The goblin dropped from the stalactite with terrifying speed, its rusted cleaver aimed directly at Eric's neck.

  A week ago, Eric would have frozen. His civilian brain would have locked up in pure, unadulterated panic at the sight of the eighty-pound monster hurtling out of the green gloom of the Warrens.

  Today, his body didn’t even wait for the adrenaline spike.

  Eric pivoted his heavy iron boot, dropping his center of gravity. The borrowed muscle memory of the Level 5 Warrior gear fired with crisp, perfect synchronization. He didn't look up; he didn't need to. He felt the shift in the air pressure above him. He brought his iron shortsword up in a brutal, two-handed vertical strike, letting the goblin impale itself on the heavy blade using its own downward momentum.

  The jarring impact traveled down Eric's arms, but his reinforced gauntlets and locked wrists absorbed the shock flawlessly. The goblin shrieked, a wet, bubbling sound, and went limp.

  Eric forcefully kicked the corpse off his blade. He didn't pause to catch his breath. He didn't check his surroundings for more ambushes. He just knelt, drove the point of a rusted dagger into the monster’s chest cavity, and pried out a thumb-sized, faintly glowing green core.

  He tossed it into the heavy leather pouch at his belt. It clinked against two dozen others just like it.

  "Clear!" Eric shouted, his voice echoing down the damp, curving tunnel.

  "Moving up," a voice echoed back. A young woman in standard-issue leather scout gear jogged around the corner, her crossbow lowered. She glanced at the dead goblin, then at Eric. "Nice catch, Saint. You’re a machine today."

  "Just putting in the hours, Rell," Eric replied automatically, wiping goblin blood off his sword with a scrap of scavenged cloth.

  It had been seven days since the near-disaster with Jax and Kira. Seven grueling, miserable days of running low-tier pickup groups through the Goblin Warrens. He had practically lived in the armored staging grounds of the Sector 4 Portal Hub, taking whatever frontline slot was available, grabbing sleep in thirty-minute bursts while leaning against concrete barricades.

  And it was working. Or, at least, he was surviving.

  He was getting used to the nauseating vertigo of the stat imbalance. His Body stat was still towering far over his Level 0 Mind stat, but he was learning how to stop fighting the disconnect. He had fully surrendered to the downloaded combat proficiency in the armor. He let the gear perform the physical math of leverage and momentum, while his actual brain simply pointed the weapon in the right direction.

  "That’s the last of the vanguard," Rell said, checking her wrist-mounted mapper. "Boss room is the next cavern over. You ready to tank the Chief?"

  Eric’s hand unconsciously drifted to the right gauntlet he had bought from the surplus store. It was slightly singed and a different shade of leather than his left, but it held the set together.

  "Yeah," Eric lied smoothly, ignoring the phantom memory of his armor instantly crushing him into the stone. "Let's get paid."

  The exit screening was a bureaucratic meat grinder designed to squeeze the blood out of the Awakened before they even saw the city sky.

  Eric stood in the long, shuffling line under the harsh arc-lights of the Hub, surrounded by exhausted dungeoneers bleeding from minor wounds and smelling of rot. A bored Hub official with a digital scanner violently stamped Eric's datapad, deducting his exit tax, the hazard fee, and a mandatory "infrastructure contribution."

  Eric didn't argue. Arguing with the Hub officials was a fast track to getting blacklisted. He snatched his datapad back and stepped through the heavy steel turnstiles into the sprawling, chaotic streets of Sector 4.

  He collapsed onto a nearby rusted bench, ignoring the roar of a passing armored transport truck, and pulled up his banking app.

  Current Balance: 840 Credits.

  He stared at the number, exhaling a long, ragged breath. He had a buffer. It wasn't life-changing money—it wouldn't get him out of poverty but it meant he wasn't one broken strap away from starvation or death. He could afford to replace a piece of gear if things went south in the Warrens.

  But seven days of non-stop, brutal physical combat had clarified a terrifying reality: the Warrior class was a death trap for him.

  The Level 5 stats were incredible, but the armor itself was a massive liability. He was slow. He was a gigantic, clanking target meant to draw aggro and take hits. And every single time a goblin cleaver scraped against his chainmail, Eric felt his heart stop. If the armor broke, the talent dropped, and the sheer physical weight of the gear would instantly crush his Level 0 body.

  He couldn't keep testing his luck as a heavy frontline fighter. He needed a way to utilize his Dress for the Job You Want talent without standing in the path of an eight-foot monster wielding a blackened steel warhammer.

  He looked down at his grimy, blood-stained gambeson.

  "Dress for the job you want," Eric muttered to himself. The talent description had explicitly stated Class-specific gear. But the System had infinite classes. Who was to say there wasn't an Awakened Diplomat class? An Accountant class? A Corporate Executive class? The elite upper sectors were run by Awakened bureaucrats who never saw combat. Surely they had their own System-recognized uniforms.

  He pushed himself off the bench, his joints popping loudly. He bypassed the armored transit lines heading toward the affluent upper sectors and instead walked deeper into the slums, heavily favoring his left leg.

  He found exactly what he was looking for tucked between a cheap noodle stand and a smog-stained cybernetics repair shop: a mundane, civilian thrift store.

  The bell above the door didn't jingle; it just clacked dully. The air inside smelled of dust, cheap detergent, and old fabric. A bored teenager with a glowing neon augmented-reality headset sat behind the counter, scrolling through a digital feed and completely ignoring him.

  Eric walked past the racks of stained worker overalls and synthetic winter jackets, heading straight for the formal wear. It was a chaotic mess of outdated fashion and discarded corporate uniforms.

  He sorted through the racks until he found a complete, matching suit. It was a cheap, synthetic three-piece—charcoal blazer, matching slacks, a stiff white button-down shirt, a modest blue tie, and a pair of scuffed faux-leather oxfords. It looked like the uniform of a low-level corporate drone or a Megacity logistics clerk.

  A job that required intelligence. Charisma. High Mind and Soul stats, maybe. A job that didn't involve getting hit with an iron hammer.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Eric stripped off his heavy Warrior gear piece by piece in the cramped changing room, wincing as the sudden drop in Body stats left him feeling frail and exhausted. He pulled on the slacks, buttoned the shirt, tied the cheap tie, and slipped into the blazer. Finally, he stepped into the stiff oxfords.

  He stood in front of the cracked floor-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs. He looked ridiculous. He looked like a man trying to talk his way out of a loan default.

  He held his breath and waited.

  He braced himself for the physical rush, the sudden expansion of consciousness, or the sharp clarity of increased processing speed. He expected a surge of charisma to flood his system, the sudden knowledge of high-end corporate tax law, or the ability to effortlessly balance complex spreadsheets in his head.

  Nothing happened.

  Eric frowned. He adjusted the tie. He tugged at the lapels. He shifted his weight in the uncomfortable shoes.

  The air in the cramped dressing room remained perfectly still. There was no kinetic jolt up his spine. No system notification pinged in his mind. He was just a tired, broke twenty-something wearing a cheap, ill-fitting suit.

  He cursed softly under his breath, undoing the tie and pulling the blazer off.

  The loophole was closed. The systemic reality of his Divine Talent snapped into brutal focus. A cheap thrift-store suit didn't make him a "Corporate Executive" any more than wearing a plastic stethoscope made him a "Healer." The talent required actual, System-sanctioned Class gear. It only activated when he equipped physical items functionally recognized and categorized by the Awakening System's bizarre, bloody economy.

  If he wanted to change his stats, he couldn't put on a mechanic's jumpsuit to gain repair skills or a lab coat to gain medical knowledge. He had to wear the violently dangerous, heavily regulated, and brutally expensive gear of an active Awakened dungeoneer.

  He left the cheap suit in the changing room. He couldn't stomach risking the armor when he wasn't actively fighting for his life, so instead of putting the Warrior gear back on, he pulled on his faded jeans and a ratty t-shirt. He stuffed the blood-stained Level 5 armor into a massive, stained canvas duffel bag.

  He dragged the dead weight of the bag out of the thrift store, his shoulders already aching from the strain. He was stuck in the awakened economy. Which meant he needed to talk to the only man in the Megacity who sold Awakened gear cheap enough for Eric to actually afford.

  The rusted sign of Iron & Ash Warrior Surplus was completely dark when Eric shoved the heavy door open, hauling the massive duffel bag over the threshold.

  The burly shopkeeper looked up from an assault rifle completely disassembled across the front counter. The whir of his thick robotic prosthetic arm was the only sound in the quiet shop as he meticulously scrubbed a firing pin with an oily rag.

  "You're not dead," the shopkeeper observed, his voice a gravelly monotone. "Surprising."

  "I'm unkillable," Eric said dryly, dropping the heavy canvas duffel bag onto the floor with a loud, metallic crash. "I need to look at some other gear. What else do you carry besides heavy iron?"

  The shopkeeper snorted, tossing the rag onto the counter. "I sell whatever the street scavengers drag in off the corpses of idiots who thought they could solo a Hobgoblin. Which means I mostly sell low-tier iron." He tapped his metal finger against the glass counter. "What are you looking for? Crack a plate again?"

  "No. My set's intact." Eric kept his voice casual, leaning against the counter like this was a routine visit. "I'm running with different pickup groups now. One of my regular scouts needs a replacement set but she's broke. Figured I'd check your prices, maybe front her the credits."

  The lie came easier than it should have. A week of pretending to be a real Warrior in the Warrens had sharpened more than just his borrowed combat instincts.

  The shopkeeper grunted, apparently satisfied with the explanation. A customer buying gear for a party member was the most mundane transaction in the world. "What class?"

  Eric hesitated. He had spent the entire walk here thinking about this. The dream scenario was a Mage set or a Healer kit—something that would let him stand in the back lines, far from the cleavers and warhammers. But he had to ask, just to confirm what he already suspected.

  "What does Mage gear run? Even low level."

  The shopkeeper's laugh was a single, sharp bark. "Kid, magic-user gear doesn't end up in surplus stores. Mana-silk threading, rare-earth conduits—the materials alone cost more than everything in this building combined." He jerked his robotic thumb toward the street. "Even a Level 1 initiate's robe runs upwards of ten thousand credits. The aristocrats in the upper sectors buy that stuff at private auction before it ever touches a shelf down here."

  Ten thousand credits. Eric's jaw tightened. He had nearly killed himself for seven straight days and barely scraped together eight hundred. He'd have to grind for months—assuming he lived that long.

  "Healer?" he tried, though he already knew the answer.

  "Same problem. If it channels mana, it costs a premium." The shopkeeper picked up the firing pin and resumed cleaning it, clearly losing interest in a conversation about gear he'd never stock. "Down here in Sector 4, we deal in physical trauma. Steel, iron, and leather. Your scout friend—what's her class?"

  "Rogue," Eric said.

  The shopkeeper didn't react. He just set the firing pin down and jerked his chin toward the back of the store. "Bargain bins near the rear exit. Help yourself."

  Eric pushed off the counter and walked slowly toward the back of the cramped store. The air here smelled different—less like oiled metal and more like dried blood and sweat. He dug through a massive wire bin filled with miscellaneous scraps.

  He pulled out a heavy gauntlet made of thick leather, wrapped in rusted iron chain. "What's this?"

  "Brawler gear," the shopkeeper called out from the front. "Reinforced hand-wraps, heavy boots, padded vests. High Body stats, decent attack output. Downside is you have to punch the monsters to death. High mortality rate. Hence why it's cheap."

  Eric dropped the heavy wrap back into the bin. He wasn't trading a sword for his bare fists. He continued digging until his hands brushed against something surprisingly smooth.

  He pulled it out. It was a dark, boiled leather chest piece. It lacked the heavy, interlocking metal rings of his Warrior set. It was sleek, lightweight, and incredibly flexible. It had numerous small pouches stitched into the belt line, and the gauntlets attached to it were fingerless, designed for dexterity rather than blocking blunt force trauma.

  "Level 5 Rogue set," the shopkeeper said. He had walked up behind Eric without a sound, his robotic arm whirring softly as he pointed at some boots nearby. "The boots use a silenced synthetic sole, and the leather is treated to diffuse light rather than reflect it. High Mind stats for spatial awareness, fast twitch-muscle response in the Body stat. Pristine condition—previous owner didn't last long enough to scuff it."

  Eric stared at the dark leather, his pulse quickening.

  A Rogue. A stealth operative. It wasn't a Mage standing safely in the back lines, but it wasn't a heavily armored slow-moving target either. A Rogue relied on speed, precision, and avoiding hits entirely. If he could download the muscle memory of a Level 5 Rogue, he wouldn't need to perfectly parry a massive warhammer; his body would automatically sidestep it before the swing even started.

  Versatility. That was how he was going to survive. If he could hot-swap between a heavily armored Warrior and a hyper-fast Rogue depending on the dungeon, he could exponentially increase his survival rate. No Awakened in the world could do that—the System's Class-Lock made it physically impossible. But Eric wasn't an adventurer. He was Gifted. And his talent didn't care what class the gear belonged to.

  "How much?" Eric asked, his voice tight.

  "For the full set?" The shopkeeper ran his biological hand over the leather, checking the stitching with a practiced eye. "No major tears. Throwing knives are missing, but the daggers are sharp." He straightened up. "Seven hundred credits."

  The number hit Eric like a gut punch. It was almost everything he had. It would drain his hard-earned buffer down to nearly nothing. He would be completely broke again, one bad run away from sleeping on the streets.

  The shopkeeper watched him, reading the hesitation. "Word of advice, kid. Make sure your scout friend knows what she's getting into. Rogue leather doesn't stop a cleaver. It's designed to make sure the cleaver never lands in the first place. If she's not fast enough, she's dead." He paused. "And if you're thinking of trying it on yourself—don't. Class-Locked gear is just expensive clothing on the wrong body. Zero stats, zero enchantments. Dead weight."

  "It's for my scout," Eric said evenly.

  "Sure it is." The shopkeeper shrugged, already losing interest. He wasn't paid to interrogate his customers. He was paid to move surplus. "Seven hundred. You want it or not?"

  Eric held the lightweight leather in his hands, feeling the stark contrast to the crushing weight of the chainmail currently stuffed inside his duffel bag. Seven days of brutal, non-stop combat. Seven days of borrowed power and constant terror. And the reward was the privilege of going broke again to buy a second set of borrowed power.

  But the alternative was staying a slow, heavy target. One more shattered gauntlet, one more cracked plate, and the talent would drop mid-fight. Next time, Kira might not be there to put an arrow through the thing standing over him.

  His talent was useless if he died because his heavy armor made him a clanking target. He needed to be fast. He needed to be versatile. He needed options.

  Eric pulled his datapad from his pocket.

  "Bag it up," he said.