Now that Angel had awakened, a new path lay open before him. At long last, he was eligible to register as a Defender. The title alone carried weight across the kingdom—Defenders were humanity's bulwark, wielders of awakened powers who stood against monsters, dungeons, and otherworldly threats. Becoming one was not only a matter of prestige but survival, and Angel knew this was his long-awaited chance to rise above the ridicule he had endured for years.
Standing before his closet, he carefully rifled through his modest collection of clothes. Despite the excitement thrumming in his chest, he reminded himself that appearances mattered. Famous Defenders would be present during the assessments, evaluating candidates not only for their raw abilities but for discipline, composure, and presence. He needed to leave a strong impression.
"This should be good," he murmured to himself as he pulled out a simple outfit: a half-sleeved t-shirt, the type favored by athletes, and a pair of gray jeans. Not elegant, but neat and comfortable—practical, in its own way.
After dressing, Angel sat on the edge of his bed and opened his system panel. His gaze fell immediately upon the summoning skill option, his fingers tingling with anticipation. He had saved up some gold, though not much compared to veterans. Still, testing his luck before the interview might strengthen his chances—or at least reassure him.
"I have two hundred thirteen gold," he muttered, lips curling in a mixture of hesitation and hope. "I should test my luck."
He pressed the command.
[Summon skill has been activated...]
[Congratulations, you have summoned 'Ghoul' (E-ranked) (Type: Ground) (Attribute: Dark).]
Angel exhaled slowly, his expression dimming as the figure appeared in his inventory.
"Another E-ranked, huh..." His shoulders sagged. "I guess I can't expect myself to roll something big as a beginner."
He scrolled through his unit inventory, lips pressed into a thin line. Each creature was weak, incapable of inspiring confidence. Worse still, the new system no longer judged units by stars—only by rank, which felt harsher and more rigid.
He tapped another button, labeled Unit Rates. The screen exploded with endless names, countless possibilities ranked from the weakest to the most legendary. His eyes widened as he scrolled upward, only to discover that ranks S and above were obscured by question marks. They were a mystery, locked behind layers of secrecy.
His gaze lingered on one name: Cerios. The system listed him as C-rank, yet Angel knew from the game community that Cerios was revered, even feared. Players once called him the Seventh Star of Angel, a unit who transcended the limitations of his rank. Angel's chest swelled with bittersweet pride; he had once possessed Cerios, and the memory of his strength burned vividly in his heart.
His thoughts were interrupted by the television flickering on. A news report dominated the screen, announcing the flood of applicants registering as Defenders that very day. The anchor spoke of long lines, nervous candidates, and scouters from every major faction arriving to recruit talent.
Angel's stomach dropped. He had been so caught up exploring the unit rates that he had nearly forgotten the interview entirely. Snapping the panel closed, he bolted out of his apartment, skipping the elevator in favor of the stairs. His legs pumped with urgency as he hailed a taxi at the street corner.
"Bring me to the Defender Association," Angel instructed, sliding into the seat.
The city blurred past the window. As they drew closer, the driver glanced at him in the mirror, eyes narrowing with curiosity.
"Kid, are you planning on registering as a Defender?"
"Yes, I will," Angel replied, adjusting his posture. "Why do you ask?"
The driver hesitated, then spoke with a heavy sigh. "My son also just went in to register. I'm proud of him, but... Defenders live dangerous lives. Every parent worries. It's not something you throw yourself into lightly."
Angel studied the man's reflection, seeing both pride and fear etched into his features. "If your son registered, then he must have thought deeply about it. To step into that building means he believes he's strong enough to protect himself—and others. That alone deserves your respect."
The driver's lips curved into a faint, weary smile. "I suppose you're right. We're here."
Outside, the street swarmed with energy. Candidates displayed their gifts openly—fiery bursts of magic, surges of muscle-enhancing aura, blades that shimmered with mana. Recruiters in formal attire circled like hawks, observing with sharp eyes. Angel swallowed the lump in his throat, anxiety and excitement twisting inside him.
Collecting himself, he stepped into the grand building. The lobby was massive, capable of housing hundreds. Applicants crowded every corner, waiting with numbers clutched in hand.
"Here is your number," an employee said briskly, handing him a slip. "Please come forward when it is called."
Angel glanced down. His number read 231. The announcement board displayed 161. He sighed. It would be a long wait.
Three hours crawled by, the afternoon sun casting slanted rays through the high windows. Finally, his number was called. His pulse quickened as he followed the guide into a vast training chamber.
The room resembled a battlefield: wide, open, and filled with dummies and testing equipment. A stern committee sat at the far side, clipboards in hand.
"You may demonstrate your ability," one of them instructed. "We will determine your rank accordingly."
Angel nodded, inhaling deeply. He raised his hand.
"Summon Majin!"
A circle of dark light opened on the ground. From it, a grotesque figure clawed its way up—the Ghoul, low-ranked and unimpressive. Its hunched posture and dull aura drew skeptical looks from the judges.
"A summoner..." one committee member muttered, scribbling on his paper. "Is that the only one you can call?"
Angel's jaw tightened. He wished he could summon Cerios, but the cost to rebind him exceeded his current resources. "I can summon others," he admitted, "but the conditions are steep. At present, this one is available."
"Very well," another said curtly. "Does it have offensive capabilities, or is it defensive?"
"Its purpose is attack."
"Then instruct it to strike a dummy. We must gauge its power."
Angel gave the order. The Ghoul snarled and charged, swinging its claws at the nearest dummy. The blow landed with a heavy thud, denting the target slightly, but the result was underwhelming. Its strength was comparable to that of a low-tier Defender.
Angel dismissed it with a silent command and stood quietly, awaiting judgment.
After deliberation, the head of the committee spoke. "From our evaluation, your current ability is suited to D-rank. Congratulations on becoming an official Defender."
Angel bowed deeply, eyes glistening. "Thank you. I swear I'll work hard to rise higher—no matter what it takes."
For three long years, he had lived without awakening. He had endured mockery, scorn, and the degrading work of a porter. Words like useless, trash, and bottom-feeder had been his daily companions. Yet today, at last, he had a certificate proving his worth.
He clutched it tightly as he left the building. But fate had other plans.
At the taxi terminal, familiar voices cut through the crowd.
"Well, if it isn't the porter," sneered a voice. Angel froze, recognizing it instantly. Zeth.
He turned, and there they were—a group of Defenders he had once known. Zeth, their leader, stepped forward with mocking laughter. "Why bother coming to the Association when you're not even awakened?"
"You're wrong, Zeth." Angel lifted his chin, defiance burning in his eyes. "I have awakened. See for yourself." He held out his certificate.
Zeth snatched it, glanced at it, then tore it in half with a smirk. The crowd gasped as the pieces fluttered to the ground.
Angel clenched his fists, but instead of despair, something darker stirred inside him—an ember of wrath long suppressed.
"Hey, why don't we settle things like old times back in school?" Zeth taunted, his grin sharp. "What do you say, Angel?"
Angel met his gaze without flinching. "If that's what you want."
The crowd encircled them, murmuring with excitement. Zeth's sword flashed in his hand, his aura radiating confidence. A C-rank, he was undeniably stronger—or so he thought.
He lunged, blade aiming for Angel's neck. But before it could reach him, Zeth froze. A cold, gleaming edge hovered at his own throat, stopping him dead.
The crowd fell silent.
"I thought I made it clear—no one should interfere!" Zeth spat, eyes darting to the figure beside Angel. "Who the hell are you!?"
The newcomer's presence radiated menace, his aura suffocating. His blade pressed lightly against Zeth's skin, promising death with the slightest motion.
"Who am I?" The figure's voice was calm yet chilling. "No one of importance. Just a shadow wondering how best to end you for daring to raise your weapon against my master."
His eyes glowed faintly as the air thickened with killing intent. "Should I kill you outright... or let you suffer first?"
It was Cerios.