The midday sun beat down on the back of my neck, but the sweat running down my back was pure nervousness, not heat. I clutched my Guild ID card so tightly that the cheap metal edges began to dig into the palm of my hand.
[Rank F — Alaric]
The letters seemed to mock me in the harsh light. I stood before a makeshift counter of rough wood at the construction site of a new annex to the merchants' guild. Around me, men with arms as thick as my thighs carried iron beams as if they were sticks.
"Next!" shouted the recruiter, a man with a scar across his nose and a clipboard that seemed more important than my life.
I stepped forward. I tried to puff out my chest, but my shoulders seemed to have an invisible weight pulling me down. My eyes, probably sunken from sleepless nights eating stale bread, avoided direct contact.
"Name and Rank," he growled, without taking his eyes off the paper.
"Alaric. Rank F, sir. I... I came for the transport assistant position."
The sound of the pen scratching the paper stopped abruptly. The recruiter slowly raised his head. He looked me up and down with a gaze that was not one of anger, but something much worse: pity.
"Rank F?" He let out a dry laugh, pointing at my card. "Kid, have you seen the size of those grindstones over there? They weigh eighty pounds each."
"I'm hardworking!" My voice came out a little higher pitched than I intended. I hate when that happens. "I may not have the strength of a Rank D Warrior, but I make up for it with..."
"With what?" He interrupted me, leaning over the counter. "Look at yourself, Alaric. Your hands are shaking just from holding your registration. You look like you haven't slept in a week and that a breath would knock you over."
I instinctively hid my hands behind my back. The trembling. Always the damn trembling.
"It's because... I haven't eaten much today..."
"Listen here." His tone became lower, almost paternal, which hurt more than a punch. "Construction work in border towns is dangerous. If a beam gives way, you don't have the reflexes of an adventurer to jump out of the way. If a sewer monster decides to climb up, you're just a snack." I need workers, not a corpse that I'll have to pay the city to bury."
He took my card and slid it back across the counter, as if returning a piece of trash someone had dropped.
"Go back to the beginner's academy. Or learn to sew, I don't know. But get off my construction site before you get hurt. Next!"
I took the card. The metal was hot. I didn't say anything. There was nothing to say when the truth hurts as much as the lie you tell yourself every morning.
I walked toward the exit, feeling the stares of the "real adventurers" on my back. I could hear the muffled laughter. I was Alaric. The guy who couldn't hold a sword, couldn't conjure fire, and now couldn't even carry a stone.
I really am trash.
What was on the card in your hand:
GUILD OF ADVENTURERS
[Name] Alaric Von Stein
[Class] Porter (Rank F)
APTITUDE EVALUATION
[Combat] RANK F
[Offensive Magic] RANK F
[Healing] RANK F
[Resistance] RANK F
[Trap Perception] RANK F