In the bustling heart of Manila, Philippines, ten-year-old Alaric Cruz watched in wide-eyed wonder as the world fractured. Rifts, like jagged scars across the sky, spewed forth otherworldly creatures, and with them came the legend – Archangel Eros. It was a turning point, a day that ignited a spark within Alaric's soul, a yearning to become a protector, a hunter.

Elias Hawk, the name echoed like a war cry in Alaric's mind. A Reaper-style hunter, the first ever to be classified as S-Tier, a rank whispered with reverence. Elias, a former American pilot, had traded the skies for the battlefield after the cataclysmic Hybrid Eclipse. Flying remained woven into his very being, they said. During raids, Elias could materialize wings from daggers, soaring with the deadly grace of a hawk to vanquish rifters. His movements were a blur, a blink and you'd miss the glint of his blades as he carved a bloody path through the enemy ranks.

But fate, it seemed, had a cruel twist in store for the legendary hunter. A government-sanctioned raid, based on faulty intel, turned into a bloodbath. Seven of Elias's nine comrades, his friends, fell that day. The details of the raid were shrouded in secrecy, a government cover-up that festered like a wound. The weight of that failure, the loss of his team, shattered Elias's faith in the system. He walked away from his dream of being a hunter, a disillusioned hero.

However, from the ashes of his despair, Elias rose anew. Recognizing the government's failings in managing these threats, he embarked on a mission to forge a better future. Thus, the World Hunter's Bureau was born – an organization built by hunters, for hunters. Envisioned as a global network, each country would have its own Hunter's Embassy, a beacon of expertise dedicated to accurately assessing rifts before sending brave souls into the fray. This was Elias Hawk's legacy, a testament to his unwavering spirit – a world where hunters wouldn't be pawns sacrificed on the altar of misinformation.

The dream of becoming a hunter wasn't just about facing rifts and monsters. The Hunter's Embassy was the gatekeeper, the place where hopefuls like me would be assessed and ranked. Here, Dr. Vaughn Hugh and his brainiac crew had figured out a way to measure the power of the "Blessings of the Gods" we received – a gift, some would say, that wasn't equally distributed. Apparently, not everyone got the same heavenly download.

These Anima crystals, these magical rocks hunters found during raids, were the key. They could not only tap into some natural energy source, but when used with a hunter's gauge, they blared out your power level like a neon sign. Touch the gauge, and if it lights up a brilliant white – bam! You're an S-Tier hunter, an instant legend, and probably mobbed by autograph seekers. Super rare, those S-Tiers. Then there's yellow for A-Tier, the next best thing. Orange for B, light blue for C, green for D, and then... gray. Yep, gray for E-Tier, the lamest color in the spectrum. Basically, a step above a regular dude. E-Tiers? Nobody cares. You're basically hunter wallpaper.

So here I was, palms slicker than an oiled eel, waiting my turn outside the assessment room at the embassy. Every fiber of my being was screaming a prayer. At least a C-Tier, come on! This was my dream, years of training culminating in this very moment. This was my shot at a decent life, a way to actually afford decent meals for my parents. My turn finally buzzed, and I shuffled towards the Hunter's Gauge, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. With a deep breath, I placed my right hand on the surface.

Silence. A beat passed, then another. The air crackled with a tension thicker than the smog that choked Manila before the rifts. Everyone in the room, myself included, stared in stunned disbelief. The gauge remained stubbornly inert, not a flicker, not a glow. A cold dread snaked down my spine. Apparently, I belonged to a very special category – "The Untouched." But unlike the others who received no blessing, there was no emptiness. Instead, a prickling sensation danced across my palm, a faint hum resonating deep within my bones. The gauge was unresponsive, yes, but something... something else was happening. The Divine download might have missed my address, but maybe, just maybe, something else entirely decided to show up instead.

I slammed my hand on the gauge again, then again, willing it to react, to acknowledge the fire burning in my gut. "There must be a mistake!" I yelled, desperation lacing my voice. The embassy agents exchanged a look, a mixture of pity and practiced neutrality. They knew the sting of being Untouched – the social pariah status, the whispered taunts, the slammed doors. Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the sterile white of the room. My dream, the shimmering mirage of becoming a hunter and lifting my family out of poverty, dissolved like ash in the wind.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Head hung low, I shuffled out of the assessment room. Some agents cast sympathetic glances, their professionalism strained. Others, less kind, choked back snickers. Reaching the embassy's exterior, a stray thought snagged in my mind. Alaric. My parents' chosen name, meaning "Ruler of All." Since childhood, I'd clung to it, a promise of greatness, a prophecy whispering of a glorious future. But in this world, in this stratified society, how could an Untouched ever rule? The weight of the name became a cruel joke, a bitter reminder of my powerlessness. Laughter, though silent, echoed in my ears, a chorus of derision. Yet, amidst the despair, a spark flickered. Maybe the blessings of the Gods had bypassed me, but perhaps something else, something far more potent, chose me instead. After all, rulers rarely followed well-worn paths. A defiant glint ignited in my eyes. The path to becoming a legend might be obscured, but I, Alaric Cruz, the Untouched, would carve my own.

Desperation fueled my legs as I bolted back into the assessment room. The agents scrambled, startled by my sudden reappearance. "Please!" I pleaded, voice hoarse with emotion. My gaze burned with a feverish intensity, a stark contrast to the sterile sheen of the room. "Even if I can't be a hunter, can't you make me a bagger?"

A frown creased the agent's face. "Mr. Cruz," he said, his voice laced with concern, "being a bagger is dangerous work. Especially for an Untouched."

"I know that, sir!" I interjected, my voice cracking. "But I need this job! Even if it's just bagging crystals. You can assign me to the lowest tier rifts, the least dangerous ones! Please, sir, I'm begging you!"

The agent sighed. "Mr. Cruz, there's a whole world outside the rifts. You don't have to be a hunter. We can find you a position at the embassy, in the office perhaps."

He had a point. There were other options. But the office life held little appeal. Bagger salaries were higher, and with the potential for extra loot on successful raids, I could earn a decent living. It was a gamble, but one I was willing to take.

My pleas continued, met with a constant stream of refusals. Just when my hope dwindled to a flicker, an elderly man appeared at the top of the stairs. His hair and beard were a distinguished silver, and a calm smile etched itself on his face.

"So, you're Mr. Alaric Cruz, the recent case of the Untouched," he boomed, his voice surprisingly warm for someone with such a commanding presence. He introduced himself as Mr. Diego Rosario, the Chairman of the Hunter's Embassy. "I heard your impassioned plea. We can offer you the bagger position. I understand your desperation, but my agents are right. It's a dangerous path for someone without the Blessings."

I bit my lip, tears threatening to spill as I stared at the floor. My dream seemed to be slipping away once more.

"However," Mr. Rosario continued, his voice turning gentle, "I have a friend in England. His son, much like yourself, is an Untouched. The dream of becoming a hunter was his lifeblood, and when the assessment deemed him Untouched, his world shattered. He fell into a deep depression, and..." He paused, his voice trailing off.

Confusion clouded my mind. Why was he telling me this?

"I don't know if you have the strength to face the challenges that come with being Untouched," he confessed, "but I refuse to hear another story of a promising life lost because of a single assessment. It's better to fight for your dreams than to simply surrender, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Cruz?"

A spark of hope ignited within me. His words resonated deep within my soul.

"That's why," Mr. Rosario declared, a resolute glint in his eyes, "I'm taking full responsibility and overriding protocol. You, Mr. Alaric Cruz, are officially a bagger."

A wide grin stretched across my face. Joy surged through me, so intense I nearly launched myself at Mr. Rosario in a hug. Common sense prevailed, and I settled for a fervent handshake and a beaming smile.

"Are you sure about this, sir?" an agent hesitantly approached Mr. Rosario.

"Honestly," Mr. Rosario admitted, a hint of uncertainty flickering across his face, "I don't have all the answers. But I refuse to witness another dream turn to dust. Who knows, Mr. Cruz, maybe even an Untouched can carve his own path to greatness."

With a final, determined nod, I strode out of the embassy once more. But this time, the weight that had pressed down on me felt lighter, replaced by a burgeoning hope. I was officially a bagger, a menial position in the grand scheme of things, yet to me, it held the weight of a golden ticket. Gripping the newly issued Hunter's Bagger license, a worn leatherette card emblazoned with my name and a holographic image of a grinning skull toting a bulging sack, a grin split my face wider than a rift closing.

Sure, it wasn't the sleek Hunter's license I'd envisioned, the one that granted the power to face rifts and claim glory. But this, this unassuming card, was my first step. A stepping stone, just like the name implied, towards a future brighter than any S-Tier's glow. In its worn texture and official seal, I saw not just a permit, but a promise. A promise to myself, to prove that even an Untouched could carve his own legend, a legend written not in blessings, but in sheer willpower and unwavering determination. The path ahead might be fraught with danger and derision, but with this license clutched in my hand, I, Alaric Cruz, the Untouched, was ready to face it all. The spark of defiance that had flickered within me during the assessment now burned with the intensity of a supernova. The whispers of doubt could fade into the background noise, for a new song was about to be played – the ballad of Alaric Cruz, the Untouched Hunter.