The lecture hall of the National Testing Center was completely sterile.
The blinding fluorescent lights hummed with a low, oppressive frequency, and the only other sound was the frantic scratching of hundreds of pencils against paper.
Ren sat at a small desk near the back of the auditorium, staring at the thick booklet of the written exam.
He didn’t possess a superhuman intellect, but he possessed something infinitely more valuable: context.
He knew exactly who had founded the Hero Association, why they had founded it, and how the executives who graded these papers fundamentally thought.
The questions were a mix of tactical scenarios, legal protocols, and moral dilemmas.
“Question 45: A Tiger-level threat is attacking a commercial district.
A C-Class hero is the first on the scene.
There are heavily populated office buildings, but the monster is currently destroying a private bank vault.
What is the correct course of action?”
A true, idealistic hero might write about throwing themselves at the monster to save the civilians at all costs.
But Ren knew the Association’s hidden priorities.
The executives valued public image and donor satisfaction above all else.
Ren picked up his pencil and began to write with fluid, calculated strokes.
“The C-Class hero lacks the combat capacity to defeat a Tiger-level threat.
Engaging directly would result in a swift death, depriving the Association of an asset and creating a public panic.
The correct protocol is to immediately contact headquarters, request A-Class or S-Class backup, and focus entirely on minimizing civilian casualties and securing the perimeter.
Furthermore, as the bank vault likely belongs to high-profile donors, I would ensure emergency services are routed to secure the financial assets the moment the threat is neutralized.”
It was a perfectly pragmatic, corporate-friendly answer.
It demonstrated an understanding of hierarchy, a lack of suicidal ego, and a subtle nod to protecting the Association’s financial backers.
He moved through the psychological profile with the same ruthless efficiency.
He checked boxes that painted him as deeply loyal, emotionally stable, and willing to follow orders without question.
He crafted a persona of the ultimate, reliable foot soldier.
When the two hours were up, Ren placed his pencil down.
His hand was slightly cramped, but he felt an overwhelming sense of relief.
The applicants were ushered out of the lecture hall and into a massive, cavernous waiting area.
The tension in the room was suffocating.
People paced back and forth, biting their nails and muttering prayers.
An hour passed.
Then two.
Finally, the double doors of the administrative wing swung open.
Snek walked out, followed by a dozen men in sharp black suits carrying stacks of thick white envelopes.
“Listen up!” Snek’s voice commanded, instantly silencing the murmurs.
“The grading is complete!
When your number is called, approach the staff members to receive your results.
If your envelope contains a red slip, you failed.
Pack your bags and leave.
If it contains a black ID card, congratulations.
You are now officially public servants.”
The calling of the numbers was a brutal, rapid-fire process.
Ren watched as applicant after applicant opened their envelopes.
The vast majority of them slumped in defeat, clutching red slips.
The physical standards alone were enough to weed out most normal humans, but the written test clearly slaughtered those who thought being a hero was just about brawling.
“Candidate 4022,” a suit called out.
Ren stepped forward, keeping his expression entirely neutral.
The suited man handed him a sealed white envelope.
Ren walked away from the crowd, finding a quiet corner near a vending machine.
He slid his thumb under the flap and tore it open.
He tipped the envelope downward.
A sleek, heavy black rectangular card slid out into the palm of his hand.
Ren felt a massive, triumphant grin threatening to break across his face, but he forced it down, maintaining his stoic facade.
He turned the card over.
His photograph, taken during the registration process, was printed on the front, alongside his new official designation.
[Hero Name: Ren]
[Rank: C-Class, Rank 388]
He was at the absolute bottom of the barrel.
Rank 388 out of 388 C-Class heroes.
It was the lowest possible position in the entire Hero Association.
And it was absolutely perfect.
He had passed the physicals with a score of 35 out of 50, showcasing decent but unexceptional strength.
However, his written score was stamped at the bottom of the congratulatory letter inside the envelope: a flawless 50 out of 50.
That perfect written score had pushed him securely over the passing threshold.
“Candidate 4022?”
Ren looked up.
A middle-aged Association staff member with a clipboard was approaching him, adjusting his glasses.
“I see you received your license,” the man said, looking at the black card in Ren’s hand.
“Welcome to the Association.
Your written exam was genuinely impressive.
We rarely see such a firm grasp of protocol from applicants with your…
physical limitations.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ren replied politely, giving a respectful nod.
“I believe that knowing one’s place and following the chain of command is the foundation of true justice.”
The staff member smiled, clearly pleased.
“An excellent mindset.
Now, as a newly appointed C-Class hero, there are some vital administrative details you must understand.
Please, follow me.”
Ren followed the man to a row of small, private cubicles lining the wall of the waiting room.
They sat down across from each other.
“First,” the staff member began, sliding a thick manual across the desk.
“Your monthly stipend.
As a C-Class, you will receive a base salary of two hundred thousand yen a month, provided directly by the Association.
Furthermore, bounties are paid out for confirmed monster terminations, graded by threat level.”
Ren’s heart leaped.
Two hundred thousand yen a month.
It wasn’t exactly a life of luxury, but it was more than enough to completely eliminate his starvation problem.
He could buy proper meat, fresh vegetables, and secure the massive caloric intake his Saiyan biology demanded.
“However,” the staff member continued, his tone dropping into a serious, warning register.
“The C-Class is heavily populated and highly competitive.
We cannot afford to pay salaries to inactive heroes.
Therefore, you are subjected to the weekly quota.”
Ren nodded.
He knew this part well.
“You must perform and report at least one recognized heroic deed every seven days,” the man explained, tapping his pen on the desk.
“Stopping a mugging, capturing a purse snatcher, assisting emergency services in a disaster, or defeating a Wolf-level monster.
If seven days pass without a confirmed report on your file, your name will be permanently struck from the registry, and your license will be revoked.”
“Understood,” Ren said smoothly.
“Do not take this lightly, Ren,” the staff member warned.
“Monsters generally ignore the C-Class, which means you will be competing with nearly four hundred other heroes in this tier just to stop petty street crime.
It is a grueling lifestyle.”
“I am ready for the challenge, sir.”
The staff member nodded, standing up and extending a hand.
“Then I wish you luck, Hero.”
Ren shook the man’s hand, took his manual, and walked out of the National Testing Center into the fading evening light of City A.
He took a deep breath, the cool air filling his lungs.
The towering, pristine skyscrapers around him felt a little less intimidating now.
He belonged here.
He had a foot in the door.
But as he walked toward the bullet train station to return to the Ghost Town, the reality of his new situation began to set in.
The weekly quota was a massive double-edged sword.
On one hand, it forced him to actively hunt.
On the other hand, the C-Class was meant to fight normal human criminals.
If Ren started dragging the corpses of Wolf-level and Tiger-level monsters into the local police stations every week to claim bounties, his rank would skyrocket.
He would be promoted to B-Class at an alarming speed.
And if he entered B-Class too quickly, Fubuki would notice.
The Hellish Blizzard aggressively recruited any rising star to maintain her absolute dominance over the rank.
If he refused her, she would send her goons to crush him.
With his current Power Level of 24, Eyelashes or Mountain Ape would snap his spine like a twig.
“I have to manage my own PR,” Ren muttered, stepping onto the train and taking a seat by the window.
He needed to continue fighting monsters in the Ghost Town to grind his Zenkai boosts and push his Power Level higher.
But he couldn’t report them all.
He would have to keep his monster hunting a complete secret, using the kills purely for biological growth.
To satisfy his official Association quota, he would have to travel to the safer, populated districts of City Z and stop regular, human street thugs.
It was a delicate balancing act.
Hunt monsters in the dark to feed the Saiyan blood, and play the weak, law-abiding traffic cop in the light to keep the Association off his back.
Ren stared at his reflection in the train window as the city lights blurred past.
He had survived his first month.
He had a license, an incoming paycheck, and a functioning game plan.
“Time to start the real grind,” Ren whispered.
“Thirty is just the beginning.”