It wasn’t by chance that I’d failed to conquer Dungeon End for over a decade.

Most characters I’d been forced to play as were street rats.

And without exception... not one of them—not once—had they acquired a skill worth having.

I couldn’t even count how many had died in the early stages of the game. That’s how debilitating their “skills” were.

This time was no different; as a street rat myself now, I was almost guaranteed to be stuck with yet another dead-end skill.

In all my years of playing, I’d encountered three different introductions, each tied to the social hierarchy within the game.

The most common—and almost a sure sign of a doomed run—was starting as a street rat.

Not much more can be said about them than what’s already obvious: physically weak, often malnourished, and plagued by sickness. Their abilities? Just as frail. It was almost as if they were cursed to draw the worst possible skills.

The uncommon start involved characters from a stable, working-class background. These characters often had parents bound by government slave contracts, but who had managed to carve out a somewhat decent life as dungeon delvers. They could meet the government’s demands and even support a household.

Characters from these backgrounds might be young adults or teenagers considering following their parents path. They weren’t necessarily powerful, but they had a better shot at survival compared to street rats.

However, even for them, life here was harsh. Most jobs demanded a skill, likely due to a system designed to coerce people into government service. Without an inherited or non-government-acquired skill, many had no choice but to sign a contract.

These middle-tier characters often received “usable” skills, which ranged from “barely passable” to “decent enough to invest in.”

Then there was the rarest start—the noble. In my years of gameplay, I’d encountered this introduction only once, but it had been my best and longest run. The Bloodzerker.

He wasn’t a street rat or middle-class character but a noble.

With a background as prestigious as his, my character had access to powerful resources and advantageous skills that were beyond anything I’d seen in other starts.

In game terms, street rats were 1-star or F-ranked, middle-class characters were 2-3 stars or E-C ranks, and nobles were 4-5 stars or B-S ranks, beginning with unmatched advantages.

As I approached the skill acquisition official, he held up a hand, signaling me to wait.

“Wait here. The person ahead of you will return shortly.”

A large tent stood in front of me, heavily guarded by several armed men.

Skill acquisition sessions were only conducted once a year in this protected area, ensuring that no one could bypass the system for power. Guards stood vigilant around the tent, and magical traps fortified both its interior and exterior.

Only one person could enter at a time.

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I knew about the security measures; in the game, I’d sacrificed a character to learn the setup, sending him to test the defenses. If this world was real...I might’ve cost someone their life.

“STOP!”

“Huh?”

A loud shout echoed from the tent as two burly guards dragged out the man who’d been in line before me.

“Let me go! Please, I need another chance! This skill is worthless—just one more try!” He struggled, pleading desperately, but the guards barely flinched.

The official clicked his tongue. “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.

Inside, I was surprised by its spaciousness. It looked far larger inside than it had from the outside—likely the result of some spatial magic.

The interior was lined with guards, far more than those stationed outside, all positioned with military precision.

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 at the table snapped, his tone brisk and routine.

His job was simply to record the skills acquired, cataloging them for the government’s purposes. These skills were essential, not only for dungeon work but also for paying off government-imposed fees.

This “system” offered skills as a lifeline but mostly served the government’s own interests. By cataloging each person’s skill, they could deploy those most suited to their agenda with little effort.

I approached the orb, mesmerized by its crystalline surface, shimmering with an ethereal glow. It was undeniably beautiful.

“Place your hand on it.” the seated man instructed. “When the light emerges, don’t be alarmed. It will indicate your elemental affinity. The light’s brightness will gauge the skill’s power. Got any questions?”

Although I’d heard all of this before from hours of gameplay, it felt surreal to experience it directly.

The color of the light would signify the elemental affinity—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 unique. For example, my Bloodzerker’s Blood Rage was non-attributed, appearing as a bright white light.

With no questions, I prepared to place my hand on the orb, curious—and apprehensive—about the skill I’d receive.

I took a deep breath and extended my hand.

The orb’s surface felt cool, almost vibrating under my touch.

As my fingers made contact, the tent grew silent, all eyes on me as a faint glow emerged from the orb.

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? 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 incredulity.

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 derision.

They were laughing at the absurdity of what they saw.

“I was surprised by the dim light, 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 knew that street rats were destined to receive terrible skills, but this… This wasn’t just bad; it was beyond worthless.

The gulf between my expectations and reality hit me hard as I processed what I’d just been assigned.

[Skill Acquired: Ooze]