Present Day.
The air in the Lower Moss-Grottos was thick, smelling of damp earth and ancient rot. It was a place where the sun never reached, and the only light came from the sickly green pulse of the walls.
In the center of the silence, a lone figure crouched near a jagged rock formation. He wasn't wearing the enchanted silver plate of a High-Ranker or the glowing silk of a Mage. He wore a simple, dark utility jacket, its sleeves pushed back to reveal lean, scarred forearms.
This boy's name is Techyon.
He is our protagonist.
He is 16 years old.
To any passing Scout, Techyon looked like a nobody—just another "Standard-Type" trying to make a few credits in a Low-Rank zone. His stats were flat, his mana signature was almost invisible, and his gear was strictly "Starter-Tier."
But Techyon didn't care about his rank. He only cared about the task in front of him.
With a steady hand, he reached into a crevice and plucked a Glimmering Spore-Shroom. Its cap vibrated with a faint, rhythmic hum. One... two... three. He tucked them into his leather pouch, his movements surgical and calm.
"Halfway there," Techyon muttered. His voice was low, barely a ripple in the cavern's heavy air.
He stood up, brushing the dirt from his knees. His messy silver hair fell over his brow, but that single, sharp Blue Streak seemed to catch what little light remained in the cave.
In this world, most 16-year-olds were busy showing off their first flashy abilities in the Guild Academies. Techyon was here, in the dirt, doing the "Trash Quests" that no one else wanted.
He looked down at his palm. For a split second, a tiny, jagged spark of blue electricity danced between his fingers. It was gone before he could even blink—a flickering ghost of a power he couldn't yet control.
Techyon stared at the empty air where the spark had been. His expression didn't change, but his grip on his gathering tool tightened.
"Soon," he whispered to the shadows.
He turned his head, his eyes narrowing. The cave was still silent, but the "Standard-Type" instincts he had honed for years were suddenly screaming. The shadows at the end of the tunnel weren't just dark anymore. They were moving.
The heavy oak doors of the Iron-Oak Adventurer's Guild creaked as Techyon pushed them open. Inside, the air was a mix of expensive cigar smoke, the metallic tang of sharpened blades, and the loud, arrogant laughter of Mid-Rank hunters celebrating their latest kills.
Techyon didn't look at them. He kept his head down, his boots thudding softly on the stained floorboards as he walked toward the far end of the hall—the "Low-Tier" counter.
The receptionist, a tired-looking woman named Elena who had seen a thousand boys just like him, didn't even lift her eyes from her ledger as he approached.
Thud.
Techyon placed the leather pouch on the scarred wooden counter. The bioluminescent glow of the Midnight Mushrooms bled through the fabric for a moment before fading.
Elena opened the pouch, poked a finger inside to check the quality, and sighed. She pulled a small wooden tray from under the desk and clicked a heavy brass sorter.
Clink. Clink. Clink.
Seven dull, worn-out coins tumbled onto the tray. They weren't the gleaming Gold Credits the High-Rankers used, or even the Silver Shards of the B-Tiers.
They were Brown Coins. The lowest currency in the realm—made of impure copper and worth just enough to buy a loaf of bread and a single night of heat.
"Seven brown coins," Elena said, her voice monotone. She pushed the tray toward him. "Nice work for today, kid. Try not to spend it all on a single meal."
Techyon didn't flinch at the sarcasm. He swept the coins into his palm, the cold metal feeling heavy and honest against his skin. To the hunters laughing at the bar, seven brown coins were a joke. To Techyon, they were another day of survival.
"Thanks," Techyon said. His voice was calm, but his eyes stayed sharp.
As he turned to leave, a group of "Silver-Rank" teenagers in polished armor blocked his path, their capes smelling of fresh laundry. They looked at Techyon's dirt-stained jacket and his small pouch of copper with visible disgust.
"Out of the way, Shroom-Picker," one of them sneered, shouldering past him.
Techyon stepped aside. He didn't argue. He didn't fight. He just tightened his grip on his seven coins.
[SYSTEM LOG: TRANSACTION COMPLETE]
[CURRENT BALANCE: 12 BROWN COINS]
[STATUS: POVERTY LEVEL]
He walked out into the cooling evening air. The sun was setting, casting long, orange shadows across the city. Techyon looked at the flickering blue streak in his hair reflected in a window.
"Seven coins," he whispered to himself, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "It's enough for tonight."