The First Assignment

It’s been three weeks since the last summoning.

Three long weeks of training, waiting, and burying the dead.

One of the Mid-tier hollow beasts attacked the farm a few days ago.

Four more bodies in the ground.

Three villagers gone—flattened while harvesting beans in the farms. The summoned heroes might be underwhelming in a lot of ways, but they do one thing well: they scare the monsters away from the villages.

At least for a while.

Callen—the last hero with an ounce of potential—managed to take out fifty beasts on his first assignment. That’s still the record. For a moment, the Church thought they had found the prophesied one in him.

But even Callen couldn’t touch the Apocalypse Beasts.

Since then, the creatures have adapted. They tested us now, like curious predators. They moved slower, strike with caution and don’t waste energy unless they’re sure they’ll win.

I’ve been keeping watch over the current hero, Keiji, these past few weeks.

Now I know I have sung Callen’s praises like the village bard, but he wasn’t perfect. Despite his ridiculous feats, he made the stupidest mistakes. One time, he forgot to bring a weapon in High-Tier Dungeon and had to fight barehanded. He won, of course—but that’s beside the point.

There was also this thing he used to say.
He always claimed he wasn’t the chosen from the prophecy.

Said the real hero would come after him. A powerful being who would defeat all the beasts and destroy every dungeon.

Since then, I’ve surveyed every hero for signs of this so-called prophecy.
No luck yet.

Keiji, surprisingly, was holding up better than expected

Last I heard, he was training with Swordsmaster Jacques, the same grizzled old bumpkin who trained the Platinum Champions five years ago. An old man who reeked of ale and regret. Don’t be fooled by the thick grey hair and beard, Jacques could slice an arrow in half with a rusty butter knife and pluck a mosquito’s wings with a toothpick.

Apparently, Jacques gave his assessment to Lucien a few days ago.

I wasn’t there, but rumors travel faster than plague especially when Mira is involved.

He told Lucien to prepare for a new summoning.

Translation?

Keiji’s not expected to last past his first assignment.

Which brings us to now.

We were outside the Barracks’ Church Assignment Hall —a chapel-turned-war-room with rosters of fallen heroes etched into the stone walls like casual reminders.

Lucien instructed me to fill out Keiji’s official party.
Which, again, I must insist was not one of my assigned duties.
But I digress.

It was tough.

The Mages turned me down. Four times.

I went to the Obsidian Study Hall where they lounged in their robes, sipping glowleaf and pretending their glyphs mean more than they do. The Mage Quarter’s gilded little tower with its floating staircases, incense-thick halls, and a general air of magical superiority.

They knew why I was there. And they hated every second of it.

I asked for volunteers—fighters, casters, anything remotely competent. The glares I got, I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Or maybe it was just my face.

Archmage Kryxx greeted me from his levitating lounge chair like a man watching dirty laundry thrown at his feet.

“Another hero?” he asked, swirling some blue-glowing liquor in a crystal orb. “They sent you? Lucien must be getting desperate.”

I chose not to engage.

I handed him the parchment. “The hero needs a party. One mage. That’s all I’m asking.”

He didn’t even glance at it.

“Heroes are dice thrown into the void, Scrap picker. Sometimes they land right side up. Mostly they don’t.” He smirked. “And I do not waste time on weaklings. This Kingdom doesn’t need more useless heroes, it needs warriors.”

“Just a name,” I insisted. “You’ve got apprentices burning holes in your ceilings. Lend me one.”

Kryxx sighed theatrically and snapped his fingers. A puff of violet smoke appeared beside me, and from it fell a crumpled, soot-smudged scrap of parchment. Something was written in a language I didn’t recognize—curved glyphs that squirmed when I tried to focus on them.

“Give that to the quartermaster,” he said, turning back to his orb. “You’ll get your mage. About as competent as your hero.”

I gave the scrap to Mira over breakfast. She translated it.

Apparently, it was Elvish. Sindarin dialect.

It was a name.

Thomlin.

A washed-up mage with a gambling problem and wonky spells. From what I heard, he once tried to cast Waterwalk and drowned his own boots.

The second recruit was Grinn from the barracks, a greenhorn with way too much optimism.

And for my efforts, Lucien gave me Sera—a healer working off her debt to the Church and resented every moment of it.

None of them were Hero-tier material.

It was clearly a suicide squad.

And I…was worried, because I was joining them.

Officially, I’m not on the roster.

Unofficially? I was here to drag back the hero’s body when everything goes to shit. I wonder who’s gonna drag my body if it all went to shit.

Lucien gave me an assuring nod before we left.

“Minimize recovery time,” he said. “The summoning ritual is expensive.”

Of course, I was going either way. Not because I cared or anything, but because searching for bodies in a dungeon was the worst part of my job. Not only was it dangerous for me but also for the entire Kingdom. They would lose their beloved Remnant Collector.

We had just arrived outside the dungeon—the first real test for any hero.

This one’s classified as Low Tier, but don’t let that name fool you. That only means the monsters inside won’t kill you instantly.

The dungeon system goes like this:

· Low Tier: Entry-level hellholes. Perfect for thinning out new recruits.

· Mid Tier: For the heroes who survived their first three assignments.

· High Tier: Reserved for seasoned champions. Most don’t return.

· Great Tier: Where legends go to die with a farewell letter in their boots.

· Apocalypse: Don’t even think about it. They don’t even bother naming the beasts in there.

If you ever found yourself in an Apocalypse Dungeon…pray. That’s all you’ve got.

This particular dungeon was known as the Teeth of Halvas—an old, shallow dungeon, perfect for a first assignment. it was supposed to be safe. “Supposed to be” being key.

Inside, torches lit our way but the echoing growls made me less confident. Keiji was fumbling with the dagger and almost stabbed himself putting it in its sheath.

This was hopeless.

We crossed the threshold and the dungeon breathed on us—musty, damp, and tinged with death. The air smelled like rot and rusted magic.

Cracked stone pillars leaned like drunks. Burnt scorch marks were visible all over the walls and ground, probably by someone's flashy fire spell. A broken elven wand laid twitching in a puddle of green muck.

I’ve seen this before, it must be that idiot Cedric’s incantation. That kid never learned how to aim properly but he was from a noble family so we couldn’t complain.

We didn’t have to go far to find the first corpse.

Burnt. Partially devoured.

I sighed, pulled out my tarp and rope, and began wrapping him.

Not out of respect, mind you—though there’s a little of that. Mostly, it’s because blood and rot attracted worse things. Lower Dungeon beasts loved feeding on fresh kills. One corpse was bad. Two could lead to an evolution.

“Disgusting,” Sera muttered, stepping over a scorched boot. “At least burn them next time.”

“Sure,” I said, tightening the rope. “Maybe you can teach me fire magic after this.”

She scowled. Or maybe that was just her resting face.

I took the body out of the dungeon and placed it outside.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Thomlin grunted. “Gotta be back before the late-night game, got it?”

We didn’t make it much farther before our first encounter.

The beast was minor—a spinehound, all bone-plated limbs and jagged teeth. One of the fastest beasts in low tier but lucky for us, they hunted alone.

It crawled on the walls quickly before we could think to move.

“Get behind me!” Keiji yelled, raising his sword.

Okay, rookie. Whatever you say.

The hound lunged.

Keiji swung—and missed. A claw raked his side, blood spraying across the mossy stone. He stumbled, wounded and Thomlin panicked almost immediately. He started casting spells wildly.

“Rumpestakon!” he yelled.
Never heard of that spell and the look from his face showed he didn’t either.

A single puff of pink dust escaped his staff. It smelled like burned almonds.
He blinked.
“That was supposed to be...fireball. Oh No!”

The growl came first—low, wet, bone-on-bone grinding.

From the ceiling.

The spinehound slithered down a ruined pillar, claws scraping stone, spines flaring like razors. Its eyes were hollow, empty sockets glowing faintly blue, locked on Thomlin.

It didn’t growl again. It grinned

The spinehound didn’t hesitate. It pounced. A blur of claws.

And Thomlin’s hands hit the floor before the rest of him did.

He screamed—shrill, raw, awful.
Then passed out.

Before it attacked again, Keiji stepped up and shoulder checked it, pushing it back a bit. That sudden movement brought everyone out of their thoughts, fears and shock.

Sera moved quickly healing Keiji’s and Thomlin’s hands simultaneously. A blinding aura of green lit up the walls and her hands, however, before it could fully take effect, the beast lunged again piercing Sera’s stomach.

Blood.

From her lips, then her torso.

Everywhere as her intestines spilled across the floor like wet rope.

Her green aura flickered weakly until it eventually stopped as her body hit the ground with a thud. Her face pale, mouth open. her eyes locked on nothing.

Keiji froze. His breath caught.

Then he screamed and raised his dagger again, limping, trying to buy time. But the beast was already mid-pounce. He dodged barely and managed a strike towards its neck.

It was a lucky strike, but it didn’t last.

It backhanded him into a pillar. He hit the wall hard and slumped beside Sera’s corpse, clutching his ribs, gasping.

Both our heavy hitters were down.

Grinn? Useless.

I had to do something....

I pulled a broken glaive blade from my pack and held it with my left arm.

Instantly I felt the connection.

With my right I raised my handy shovel and swung first —striking the beast’s skull, drawing its attention. As it turned, I was already sliding low, using the momentum to stab deep into the opening Keiji left.

Straight through the throat.

The hound shrieked.

It twisted, jerked, thrashed—but the blade dug deeper as I traced its spine.
It twitched once more, then slumped, black ichor spilling out like ink.

Keiji stared at me, panting. “W-What the hell was that?!”

I didn’t answer.

I looked down at the blade as it hummed faintly in my hand.

Something new rippled inside me—a flicker, like tasting a forgotten memory.

That was my tenth time using Affinity Resonance.

I felt it again. That strange flicker.

When I truly used a weapon, something echoed back. The stance. The grip and instinct. Muscle memory that’s not mine.

I saw a battlefield. Screaming winds. A man with a visible helmet, spinning this same glaive in a dance of death. My arms knew what his had known. For a moment, I was him.

This glaive once belonged to one of the first ten heroes. I had seen him before. But the memory I saw was not from this world.

The first time I ever used this ability was when I was roaming through the Mid-Tier Dungeons recovering Hero#40’s corpse.

A Veloscraper, a beast with wings lunged at me. I thought my death was imminent.

For some reason I instantly touched his bow and arrow.

Something clicked.

A wave. A rush of purpose washed over me and I knew what to do. I did a backflip which until that point had never even attempted and aimed while upside down…and fired true at its throat hitting its core.

Keiji was still staring at the beast’s remains. “You just… killed it in one blow!”

Sigh.

Just what I needed.

More complications.