I Became an F-Rank

The letter F was stamped on my awakening assessment results in red ink.

I read it three times. For a moment I wondered if it was actually an E and the ink had just smeared, so I rubbed my eyes and looked again — only to confirm that E and F don't even resemble each other as letters.

Beside the grade, they'd thoughtfully attached a helpful note.

Not recommended.

In gamer terms, that meant: "Don't come to the raid. Even if you show up, you can't carry, and you'll just make the rest of us miserable."

It was the same vibe as a party recruitment post blaring "F-RANKS NEED NOT APPLY — do not message us. I'm serious" in bold letters across the top.

And now for the problem.

I had woken up in this body this very morning, and until thirty minutes ago, I had no idea what this results slip even was.

Yellowed wallpaper freckled with mold. A fluorescent light that buzzed and flickered. A six-pyeong studio apartment.

Three empty cup ramen containers stacked on the sink like a leaning tower, and three utility-bill shutoff notices stuck to the front door — electricity, water, and gas. The full deluxe set.

In the wallet on the table, a bank statement: 1,980,000 won. Address: Gwanak-gu, Seoul. Guardian field: empty.

Name: Han Sejin. Age: 24. Rank: F.

An orphanage-raised F-rank awakener with no family and less than two million won to his name. He hadn't even set character creation difficulty to Hell — so why did his starting stats look like this? What exactly had this Han Sejin guy done in his past life to deserve it?

Then a translucent window popped up before my eyes.

I reached out and poked it. It actually responded to my touch.

Abyss of Crystal Storm. Demon King's Castle Corridor. Altar of the Heavens.

The moment I read the list, a chill ran down my spine.

I knew every single one. Those were the main scenario dungeons of Ether Chronicle.

An online RPG I'd played for five years and 10,000 hours. Three full clears. 874 contributions to the strategy wiki.

I lost consciousness thirty minutes before the servers shut down while attempting the hidden ending — and woke up here.

So, to sum up: I'd transmigrated into the world of the game I used to play, I had to clear twenty S-rank-or-higher dungeons to get back home, and my current rank was F.

"……Son of a bitch?"

I went outside. I had to see for myself.

A sunlit residential neighborhood in Gwanak-gu, dazzling with spring light.

It looked like an ordinary Korean street, except a hundred meters ahead, a translucent blue dimensional gate was slowly revolving in midair.

A gate.

Concrete blast barriers ringed it, and two armed hunters guarded the entrance while sipping canned coffee. The world's stakes were dire; the hunters were taking their sweet time.

A poster plastered on a building wall: "A-Rank Dungeon Strike Team Recruiting — 30 million KRW per month guaranteed." An electronic billboard: "Gates detected in the capital area today: 12."

The gate design. The barrier markings. The rank notation. The billboard's UI.

All of it, exactly as it was in the game.

Verification complete.

Seriously, how does this even happen? I've read plenty of transmigration stories. I just never expected to be the one on the receiving end.

Outside a convenience store, Hunter Recovery Drinks were displayed at 5,800 won apiece.

The same ones that functioned as low-grade HP potions in the game. In a world where Hot Six cost 1,200 won, a single potion ran 5,800 — meaning an F-rank couldn't even afford to buy a potion.

Back in my studio, I picked up my phone. The internet worked.

Naver, YouTube, KakaoTalk. The Korean internet was all there, exactly as I remembered it.

Which meant... maybe.

I typed DC Outside into the search bar.

It loaded. I scrolled through the gallery list.

Hunter Minor Gallery.

So this one exists here too, huh.

Transmigrating to another world and the first thing I do is open DC Inside — pretty pathetic, honestly. But my fingers moved before my brain caught up.

The thread list appeared.

The Petrifying Basilisk.

The 3rd-floor ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠boss of the ○○ dungeon. On the surface it seemed to rely on nothing but a frontal breath attack and tail swipes — but its true critical weakness was the third scale behind its left rear flank.

A precise strike there opened a 1.5-second window in which its entire body's defense dropped to zero.

A pattern I discovered at 4 a.m. on my 37th attempt. An entry I wrote myself on the strategy wiki.

And right now, people were trapped in there with it.

My fingers moved.

Would this actually work? Did the game match reality?

Would 10,000 hours' worth of knowledge hold up in this world too?

Because if it didn't, that person would reposition on the strength of my comment — and die for it.

Five minutes. Eight. Ten.

I hit refresh about twenty times.

Twelve minutes in, a notification popped up.

Oh. It worked.

And then 211 showed up again.

Ugh. Should've kept my mouth shut.

If ten years on DC Inside taught me one thing, it's this: you lose arguments not because your logic is weak, but because you talk too much.

Talk long enough, and at least one thing you say will be wrong — and your opponent will sink their teeth into it.

I set the phone down and stared at the ceiling.

Let's review.

Twenty quests. All S-rank or above. My rank: F.

An F-rank walking into an S-rank dungeon is an elementary schooler stepping into the Octagon. The moment they enter, they die.

And there are no respawns like in the game — get caught by the petrification breath and you'll literally turn to stone ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and shatter.

In real time. While fully conscious.

Absolutely not. No no no.

So what could I do?

Hey, I'd just proven it, hadn't I?

One comment turned a 30-minute stalemate into a 12-minute clear, and saved three hunters who were about to die.

If I can't clear the dungeons myself, I just get other people to clear them for me.

Alright. Backseat time on the gallery. Auto-grind engaged.

I hit refresh in good spirits — and there was a new post waiting.

"……Huh?"

What the hell is wrong with this guy??

He read three years of posts in an hour? A guy who nearly died in a dungeon just now?

This dude might actually be insane?

Well, I mean — how many unhinged people are there on DC Inside? Finding a sane one is the harder trick.

He's probably just your garden-variety hunter with a snake-obsessed heart. One of those time-rich Bill Gates types.

Ignore him.

What's the worst that could happen, right?