Most characters I had been forced to play were street rats.
And without exception… not one—not a single one—had ever acquired a skill that was worth having.
I’d lost count of how many died early in the game. That’s how debilitating their so-called skills were.
This time was no different. As a street rat myself now, I was almost guaranteed to end up with yet another useless, dead-end ability.
In all my years playing Dungeon End, I’d encountered three different introductions, each tied to the game’s rigid social hierarchy.
The most common—and the surest sign of a doomed run—was starting as a street rat.
Not much needed to be said about them that wasn’t painfully obvious. Malnourished, physically frail, and often sickly, they had stats that reflected their grim reality. But it wasn’t just their bodies that were weak. Their abilities? Just as pathetic. It felt as if the system had cursed them not only with their harsh living conditions from birth but also by burdening them with the worst possible skills.
The uncommon start involved middle-class characters. These were the sons and daughters of working-class families, often the children of dungeon delvers bound by government contracts.
These characters lived better lives than street rats—though not by much. Their parents might’ve managed to scrape by—barely covering the monthly payments on their contracts while keeping their households afloat.
For these characters, survival was less of a coin toss. They were better fed, marginally stronger, and more resilient. Their skills were usually “usable”—not great, but something to work with if you knew what you were doing.
And then there was the rarest start of all: the noble.
In my years playing the game, I’d encountered this introduction only once. But that single run had been my best and longest.
The Bloodzerker.
Unlike the others, the Bloodzerker had started as a noble, born into wealth and prestige. With access to unmatched resources, his skills and equipment were leagues ahead of anything the other backgrounds could hope to achieve.
In terms of gameplay, street rats were 1-star characters—or F-ranked. Middle-class characters were 2-3 stars—E to C-ranked. Nobles? They were 4-5 stars—B to S-ranked, practically starting the game with a cheat code.
The disparity between these groups was staggering.
As I approached the skill acquisition official, he raised a hand, motioning for me to stop.
“Wait here. The person ahead of you will return shortly.”
A large, heavily guarded tent stood before me.
Skill acquisition sessions were conducted only once a year in these secured areas. Guards stood like statues around the tent, armed to the teeth, their expressions unreadable. Magical traps reinforced both the interior and exterior, designed to prevent tampering or theft.
Only one person could enter at a time.
I knew about the security measures. In the game, I’d once sacrificed a character just to test them. He hadn’t made it far. If this world were real... I might’ve cost someone their life.
“STOP!”
“Huh?”
The sharp shout snapped me out of my thoughts.
Two burly guards emerged from the tent, dragging out the man who’d been ahead of me in line.
His face was pale, and his eyes were wild with fear. “No! Please! Give me another chance!” he shouted, his voice cracking as he thrashed in their grip.
The guards ignored him, their movements efficient and practiced. One pinned the man’s arms while the other hoisted him upright.
“Let me go! Please, I need another chance! This skill is worthless—just one more try!” The man ahead of me struggled against the guards, his desperate pleas echoing through the tent. The guards, unflinching, dragged him away.
The official in front of me clicked his tongue in annoyance. “Another one who can’t accept his lot. Next! And remember, take what you get. Behaving like him won’t do you any good.”
With a nod, I took a deep breath and stepped toward the tent, steeling myself for whatever lay ahead.
The tent’s interior surprised me. It was far larger on the inside than it appeared on the outside—an effect of spatial magic, no doubt.
The interior was lined with guards, far more than those stationed outside, all positioned with military discipline.
At the center of the tent stood the Skill Acquisition Artifact—a large, crystallized white orb known as God’s Gift.
So, this was it in person.
Its beauty was almost surreal, the orb shimmering with a light that seemed to come from within. Even after all my time with the game, I’d never uncovered its origin or how the government had obtained it.
I knew, though, that it was unique and one of the few ways to gain a skill.
Standing beside the orb were two figures: one seated behind a desk cluttered with parchments, a quill in hand, and the other, a woman with a commanding presence in a detailed uniform—a high-ranking official, overseeing the event.
“What are you waiting for? We don’t have all day. Come here, touch the orb, and let’s get this over with,” the man snapped, barely looking up from his parchments.
I knew his role well: record the skill, catalog it for the government’s purposes, and move on to the next person. This system wasn’t about empowerment; it was about control. By tracking each skill, the government could deploy individuals as they saw fit, ensuring their own interests were always prioritized.
I approached the orb, mesmerized by its crystalline surface, shimmering with an ethereal glow. It was undeniably beautiful.
“Place your hand on it,” the man instructed, his tone bored and mechanical. “When the light emerges, don’t be alarmed. It’ll indicate your elemental affinity. The brightness will gauge the skill’s power. Got any questions?”
Although I’d heard this spiel countless times in the game, experiencing it firsthand felt surreal.
I shook my head. No questions.
I had already known the process. The orb’s glow would reveal the elemental affinity of the skill—red for fire, blue for water, green for wind, brown for earth, yellow for holy, black for darkness, and white for non-attributed skills.
Non-attributed skills were rare and unique, like my Bloodzerker’s Blood Rage, which had appeared as a bright white light.
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With no questions, I prepared to place my hand on the orb, both curious and apprehensive about the skill I’d receive.
I took a deep breath and extended my hand.
The orb’s surface felt cool to the touch, humming faintly beneath my fingers. The tent grew silent as the glow began to build.
The guards stiffened, and even the high-ranking official’s expression shifted from indifference to curiosity.
“What’s this?” the man muttered, leaning forward as the light began to pulse.
The white glow was dim—far dimmer than I’d hoped—but there was something strange about it. Their initial curiosity soon gave way to surprise, then confusion, as the orb completed its process.
The expressions of the official and the high-ranking woman shifted, surprise evident in their eyes. They hadn’t expected this.
As I pressed my hand to the orb, the skill’s information appeared within, displaying its name and details.
The onlookers leaned closer to see the revelation.
What skill had I received? Was it powerful? Was it even useful?
The shock on their faces was unmistakable, their professionalism giving way to disbelief.
“T-This can’t be…” the man muttered, his calm demeanor slipping into confusion.
“How is this possible?” The stoic woman’s face now showed cracks, her voice tinged with skepticism.
Whatever skill I had acquired, it was shocking enough to evoke this reaction. My curiosity surged, and I quickly glanced at the skill’s details.
My eyes widened, not with pride but disbelief.
“P-PFFA HAHAHAHAHAHA!”
“What even is this?! HAHAHA!”
Their laughter shattered the tense silence—not admiration, but mockery.
They were laughing at the absurdity of what they saw.
“I was surprised by the light’s color, but this—this explains the faint glow!” the man cackled, his laughter bouncing off the tent walls.
“Oh, please! Remove your hand! I can’t bear it anymore—I might burst from laughing!” the woman snorted, barely holding back her laughter.
"…"
I stood frozen, my hand still on the orb, dread pooling in my stomach. I knew street rats were destined for terrible skills, but this…
This wasn’t just bad—it was insulting.
The gulf between my expectations and reality hit me hard as I processed what I’d just been assigned.
[Skill Acquired: Ooze]
This was beyond pathetic.
It was bad enough that I’d been thrown into this world, but they couldn’t have given me one usable skill?
Okay, maybe that’s greedy—not even a good skill. But how about something functional?
Literally anything.
A healing ability? Too much to ask?
What about a combat skill? That’s pushing it, too?
Alright, then—maybe something to keep me safe? Was that too much to ask?
Fine. A buff? A debuff for monsters? Not a chance?
So tell me, then—what are my options?
I imagined myself standing in front of the grand overseer of skill distribution, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, and rattling off every possible question. Meanwhile, they’d sit there with an amused smirk, tapping a sign that read: "You get what you get."
And as if to mock me—or to prove that there was always something worse—I “lucked out” with the gift of…ooze.
Dungeon End and I had gone way back. A decade of runs, thousands of hours. I thought I’d seen it all. I thought I’d learned every cruel trick, every unfair lesson the game had to offer.
And yet, right here, right now, it was reminding me it could still surprise me—in the worst possible ways.
With a heavy sigh, I took another look at the skill description, clinging to a shred of hope that I’d misread it the first time.
But nope.
[Ooze - Lv.1]
[Ooze allows the user to produce a small amount of sticky, inert slime. This slime has no immediate practical applications; it is not adhesive enough to be used as glue, nor is it potent enough to be used as a trap. It simply oozes out and sits puddled on the ground.]
[Usage: Primarily used to create small, annoying messes that are difficult to clean.]
[Mana Cost: 1]
“Yeah... I’m dead.”
There was no sugarcoating it—this skill was useless.
With this, there was absolutely no way I was going to make it.
Usually, even if a skill wasn’t great, I could come up with a handful of ways to make it work. But this time? I had nothing.
It didn’t do any damage, so fighting anything was out.
It didn’t defend against attacks, so blocking was a no-go.
It wasn’t a buff, a debuff, or a healing skill, so good luck finding a team that would even let me join.
If the slime were at least sticky, I could’ve used it to slow enemies or immobilize traps. But no. This wasn’t even slightly sticky.
This skill was just a one-way ticket to an early grave.
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Oh, this is priceless. It’s been ages since I’ve had such a good laugh! Truly made my day.”
I glanced at the man, glaring daggers. Oh, so this jerk is having the time of his life.
“Well,” he continued, wiping tears from his eyes, “officially, you’re now a skill-holder, so congrats—but really, my condolences seem more appropriate. May god bless you in the next life.” He sighed, though it was clear he was still fighting back laughter.
“P-pfft! Just when I’d stopped laughing!” the woman beside him burst out again, her composure shattered.
Their laughter echoed through the tent, and even the stoic guards were betraying smirks.
“...”
“Oh! One more thing!” the man called after me, still holding back a grin. “Now that you have a skill, you get access to your character window. Just focus on your body’s capabilities, and a little ‘window’ will pop up with all your details.”
Not interested in sticking around for more laughs at my expense, I left the tent as quickly as possible.
“Hey! What happened in there? I heard a lot of laughing,” asked the clerk managing the line as I passed him.
“…”
I kept walking, ignoring the question and his curious stare.
Finally, I made it out of the arena. The event would run all day, and judging by the growing lines, people would still be lining up for hours.
I figured I might as well take their advice, so I focused on the character window they mentioned.
“Oh!”
Just like that, a floating holographic window appeared, hovering in front of me with all my info. It looked exactly like it did in the game—simple, clear, and impossible to ignore.
[Character Window]
Name: Leon
Age: 17
Race: Human
Level: 1
Experience Point: 0/10
Class: None
Class Trait: None
Skill(s):
- Ooze (Lv.1)
Stats:
- Physical: 5
- Mental: 10
As I gazed at the window, I found that the information displayed was exactly what I would expect in the game.
However, what truly surprised me was my physical stat. Normally, new characters started with a minimum of around ten, but mine was a dismal five.
This clearly reflected my physical weakness, most likely due to malnourishment and a lack of muscle development.
My mental power, though higher than my physical, was still not impressive; it was average, the baseline where most characters started.
“Ha~”
I was in the worst possible situation.
It felt as if I had been mistakenly placed here, and to correct this error, I was given the body of someone who was almost guaranteed to fail—effectively erasing the mistake.
“What now?” I muttered, the question heavier than it should’ve been.
My mind raced, trying to piece together a plan. Since today was the ceremonial acquisition day, it had to be the 1st of the month—it always took place then.
This meant I had less than 24 hours until the dungeon opened.
If I couldn't figure out a way to survive inside, I was done for.
I furrowed my brows, trying to focus. “Think. There’s got to be something…”
“Ugh!”
But concentrating in this chaotic environment was impossible. The arena was packed with people: voices shouting, conversations overlapping, footsteps echoing off the stone floors. It was a wall of noise, battering my already frayed nerves.
“I need a quiet place to think,” I muttered, pushing through the crowd. “Let’s head back home.”
With Leon’s memories guiding me, I knew exactly where he lived.
Or rather, where he survived.
Arriving at his home, I sat down on the floor mat—one of the few possessions he owned—and leaned back. Finally, in the quiet of this humble shack, I could think.
The sparse room offered little in the way of comfort, but the silence was a welcome relief from the noise of the crowd.
Here, I could focus, strategize, and perhaps find a sliver of hope within the grim reality of my new existence.
The challenge wasn’t just about getting through; it was to somehow turn this apparently useless skill into a tool for survival.
“Think! How can I make it out of this…” I muttered to myself, the weight of my situation bearing down on me.