The Calamity
The reason an F-Class dungeon is hell for non-awakened folks is crystal clear.
First off, pricey healers are a pipe dream.
One scratch, and you're either dead or missing a limb.
Second, attacks from regular Joes like us barely faze the monsters.
Modern firearms?
Lead bullets without mana infusion? Might as well be mosquito bites to them.
So why the hell do we crawl into this nightmare anyway?
Simple.
The world's gone to shit.
As more Awakeners popped up, the number and power of gates exploded exponentially.
Thanks to that, the real heroes—those true Awakeners—were too busy getting dragged off to high-rank gates to save humanity from extinction.
Low-rank gates that don't pay and are a hassle? They get subcontracted to us non-awakened mercenaries, who stake our lives for cash.
Even with non-awakened dying every day, the system keeps churning because of one thing: money.
Sure, what we make doesn't hold a candle to Awakeners.
But it's still a fortune no normal person could touch in a lifetime.
"Hey, rookie! Quit spacing out and grab that magic stone. You wanna camp here overnight? Hurry up!"
"...Ah, yes! Coming right now!"
The team leader's thunderous shout snapped me back to reality.
The final reason dungeons are hell for non-awakened?
Lack of intel.
Gates only close after you've cleared every monster inside.
Awakeners sense mana, so they map out the dungeon like a game minimap and wipe it clean in seconds...
But we don't have that luxury. Can't even feel mana.
Non-awakened mercs rely on animal instincts alone.
Grab 'em when they pop out. If not, tank until they do.
Call it hunting all you want—it's just a grind.
So yeah, no time to dawdle, just like the team leader said.
The longer you drag, the more our stamina drops, and the higher the chance we get monster chow.
And right now.
In a merc team with no dedicated carriers, the grunt work of hauling gear naturally falls to the lowest-ranking newbie: me.
The magic stone, somewhere in the spider's chest cavity amid the oozing slime.
I reached into the spider corpse to dig it out.
Ugh...
Viscous goo seeped between my fingers and the spider's innards.
No matter how many times, this disgust never gets old.
It's all money. Every bit of this is money.
Hypnotizing myself, I rummaged through its chest.
Furrowing my brow, focusing solely on the feel of my fingertips.
Finally, a hard, smooth crystal snagged on my hand.
"Got it!"
Pulled from the muck: a blue magic stone the size of a knuckle joint.
Low-grade from an F-Class monster, sure.
But it was my first haul from an official raid—symbolic as hell.
That alone made the slime-coated stone look prettier.
Pride swelling fuzzy in my chest—right then.
Fading footsteps and a bored voice drifted over.
"Hey, stay there and you're prime bait to die alone."
I looked up: the team leader and the crew were already pulling away.
Torchlight flickering dimly in the pitch-black ancient cave.
Shit, getting left behind is game over!
"W-Wait up!"
I frantically stuffed the stone into the collection sack and bolted after them.
"Huff... huff... Team leader, this... feels off, doesn't it?"
One guy wiped rain-like sweat, gasping ragged breaths.
Rough pants echoed off cave walls, mixing uneasily.
Everyone looked around, confusion plain on their faces.
But the team leader just scanned the darkness with sharp eyes, no reply.
"This really an F-Class dungeon?"
"What're you saying?"
"We didn't screw up and enter the wrong one, right?"
"Goddamn it! Cut the bad omens, man."
"No, but... y'know! That Gate Promotion thing—where the mana gauge glitches and the rank jumps...!"
Faces went ghost-white in an instant.
Among mercs, it's urban legend—no one's lived to tell it firsthand.
You enter a gate, rank spikes, whole team wiped. Government and Association hush it up to avoid panic. Passed mouth-to-mouth.
We'd toss it around as bar tales.
But if Gate Promotion hits here?
"Quiet, all of you."
The team leader, silent till now, growled low.
"No morale-killers. Fear just ups your death odds."
"But team leader... spiders spawning endlessly? That normal?"
A guy forced a grin, eyes twitching, begging for reassurance.
We'd barely moved meters from start, already downed over ten spiders.
Normal F-Class: one or two per zone. By numbers, gate should've closed already.
No sign of it, though. No wonder the jitters.
Felt like we'd crawled into a massive spider nest.
"Rookie, magic rounds left?"
Team leader eyed me.
His gaze weighed heavy.
I spat out the last count I'd checked.
"......Three left."
Dead silence crashed down.
Three clips meant big trouble.
Supplies always tight, but enough to scrape by and close a gate.
Three meant closure imminent.
But we'd burned so many at the entrance... unease crept in.
Team leader scowled hard, then forced calm for the team.
"Could just be a spawn cluster up front. Push on."
Yeah, can't bail whenever.
Had to hope it was a fluke.
He bit his lip and stepped into the dark.
We exchanged nervous glances, then followed reluctantly.
But weirdly.
"They really all bunched in one spot?"
"Yeah... walked forever, not a single one."
"Ha... haha! Told ya! Gate Promotion? Total bullshit! Who's even seen it?"
Spiders gone, tension flipped to laughs fast.
...Simple minds, huh.
We'd trekked far without a shadow.
But I couldn't relax, kept scanning.
Like a massive predator cleared the path, waiting for prey to stroll in...
"Whoa... what the hell? Why's it so huge?"
Narrow passage spat us into a jaw-dropper.
No more shoulder-brushing tunnel.
Soccer-field-sized cavern greeted us.
Ceiling lost in heights, walls stacked with massive man-hewn stone stairs.
This is ancient temple tier...
I brushed the wall, surveying the unknown.
"Whoa, stairs too! Like ruins or something!"
"Bet we score artifacts beyond magic stones. Jackpot!"
"Team leader, you will divvy up anything from here fair, right?"
These the same guys shivering from spider swarms?
Shady space hits, eyes glaze over—mercs scattered like hyenas scenting cash.
No orders needed; they prowled for loot.
"What d'you think?"
Sudden voice made me jump.
Team leader stood beside me, hands in pockets.
"Huh? Oh, uh..."
"Heard of beginner's luck? Vets too numb to danger miss death right under nose. Your eyes—what's this place?"
He stared me down.
Why ask greenhorn me? Pressure much.
Anyone could smell trap.
Normal flick: scream "trap!" and bolt.
But dungeons mock common sense.
...Brother said it too. Dungeons are death traps—and treasure troves.
Magic stones baseline. Monster byproducts, rare ores, herbs.
Ruin-type gates? Jackpot jackpot.
One ancient script on wall? Billions to academics.
And why mercs lose it?
Sealed chests.
Luck out: gold ingots, relics galore. Prime spots hide 'em.
"Too quiet post-spawn cluster... I'd say grab what we can and bail."
Team leader quirked a brow, lips pursing.
"Hmm... yeah—"
Before he finished.
A thick red droplet splatted on his cheek.
His mouth snapped shut.
Split-second hush.
Instinct kicked—we both craned up to the ceiling.
We froze solid.
...What the fuck is that...
From lofty darkness, something massive glided down slow.
It touched ground lightly: a giant "goddess statue" hung in spider silk.
Or demon in goddess skin.
Blood-slicked body gleaming, it unfurled eight back legs like elegant wings.
Its eerily calm eyes locked on us—brain went blank.
Ah...
Just a sigh.
Overwhelming power gap on sight crushed fight or flight.
Not tiger terror—pure rank difference.
Our chat flashed by like a life reel.
Gate Promotion.
Thought it bad joke...
But this wasn't our F-Class spiders.
...Rank meaningless anyway.
Non-awakened bet lives on F-Class spiders.
Even E-Class? Team wipe.
Brain screamed nonstop.
That thing ain't from the kiddie pool.
Glitch or god's prank—didn't matter.
We faced impossible calamity.
"W-We... all gonna die..."
Despair burst from someone.
The burly merc who'd mocked me at the gate.
Soul drained, quaking like aspen, ass planted on floor.
"It" stirred, overlooking us all.
One back leg lashed like a tentacle.
Target: trembling burly guy.
Splat!
"G-Gahk...!"
No time for scream.
Sharp leg impaled his chest dead center.
Dark veins bulged grotesque under skin, bursting.
Poison ravaging him.
Leg pulsed, slurping him in.
Burly frame shriveled mummylike—gag reflex hit.
"Haa..."
Satisfied post-meal sigh?
It yawned lazily, spreading remaining legs wing-wide.
Next instant.
Shuuuk, shuuuuk—!
Flesh-piercing squelches and screams crossed everywhere.
And that icy leg-tip hurtling at my chest—like slo-mo closing in.
Thud-!
Hot stab through my heart.