a finger in to pull it open.
Ren slipped his finger in and pulled. The door opened with a heavy groan.
Inside, the room was small—even smaller than Ren's flat. Walls dingy, floor bare cement, furniture worn: one scarred wooden desk, three chairs in different colors, and a full ashtray in the corner.
A man sat behind the desk. Around fifty, hair half-white, face creased. His black leather jacket had faded at the elbows. On his chest, a guild badge—plain metal, same as Bima's. He was smoking, the smoke drifting up toward a cracked ceiling.
In the corner, the chair farthest from the door, a woman sat without moving. Short hair, black jacket. Her face wasn't turned toward Ren, but Ren felt her attention—something watching without showing it.
"What do you want?" The man's voice was rough.
Ren stood at the desk. "Registering."
The man—Ren mentally called him Brek—leaned back in his chair. Cigarette still between his middle fingers. Eyes moving over Ren from head to foot.
"Rank?"
"F."
Brek's eyebrow went up. "Skill?"
"Synthesis."
Brek paused, drew on his cigarette, exhaled. He chuckled—once, twice—then stopped on his own. Eyes still on Ren's stat panel.
"Okay," he said. "You're in."
Ren blinked. First time today someone hadn't turned him away.
"...Okay?"
"Rank F is fine. As long as you work. Thirty percent commission."
Ren didn't answer immediately. His eyes moved across the room: scarred desk, mismatched chairs, full ashtray, cheap badge on Brek's chest. Then the woman in the corner—clearer now. Her face was flat, but her eyes tracked every movement Ren made, quietly.
"Twenty-five," Ren said.
Brek's eyebrow went higher. "Twenty-eight."
Ren ran a quick calculation: next three days, medicine, food, advance. "Deal."
Brek opened his desk drawer and pulled out a card—thin plastic, with Guild Tanah — Rank F printed above a logo that had already faded. He handed it across. "Don't lose it. Replacement fee is fifty thousand."
The card was lighter than Ren expected. He put it in his pocket, but didn't move.
Brek looked at him. "Something else?"
"Advance payment."
Brek stopped smoking. The cigarette was nearly done, just a stub. He pressed it out in the ashtray.
"New members don't usually ask for advances."
"I'm a new member who's rank F," Ren said.
Brek held Ren's gaze for a long moment. Ren didn't look away.
In the corner, the woman didn't move. But Ren heard something—a quiet exhale. Or maybe nothing.
Finally Brek let out a breath. He opened the drawer again, counted out several bills, and handed them over.
"Forty thousand. Deducted from your first earnings."
Ren took the money. "Thank you."
He turned. At the doorway, he glanced once more toward the woman in the corner. Their eyes met. She didn't smile, didn't nod. Just looked.
Ren left.
At a pharmacy near the guild district, Ren bought children's fever medicine. Small box, orange packaging, eight thousand rupiah.
He put it in his pocket. Money left: thirty-two thousand—enough for a week, maybe ten days if he was careful.
He walked home.
On the way, his phone lit up. He opened the photo of the announcement board.
Dungeon Level 1 — Zone C — Reward: 500 thousand — Minimum rank D recommended.
Small reward. But why had nobody taken that job?
He thought back to the board: clean, no dust, no taped papers or handwritten notes. While the board beside it was covered. That red line stayed untouched.
He searched for more information about the dungeon on his phone.
No record of anyone ever taking the mission.