I'd just started mentally designing my future superhero costume (something in black, with tasteful, string-themed accents—no pink coats) when my holophone buzzed violently on the desk, vibrating itself right off the freshly-cut edge and onto the floor.
"Hey!" I yelped, scrambling for it. The caller ID flashed: **Budding Hunter Preparatory Academy & Culinary School**.
My heart did a backflip. "That was fast. Did they just have a guy staring at the inbox, desperately praying for a applicant who wasn't trying to major in 'Monster Sautéing'?"
I swiped to answer. A prim, holographic head of a woman with severe glasses and hair pulled into a bun so tight it looked like it was giving her a face-lift appeared above the phone.
"Am I speaking to Citizen Ron Sanchez?" she asked, her voice crisp and efficient.
"That's me. The one with the… uh… strings," I said, giving a weak little finger-wave.
A smile that looked like it was physically painful for her to maintain stretched across her face. "Wonderful! This is Secretary Millbrae from the Budding Hunter Academy admissions office. We have reviewed your application and we are *truly delighted* to inform you that you have been accepted into our Foundational Hunter Program!"
"Oh! Wow, that was quick. I just sent it like… ten minutes ago."
"We prioritize exceptional candidates, Citizen Sanchez," she said, her voice dripping with a syrupy-sweet professionalism I didn't trust for a second. "As a holder of a *Unique* profession, you represent the innovative and dynamic future of hunting!"
I could almost hear the unspoken second part of that sentence: *"…and we really, really need your unique status to bump up our academy's rankings, so please for the love of the Union don't go anywhere else."*
"We would be honored if you could come to campus tomorrow for orientation and enrollment signing. Would 10 AM be suitable?"
"Sure! Yeah, 10 AM is… suitable," I said, feeling a little swept away by the current of her enthusiasm.
"Splendid! Oh, and one more thing," she added, her holographic face leaning in conspiratorially. "The Dean himself has authorized a new policy for you. In addition to your C-Rank scholarship package, we will be providing you with a *private dormitory room* at no extra cost. It's a benefit usually reserved for our B-Rank students."
My eyebrows shot up. A private room? No more beige apartment? This was getting better and better. "That's… incredibly generous. Thank you."
"Our pleasure, Citizen Sanchez! We'll see you tomorrow. Awaken strong!"
The call ended. I was left staring at my reflection in the black screen of my phone. "Truly delighted," I repeated to myself. "They're 'truly delighted' to have a guy who makes magic yarn. I guess being 'Unique' is a bigger deal than I thought."
Curiosity got the better of me. I pulled up the global stats on my holophone. What were the actual numbers?
A few searches later, I whistled. The global population post-Cataclysm was about 5 billion. The estimated rate of Unique awakenings was a mere **0.5%**. That meant there were only about **25,000** of us across the entire planet. In a city of millions, you might have one or two. No wonder Secretary Millbrae sounded like she'd just won the lottery. I wasn't just a student; I was a walking statistical anomaly. A very, *very* weak statistical anomaly, but an anomaly nonetheless.
The more I read, the clearer the picture became. This world was brutally, hilariously racist—not by skin color, but by **Profession Rank**.
It was a caste system written in magical energy. An E-Rank [Pyromancer] would be laughed out of a guild hall, while a B-Rank [Florist] would be treated with polite respect. Your rank dictated everything: the jobs you could apply for, the respect you were given, the section of the train you could sit in. The difference between a C-Rank and a B-Rank was the difference between economy and business class on a flight—both get you there, but one gets a free blanket and a slightly less existential dread.
But then it got more complicated. Being a Hunter was a separate track. Your **Profession Rank** was your *potential*. Your **Hunter Rank** was your *proven accomplishment*.
Think of it like this: You could graduate from medical school with straight A's (S-Rank Profession), but if you become a doctor who constantly misdiagnoses patients with "goblin fever," you'll never rise past a B-Rank Hunter. Conversely, a C-Rank [Stone-Skin Warrior] with incredible battle sense, tactics, and sheer stubbornness could grind their way up to become an A-Rank Hunter, legendary for their reliability.
The system was meant to be a meritocracy, but it was flawed. A guild would always, *always* choose an S-Rank newbie over a C-Rank newbie, throwing better resources, better trainers, and easier missions at them to help them fulfill their potential faster. The starting line was different for everyone.
"A bunch of racists," I rolled my eyes, scrolling through forum posts from disgruntled low-rank Hunters. "They see the rank, not the person. They see the class, not the grind."
It was intimidating, but also weirdly motivating. My [String Theorist] was ranked C. The world would look down on me. The top academies had rejected me by default. But my power had… potential. I'd cut a desk in half with a thought. If I could learn to control it, to really *understand* it, maybe my Hunter Rank could climb higher than anyone expected.
I spent the rest of the evening in a deep dive, researching everything I could about the Hunter economy, battle tactics, and famous low-rank-profusion-high-rank-Hunter success stories. I was buzzing with a nervous energy.
Tomorrow, I'd enroll. I'd become a student at the Budding Hunter Preparatory Academy & Culinary School. It wasn't the path of a chosen one. It was the path of a underdog. A discount underdog with a monthly stipend and a free dorm.
I could work with that.