The moment Luke’s eyes fell on the table, he felt both amazed and slightly horrified. The dishes laid out before him were an extravagant feast, yet the names on the small golden plaques placed beside each dish made him pause.

“Four-Winged Falcon Roast,” “Giant Leopard Crab Sausages,” “Molten Boar Stew,” “Abyssal Tuna Tartare,” and, his personal favorite in terms of sheer nightmare fuel, “Chimera Hotpot.”

Luke gulped. Were they really about to eat these things? He glanced around the room, searching for even a hint of hesitation from the other diners, but everyone except the 'candidates' seemed unnervingly at ease, picking up their utensils and digging in like this was a casual Tuesday meal.

His brain waged war against itself. On one hand, this could be the most exotic and rare cuisine he would ever taste. On the other hand, he wasn’t entirely sure if these creatures had been properly checked for, say, venom, soul-possessing parasites, or spontaneous resurrection tendencies. Would his stomach survive this ordeal?

Then the aroma hit him.

His internal debate crumbled like a house of cards in a hurricane. The scent was beyond divine—rich, smoky, tantalizing. The Four-Winged Falcon Roast glistened under the warm light, its golden-brown skin crackling ever so slightly as someone sliced into it. The Molten Boar Stew bubbled invitingly, thick and hearty, with spices that made his mouth water just from the scent alone.

“Ah, screw it,” Luke muttered, grabbing his utensils. “If I die, at least I’ll die well-fed.”

The first bite was nothing short of transcendental. The Falcon Roast was both crispy and tender, the meat practically melting in his mouth, bursting with a mix of savory and slightly sweet flavors. The Giant Leopard Crab Sausage had a rich, seafood-infused umami taste, with just the right snap when he bit into it. And the Chimera Hotpot? He had no idea what part of the chimera he was eating, but dear god, he didn’t care anymore.

Halfway through his meal, a thought hit him, making him pause mid-bite. “I’m never going to miss Earth’s food again. I can die in peace.”

Then, another thought immediately followed. “Wait. Do they have cola here?”

Panic set in. He could live without burgers. He could live without pizza. But if this world didn’t have some sort of carbonated, syrupy goodness, he might actually go feral. He made a mental note to investigate later.

As he continued devouring the banquet, he noticed something odd—he felt… good. Really good. His exhaustion from earlier had vanished, replaced by a lightness in his limbs and a refreshing clarity in his mind. His body practically hummed with energy.

“What kind of steroids do they put in this food?” he murmured under his breath, flexing his fingers experimentally. This wasn’t just a full stomach—it was as if every cell in his body had been rejuvenated.

By the time Luke finally leaned back, fully satiated, he had also managed to sneakily observe most of the people in the room. Unsurprisingly, he couldn’t glean much beyond basic information—names, classes, a few scattered titles and skills. Everything else? A delightful buffet of question marks.

It was clear that the people sitting here were not on his level. At least, not yet.

After more than an hour of feasting, a familiar figure materialized seemingly out of nowhere. Martin, who had been absent the entire meal, suddenly stood at the front of the room. With a light cough, he effortlessly commanded everyone’s attention.

“Since everyone is done with the feast,” Martin said smoothly, “do I have the esteemed guests’ permission to continue with the class placement?”

A brief silence followed before the VIPs, particularly Albert, Garhan, and a lady in a blindfold gave him a single nod. The rest of the sponsors, those from the non-VIP seats, immediately followed suit, as if the natural hierarchy had already been well established.

Luke hastily grabbed a tissue paper placed in front of him, cleaned his mouth and hands, and stood up. Straightening his t-shirt and trousers, he walked towards Martin. If I knew I would get transmigrated, I'd have at least worn a suit. He thought sarcastically.

With the feast concluded, Martin gestured for everyone to follow him as he led the group out of the grand dining hall. They moved through an elaborately designed corridor before arriving at another massive chamber, just as lavishly decorated. However, before Luke could fully take in the details, a faint tremor ran through the floor beneath them.

The room gave an almost imperceptible lurch, followed by a slow, steady descent. The realization dawned on the candidates first, their expressions shifting from curiosity to shock as they grasped the truth—the entire chamber was a colossal elevator. Meanwhile, the sponsors remained composed, their faces betraying no emotion, as if this was an everyday occurrence.

As the descent continued, Martin cleared his throat, addressing the group. “Now that the feast is over, we move on to the next step—the Class Selection Ceremony. This is a pivotal moment for all of you,” he said, casting a brief glance toward Luke, who immediately scoffed inwardly. I’m already getting singled out? Great.

Martin continued, “Each of you will receive a selection of classes. The number and rarity of available classes will depend on your potential. Higher potential candidates will have more choices, including those of greater rarity. However, there is no need to worry—your sponsors will guide you in selecting the best option for your growth.” A ripple of relief spread among the candidates. It was already an overwhelming day, and having some form of guidance was a welcome reassurance.

After what felt like minutes, the elevator chamber came to a halt with a barely perceptible hum. Before them lay an even larger space, unlike anything Luke had ever seen. It looked like a fusion of a high-tech laboratory and an ancient mystical sanctum. Holographic screens hovered mid-air, streams of data flowing seamlessly across them. Blue-hued glass rooms lined the walls, their interiors glowing with arcane energy. And at the very center stood a colossal mana crystal, pulsating with a deep, rhythmic light.

Martin stepped forward, turning to address the candidates once more. “Now, for the process. Each of you will step forward, one by one, and place your hands on the mana crystal. It will analyze your mana and determine the classes best suited for you.” He paused for emphasis before adding, “Again, I must stress—do not make a hasty decision. Consult your sponsor before choosing a class.”

None of the candidates had any plans to do anything other than that. If they had been left to navigate this by themselves, the pressure would have been unbearable.

Martin glanced around the room, his gaze settling on one individual. “Roy, you will go first. Step forward and place your hands on the crystal. Allow its energy to flow through you.”

Roy nodded, his expression determined as he approached the massive crystal. Taking a deep breath, he pressed his hands against its surface. A long silence followed.

Seconds passed. Then a minute. Nothing happened.

A flicker of unease crossed Roy’s face. “Uh, is it supposed to take this long?” he asked, his voice slightly hesitant.

Martin’s brows furrowed. “No, it usually does not—” He was cut off mid-sentence as the crystal flared to life, releasing a wave of blinding golden light that flooded the room. Instinctively, the candidates shielded their eyes, though the VIP sponsors barely flinched, watching with mild amusement.

As the radiance receded, a large holographic screen materialized in front of Roy, displaying an extensive list of available classes.

Please choose a class from the following options:

• Sword Apostle
• Bow Apostle
• Spear Apostle
• Midnight Assassin
• Night Lancer

And the list went on, spanning multiple lines, each class name glowing with an otherworldly brilliance.

The room fell into silence.

Soon after, gasps of admiration echoed through the chamber. The sponsors, who had maintained an air of superiority, looked visibly shaken. Among them, Rose Whitney, the VIP who had sponsored Roy, couldn’t help the smile that curled on her lips.

After much discussion, Roy and Rose eventually settled on Sword Apostle—a safe and obvious choice. Their exchange revealed that the final evolution of the class was Sword Saint, the absolute pinnacle of swordsmanship, a figure of legend in Eldoria.

Then, it was Jasmine’s turn.

Unlike Roy’s overwhelming golden radiance, the mana crystal pulsed with a softer glow when she placed her hands on it. Still, a long list of available classes materialized, mostly revolving around her Divinity stat.

Her sponsor, a middle-aged man with silver-threaded hair, tapped his chin thoughtfully as he scanned the choices. “Holy Maiden,” he said after a moment. “It’s the most optimal path for you.”

Jasmine nodded. There was no need to overthink it—anyone who had played an RPG before knew that Holy Maiden was the natural pick, at least for someone like her.

One by one, the rest of the candidates made their selections, each going through their own moments of triumph, contemplation, or visible relief.

And then, the inevitable happened.

As if to single him out even further, Martin deliberately waited until the very end to call the final candidate.

“Luke,” Martin finally said, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. “You’re up.”

His smirk was subtle, but it carried an unmistakable weight.

Luke took a deep breath, inwardly making a pledge.

I’ll fuck you up good in the future, Martin.

With no other choice, he stepped forward. His heart pounded in anticipation. This is it. This is my chance to turn my misfortune around.

He closed his eyes, whispering a silent prayer to all gods, devils, and any cosmic entity that might take pity on him. Then, he placed his hands firmly against the crystal.

And—

Please choose a class from the following options.

Gunner.

A single word appeared in front of him.

Silence.

Luke blinked. His fingers twitched.

There had to be a mistake.

Without thinking, he pulled his hands away and slapped them back onto the crystal.

Please choose a class from the following options.

Gunner.

He tried again.

Gunner.

And again.

Gunner.

By the tenth attempt, something finally changed.

Please choose a class from the following options.

Gunner.
Gunner.

Motherfu—!

Luke barely had time to process his sheer misfortune before laughter erupted in the room. The sponsors and even some of the candidates couldn’t contain their amusement.

Garhan, his sponsor, let out a loud harrumph, instantly silencing the room. Luke, desperate to end this humiliation, gritted his teeth and selected the class.

And just like that, his streak of misfortune continued.

Garhan’s teeth gritted audibly as he made his way out of the stadium, each step only deepening the scowl on his face. Beside him, walking with an infuriating sense of ease, was none other than Luke—the good-for-nothing ass-kisser he had somehow ended up sponsoring.

This useless bastard. Garhan felt his blood pressure spike. Just looking at Luke’s face made him feel like he had aged another hundred years. He clenched his fists, swallowing down the urge to smack the smugness off the brown-haired idiot’s expression. Instead, he settled for burning imaginary holes into the back of Luke’s head with his glare.

As they neared the waiting area where his family’s carriage was stationed, Garhan’s eyes flickered to the side, landing on a woman whose mere presence irritated him even more. The red-haired beauty stood poised, her slender figure draped in elegant black clothing embroidered with golden patterns. But what made her stand out wasn’t her graceful appearance or even the obsidian-colored sword strapped to her hip—it was the thick black blindfold covering half her face, concealing her eyes completely.

Sylvi Redfern.

A living thorn in his side.

To outsiders, she was an enigma. A mysterious and powerful swordswoman, the current head of the Redfern household—one of the most renowned sword families in the entire Grencefert Continent. The Redferns wielded katanas with their famed Delicate Sword Style, a technique lauded for its precision and finesse. Meanwhile, Garhan’s Timberdell family prided itself on the raw power of their two-handed sword techniques.

The rivalry between the two families had existed for centuries, but Garhan’s particular enmity toward Sylvi was uniquely personal.

Despite only being a year younger than him, she still retained her youthful, flawless appearance, while he—despite every skin retention potion, every hair loss remedy he could find—was beginning to look more and more like an old man.

And if that wasn’t enough, she always seemed to be one step ahead of him, no matter the competition. Every time they met, he found himself locked in yet another one-sided argument, desperately trying to prove that his Timberdell family’s swordsmanship was superior to hers. But no matter what he said, she would respond with that same infuriatingly calm demeanor, as if she wasn’t even aware of their rivalry.

And now, to make matters worse, she had meddled in the selection process.

Garhan's glare shifted back to Luke.

Initially, he had intended to secure the best candidate from this year’s summoning, no matter the cost. He had been ready to bid whatever was necessary to claim Roy—the prodigy with dual starting stats in the 20s. But then Sylvi had shown up. The damned woman had never attended a summoning before, yet today of all days, she decided to appear.

That alone had been enough to put Garhan on edge, but when she placed her bid…

50,000 Sils. For some random nobody.

At first, he thought she had lost her mind. But then he had convinced himself otherwise. She’s messing with me. That had to be it. There was no logical reason for her to go after a dud like that. And there was no way in hell he was going to let her win. So, against his better judgment, he bid more. And more. And more.

By the time he realized what was happening, he had already committed to 85,000 Sils a year.

85,000 Sils! For this piece of trash!

Roy had been taken for 93,000 Sils. That was understandable. Roy was a genius, a prodigy. But how had he ended up bidding almost as much for this thing? He had fully expected Sylvi to counterbid. But she hadn’t. She had simply gone silent, watching as the auctioneer declared Garhan the winner.

It was at that moment that Garhan had realized he had been played.

That fucking Vixen. He had walked straight into her trap.

And now he was stuck with this shameless, slithery bastard who had the nerve to walk beside him as if he belonged there. Luke didn’t seem bothered at all by the mockery he had received from the other sponsors. He didn’t flinch at the whispers, didn’t even react to the sneers.

No, he was just walking. Casually. Calmly. As if he weren’t the biggest laughingstock of the day.

Garhan felt his fingers twitch. He had made a terrible mistake.

Shameless wimp.