Chapter 20: No Rank?

The last time Adam had gotten his rank and talent tested was during his initial registration for a martial license.

That process wasn’t just bureaucracy, it was one of the most critical procedures for any martial artist. It determined which rifts one was allowed to enter.

And that rule wasn’t something the Mission Hall had invented out of thin air. It was a regulation grounded in the fundamental laws of essence and rift equilibrium.

A martial artist could not enter a rift that was two levels higher or lower than their own rank.

The reason for the first restriction; entering a rift two levels higher, was simple and grim: Essence Overload.

The sheer concentration of raw, chaotic essence inside such rifts would tear a weaker martial artist apart from within.

At best, it caused permanent injury. At worst, death came instantly, the body and soul shredded by essence backlash.

The reason for the second restriction; entering a rift two levels lower, was, different.

The rift would reject them.

A rift’s essence density was a powerful thing, and it resisted intrusion from beings too strong for it to contain.

Trying to force entry would be like forcing your way into a narrow tunnel, the pressure will be unbearable and destructive.

And if the martial artist still forced their way in, it wouldn’t end there.

It would trigger a rift breach, releasing monsters directly into the human world.

Because of this, the Mission Hall conducted routine essence checks to ensure that every martial artist operated within safe limits, both for themselves and for everyone else.

Of course, there was one exception to all these fundamental laws:

Those powerful enough to ignore them altogether.

But Adam wasn’t here for that.

The reason his rank was being tested now wasn’t because he intended to upgrade his license or move into higher rifts.

It was simply to finalize the perfect run report and receive his reward.

A few minutes later, the receptionist returned, carrying a small plastic device.

It was compact, barely larger than a child’s toy, with a thumb-sized pad at its base and a narrow digital screen on top.

Adam looked at it for a moment.

This was an E-Meter.

It was used to measure the exact quantity of essence circulating in the body and determining the current rank of a martial artist.

While it is possible to sense another person’s essence manually, most martial artists knew how to conceal or distort that reading.

This device exists to provide undeniable proof, especially during official reporting.

“Mr. Adam,” the manager said, motioning toward the device.

Adam gave a simple nod. It wasn’t his first time seeing one of these.

He stepped forward as the receptionist adjusted her gloves and gave him a polite, slightly nervous smile.

“Excuse me,” she said softly.

Adam extended his hand without hesitation.

She pricked his thumb with a sterile needle, drawing a small drop of blood, and placed it on the thumb-shaped pad of the E-Meter.

The blood shimmered faintly as it sank into the pad surface.

Then she pulled her hand back.

“You may remove your thumb, sir.”

Adam quietly obeyed the receptionist’s instructions, lifting his thumb from the E-Meter as the small device began to hum.

The faint glow beneath the glass surface pulsed rhythmically while it calculated his essence capacity.

He stood there motionless, neither nervous nor expectant.

Around him, the entire mission hall had fallen into a hush. Every martial artist who’d gathered to witness his verification now stood watching intently, as though the reading on that small screen might reveal some cosmic truth.

It seemed no one had anything better to do today than watch Adam.

The device whirred for a few seconds longer, lights flickering across its narrow display, then with a soft beep, the result appeared.

The receptionist leaned in to read it, and froze.

Her eyes widened slightly, disbelief flickering in them before she murmured under her breath,

“No rank.”

The words echoed across the hall like a stone dropped into still water.

The crowd blinked, startled, but not shocked. Most of them had already sensed it: Adam’s essence level wasn’t enough to reach even the Martial Apprentice Rank.

His essence felt faint to their perception.

There were some half-formed doubts that he might have been suppressing or concealing his true essence.

But the E-Meter’s reading shattered those thoughts.

The device didn’t lie; its results couldn’t be faked.

Still, none of them dared to mock him now.

Because martial rank wasn’t everything.

Every martial artist knew there was something beyond rank, something that could make even a weak-ranked individual terrifying.

Special Talent.

Martial artists who awakened special talents were called cheaters by their peers.

A strong enough special talent could let even a Rankless Martial Artist overpower Apprentices or even Warriors.

And the martial artists in the hall came to the same silent conclusion.

Adam must have awakened a high-grade special talent.

That would explain it, the impossible perfect run, the slaughter of elites, even the fear that turned the authenticator’s orb black.

The only plausible reason for such power from someone with no rank was a special talent far beyond normal understanding.

But the manager and receptionist, unlike the others, both knew the truth.

It had been six months since Adam awakened his talent.

Six months since he first registered as a martial artist.

The receptionist’s brow furrowed deeply, her thoughts spiraling.

I thought he must’ve had a fortuitous encounter and broken through.

She glanced between the device and Adam’s calm face.

But he hasn’t even stepped into the Apprentice rank… so how did he accomplish such a feat?

Her confusion only deepened.

She remembered clearly: during his re-entry request, the Mission Hall’s records had shown two things about Adam, his Cultivation Talent, ranked G, and his Special Talent, which was Rankless.

Testing for talent was far more complicated than testing for essence capacity, and in the end, all one could determine was the rank of the talent, whether it was a cultivation talent or a special talent.

The receptionist bit her lip, her pulse quickening.

How could someone with such trash talents achieve something even Martial Experts struggle with?

But beside her, the manager’s expression changed slightly, it was not confusion, but realization.

His eyes gleamed with something deeper as he studied Adam.

Has he re-awakened his talent?

****

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