After leaving the insect shop, Rick dove into the river to wash off the grime. He spent a silver coin on a secondhand shirt at a thrift store, then swaggered into a pastry shop to buy a fresh insect oil cake—the very treat he'd longed for.
To ordinary folk, such splurges would reek of desperation, but to Rick, today felt like a miracle. In the past, this would've sent him into hysterics, but now his joy was muted by an even more staggering realization: he was worth over a million silver coins. The sum boggled his mind—an image of wealth piled as high as a mountain.
"A million silver... hahaha! I'm rich now!"
Strutting down the street, Rick guffawed wildly, drawing stares. He didn't care; these curious glances were far kinder than the scorn he'd endured before.
"Now that I have a combat insect, I'm valuable. What job should I get?"
Scratching his head, he noticed a recruitment poster on the wall: the city lord was mustering soldiers for war against a neighboring state, seeking those with combat insects.
"Join the army?" The thought made him flinch. He loathed the lord—city guards often slaughtered untouchables like him, calling it a "beautification effort." Though no longer an outcast, he refused to become a persecutor. If anything, he wanted to help others escape their plight—he'd been one of them just yesterday.
"Maybe become a hunter instead."
The idea jolted him. "Yes! As a hunter, I can enter the forest to catch eggs. With enough eggs, I can turn all untouchables into citizens!" This naive dream set his blood racing. He asked a passerby for directions to the Insect Hunter Association and bolted off.
Insect-lamp light trailed behind his running figure as the night wind tousled his brown curls, sweat trickling down his forehead...
"3 First Avenue."
Gasping for breath, Rick reached the address. Before him stood a colossal building: the formidable Insect Hunter Association sign, a Gothic spire flying a tiger-head flag. The grandeur intimidated him. Carved steps bore insect motifs and names of heroes—each stair a legend. Could he truly walk in their footsteps?
Insecurity gripped him. He stepped back, pale, ready to flee. But then he clenched his fists, trembling with resolve. "I'm valuable now. I belong here!"
Whirling around, he marched to the steps. Climbing the 137 stairs, sweat soaking his shirt, he wasn't exhausted by the height but by shedding the weight of being an untouchable. Someday, his name might grace these steps too.
He stood tall before the ornate revolving door, noticing an elderly man with a chiseled face and blood-red eyes fixated on him. Once, this stare would've sent him running, but now he felt confident.
Bowling politely, Rick asked, "Sir, how do I join the Hunter Guild?"
"You?" The old man eyed Rick's tattered clothes, confused—no worthy candidate dressed so poorly. But he couldn't turn away this polite, handsome boy. "Do you have a combat egg? Or a non-combat auxiliary egg?"
"I do!" Rick proudly bared his shoulder, showing the sickle insect mark.
"Ah, a soldier-rank sickle insect. You qualify." The old man smiled, handing him a card. "Go to the receptionist inside. She'll help you."
"Thank you, sir!" Rick dashed in.
The hall's domed ceiling and priceless sculptures left him awestruck. "These must cost a fortune."
Weaving through bustling figures, he found the receptionist. "Hi, what do I need to do to join?" he asked, handing over the card.
The busy clerk looked up, pushing her glasses. "It's all here." She tapped a brochure. "Register your insect's rank, type, lifespan, and fusion level. Pay the deposit, and I'll take you to the testing room. If it matches, you get a badge."
"Wow, that's complicated." Rick gulped. "I... I can't read. Could you—"
"Can't read?" The clerk sighed, fetching a form. "Fine, tell me, and I'll write."
"Thank you so much!" Rick beamed.
"Age?"
"Seventeen."
"Name?"
"Rick."
"Insect egg type?"
"The old man at the door said it's a soldier-rank sickle insect. I... I think so too." Rick lowered his head, embarrassed.
"Sickle insect? A combat-type?" The receptionist looked up in surprise, glancing hesitantly at the elder outside the hall. "That old curmudgeon wouldn't joke." She jotted down "Combat Type," "Sickle Insect," and "Soldier-Rank" on the form.
"Lifespan?"
"Um... I just fused with the egg yesterday. How long will it live?" Rick asked urgently. He knew insects had lifespans and wanted to know how much time he had to earn money with it.
"If it hatched yesterday, your insect should live three years. If you can promote its evolution, that time can extend— theoretically, even immortality is possible."
"Immortality!" Rick's eyes lit up. This was his greatest asset; immortality meant never fearing return to untouchable status. "How do I make it evolve?"
The receptionist smirked faintly, skeptical a soldier-rank insect could evolve to immortality. Though valuable, sickle insects were low-tier combat bugs—she'd never heard of one evolving. Still, she explained patiently: "After processing your paperwork, the guild will give you a training manual and access to training rooms. Follow the instructions."
"I see, thank you so much!"
"Done." The receptionist stamped the form with the guild seal. "Hunters pay 50 silver monthly. Pay a year's deposit first, then I'll take you to the testing room."
"Fifty silver a month?!" Rick nearly jumped.
"Is that a problem?" The receptionist blinked, puzzled.
"Fifty a month, twelve months... that's 600 silver!" Rick fumbled with the 58 silver in his pocket—his entire wealth, barely enough for a month.
Hesitating, he clung to his dream. "Can I pay for one month first?"
"Just one month?" She hesitated. A hunter with a gold-worth insect should have more, but Rick's respect touched her. "Against regulations, but I'll make an exception. Don't miss next month's payment."
"Thank you! I'll earn enough to pay on time!"
"Follow me."
In the inner hall, she led him to a room filled with equipment. "Strike this insect carapace with all your might." Her eyes suddenly transformed into giant compound eyes, startling Rick.
"This?" he asked, eyeing the carapace.
"Right."
Forcing his gaze from her strange eyes, Rick raised his right arm and swung down.
CLANG.
He didn't crack the carapace—instead, the recoil sent him sprawling.
"Rank 1 insect soldier. Speed: 0.5 Mach. Serrated hardness: 7. Strength: 40 kg." The receptionist jotted the stats. Rick crouched, anxious.
"Your physique is weak. Decent hardness, but others fail. You get a Brass Star Badge. Promote by retesting." She handed him a brass badge engraved with a star, plus a booklet and a key.
"Congrats—you're a Kester Branch hunter. The booklet teaches basic body cultivation. This is the starter version; mid-tier comes with a Moon Badge. The key's for your locker. Free training grounds are available, though as a novice, yours will be basic. Questions?"
"How many badge ranks are there?"
"Three major tiers by combat power: Sun, Moon, Star. Each has four sub-ranks: Brass, Bronze, Copper, and Red Copper. You're lowest-rank Brass. Aim for legend!"
"I will!" Rick nodded as she left.
After marveling at the testing room, he found his locker—numbered and tucked in a corner among hundreds.
Using the key, Rick opened the locker to find it empty.
These lockers were for hunters to store gear during training. Larger lockers signified higher ranks, but elite hunters rarely trained here—their lockers stood as mere status symbols.
Rick patted his pocket. Aside from eight remaining silver coins, he had nothing to store. He carefully lined the coins in the locker, glanced around furtively, locked it, and hung the key around his neck.
A week passed in a blur.
Rick practically lived in the Hunter Association, emerging only to buy the cheapest insect oil cakes. He spent two-thirds of each day training strength and stamina, the rest learning basic bug-hunting and combat to unleash his combat insect's killing instincts. Physical conditioning came first—without strength, no hunting technique could land.
Running, jumping, weightlifting, sparring—he dove into arm strikes before catching his breath. A discarded beetle carapace in the room, once thick with dust, became his target. Days of relentless hacking left his arm numb, but he pressed on until the carapace cracked with a "snap."
Unable to read, he pestered others with his training booklet, befriending the compound-eyed receptionist and the gruff but kind doorman. The old man taught him to read, and he memorized the body cultivation methods. He also learned:
Combat insects evolved for killing. Fusing with an egg grants not just physical changes, but millennia-honed hunting instincts—essential for true hunters.
Hunter ranks extended beyond badges:
(Soldier Insect Realm): Stage 1 (one arm transformed); Stage 2 (both arms).
(General Insect Realm) at 50% body transformation, with five sub-ranks by destructive power. (Insect Master): No need to transform, measured by multiples of wild insect strength—godlike existences.
" Insect Master..." The title lodged in his mind.
Higher-ranked hunters eyed him condescendingly, but Rick brushed it off. "Strength talks—no complaints."
Sweat dripping, he admired his toned arms. Veins bulged; flexing his right arm made the shoulder mark throb, seeming to grow. He blew on it like a cherished pet.
Time to leave—coins were running low, and next month's fee loomed. Just then, a curvy silhouette appeared at the door.
"Rick."
It was the big-eyed receptionist. "Got a mission. Interested?" She eyed his sweaty form. "You've been working hard."
"YES!" he blurted.
"Great." She giggled, handing him a crumpled package. "Details inside." Before he could open it, she gave a form. "Sign this agreement... or fingerprint if you can't read."
"What's it for?" he asked warily.
"Standard procedure." She waved it off. "Just a contract. Finish the mission, get the reward—no shortchanging."
Panicking, Rick forgot his newly learned characters and pressed his thumbprint.
"Sharp lad." She checked the contract, smiling. "Good luck."
"Thanks!" he called, watching her go.