"Is this all the money you got, you fat pig?"
A tall, even fatter seventeen-year-old sneered, sitting smugly on the back of his victim. The man beneath him, wheezing and red-faced, struggled to push himself up from the floor. Each attempt to shift his weight was met with a mocking laugh as his tormentor pressed down harder, ensuring his captive couldn't move an inch.
"C'mon, old man, what's the matter?" the boy taunted, his voice dripping with venom. "Too weak? Too pathetic? Maybe if you didn't spend all your time stuffing your face, you'd actually be worth something."
The victim was Django Djaru Desmond, a sixteen-year-old man who was not a catch to behold. He was five feet tall and built more like a potato than a person. His face seemed perpetually flushed from effort, embarrassment, or both. His clothes were ill-fitting, the seams stretched to their limits, and his greasy black hair clung to his forehead in damp strands.
His jawline was buried beneath a layer of fat, and a scraggly attempt at facial hair—patchy and uneven—sprouted along his chin and upper lip. His lips were thin and often pressed into a frown as though he were bracing for the next insult life was bound to throw at him.
His hands, soft and pudgy, bore faint smudges of grease from earlier attempts at fixing something he'd been too clumsy to repair. His posture did him no favors—his shoulders slumped forward, and his head hung low as if gravity itself was ashamed of him. When he moved, it was with a shuffling gait, his weight making every step an audible thud on the floor.
To the untrained eye, Django appeared wholly unremarkable—a boy who might blend into the background if not for the sheer awkwardness of his presence. But beneath the layers of insecurity and neglect, his golden amber, slitted eyes—the only visible mark of his dragon heritage—which everyone mocks.
"Didn't we empty his pockets yesterday?" another voice chimed in, snickering from across the room.
The question came from a lanky boy leaning casually against the peeling wallpaper, arms crossed as he watched the scene with amusement. He wasn't as large as the boy pinning Django down, but his sharp tongue more than made up for his lack of physical bulk.
"Yeah, but you know how it is with this one," the bully sitting on Django's back replied, shaking the crumpled bills in his hand like they were some grand prize. "He probably begged his fat mom for more just so we could have another go. Isn't that right, Desmond?"
Django didn't respond. What was the point? Every time he tried to fight back—verbally or physically—things got worse. They'd been harping on him for years, ever since he was born he was bullied by the stupid gang members.
It wasn't just his weight or his awkward demeanor that made him a target—it was that one inescapable feature that marked him as different.
"I bet he's saving up for another stash of snacks," the lanky boy added, drawing a fresh wave of laughter from the group. "You can see it in his eyes—well, one of his eyes, anyway. The other's probably daydreaming about a whole roasted pig."
The comment drew louder laughs, and the weight on Django's back finally lifted as his tormentor stood up, dusting himself off. Django remained on the floor, his breath coming in shallow gasps as he resisted the urge to cry.
"Hey, don't take too much," the lanky one said, nodding at the crumpled bills. "Leave him enough to crawl back to the corner store. I'd hate for him to miss his daily pig-out."
The larger bully snorted and stuffed the money into his pocket. "Fine. You're lucky, Desmond. We're feeling generous today." He bent down, slapping Django on the back with enough force to make him grunt. "Next time, bring more, or we'll start collecting interest."
The group filed out of the room, their laughter echoing down the hallway. Django lay there for a moment, staring at the faded carpet, his fists clenched at his sides.
For a second, the room was silent save for his labored breathing. Then, quietly, he muttered to himself:
"Really, Dad... where's this 'great dragon blood' you kept talking about?"
[xXx]
Django walked, his shoulders slumped and his gaze fixed on the cracked sidewalk beneath his feet. His day was already ruined, and school hadn't even started yet.
Not like this school was any better than the last one.
Nation High was the most prestigious school in the United States of Nations. It was a sprawling institution that towered like a beacon of supposed greatness. Its gleaming steel and glass structure rose above the rest of the city, visible from miles away, an architectural reminder of its elite status. To everyone else, it was a symbol of unity and progress. To Django, it was just another place to get humiliated.
No one quite knew how—or even why—but somehow, in a chaotic moment of history, all the continents of the world had united under one banner: the United States of Nations. It was a miracle on paper, a collaboration of countries that had once been at odds but now claimed to share resources, cultures, and education.
That's where Nation High came in: an experimental melting pot where students from all corners of the world were sent to foster global unity and produce tomorrow's leaders. But in reality, the school was just another hierarchy of power, prestige, and privilege.
The rich kids ran the place, flaunting their tailored uniforms and high-tech gadgets. Then there were the athletic elites, strutting through the halls with their perfect physiques and cocky grins. Somewhere near the bottom of the ladder were the scholarship kids, like Django, who were only there because someone thought throwing a few "underdogs" into the mix would make for good PR.
Django sighed, clutching the strap of his worn-out bag. His scholarship wasn't the result of talent or ambition. It was sheer dumb luck—or bad luck, depending on how you looked at it. A clerical error in the admissions system had put his name on the list, and by the time anyone realized the mistake, it was too late to undo it without causing a scandal.
So there he was: a misfit with dragon blood, stuck in a school full of people who either didn't know he existed or wished he didn't.
When the continents merged into a large Pangea, everything changed. What began as a political and scientific effort to unify the world had unforeseen consequences. Magic followed.
No one knew why or how. Some believed it was the result of ancient energy lines reactivating, brought together by the land's sudden realignment. Others speculated that it was a response to the merging of humanity itself—cultures, languages, and beliefs intertwining until something primal awakened. Whatever the case, the phenomenon left no one untouched.
For some, the changes were subtle: an affinity for one element over another, the ability to sense emotions, or a minor talent like lighting a candle with a thought. For others, the transformation was dramatic, reshaping their very bodies. Elongated ears, scales, fangs, and glowing eyes began to appear. Dragons, once considered myth, were suddenly a part of reality again, their bloodlines reemerging in humanity like forgotten relics.
Almost every human had a bloodline connected to a mythical monster from the past. Be it dragons, phoenixes, basilisks, or even creatures long since forgotten, the merging of the continents seemed to have unlocked a hidden aspect of human DNA. People began manifesting traits tied to these ancient creatures, sparking a new era of power and potential.
Society quickly adapted to this reality, creating rankings, classifications, and tests to determine the strength and purity of a person's lineage. Those with strong bloodlines rose to power, while those with weaker or "tainted" bloodlines were cast aside. Bloodline Academies, like Nation High, became the centers of this new world order, training the strongest and most talented to maintain control.
Soon after, Dungeon Gates began appearing all over the world. At first, they were thought to be natural phenomena—strange glowing portals that emerged in the ground, in mountains, or even in the middle of cities. But when the first brave souls stepped inside, they found themselves transported to bizarre, otherworldly landscapes crawling with monsters.
These monsters weren't like the ones hinted at in humanity's myths—they were far worse. Some were massive, towering beasts of destruction. Others were small but vicious, swarming in packs. Each Dungeon Gate seemed to lead to a different ecosystem, with its own unique set of monsters and dangers.
Too bad Django couldn't even—
[Quest System has been activated.]
"Da fuck?!" Django blurted out loud, stumbling as a purple screen materialized in front of him, floating in midair. His bag slipped off his shoulder, forgotten, as he gawked at the glowing text.
[Hello, mortal. I am your System. Due to your dad's banging, killing, and banging the succubus race in another world into near extinction, he was sentenced to be cursed by the Council of Isekai. However, in a stunning turn of events, he pleaded that the succubi had been killing too many humans in the that world, and blah blah blah. Long story short, he convinced the Council to spare him. But, said that his son can complete the mission for this world.]
"What the hell are you talking about?!" Django hissed, looking around to see if anyone else could see the screen. Luckily, the street was empty. He turned back to the floating text, his face twisted in a mixture of panic and confusion.
[To atone for your father's... creative sins, you have been chosen to complete his penance. Your task: Take over Nation High and unite the gangs across all fifty Nations.]
"DA FUCK?!" Django's voice cracked, echoing down the street.
The screen flickered, as if unimpressed with his outburst.
[Do not interrupt me, mortal. You should feel honored to carry such an important legacy. If you fail, well... Let's just say your punishment will make your jail system look like a vacation.]
"Punishment?!" Django shouted. "I didn't even do anything! Why the hell am I getting punished for what my dad?! Hell that bastard did you stupid fuckers a favor!"
Django may have a temper issue.
[Because the Council of Iskeal works in mysterious ways, mortal. Now, stop complaining and pay attention. You will be granted a System to aid you in your task. Complete quests, grow stronger, and rise through the ranks of Nation High. Or die trying. Your choice.]
Django froze, his mind racing. "I can't even pass PE, and now you're telling me I have to take over the most prestigious school in the world and unite gangs from fifty freaking nations?!"
The screen flickered again, and Django swore it looked smug.
Like it matters to me dude. I get paid either way. And to ensure you don't slack off, here's your first quest.]
The screen shifted, and new text appeared:
(This quest system is now online. Once you complete quest, you will receive a card.)
[First Quest: Delcare you love!]
Objective: Ayumi Shigure. Say that you love her.
Reward: +10 Charisma, +5 Looks, 1 Mystery Card.
Failure Penalty: Immediate public humiliation (and -10 Charisma).
The purple screen remained unmoved by his outburst. Django groaned, clutching his face in his hands, muttering, "This can't be real. This cannot be real. Why does this stuff always happen to me?"
Before Django could yell at the screen some more, a blur of motion slammed into him from the side, knocking him off balance.
"Hey, watch where you're—" Django started, only to have the words die in his throat when he saw the person who had barreled into him.
It was a girl, her long black hair trailing behind her like a comet's tail as she skidded to a stop a few feet away. She wore the pristine uniform of Nation High, but it was clear she wasn't worried about appearances—her sleeves were rolled up, her tie was loose, and her shoes were scuffed, like she'd been running for her life.
Watch where you're going, geek!" she snapped, her sharp eyes glaring at Django as if this was all somehow his fault.
Django's face flushed red, both from the sudden collision and her attitude. "Geek?! You're the one running around like a maniac!" he shot back, his voice rising an octave in frustration.
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, the air between them seemed to crackle. "Excuse me?" she said, her tone icy. "I don't take rudeness from men like you."
Django didn't even think. His frustration, his exhaustion, and the sheer absurdity of the day boiled over. Without a second thought, he flipped her off.
"Yeah? Well, I don't take attitude from anyone," he snapped. It was a bold move for someone in his position, but his temper had officially hit its breaking point.
Ayumi froze, her sharp eyes locking onto him like a hawk sighting prey. For a moment, there was silence, the kind that made Django's stomach churn with regret. Maybe flipping off someone who looked like she could take on a small army wasn't his brightest idea.
"Who the fuck are you even?" Django asked, his tone somewhere between irritation and curiosity. Of course, part of him just wanted to know so he could mock her properly—if she was going to be this rude, he might as well return the favor.
Before Ayumi could respond, the purple screen flickered into view, cutting off any reply she might have had.
[Sometimes I love this job.]
"What the hell?" Django muttered as new text appeared.
Name: Ayumi Shigure
Bloodline: Shigure Clan (Phoenix Descendant)
Class Year: 1
Specialty: Combat & Strategy
Personality Traits: Cold, Calculating, Uncompromising
Stats:
Strength: 16 [D]
Dexterity: 18 [D]
Agility: 20 [C]
Vitality: 15 [F]
Wisdom: 17 [D]
Willpower: 19 [D]
Intelligence: 18 [F]
Luck: 13 [F]
Django's jaw dropped as he read through the stats. "Are you serious right now?" he whispered to himself, scanning the abilities and numbers again.
He glanced up at Ayumi, who was now eyeing him with suspicion. Her sharp gaze flicked to where the screen had been, as though she could sense something was off. "What are you looking at, geek?" she asked, crossing her arms.
"N-nothing!" Django stammered, snapping the screen closed with a thought. "Just, uh… admiring how you almost ran me over back there. Real graceful."
Her eyes narrowed. "Graceful enough to knock you over."
Fuck it.
"I love you! Go out with me!" Django blurted, his voice ringing through the air louder than he intended.
The world seemed to stop. Even the faint hum of students entering Nation High faded into the background as Ayumi froze, her sharp gaze locking onto him like a predator zeroing in on prey.
Ayumi tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she raised an eyebrow.
"What?" she said, her tone flat but laced with a dangerous edge.
Django's brain screamed at him to backpedal, but his mouth refused to cooperate. "I—uh—y-you heard me," he stammered, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I said I love you. Go out with me."
Her expression didn't change. If anything, her gaze grew colder, sharper, like she was trying to figure out if this was some kind of joke. "Are you mocking me?" she asked, her voice low and steady in a way that made Django's stomach twist.
"No!" he said quickly, shaking his head. "I'm serious!" He wasn't sure why he was doubling down—it was like watching a car crash in slow motion, and he was both the driver and the victim.
Ayumi stepped closer, her towering presence making Django instinctively take a step back. "You're serious," she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "A greasy little nobody like you thinks he has the right to confess to me?"
"Hey, I'm not greasy!" Django protested, though he immediately regretted it. Of all the things to focus on...
Ayumi's lips twitched, almost like she was fighting back a smirk. "You're delusional," she said, turning on her heel and walking away. Over her shoulder, she added, "Don't waste my time again, Snake-Eyes."
Django stood frozen, his face burning with humiliation. He was pretty sure the few students nearby had heard everything, judging by the muffled snickers and whispers behind him.
The purple screen reappeared in the corner of his vision.
[First Quest Complete!]
Objective: Declare your love to Ayumi Shigure.
Reward: +10 Charisma, +5 Looks, 1 Mystery Card.
[Congratulations, mortal! You're making progress. That wasn't completely embarrassing.]
"Shut up," Django muttered, rubbing his temples.
[But hey, at least she didn't punch you. Small victories, right?]
Django groaned. "This is gonna be the worst year of my life."
"Well, since I saw her stats, show me mine," Django muttered, glaring at the purple screen hovering beside him. "I bet they're—"
Before he could finish, the screen flashed brightly, and new text appeared, cutting off his delusion.
Name: Django Djaru Desmond
Title: None (yet)
Class Year: 1
Race: Human (Dragon Descendant – Subclass: ???)
Age: 16
Harem: Male [ ] | Female [ ]
Core Attributes:
HP (Health Points): 15
STA (Stamina): 30
MP (Mana Points): 40
Primary Stats:
STR (Strength): 2 [F]
DEX (Dexterity): 13 [F]
AGI (Agility): 6 [F]
VIT (Vitality): 10 [F]
END (Endurance): 3 [F]
WIS (Wisdom): 9 [F]
WILL (Willpower): 2 [F]
INT (Intelligence): 20 [F]
LUC (Luck): 5 [F]
Dragon Incubus Stats:
Charm: 5 [F]
Charisma: +10 → 16 [F]
Appeal: 4 [F]
Looks: +5 → 8 [F]
Sexy: 2 [F]
Sexual Prowess: 1 [F]
Django looked depressed as the purple screen hovered mockingly in front of him, listing out his stats in all their F-ranked glory. His shoulders slumped even further, and he let out a heavy sigh.
"Damn… just damn," he muttered, running a hand through his greasy, unkempt hair. His reflection in the nearby glass didn't help—just another reminder of how far from impressive he was.
[Cheer up, mortal. You've got nowhere to go but up!] the system chirped, its glowing text gleaming with faux enthusiasm.
"Gee, thanks," Django deadpanned. "That's so reassuring. Next, you're gonna tell me my misery builds character."
[It does, actually.]
"Of course it does," Django muttered, glaring at the screen. Then his attention shifted to the golden card in his hand, its surface gleaming faintly as though it held some sort of hidden power. "What are the card rankings, anyway?" he asked.
[Good question, mortal!] the screen replied, as if it had been waiting for him to ask.
[The Card Ranking System is as follows:
Tin (Basic Gray):
The lowest tier. Increase your Primary Stats.
Bronze (Brown):
Slightly better than Tin. Increase your Core Stats and Dragon Incubus stats.
Silver (Shiny White):
A mid-tier card. Give your passives.
Gold (Bright Yellow):
A high-tier card. gives a skill.
Platinum (Polished White-Gold):
Elite-tier cards. Gives Items.
Orichalcum (Radiant Black-Gold):
The highest tier. Improves bloodline.
Django squinted at the glowing card in his hand. Its bright golden hue reflected off his face, and he couldn't help but wonder how far up the ranks this card really was.
"So, Gold's like… fourth from the top?" he muttered, glancing at the system screen.
[Correct! You're holding a mid-high-tier card. You've got a long way to go before you even see Platinum, let alone Orichalucm]
Django raised an eyebrow. "Orccluam? What the hell is that? Sounds like someone choked on their own tongue while naming it. And how did I even use this card? And how do I even use this card? Do I just say claim card or something?"
Before the system could reply, the card in his hand pulsed, a golden glow spreading across its surface like ripples on water.
[You have claimed: Growth (1 Foot)]
Effect: You will grow one foot in height.
The card dissolved into shimmering particles of light, swirling around Django before vanishing into his chest. He staggered back a step, his breath hitching as a faint warmth spread through his body.
"Huh?" Django muttered, staring down at himself, unsure what had just happened.
Then it hit him.
An intense stretching sensation coursed through his entire frame, like every bone and muscle in his body was being tugged in all directions at once. It wasn't exactly painful, but it wasn't pleasant either.
"What the—what the hell is—" Django gasped, grabbing at his sides as his clothes began to feel tighter. His shirt strained against his shoulders, the seams groaning in protest.
RIP.
His pants gave out first, splitting at the knees, followed by a loud tear from his shirt as it struggled to contain his rapidly expanding torso.
"Oh, come on!" Django shouted, stumbling backward. He nearly tripped over his own feet, which were now spilling out of his too-small shoes. "I just bought these!"