I wake up to the sound of a stadium booing.
Not metaphorical booing—literal, echoing, aristocrat-grade disdain that bounces off marble pillars and ricochets straight into your self-worth like a sonic slap from God. It's the kind of sound that says, "You failed before you even started," and somehow also, "Your haircut offends the nobility."
In front of me: a floating crystal the size of a gym ball, rotating lazily as if it has more important places to be. Above me: eight billion tons of stone architecture screaming, "You are not the protagonist." It's like someone built a Roman coliseum, then gave it a stat obsession and performance anxiety.
Around me: rows upon rows of anxious-looking teenagers, each one nervously fiddling with the hem of their state-issued ceremonial shirt or glancing at their bracelet like it might sprout wings and fly them out of here. We're all lined up like discount Pokémon waiting to get appraised by a system that thinks math equals destiny.
Fantastic. I died writing anime friendship clichés and now I've respawned in the Hunger Games: Metric Edition. There's even a banner that says "Annual National Ranking Ceremony" hanging from the top rafters like this is a graduation and not a public execution of potential. Somewhere, Kafka is slow clapping.
"Hey," says the boy next to me, blinking rapidly like he just realized he's in the splash zone of trauma. Freckles dot his nose like a constellation of poor life choices, and his mop of brown hair looks like it was styled by cowlicks and crossed fingers. His homespun shirt is patched with love, hope, and not enough thread count.
"You okay? You look... kinda pale."
I blink slowly. "Hard to look fresh when your soul's been reincarnated without a skincare routine or a will to live."
He laughs—genuinely, like I'm just some quirky side character with a dry wit and not a man on the brink of a genre shift.
Adorable.
I immediately label him "Tutorial Companion A" and mentally file him under 'Probably Going to Die First to Motivate the Plot.' That or get captured halfway through arc two. Poor kid doesn't even realize he's a pacing device.
"I'm Tam," he offers, with the guileless confidence of someone who's never been betrayed by a plot twist. "From Millhaven. You?"
"Kiriti Kolluru. From Earth. Or possibly the bottom of a screenwriter's recycling bin. Jury's out."
Tam laughs again, though this time it's slightly more hesitant. As if he's starting to suspect I might be exactly as unwell as I sound.
I squint down at the arena floor. Massive concentric circles of polished white stone surround a glowing platform in the center, like a bullseye drawn by a wizard on performance-enhancing drugs.
"And this is?"
He blinks, incredulous. "You don't know? It's the Ranking Ceremony! The most important day of our lives!"
"Of course it is," I reply with a smile so fake it belongs in a toothpaste commercial. "What better way to determine a person's future than randomized magical number crunching, observed by 50,000 strangers and one suspiciously glowing crystal?"
Tam laughs again. Nervous this time. Like he just realized I might be the protagonist, or worse:
someone who thinks they are.
Before Tam can respond with another overly sincere sentence, a voice slices in from the other side like a diamond-tipped critique sharpened on decades of entitlement.
"Clearly," she says, with the rich confidence of someone whose bedsheets probably have a stat bonus, "you're from one of the backwater baronies."
Auburn hair coiled tighter than my grip on sanity, gold-trimmed velvet dress that whispers "my allowance could fund a rebellion and still leave enough for brunch," and eyes sharp enough to qualify as weapons-grade spell components. She doesn't just radiate noble energy—she projects it like a cursed artifact designed to guilt-trip you into groveling.
Tam practically wilts beside me like a dandelion in the presence of a flamethrower.
"Everyone knows your worth is determined at fifteen," she continues, like she's reading from a scroll of Important Things You Peasants Don't Understand. "Five core stats. Five values. One final rank."
I tilt my head. "And one lovely seating arrangement where I get to listen to aristocracy explain fantasy eugenics like it's the hot topic of noble brunch hour. What's next? A sermon on genetic destiny with complimentary mimosas?"
She arches a perfectly judgmental eyebrow, forged from the same material as every disapproving high elf mother in fiction.
"Seraphina Ashworth," she declares. "Third daughter of Count Ashworth."
She says it like she expects the stone floor to bow. I half-expect her name to come with a floating tooltip and a mandatory cutscene.
"Kiriti Kolluru," I reply, delivering the kind of half-bow usually reserved for sarcastic ballroom duels and passive-aggressive drama teachers. "First son of... whoever forgot to install a tutorial in my brain when I respawned."
Tam chuckles again, although now it's laced with panic. He's realizing—too late—that he's sandwiched between a born protagonist and the narrative equivalent of a snarky landmine.
She doesn't laugh. She just tilts her head in that perfectly noble way, like I'm a curiosity in a zoo exhibit labeled *Commoner, Possibly Rabid*. "You'll regret making light of this," she says.
"I regret a lot of things," I answer. "Like trusting a vending machine tuna sandwich. But sure. This ranks high."
Seraphina gestures with one graceful hand toward the massive banners draped like judgmental curtains across the arena walls. Each bears a single glowing letter: G, F, E, D, C, B, A, and the almost-mythical S.
The lettering is big enough that if you failed to read it, the system would probably rank your intelligence as negative and issue an apology to math.
"The system ranks you based on your total stats," she recites, like this is her favorite bedtime story. "G-Rank is the lowest. F is marginally acceptable. E means you might survive in a support role. D means you're serviceable. C or higher? Actual potential. Anything above B? You're basically royalty."
I nod, thoughtfully. "And G-Ranks? I assume they get a firm handshake and a one-way ticket to 'thanks for playing' land?"
She goes very still. Like I just asked her if she ever experienced emotions without supervision.
"G-Ranks go to the Training Grounds," she says.
Her voice drops half an octave. Like the words themselves are classified trauma.
Tam, beside me, audibly gulps. His hands are clenched so tight around his knees, I'm surprised his bracelet hasn't popped off.
"No one comes back from there," he whispers.
Great. Not just a punishment tier. We're talking the 'dies offscreen in Act One' energy.
I glance back toward the arena's center. The platform pulses with that smug magical glow that says, "Step forward so we can judge your soul via arbitrary metrics."
One by one, teens step up, place their hand on the floating crystal, and receive their magical SAT score. Numbers materialize in the air like reality's version of a pop quiz with eternal consequences.
"Elias of House Something," the announcer drones. STR: 18. AGI: 25. INT: 32. Total: 108. E-Rank.
Polite applause. The kind you give when a kid finishes the school play without vomiting.
"Brinna of Elkhollow." Total: 89. E-Rank. Slightly less applause.
Then a noble kid steps up. Strong jaw. Perfect posture. Confidence manufactured in a lab.
STR: 75. AGI: 48. INT: 39. VIT: 62. LCK: 42. Total: 266.
"D-Rank," the officiant announces.
The crowd erupts like someone just proposed marriage in front of royalty.
This world really woke up and chose bureaucracy as its religion.
And me? I think I just enrolled in the Book of Job: Isekai Edition.
Except this time, the stat screen gets the last word.
The Ranking Ceremony continues like a dystopian talent show with fewer sequins, more judgment, and a 100% higher chance of permanent life consequences.
Every kid walks up to the glowing crystal. Hand out. Soul scanned. Score announced like they're being auctioned off by the gods of statistical elitism. A few cheer. Most flinch. One kid faints. No one blames him.
They try to act brave, but you can see the collapse mid-spine—shoulders curling inward, eyes darting, faces trying not to react while the entire stadium rates their life on a scale from "barely functional" to "go die in a ditch, peasant." It's Hunger Games meets DMV meets MMORPG character select, and everyone's stuck in a randomized build.
Tam's name is called.
He stands like a deer that just realized it's standing in a wolf-themed coliseum. I pat his shoulder like a supportive undertaker.
"If you die, I get your shoes."
He chuckles, but it sounds like his lungs are filing for early retirement. Still, he heads down the steps, feet dragging like he's being drawn into a ritual sacrifice by Excel.
"Tamwell Millbrook of Millhaven," the officiant announces, bored already. He might as well be reading grocery coupons.
Tam places his hand on the crystal. It glows. Then pulses. Then emits a soft, judgmental chime. The numbers appear above his head like a divine pop-up ad:
STR: 2
AGI: 3
VIT: 1
INT: 1
LCK: 0
**Total: 7**
The arena doesn't laugh.
It sighs. The way you sigh when your soup comes cold or your favorite show kills off the dog.
"G-Rank," the officiant says with the tone of someone swiping left on a dating app. "Total Stat Score: 7."
No one applauds. Not even politely. There are tree stumps with more enthusiastic fanfare.
Tam walks back up like someone just unplugged his soul. Pale. Tight-lipped. Mouth twitching with a forced smile so weak it should come with a medical warning.
I give him a thumbs up. "Congrats. You survived Step One. That means you statistically outperform roadkill."
He manages a nod. Barely. His eyes are glossy. He's trying not to cry, and that makes one of us.
Because I'm already mentally drafting my funeral speech.
"Kiriti Kolluru."
They say my name like it personally offended their ancestors.
The officiant squints at his scroll like he just saw a typo that might explode. One of the nobles laughs. Another one mutters, "Foreign name. G-Rank for sure."
I rise from my seat like I'm approaching an execution, not a crystal podium. The stone stairs echo under each step like they're counting down the seconds to humiliation.
Everyone's watching. Everyone. It's like walking into a courtroom where the jury already voted guilty and the judge is drunk on noble prejudice.
I step onto the platform.
The crystal pulses brighter, like it knows something weird is about to happen. Cool. So even the magic artifact is nervous.
I reach out. Palm to surface. Cold. Sharp. Buzzing like a caffeine-addicted hard drive. There's a flicker behind my eyes—a moment where something ancient and mechanical brushes against my soul like a bureaucratic spreadsheet demon doing its rounds.
Then the numbers appear:
**STR: 3** (G)
**AGI: 3** (G)
**VIT: 6** (G)
**INT: 30,003** (B)
**LCK: 9** (G)
**TOTAL: 30,024** (B)
Silence. Real silence.
The kind that hits like a slap. The kind that makes birds stop mid-flight and existential dread spike like a stock crash.
Then chaos.
Gasps. Screams. A noble in the VIP section drops their jeweled chalice. Somewhere, a scribe starts scribbling frantically. Even the crystal buzzes louder, like it wants to file a system bug report.
"Thirty thousand in INT?!"
"That has to be a glitch!"
"The rest of him looks like he was built by accident."
"What kind of build is that? Brain-only mode?!"
I stand there like the world's most overclocked librarian. Lightning rod? No. I'm the tower they strap lightning rods to. Nerd mode: weaponized.
The officiant clears his throat, voice less robotic now. More... disturbed.
"B-Rank. Total Score: 30,024."
And that's when the laughter starts. First one guy. Then a dozen. Then the whole stadium is wheezing.
One voice shouts, "Put all his points in brain and forgot to install survival!"
Another goes, "He got hacked by the god of useless encyclopedias!"
Even Seraphina reacts. Her eyebrows rise a whole two millimeters. That's practically a marriage proposal.
Tam looks at me like I just confessed to war crimes against mathematics.
I raise my arms, take a slow, dramatic bow. Theater kid levels of flair.
"Thank you," I declare, loud and proud. "I always dreamed of being statistically bullied in public."
More laughter. Louder now. But I don't flinch. I let the spotlight bake into me. Let their ridicule pour down like confetti. Because behind every joke they're making, I see it:
Fear.
Confusion.
And the tiniest sliver of doubt.
Because they don't know what to do with me. Because I broke the narrative.
Because to them, I'm not just a fluke. I'm a glitch.
And if this world runs on numbers?
Then I'm not just playing the system.
I'm about to rewrite the code.
The officiant stares at me like he wants to request a refund from the gods. The crowd is still laughing, but now it has a tinge of confusion. Unease. Like they're not sure if this is a joke or the beginning of a catastrophic glitch.
"INT is over thirty thousand?!"
"He has six in Vitality! I've seen toddlers with more durability!"
"Is he supposed to be standing? That much INT should collapse his spine from the weight of his own brain."
The crystal dims and flickers, sputtering like a dying torch. You can almost hear it wheeze in binary.
Officials gather like pigeons around a spilled noble lunch. One whispers to the officiant. Another pulls out a second scroll to double-check my readout, then a third to cross-reference that scroll. They look like they want to cast Detect Bullshit but forgot the incantation.
"Bracelet malfunction," one mutters.
"Must be a glitch in the system," says another, his eyes darting toward the VIP box like he wants permission to panic.
No one seems to know what to do with me. Not the officiants, not the guards, not the floating crystal that's supposed to be all-knowing. I'm a narrative hiccup. An unscheduled anomaly. A walking contradiction in a world that worships clean numbers.
And then—because this comedy writes itself—they slap the standard-issue iron bracelet on my wrist. Everyone has one. The design is identical for all ranks, the only difference being the glowing rank letter. Mine flickers with a big, shiny B. But judging by the way the guards look at me, I might as well be wearing an explosive collar labeled "debug me."
Seraphina watches like she's just spotted a rat performing algebra. Her gaze is colder than her dress is expensive.
"They think you're a bug," she says, tone clinically detached.
I raise an eyebrow. "They're not wrong. Just wait until I start reproducing."
She scoffs, like she's used to having the last word. Tam, poor Tam, looks like he wants to sink into the arena floor and pretend he never spoke to me. I get it. No one wants to be friends with the error message.
Two guards flank me, moving with the cautious rhythm of men escorting a bomb they don't understand. Not rough. Not gentle. Just carefully impersonal. I imagine they've been briefed: if I start glowing or speaking Latin backward, drop me.
The tunnel behind them yawns like a mouth that's swallowed too many failures. It's lined with flickering torches placed just right to be spooky but still OSHA compliant. The stone seems darker down there. Hungrier.
"Training Grounds," one announces. Loud. Purposeful. Performative.
The crowd ripples.
Gasps erupt like popcorn. A noble drops her monocle. Another leans forward like he can't believe the kingdom just tossed a B-Rank into the monster disposal bin.
"Did he say Training Grounds?"
"But he's a B!"
"That INT score alone could qualify him for Court Mage status!"
It doesn't matter. The system said glitch. And this kingdom? It doesn't tolerate statistical heresy.
Or maybe it does—just not in public. Because if he's really B-Rank, if that thirty-thousand-plus INT is legit and not some divine typo, then logically the Training Grounds shouldn't be hard for him. It's only designed to break G-Ranks. If he's truly that gifted, he should walk out just fine. And if he doesn't—well, maybe that's all the proof we need that he never belonged there in the first place.
Tam opens his mouth to say something—a goodbye, a last-ditch encouragement, maybe a prayer. But I cut him off with a raised hand.
"No speeches," I say, already moving forward. "Save it for my funeral montage. Preferably with sad violin and a black-and-white flashback."
The laughter's gone. Dead. What remains is quieter. Unsettled. The arena hums with whispers, unsure if it just witnessed a prophecy or a punchline.
My footsteps echo as I vanish into the dark.
Behind me, Seraphina mutters one final judgment, sharp enough to draw blood.
"Figures. High INT. Zero sense."
She's not wrong.
But she also doesn't know what happens when you hand a broken script to someone who used to write plot twists for a living.
They expect me to die in that dungeon.
But I've seen how these stories work.
I know what happens when the glitch refuses to crash.
Let's see what this dungeon does.