Ben walked into the Player Bureau Association like a man entering a circus—one he hadn't asked to attend. The cavernous lobby buzzed with a chaotic symphony of color, noise, and posturing. Low-rank Players, adorned with newly acquired, gaudy gear, strutted and preened. Cliques laughed too loudly, their voices echoing off the high ceilings, while one particularly oblivious brute practiced sword swings dangerously close to the vending machines, oblivious to the near-misses. It was everything Ben despised: flash over substance, power without purpose.
He approached the front desk, a simple, gleaming holo-panel. A bored-looking attendant, her eyes glued to a flickering screen, barely registered his presence.
"Name?" she droned, her voice flat.
"Bennison Crowfield."
She tapped a few keys, not looking up. "Class?"
Ben hesitated, the words feeling alien on his tongue. Then, flatly: "Tax Collector."
Her fingers froze mid-air. She blinked, slowly, then peeled her gaze from the screen to meet his. A frown creased her brow as she tapped again, harder this time. "Are you sure? It's not… like… a subclass of Accountant? Maybe a typo for... Tactician?" Her voice held a hint of suppressed amusement.
Ben remained expressionless, his gaze unwavering. "No typo. Tax Collector. Unranked."
A pause. Then, a snort of disbelief from behind him, followed by a ripple of chuckles.
"Dude, the IRS made a class?"
"No way, that's real. That's gotta be a joke."
"Guess even the system didn't stop the taxman!"
Laughter rolled across the lobby, a wave of ridicule washing over him. Ben didn't turn around. He stared forward, letting the noise bounce off him like water on glass. Let them laugh, he thought, a cold, hard satisfaction settling in his gut. Soon enough, I'll be the audit they didn't see coming.
Inside the sterile, white-walled registration chamber, Ben placed his hand on the stat pad. The machine hummed, a low, mechanical growl, then blinked a dull, dismissive red.
"F-Rank," the attendant announced, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She barely bothered to suppress it this time. "Congrats, Mr. Crowfield. You're officially the weakest Player here." She handed him a cheap-looking F-rank license, the plastic flimsy in his fingers. He tucked it into his coat without a word, the insult merely a dull throb against his newfound resolve.
Outside, down a narrow, trash-strewn alley behind the PBA building, trouble found him. Three smug-looking F-rank Players stood waiting, their shadows long in the afternoon sun.
"IRS, huh?" the tallest one sneered, arms crossed over a worn leather jerkin. "I got audited once—before the world went to hell. Still hate you suits."
Another, a wiry man with a cruel glint in his eye, cracked his knuckles. "Looks like karma's real. Time for some overdue collection."
Ben didn't flinch. He simply looked at them, his gaze calm, almost detached. His fingers, however, twitched just slightly, a silent anticipation.
[ Skill Activated: Mark of Debt ]
Golden scales, intricate and shimmering, materialized into view above each of their heads. Each man blinked, then froze. A message, searing and undeniable, burned into their vision.
[⚖️ TAX MARK APPLIED]EXP and Stat gain detected. Outstanding taxes pending.
"What the hell is this? Some joke?" the first thug blurted, his sneer replaced by confusion.
"I—I can see it too… It's real…" the wiry one stammered, his eyes wide.
Ben stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with a cold, professional light. "Let's audit, shall we?"
[ Skill Activated: Ledger View ]
He pointed to the first thug, a casual gesture that held immense power. "Level 15. Last month, 4,963 EXP. 25 stat points gained. You owe 25% by tomorrow—or the penalty begins."
He turned to the second, the lean, smug man with a bow slung across his back. "Level 18. 6,600 EXP. 20 stat points. Same terms."
Then, to the tallest, a hulking tank with a massive, dented shield strapped to his arm. "Level 21. 8,201 EXP. 15 stats. Deadline: 24 hours."
The men stared at him in disbelief, their faces slack with shock as their own stats hovered before them in luminous UI panels, visible only to them. Ben's voice remained calm, clinical, devoid of emotion. "Miss the deadline for four months, and the penalties begin to stack. At twenty months, the system locks your account. You'll be seized, judged, and either reset, enslaved… or imprisoned indefinitely."
"You're bluffing!" the leader roared, his face contorting in rage. "He's a freak—get him!"
Ben didn't move as they lunged, a blur of desperate, misdirected aggression.
[ TRAIT ACTIVATED: Writ of Reprisal – Emergency Protocol ]
The world blinked gold, a sudden, blinding flash. In Ben's hands, as if summoned from pure concept, materialized the Shortsword of Compliance and the Scale of Guilt. A golden aura surged through him, radiating an oppressive weight. His stats spiked, a rush of power that felt both alien and perfectly natural.
Temporary Boost: +500% Attributes
Debuff Resistance: ActiveReprisal Mode: 2 Minutes
The first attacker, the wiry one, swung a clumsy fist. Ben sidestepped with an almost imperceptible shift of weight, then countered with a light, precise slash of the Shortsword. It barely touched the man's arm.
[ Seal of Stat Recalibration: -27% to all stats. ]
The man staggered, a strangled gasp escaping his lips. "W-what the hell? My stats… They're plummeting!" He clutched his arm as if physically wounded by the digital drain.
The tank, bellowing, raised his shield and charged, a lumbering mass of muscle and defiance. Ben swung the blade in a clean arc. The moment its edge touched the shield—
[ Seal of Arms: Disarmed. Weapons locked. ]
The tank's massive shield shattered in his grip, dissolving into shimmering motes of light. He fell back, stunned, his eyes wide with incomprehension.
Ben pivoted, his movements fluid, slashing toward the bowman. The blade only grazed him, a whisper of contact.
[ Chain of Accountability ]
Golden chains, shimmering with an ethereal glow, wrapped around the man, binding him in place. A digital countdown appeared above his head, ticking down from 15 seconds.
"W-What is this?! I can't move!" the bowman shrieked, struggling against the invisible bonds.
"Tick tock," Ben murmured, his voice a low, chilling whisper. "When it hits zero, he'll be imprisoned in a Seizure Cell. Permanently—unless you pay his growing debt."
The countdown hit 0. The bowman screamed, a desperate, cut-off sound, as a vortex of swirling darkness tore open beneath him and dragged him away into nothingness. The alley air seemed to crackle in his wake.
The other two froze, their bravado evaporating like mist. "Wh-where'd he go?!" one cried, slumping against the grimy alley wall.
Ben's gaze was cold, devoid of pity. "To await judgment. Reset. Servitude. Or eternal imprisonment."
"Y-you win!" the remaining thug stammered, raising his hands in surrender, his face pale. "We'll pay! Just remove the mark!"
Ben nodded, a single, decisive motion.
25% of their recent EXP and stats were deducted, a silent transfer of power. The golden scales above their heads shimmered once more, then vanished. The oppressive debuffs lifted, leaving them feeling hollowed out, but free.
Ben smoothed his dusty tie, his movements precise. "If you hadn't jumped me," he said, his voice calm, "I would've focused on the monsters. But since you thought you were above the law…" He smiled. Cold. Professional. "Consider this your audit."
He walked away, leaving them slumped against the alley walls in stunned silence, their bravado shattered.
"Gentlemen," Ben called over his shoulder, his voice echoing slightly in the narrow space, "thank you for your cooperation."