"Life sucks—life seriously fucking sucks."
That's how it starts. That's how it always starts, with that same miserable thought echoing in his skull like a bad song on repeat. The kind you can't turn off because the radio's stuck and the volume knob broke off three years ago.
The man muttering those words doesn't bother whispering. He's already halfway through his third beer and drowning faster than a stone in a river. His fingers, calloused and twitchy, cling to a glass mug big enough to put down a horse. He chugs like he's got something to prove—not to anyone around, but to himself. And maybe the universe. Maybe if he drinks enough, he'll forget what a complete fucking disaster his life turned into.
The bar around him smells like piss, smoke, and desperation—all the flavors of a failed life. Dim neon lights buzz overhead like dying flies. The bartender's too busy watching something on the tiny TV above the liquor shelf to give a damn.
The man slams the empty mug down.
"Another," he says, voice hoarse. Not loud, not begging—just the flat tone of someone who knows the world owes him nothing, but asks anyway.
As the bartender lazily waddles over to refill the mug, a voice cuts through the haze behind him.
"Fucking bastards let me off. Six years at that dump, and they give me a pat on the back and a goddamn fruit basket. A fucking fruit basket, can you believe that?!"
Some drunk asshole in a wrinkled office shirt is practically crying over his whiskey. The man in front doesn't turn around. Doesn't need to. He's heard it before. Different faces, same sob stories.
"Boo-fucking-hoo," he thinks bitterly. "You lost your job? Welcome to the shitpile, buddy. Population: too damn many."
He grabs the fresh mug and gulps. The cold beer does nothing to numb the heat boiling in his chest.
"My life wasn't always like this," he mutters in his head, watching the golden foam slide down the inside of the glass. "There was a time I actually mattered. Had a wife. A damn good one. We laughed, we loved, we made plans. Real ones—not just drunk bar fantasies."
Then came the Awakening.
The world changed about a decade ago. One random day, people just started... getting powers. Abilities. Gifts. Blessings. Call it whatever the hell you want. Some asshole opened a rift, the universe coughed, and suddenly people were shooting fire out of their asses and lifting buses with a single hand.
They called it the System. Some mysterious force that ranked every human being's potential like they were items on a clearance sale. S-rank? Welcome to fame, fortune, and VIP pussy. A-rank? You still get a mansion. B-rank? Respectable. Useful. C-rank? Manageable.
D-rank? Meh.
E-rank?
The man snorts.
"Literal shit."
And guess who got blessed with the magical, once-in-a-lifetime honor of being stamped E-rank? That's right. Yours truly.
"E for 'eternally useless.' E for 'eat shit and die.' E for every goddamn door slamming in your face."
Meanwhile, his wife—his beautiful, radiant, loving wife—awakened with an S-rank. S for special. S for supreme. S for so far out of your league, you might as well dig a hole and stay there.
She didn't even leave him at first. She stayed. She tried. But fame has a way of rotting things. Money, power, attention—it warps everything. And when you're an E-rank walking turd standing next to a literal goddess, people talk.
They whispered.
They judged.
And then she left.
Not with hatred. Not with anger.
Just… silence.
Like a door quietly closing forever.
He didn't blame her. Not really.
"Why would she stay? I was dragging her down. An embarrassment. A liability. E-rank scum."
He drains half the mug in one go. It sloshes down his chin, and he doesn't wipe it.
Somewhere behind him, the drunk guy's still crying about his job. Someone else lets out a wheezy laugh, probably high off cheap pills and cheaper regrets.
The man's eyes drift to the scar on his right hand. A burn mark. His own ability—Ember Touch—lets him generate a small flame on contact. That's it. No fireballs, no infernos. Just enough to light a cigarette if he concentrates really hard.
He once applied to be a dungeon scout. They laughed. Said he'd be more useful as a torch holder.
He tried freelance work. Mercenary jobs. Got his ass beat more times than he could count.
Eventually, he just stopped trying.
And started drinking.
"This world isn't built for the weak. It's built by the blessed. Your value isn't in your heart, or your mind, or how much effort you put in. It's your fucking rank. That's all anyone sees."
He sighs, rubbing his temples. His head's pounding now. The mix of self-loathing and alcohol is a recipe for disaster, but it's the only damn thing that tastes real anymore.
"Maybe I deserve this. Maybe I was never meant to stand beside her. Maybe the System knew something I didn't."
He glances at the mirror behind the bar. The man staring back looks ten years older than he is. Dead eyes, unshaven, clothes that haven't seen a washing machine in days. Maybe weeks.
A goddamn punchline.
A joke told one too many times.
He takes another long sip. The mug's nearly empty now.
The drunk guy behind him lets out a burp that sounds like a dying animal. The bartender swats at a buzzing fly, misses, then gives up entirely.
The man leans back on the stool, breathing out through his nose.
"Yeah. Life seriously fucking sucks."
His fingers tap the rim of the glass, slow and steady.
"But you know what? Let's back up. Let's rewind this shitstorm to the start. How'd I end up here, huh? Rock bottom, ass-deep in stale beer and pity?"
He stares into the foam like it's gonna whisper the secrets of the universe.
"I wasn't always like this. So where did it go wrong? When did the cracks start showing?"
He closes his eyes, just for a second.
The memories begin to stir.