Lunaria Vale was eighteen years old when the world decided he was disposable.
He did not say this aloud, of course. Lunaria rarely said things aloud unless spoken to first. Words had a way of drawing attention, and attention—he had learned—was never kind to people like him.
He moved quietly through the dungeon corridor, boots careful on fractured stone, shoulders relaxed despite the weight of his pack. The air was stale, thick with the lingering residue of mana that never quite faded after a gate was closed. Pale light pulsed faintly from crystals embedded in the walls, illuminating streaks of dried blood that even professional cleaners hadn't fully erased.
This dungeon had been declared cleared.
That word meant safety, in theory. In practice, it meant that hunters were finished with it, and whatever remained was someone else's problem.
That someone was Lunaria.
He crouched near a collapsed section of wall and slid a containment bag open with practiced fingers. His hands were slender, nails short and clean despite the work. When he leaned forward, his straight hair spilled over his shoulder in a smooth, moonlit curtain, brushing against his waist. He paused to tuck it back, fingers brushing the faded pink ribbon tied at the nape of his neck.
Pink was his favorite color.
He had learned not to explain why.
The knife in his hand was simple—steel, unenchanted, more tool than weapon. It was meant for scraping residue, cutting sinew from stone, not for fighting monsters. Lunaria knew that better than anyone. He had never awakened. Never gained abilities. Never felt the surge others described so casually, as if power were something everyone eventually stumbled into.
He scraped hardened ichor into the bag, movements neat and methodical. He worked like this because it was expected. Because doing the job well was the only way to avoid attention.
A familiar presence lingered with him.
It had always been there.
Not a voice. Not quite a thought. More like a constant awareness pressed gently against his mind, guiding him away from danger before he consciously noticed it. When he lingered too long, discomfort bloomed in his chest. When he rushed, his hands slowed.
It never spoke.
It never left.
Lunaria assumed it was nothing more than heightened caution. After all, people like him had to be careful. Unawakened. Soft. Easily broken.
He sealed the bag and rose to his feet, stretching slightly to ease the ache in his back. The dungeon was quiet—too quiet, if he was honest—but hunters often left things eerily still in their wake.
He took two steps forward.
Then the dungeon breathed.
The change was subtle, but Lunaria felt it immediately. The air thickened, pressure shifting like something unseen had turned its gaze inward. The glow of the wall crystals flickered, dimming for the span of a heartbeat.
His chest tightened.
The presence within him sharpened.
Lunaria stopped moving.
"This place…" he murmured softly. "They said it was cleared."
Something scraped against stone.
Slow.
Wet.
The sound crawled up his spine like ice.
Lunaria turned, heart hammering, fingers tightening around the knife as if it could somehow make up for everything he lacked. From beneath a fallen pillar, movement emerged—a creature pulling itself forward on twisted limbs, its translucent skin stretched thin over glowing veins. Red eyes locked onto him instantly.
Then another appeared.
Then another.
Five monsters crawled into the light.
F-rank.
The weakest classification.
Still enough to kill him.
Lunaria backed away, breath shallow and fast. His boots scraped against the floor, the sound echoing too loudly in the chamber. The monsters spread out, instinctive and efficient, cutting off his path to the exit.
Fear flooded him, cold and paralyzing.
"I—I'm just a cleaner," he whispered, voice trembling. "There's nothing here for you."
The monsters lunged.
Lunaria moved without thinking, dodging sideways as claws sliced through the air where his chest had been. There was no elegance to it. No grace. Just desperation and raw survival instinct. He ran, heart pounding so violently it made his vision blur.
His foot caught on debris.
He fell hard, pain exploding through his knees and palms. The knife flew from his hand, skidding across the stone just out of reach.
A monster pounced.
Lunaria screamed, rolling desperately. Claws scraped stone inches from his face. He stretched, fingers brushing the knife's handle, and slashed upward blindly.
The blade cut shallow.
Black blood sprayed across his sleeve.
The monster shrieked and recoiled.
Lunaria scrambled to his feet, shaking violently. His chest burned, lungs screaming for air. His body felt wrong—too small, too fragile for this. Another monster struck from the side.
Pain tore through his thigh as claws ripped into muscle.
He cried out, stumbling into the wall. Blood soaked down his leg, making it buckle beneath him.
They were closing in.
"I don't want to die," he sobbed, voice breaking. "Not like this."
The presence within him tightened, no longer distant.
[Move. You are hesitating.]
The words struck him like a blow.
Lunaria froze for half a heartbeat. "You… you can talk?"
[You are about to be killed. Focus.]
There was no warmth in the tone. No panic. Just certainty.
Another monster lunged.
Lunaria moved.
He didn't think—he acted. He surged forward, driving the knife into the creature's neck. Once. Twice. Again. His movements were ugly, frantic, nothing like grace. Blood sprayed across his hands and face.
The monster collapsed.
Another leapt onto him, teeth sinking into his shoulder. White-hot agony tore through him. He screamed and stabbed blindly until resistance vanished and the weight slumped off him.
He fell. Rolled. Stood again.
A third monster slashed across his chest, tearing fabric and skin alike. Tears streamed down his face as pain overwhelmed him. His long hair came loose, sticking to blood-slicked skin.
[Do not stop.]
He didn't.
By the fourth monster, something shifted. Not in him—but in them. They hesitated now, circling warily. Lunaria stood swaying, knife raised, body trembling violently.
Blood dripped from his fingers.
He smiled.
It was small. Soft.
Terrifying.
The monster lunged.
Lunaria stepped into it and drove the knife straight through its skull.
The fifth froze.
Silence fell, broken only by his ragged breathing.
The last monster hissed, then charged.
Lunaria met it head-on, slashing wildly, stabbing again and again until the creature collapsed at his feet.
The moment it died, something inside him shattered—and reformed.
Warmth exploded in his chest, sharp and overwhelming, like a second heart igniting where there had been nothing before. It surged through his limbs, steadying his shaking knees, knitting something broken deep inside him.
He collapsed anyway.
The dungeon floor was cold against his cheek. Blood pooled beneath him. His breaths were shallow, weak.
But he was alive.
[Awakening confirmed.]
His eyes fluttered open weakly. "Confirmed…?"
[You survived a fatal scenario without prior power. That qualifies.]
The warmth settled, no longer chaotic, but structured—obedient.
"What… are you?" he whispered.
A pause.
[I am your system. I have been with you since rebirth. You were simply unsuitable until now.]
Despite everything, Lunaria laughed softly.
"That's… rude."
[Correct. And accurate.]
His vision darkened.
[You are eighteen. You have awakened late. You are injured, bleeding, and inexperienced.]
The voice leaned closer, impossibly present.
[But you are no longer weak.]
As consciousness slipped away, Lunaria felt it clearly for the first time—not fear, not fragility, but something precise and beautiful waiting just beneath his skin.
When he woke again—
The way he moved would never be the same.