03 The Only One Without a Gift

“A Class Ability? She doesn’t have one.”

The thought sends another wave of pure, acidic rage through me. My expression must be thunderous.

“Why should we tell you anything about our Abilities?”

The guy who followed me here—I never caught his name—speaks up from behind me, his voice thick with resentment.

The bald leader, Marcus Stone, doesn’t get angry. He just watches him, calm as a glacier. “This Instance is different. It’s A-Class, but it drafted five new players. If we don’t coordinate, none of us are getting out alive.”

“Sharing our Class Abilities saves time. It lets us know what we’re working with, how we can cover each other.”

He’s huge, imposing, but his tone is measured, reasonable. It’s the kind of voice that makes people want to listen. The guy behind me shuts up.

That’s when the punk girl with the colorful hair, Luna, hops down from the stage. She claps her hands once, sharp and loud. “Word is this run dragged in five fresh meat. Which of you are the rookies? Step forward.”

Marcus falls silent, positioning himself slightly behind her. I watch them. Their dynamic is clear—they’re a unit. At the very least, they know each other well.

I don’t move.

Exposing my real situation is suicide. A player with no Class Ability, no gear, in an A-Class dungeon? I’d be marked as dead weight before the real fight even starts.

My eyes sweep the dim auditorium.

Right now, I need to know one thing: among the five of us new players, am I the only cursed one? Or did the System screw us all over?

It doesn’t take long to pick them out. The veterans and the rookies might as well be different species. The veterans stand clustered, a wall of calculated stillness and assessing gazes fixed on our little group. Even I can see the divide.

Maybe it’s herd instinct, but the other four rookies have drifted together. One of them, a nervous-looking guy, reaches out and pulls me into their huddle.

Luna’s eyes, sharp and mocking, land on me. “Oh, a rookie. A rookie with a serious attitude problem. You think you’re hot shit? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I’ve seen her type before. Veterans who get off on the power trip, who treat new players like grateful puppies begging for scraps.

This is the first time she’s seen one look back at her like she’s something unpleasant stuck to my shoe.

Luna’s stare intensifies, a predator’s gleam. She’s itching for a reason to tear into me, to prove her dominance.

I meet her gaze head-on. “Moron.”

The word hangs in the dusty air.

The smile on Luna’s face freezes, then cracks.

The four rookies beside me take a synchronized step back, putting clear space between us. I can practically hear their collective thought: *She’s got a death wish.*

They want the veterans’ protection. I just made myself a liability.

“What did you say?” Luna’s voice drops, low and dangerous.

I look right at her and let out a short, derisive laugh. “I said you look like a moron. Need me to spell it out?”

Picking a fight with a veteran is something the old me would have avoided. At least until I had the power to back it up.

But the old me is gone. Burned away by betrayal.

The System has already handed me a death sentence. I’m probably going to die in this hellhole. So why the hell should I swallow anyone’s crap? If I’m going out, I’m going out swinging.

A collective, sharp inhale comes from the other nine people in the room. They’re all watching now. Is she crazy, or does she have a secret weapon?

The other rookies have officially written me off. In their eyes, I’m already a ghost. A rookie who pisses off a veteran? I’ll be “accidentally” left behind at the first opportunity.

I stare Luna down, feeling a dark, welcome heat uncoil in my chest. This is an outlet. A target for all the fury choking me. “Well? Do you need a repeat? I don’t mind.”

Luna just blinks, momentarily thrown. She was expecting fear, submission. Not this… this volcanic contempt. Did this girl chew on nails for breakfast?

Marcus puts a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Enough. Our objective is the Instance. The rules seem simple: survive seven days. But nothing in an A-Class is ever simple.”

His words are a bucket of cold water. Luna shakes her head, visibly pulling herself together. Letting a rookie get under your skin is a rookie mistake. A deadly one.

She takes a breath, her glare shifting from me to the other four. “Fine. Abilities. Now.”

“I’ll go first.” A wiry guy steps forward. “Name’s Jax. My Class Ability is ‘Mirage.’ It creates a brief visual distortion. My starter pack had 300 points. Haven’t spent them yet.”

He says it with a hint of pride, chest puffed. Showing your value is the only way to secure an alliance in here.

“Adequate,” Marcus says, his face giving nothing away. The skill is useful for misdirection, but against whatever’s out there in the halls? Probably not a game-changer.

One by one, the others step up.

A girl with shaking hands mumbles about a weak ‘Barrier’ skill. Another guy has ‘Keen Senses.’ The last one, the one who pulled me into the group, has ‘Rapid Mending’—a low-tier healing ability.

With each revelation, the knot in my stomach tightens into a cold, hard stone.

They’re all first-timers, just like me.

But they all have something. A gift from the System. A tool. A chance.

So it’s just me. I’m the only one the game decided to screw over.

Is this personal? Did I piss off some cosmic programmer in a past life?

The rage is a live wire under my skin. If there was a table in front of me, I’d reduce it to splinters.

“Your turn, rookie.” Luna’s voice is a razor, aimed directly at me. All the other newbies have laid their cards on the table. Only the bitch with the attitude is holding out.

I open my mouth, my mind racing for a plausible lie. But the others demonstrated their skills. A lie would be exposed in seconds.

I can’t admit I have nothing.

“I’d wager her Ability is physical enhancement.”

The voice cuts through the tension. It’s the guy who followed me, the one who spoke up earlier. He’s watching me with an analytical gaze. “I noticed it during the run here. Her physical conditioning is exceptional. Surpasses some veterans.”

I seize the lifeline without a heartbeat of hesitation. “That’s right. Enhanced physique. Peak human conditioning.”

I stride to a rickety wooden chair left near the wall. All the fury, the helplessness, the sheer unfairness of it all—I channel it into my fist and drive it down.

The chair doesn’t just break. It explodes. Wood splinters into a dozen pieces, clattering across the floor. The memory of shattering my family’s glass table flashes in my mind. Yeah. My strength is… not normal.

No one questions it. They just saw the proof.

But as the dust settles, I see it in their eyes. The assessment. The dismissal.

*Enhanced physique.* In a game of magic, monsters, and reality-bending powers?

It’s the most useless gift in the room.

And they all know it.