Leon pushed through the ceremonial hall's bronze doors into Armathor's afternoon chaos. The central plaza buzzed with families celebrating their children's awakenings, and guild recruiters swarmed successful candidates like vultures on fresh meat.
He moved through the crowd like a ghost. Parents pulled their children closer when they spotted his ash-gray classification badge. A mother covered her daughter's eyes as he passed.
F-Rank Necromancer.
The words burned in his chest. Everyone looking at him saw the same thing—a walking failure. A mistake the System couldn't fix.
Leon was at the plaza's edge, watching guild representatives circle Marcus Thorne. The new A-Rank Flame Berserker stood surrounded by offers. Housing allowances. Training stipends. Equipment packages are worth more than Leon's family earned in three years.
"Leon!"
He turned. Damian jogged toward him, still wearing his ceremonial awakening robes. Silver embroidery caught the afternoon light—the mark of A-Rank's success.
"There you are." Damian stopped a few feet away. Not close enough to touch. The distance felt deliberate.
"Congratulations." Leon forced the words out. "A-Rank Warblade. Your parents must be proud."
"Yeah, they're..." Damian trailed off. His eyes wouldn't meet Leon's. "Listen, about what happened in there—"
"It's fine." Leon's voice came out sharper than intended. "I knew the odds."
But he hadn't. Not really. Leon had spent years dreaming of hunting alongside Damian. Fighting monsters in ancient dungeons and building reputations as an unstoppable team.
Those dreams felt childish now.
"The thing is," Damian continued, his voice taking on a formal tone Leon had never heard before, "Ironfang Guild has certain... expectations."
Leon watched his best friend struggle with words. The same boy who'd spent countless afternoons planning their future as partners. Who'd sworn they'd face anything together,
"What kind of expectations?"
Damian's jaw tightened. "Image matters. Reputation. The kind of people you associate with reflects your standing within the guild."
Each word hit like a physical blow. Leon understood perfectly. He just wanted to hear Damian say it.
"So?"
"So we shouldn't be friends anymore." The words came out in a rush. "I can't associate with an F-Rank. Especially not a necromancer."
There it was. Clean and surgical. Eighteen years of friendship carved away with guild politics.
Leon stared at his former best friend, Damian, who looked uncomfortable but determined. His mind was already made up and had probably been made up when that gray light announced Leon's Failure.
"I see."
"It's not personal," Damian said quickly. "It's just business. You understand, right?"
Leon nodded slowly. He understood perfectly. In Armathor's hierarchy, F-Ranks weren't people. They were embarrassments. If he maintained their friendship, Damian's career would be over before it started.
"Right. Business."
Relief flickered across Damian's face. "Exactly. I knew you'd get it."
A group of young hunters approached. Leon recognized them from the ceremony—their new A and B ranks still glowing with success. Their expensive robes marked them as the upper district elite.
"Falken!" called a blonde girl in pristine white silk. "Ready to celebrate?"
Damian's expression brightened. "Absolutely." He turned back to Leon. "Well, I should go. Guild meet-and-greet tonight."
He walked toward the group without looking back. Leon watched him integrate seamlessly into their circle. Laughter and congratulations flowed freely. Within minutes, it was like Leon had never existed.
The betrayal cut deeper than the F-Rank classification. Leon had expected society to reject him. He hadn't expected his best friend to lead the charge.
Leon turned away from the plaza. The celebration felt like mockery now. He walked the long way home through Armathor's lower districts, avoiding the main thoroughfares where successful awakened would be parading their new status.
As he descended toward the Shadow Quarters, the architecture changed. Marble gave way to weathered stone. Enchanted streetlights became flickering torches. The air grew thick with industrial smoke and desperation.
Here lived the F-Ranks. The failed. The forgotten.
Leon passed a group of them huddled around a trash fire. Their clothes hung in tatters. Hollow eyes tracked his movement with predatory hunger. One man held a wooden sign: "Will work for food."
Was this Leon's future? Begging in alleys while his former friend commanded respect in gilded halls?
The thought made his stomach turn.
Leon climbed three flights of creaking stairs to reach his family's apartment. The door hung crooked on its hinges. Paint peeled from walls stained with water damage. Home.
His mother sat by the single window, mending clothes in fading daylight. Her cough had gotten worse over the past month. Each fit left flecks of blood on her handkerchief.
She looked up when he entered. Hope blazed in her eyes—the same hope she'd carried for weeks before his awakening.
"How did it go?"
Leon opened his mouth to lie. To tell her he'd gotten C-Rank. Maybe D-Rank. Anything that wouldn't crush the faith she'd placed in him.
But the words wouldn't come.
His mother's expression shifted as she read his face. The hope dimmed slowly, like a candle guttering out.
"Oh, sweetheart."
She stood and wrapped him in arms too thin from rationing food to pay for his education. Her embrace smelled like medicine and fading perfume.
"F-Rank," Leon whispered into her shoulder.
She held him tighter. "It doesn't matter. You're still my son."
But it did matter. F-Ranks earned copper coins, while higher ranks commanded silver and gold. The medical treatment his mother needed cost more than Leon could earn in a decade of menial labor.
His awakening wasn't just a personal failure. It was a death sentence for the woman who'd sacrificed everything to give him a chance.
Leon pulled away from the embrace. His mother's face showed careful neutrality, but he caught the flash of devastation before she hid it.
"I'm tired," he said. "Long day."
"Of course. Get some rest."
Leon retreated to his tiny bedroom, where a single cot took up most of the space. His few possessions fit in a wooden crate beside the window.
He lay down and stared at the cracked ceiling. Water stains spread across the plaster-like infection. Outside, the city celebrated new heroes while F-Ranks counted coins they'd never have.
Leon closed his eyes and tried to imagine a different life—one where the orb had blazed with golden light, Damian still called him friend, and his mother could afford the medicine to save her life.
The fantasy felt as distant as the stars.
A soft blue glow suddenly filled the room. Leon's eyes snapped open. Light poured from nowhere, casting strange shadows on familiar walls.
Text appeared in the air before him, written in flowing script that seemed to burn itself into his vision:
[Zombie Lord System Activated]
[Initializing...]
[Welcome, Chosen One]
Leon sat up slowly. The floating words pulsed with otherworldly energy. This wasn't everyday awakening magic. This was something else entirely.
Something that might change everything.