In a quiet corner of the slums beneath the sky-scraping towers of Lumina City, a boy stood with his head bowed, his hands stained with soot and metal flakes. His small figure was dwarfed by the looming shadow of a worn-down forge, its fire long since dimmed to glowing embers.
The boy's name was Arel.
Only twelve, and yet his eyes carried the weight of someone who had seen too much and dreamed too little. His school uniform was faded, stitched at the seams too many times, and his shoes were more holes than fabric. Still, he tightened his grip on the tattered leather satchel slung over his shoulder.
It was his Awakening Day.
Arel's father emerged from inside the forge, wiping his hands on a charred cloth. His thick arms and calloused fingers bore the signs of a lifetime spent crafting tools and weapons he would never afford to wield himself. Once, his name had echoed through the great cities — a man hailed as a genius blacksmith, a Saint-Class hero who stood tall against chaos.
But now, he was a forgotten craftsman. A traitor, some whispered. No one ever spoke the full truth, only fragments — enough to scar, never enough to heal.
"You're early," his father said gruffly, his voice low and heavy like hammer on steel.
Arel nodded. "Didn't want to miss the registration. It's today… at noon."
His father stared at him for a moment, then moved to a dusty shelf and pulled out a small, palm-sized wooden token. It shimmered faintly — a sign it was forged with runes. "You'll need this. It's... a little something from me. A Forged Memory Crystal. It won't give you power, but maybe... it'll remind you who you are."
Arel took it carefully, bowing his head in gratitude.
"Father... do you think I'll awaken a good class?"
There was silence. Then came a sigh.
"I think whatever you awaken... it'll be yours to master. That's what matters."
Arel didn't know what to expect. In this world, every child between the ages of 11 and 12 awakened their Class — the path they would walk for the rest of their lives. Some became Warriors. Others, Healers, Archers, Artificers, Mages… or worse. The rarest, those who touched the edges of legend, bore ranks like Saint, Shadow Monarch, Dragon Wielder.
And then there were those like his father — once glorious, now disgraced.
Arel's mother had gone missing years ago. A gentle woman with a Chef class, she once filled their home with warmth and bread that smelled of heaven. But one night, both parents vanished — and only his father returned, broken and silent. No one spoke of it. Not even him.
Only his little sister, Elia, remained. Six years old, pale, and often ill. Doctors never found anything wrong, but sometimes, her eyes glowed when she dreamed. Arel once caught her whispering to shadows and the shadows whispering back. It frightened him. It frightened everyone.
And yet… she smiled like sunlight.
He stepped outside the house, the cool wind brushing past him. Down the dusty path was the Awakening Hall. Today, he'd find out what kind of life he'd be allowed to live.
The hall was a grand building, though it had clearly been built long before the slums fell into ruin. Golden runes lined the walls, flickering with dull energy. Rows of children sat in silence, dressed in patched uniforms, excitement and fear dancing across their faces.
Arel sat in the back, fingers clenched around his token.
Name after name was called. One boy screamed as he awakened a Fireblade class — his whole body glowing with energy. A girl next to him wept in joy when her Divine Healer class appeared. Each class was accompanied by a rank — F through S. In rare, whispered cases, even higher.
The current known ceiling of power across all galaxies was X-Rank. It was said those beyond — XXR or even the mythical XXXD — simply did not exist. Or if they did, they were lost to history.
Finally, the examiner called, "Arel Varin."
He walked up to the platform. He felt every eye on him — waiting to see if the son of a traitor would awaken as a threat… or as nothing.
A white light enveloped him. Words formed in the air, glowing in ancient script only the officials could read.
Silence fell.
The examiner's face twitched. She opened her mouth... and then shut it again.
"Arel Varin. Awakened Class: Necromancer. Rank: F."
Gasps erupted across the hall.
A necromancer? The worst possible class for a human. It drained the mind. It required corpses. It was unsightly, cursed, and shunned.
Arel blinked. "That's… it?"
No skills. No spells. Just the title. And the crushing weight of shame.
But what no one saw… was the flickering box that appeared before his eyes — invisible to the others.
[SYSTEM INITIALIZED…][Unique System Detected][Necromancer Class recognized… Overriding][Trait: Soulbind Enabled][Minion Template: Retain Memory and Skill of Host] [Current Limit: 1 Minion — Status: Vacant]
Arel stumbled back, his mind spinning.
Something was very, very wrong.
And it had just begun.