The Zombie System.

Leon, still standing outside the ceremonial hall, looks around the central plaza buzzing with families celebrating their children's awakenings, while guild recruiters swarm successful candidates like vultures on fresh meat.

He moves through the crowd like a ghost. Parents pull their children closer once they spot his ash-gray classification badge. A mother covers her daughter's eyes as he passes.

F-Rank Necromancer.

The words burn in his chest. Everyone looking at him sees the same thing—a walking failure. A mistake the System can't fix.

Leon stands at the plaza's edge, watching guild representatives circle Marcus Thorne. The new A-Rank Flame Berserk who is surrounded by offers that includes housing allowances, training stipends, equipment packages worth more than Leon's family can earn in three years.

"Leon!"

He turns to see Damian jogging toward him, still wearing his ceremonial awakening robes. Silver embroidery catching the afternoon light—the mark of A-Rank success.

"There you are." Damian stops a few feet away, not close enough to touch, the distance feels deliberate.

"Congratulations." Leon forces the words out. "A-Rank Warblade. Your parents must be proud."

"Yeah, they're..." Damian trails off, his eyes avoiding Leon's. "Listen, about what happened in there—"

"It's fine." Leon's voice came out sharper than intended. "I knew the odds."

But he hadn't. Not really, Leon had spent years dreaming of hunting alongside Damian, fighting monsters in ancient dungeons, and building a reputation as an unstoppable team.

Those dreams feel childish now.

"The thing is," Damian continues, his voice taking on a formal tone Leon had never heard before, "Iron-fang Guild has certain... expectations."

Leon watches his best friend struggle with the words. This is the same boy who had spent countless afternoons planning their future as partners and sworn they would face anything together.

"What kind of expectations?"

Damian's jaw tightened. "Image matters. Reputation, The kind of people you associate with reflects your standing within the guild."

Each word hits like a physical blow. Leon understands perfectly. He just wanted to hear Damian say it.

"So?"

"So we shouldn't be friends anymore." The words rushed out. "I can't associate with an F-Rank. Especially not a necromancer."

There it is, clean and surgical, eighteen years of friendship being carved away by guild politics.

Leon stares at his former best friend, who looks uncomfortable but determined. His mind was already made up, probably before that gray light that announced Leon's failure.

"I see."

"It's not personal," Damian said quickly. "It's just business. You understand, right?"

Leon nods slowly, he understands perfectly. In Armathor's hierarchy, F-Ranks aren't people; they are embarrassments. If he maintains their friendship, Damian's career will be over before it starts.

"Right. Business."

Relief flickers across Damian's face. "Exactly. I know you will get it."

A group of young hunters approach, Leon recognizing them from the ceremony—their new A and B ranks still glowing with success. Their expensive robes marking them as the upper district elite.

"Falken!" A blonde girl in pristine white silk calls. "Ready to celebrate?"

Damian's expression brightens. "Absolutely." He turns back to Leon. "Well, I should go. Guild meet-and-greet tonight."

He walks toward the group without looking back. Leon watches him integrate seamlessly into their circle. Laughter and congratulations flowing freely. Within minutes, it is as if Leon had never existed.

The betrayal cuts deeper than the F-Rank classification. Leon expects the society to reject him, but he didn't expect his best friend to lead the charge.

Leon turns away from the plaza, the celebration feels like a mockery now. He walks the long way home through Armathor's lower districts, avoiding the main thoroughfares where the successful awakened will be parading their new status.

As he descends toward the Shadow Quarters, the architecture changes. Marble gives way to weathered stone. Enchanted streetlights become flickering torches. The air grows thick with industrial smoke and desperation.

Here lives the F-Ranks. The failed and The forgotten.

Leon passes a group of them huddled around a trash fire. Their clothes hang in tatters. Hollow eyes track his movement with predatory hunger. One man held a wooden sign: "Will work for food."

This can't be Leon's future? Begging in alleys while his former friend commands respect in gilded halls?

The thought makes his stomach turn.

Leon climbs three flights of creaking stairs to reach his family's apartment. The door hangs crooked on its hinges, and paint peeled walls stained from both time and water damage. Home.

His mother sits by the single window, mending clothes in the fading daylight. Her cough has worsened over the past month, each fit leaving flecks of blood on her handkerchief.

She looks up as he enters, hope blazing in her eyes—the same hope she'd carried for weeks before his awakening.

"How did it go?"

Leon opened his mouth to lie, to tell her he'd gotten C-Rank, maybe D-Rank—anything that wouldn't crush the faith she'd placed in him.

But the words just wouldn't come.

His mother's expression shifts as she reads his face. The hope dims slowly, like a candle guttering out.

"Oh, sweetheart."

She stands and wraps him in arms too thin from rationing food to pay for his education. Her embrace smells like medicine and fading perfume.

"F-Rank," Leon whispered into her shoulder.

She holds him tighter. "It doesn't matter. You're still my son."

But it does matter. F-Ranks earn copper coins, while higher ranks command silver and gold. The medical treatment his mother needs cost more than Leon could earn in a decade of menial labor.

His awakening isn't just a personal failure; it is a death sentence for the woman who sacrificed everything to give him a chance.

Leon pulls away from the embrace. His mother's face shows careful neutrality, but he catches the flash of devastation before she hides it.

"I'm tired," he says. "Long day."

"Of course. Get some rest."

Leon retreats to his tiny bedroom, where a single cot takes up most of the space. His few possessions fit in a wooden crate beside the window.

He lies down and stares at the cracked ceiling. Water stains spreading gradually across the plaster like an infection. Outside, the city celebrates new heroes while F-Ranks counts coins they'd never have.

Leon closes his eyes and tries to imagine a different life—one where the orb blaze with golden light, Damian still calling him a friend, and his mother able to afford the medicine that saves her life.

The fantasy feels as distant as the stars.

A soft blue glow suddenly fills the room. Leon's eyes snaps open. Light pours from nowhere, which casts strange shadows on familiar walls.

Text appears in the air before him, written in flowing script that seems to burn itself into his vision:

[Zombie Lord System Activated] 

[Initializing...] 

[Welcome, Chosen One]

Leon sat up slowly. The floating words pulses with otherworldly energy. This isn't every day awakening magic—this is something else entirely.

Something that might change everything.