A blaring, electronic shriek tore me from a dream about Lisa force-feeding me a pepperoni pizza that had somehow turned into a screaming goblin. My hand slapped wildly at the nightstand, searching for my phone.
Instead, I hit a weird, glowing disc on the wall that beeped in protest. The shrieking stopped.
Right. Not my room. Not my world. Not my alarm clock.
The events of yesterday came crashing back, the mental hangover almost as potent as the real thing. "Ugh. So it wasn't a dream. Fantastic. My life is now a poorly plotted isekai novel."
I dragged myself out of bed, my stomach doing a nervous jig. Today was the day. Awakening Day. The day I find out if I get to be a cool pyro-swordsman or a... well, a guy who makes really good shoes.
As if on cue, a soft chime echoed through the small apartment, followed by a holographic message that materialized in the air above my wrist. A stern, yet friendly, Union emblem pulsed next to the text.
`**Union Awakening Command - Citizen: Ron Sanchez**`
`Your presence is required at Sector 7-A Awakening Center today at 09:00 hours. A transport has been dispatched. Please be ready. Failure to comply is a violation of Union Code 7B.`
`**Awaken Strong. Serve Proud.**`
"Ominous," I muttered. "And what's with the corporate slogan? 'Awaken Strong.' What if I awaken weak? 'Awaken Pathetically. Try Not to Die.'"
I threw on the closest thing to clean clothes I could find—a simple grey tunic and durable pants that seemed to be the standard issue for everyone in this reality. The fashion here was severely lacking. Just as I was wondering if I should attempt to find coffee, a firm knock sounded at the door.
I opened it to reveal a woman in the crisp, blue-and-grey uniform of the Union. She had the kind of neutral, professional smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Citizen Sanchez? I'm Agent Kael. Your transport is here."
"Right on time. The Union's efficiency is both impressive and mildly terrifying," I said with a weak smile.
She didn't laugh. "This way, please."
The transport was a sleek, silent hovercar that glided above the street. I watched the city—Neo-Aethel—zip by. It was a strange mix of brutalist concrete architecture, a testament to its post-Cataclysm rebuild, and shimmering holographic advertisements for Hunter guilds, gear shops, and energy drinks called "Mana Rush."
The Awakening Center looked like a cross between a DMV and a supervillain's lair. It was all cold, polished metal and humming energy. Hundreds of other nervous eighteen-year-olds were there, shuffling in long, snaking lines. The air was thick with a potent mix of hope, fear, and cheap antiseptic.
I got in line behind a guy who was so muscular he looked like he'd already awakened as [Gym Bro]. He was muttering to himself, "Come on, come on, give me something S-Rank. Pyro Lord. Titan Slayer. Anything cool..."
I sighed. "No pressure," I whispered to myself.
The line moved with agonizing slowness. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I was at the front. A bored-looking technician with a data-pad gestured me forward towards a raised dais. In the center was a pedestal holding a smooth, obsidian-black sphere. It hummed with a low, potent energy.
"Place your hands on the Awakening Orb, citizen," the technician droned, not even looking up from her pad. "Firm contact. Do not remove them until the process is complete."
Here goes nothing. I took a deep breath and placed my palms on the cool, smooth surface. It was strangely warm. A light glowed from within its depths, pulsing through my hands and up my arms. It felt like static electricity mixed with a shot of espresso. My teeth vibrated.
The orb flared with a bright, white light. Above it, a semi-transparent blue screen—a literal game-style UI—flickered to life. Text began to scroll.
`**SCANNING...**`
`**BIOSIGNATURE CONFIRMED: RON SANCHEZ**`
`**AGE: 18**`
`**AWAKENING PROFESSION...**`
The text hung there for a heart-stopping second. The technician finally looked interested. The muscular guy behind me leaned forward.
`**PROFESSION: UNIQUE**`
A wave of excited murmurs went through the line behind me. *Unique!* The technician's eyes went wide. She tapped frantically at her data-pad. "A Unique! We haven't had one of those in this sector in years!"
My heart soared. This was it! I *was* the chosen one! I pictured myself in a cool cape, my name whispered in awe: Ron Sanchez, the Unique Hunter! Enchantress who?
The screen continued to load, the details populating.
`**PROFESSION: [STRING THEORIST]**`
`**RANK: C**`
...
...
...
Silence.
The murmurs died. The technician's excited expression melted into one of pure, unadulterated confusion. She squinted at the screen. "String... Theorist?"
My own brain short-circuited. "String Theorist? What does that even mean? Do I get a PhD? Do I... argue about physics with the demons? Are they susceptible to peer-reviewed essays?"
The details expanded.
`**MANIFESTATION: [HUMAN STRING]**`
`**RANK: C**`
`**DESCRIPTION: The user can generate and manipulate semi-sentient strings of concentrated human energy from their fingertips. Durability, length, and application potential scale with rank and user ingenuity.**`
A single, glowing, white string, about as thick as a piece of yarn, drooped limply from my index finger. It wiggled slightly, like a confused worm.
I stared at it. It wiggled back.
The muscular guy behind me burst out laughing. "Hah! He makes string! My grandma could do that without awakening! And it's only C-Rank! What a waste of a Unique slot!"
The excitement in the room had turned to pity and second-hand embarrassment. The technician recovered her professional demeanor, her face a mask of polite disappointment. "Thank you, Citizen Sanchez. Your details have been logged with the Union. You may collect your Awakening ID card at the desk on your way out. Next!"
Agent Kael was waiting for me, her expression unreadable. The ride back to my apartment was utterly silent. I just stared at the stupid, glowing string still dangling from my finger. I tried to make it do something—anything. I tried to lash it out, to tie a knot, to strangle my own despair. It just wiggled pathetically.
She dropped me off with a curt, "The Union thanks you for your compliance." It sounded like a condolence.
I walked into my depressingly beige apartment and collapsed onto the bed. The string finally fizzled out.
"[String Theorist]," I said to the ceiling. "Rank C. Wow. Just... wow."
I wasn't a hero. I wasn't even a useful blacksmith. I was a guy who could make literal yarn. In a world of dragon-slaying warriors and city-saving legends, I had awakened with the power of... minor crafting.
"My god," I groaned, pulling a pillow over my face. "I'm not the main character. I'm a background NPC in someone else's game. What the hell am I going to do now? Apply for a job at a textile factory? Open a Etsy shop for magical friendship bracelets? This life sucks!"
I lay there, wallowing in a pit of self-pity so deep I could probably use my strings to knit myself a blanket to cry into. A Unique. I had gotten one of the rarest power types in the world, and it was arguably worse than most E-Rank Professions.
The joke wasn't just on me; the universe had set up the punchline and delivered it with a devastating, cosmic straight face.