A decade of unhealthy obsession had clearly messed with my head.

Me? Inside a game? This isn’t some storybook fantasy. This is real life.

Right, I must’ve drifted off from all the gaming I’ve been doing. This “scene” is just my brain playing tricks on me.

Actually, dreaming about the game wasn’t that unusual for me.

So, I closed my eyes.

Any second now, I’ll wake up and get back to my monotonous, unimpressive life.

But the noise around me wouldn’t stop—the hum of voices surrounded me, filling the air.

“What’s this idiot doing now? Get moving!”

Push

“Oof!”

That sensation—it’s real!

I doubted it at first, but there was no way these feelings were just part of a dream. The force of the stranger’s push, the faint sting—it was all too vivid.

These were real sensations. If this was a dream, that push would’ve definitely woken me up.

I took another look around, focusing harder this time. My surroundings were nothing like the dim, cramped confines of my apartment.

Instead, I stood in a vast, open space that looked like an ancient arena.

The area around me felt designed for a massive crowd, surrounded by tiered seating that stood empty but could probably hold thousands of spectators.

Despite the empty seats, the arena floor was bustling with people.

Lines stretched out across the space, and I was at the front of one. There was only one person ahead of me, and behind, the line seemed endless.

I couldn’t see the full scale of the crowd, but even from my limited view, it was massive.

The crowd itself was a mix of ages and genders, yet they all looked worn out, with gaunt faces and ragged clothes. Many of them looked malnourished, their ribs visible beneath their thin shirts.

‘This…can’t be.’

The scene was unmistakable—it was the iconic opening of Dungeon End, the very game I’d poured so much of my life into.

The environment, the crowd, the mood—it was exactly like the game’s most familiar beginning that I knew by heart.

In Dungeon End, there are different starting scenarios, but this one—the ceremonial acquisition day for the street rats—is the most common.

The street rats are from the slums, the poorest and most overcrowded part of this hierarchical world.

Because of their numbers, I’d often end up with a slum character whenever I restarted the game after a failed run.

The unique aspect of the game is that you don’t get to pick your character or their skills.

And here I was…a street rat. My skin was ghostly pale, almost sickly, my ribs visible beneath skin that lacked any healthy fat. My nails were rough, blackened with grime. This body wasn’t mine.

I wasn’t in the best shape, sure, but I’d always been relatively healthy. But this…this was the body of someone who’d never had enough to eat.

It meant only one thing: I had been transported into the game as someone else—a street rat.

“Alright, document filled. Next!”

Lost in thought, I barely noticed as the man in front of me moved forward at the command of an official seated behind a worn wooden table.

The official, dressed in a sharp, tailored uniform, seemed to be a clerk of some kind, overseeing this checkpoint.

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Each line led to similar figures at similar tables, suggesting this whole process was well-organized, with the clerks controlling the flow.

“I said next! Don’t waste my time! What’s your name?” the man barked, his face twisted in impatience and disdain.

His harsh tone snapped me out of my thoughts, and I stepped forward, my mind spinning from the reality of this moment.

As I moved closer, an intense, piercing pain shot through my head—a headache that felt like it would split my skull.

‘Ugh! What…what’s happening to me?’

My mind suddenly filled with scenes I’d never seen, emotions I’d never felt, hitting me like memories.

A vivid vision unfolded in front of me.

“Mother! Don’t leave me!” a young boy cried, kneeling beside a dying woman, his face streaked with tears as he held her hand, desperate to keep her with him.

The scene was painfully real, and I felt his heartbreak as if it were my own.

“Please forgive me…” The woman’s voice was weak, her hand gripping his as she coughed, too frail to say more.

“Mother! Please, don’t say anything! Let me get you some water—Mother?”

“Promise me…” She squeezed his hand, her voice barely a whisper. “Promise me you’ll survive, no matter what…not like your father…”

The boy stared down at her with profound sadness, knowing her time was running out.

He held her hand with fierce determination, a promise solidifying in his eyes. “I promise, Mother. I won’t die like Father did.”

“I…love…you…”

“Oi! I asked you your name!” The clerk’s voice jolted me back to the present.

“!”

The vision wasn’t my memory, yet it felt deeply personal, as if I were reliving it. And then it hit me—this boy, with his memories and his mother’s dying wish, was the person I’d become.

“Leon. My name is Leon.” I said automatically, the name rolling off my tongue as if it had always been mine.

The clerk scribbled something on a parchment. “Surname?” he asked.

“Uh…”

“Ah, right. Street kids like you usually don’t have one.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Fine, no surname.”

He wasn’t wrong—Leon didn’t have a family name. In this world, surnames were a privilege of the nobility, and the slum kids like Leon rarely got them.

The clerk’s attitude grated on me. Even though he was technically just doing his job, his disdain was evident.

As I grappled with this new reality, I found Leon’s life wasn’t that different from my own.

The memories I’d seen gave me a glimpse into who he was.

Like me, Leon was an orphan, but he hadn’t been abandoned. His parents had died. His mother, the woman in my vision, passed when he was about six. His father had died even earlier, lost on an expedition into the dungeons that shaped the world of Dungeon End.

Strangely, Leon’s life echoed mine. His isolation, his struggles—they mirrored my own, making me feel an even deeper connection to him.

Was this coincidence? Or fate?

My life hadn’t been as brutal as his. The orphanage, despite its flaws, had given me a degree of stability. Leon, though, had survived alone since he was six. His life was real suffering.

And in the harsh world of Dungeon End, these slum-born kids faced hardship as a matter of course. Yet Leon, somehow, had managed to survive.

“Age?” the clerk asked.

“...Seventeen.”

“Any relatives?”

“No.”

“Any possessions?”

“None.”

“If you die in the dungeon, do you agree to relinquish all possessions acquired?”

“...Do I have a choice?”

“…”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Here, sign this agreement. By doing so, you commit to paying 100 credits each month. Failure to pay may result in additional penalties, including increased taxes, imprisonment, or forced labor.”

Leon’s life had clearly brought him to the edge. With no other options, he had to sign the acquisition agreement.

What was the acquisition agreement?

This was where most characters in Dungeon End began. Every year, the ruling government offered citizens the chance to acquire an “innate skill.” an opportunity that was open to all but vastly different depending on status.

For slum dwellers, this “opportunity” was more of a debt trap. Signing it meant lifelong monthly payments to the government. Failure to pay led to increased debt, forced labor, and work in the dangerous dungeons, sparing the nobility from such tasks.

Meanwhile, the nobles faced few obstacles in acquiring skills, free from the chains the government imposed on the poor. This disparity highlighted the world’s deep-rooted inequality.

“What are you waiting for? Sign it, or get out of here!”

“…”

“I’ll sign.”

Living in the slums, with its disease and starvation, was hardly a life. It was either die there or risk dying in the dungeon.

Sure, the dungeon was likely a worse choice, but something within me felt…different.

This feeling—it was excitement. Something I hadn’t felt in so long.

My life had been so empty that I’d wished for a change countless times. And now, here was the thrill I’d been missing.

Even knowing that I could die the moment I entered, my heart beat faster at the thought of stepping into the dungeon I’d spent years playing.

My mind spun with strategies, though the rational side of me screamed that the best plan was to stay out of the dungeon entirely.

“Then stop wasting time and sign it!”

‘...’ I signed the parchment, and as the pen lifted, a light flared from the page.

This was no ordinary contract; it was a soul-bound pact, bound with magic.

The soul-binding meant escape wasn’t an option; once signed, the agreement enslaved you to its terms.

I knew what this meant. I was essentially a slave now, yet I also knew a way to break this contract. It wouldn’t be easy, but it was possible.

“Good. Now go to the agent behind me; he’ll handle your skill acquisition.”

I followed his instructions, moving toward the agent. But a creeping sense of dread hit me, because I knew one thing all too well…

Street rats never got good skills