"I Reincarnated But Have No System? You Must Be Kidding Me!"

Auren stood in the center of the arena without losing his cool despite the storm of jeers raining down from the spectators.

Hahaha!

The noise rolled like thunder, each insult sharpened by laughter and the clinking of coins.

From the high stone benches circling the pit, dozens of eyes glared down at him, mocking the very idea that a mere herbalist had dared step into a promotion test.

"Come on! Finish it quick so I can have my money now!" someone shouted, voice cutting through the restless crowd.

"What's the delay? Just kick his ass right away, Jerome!" another barked, impatient and eager for blood.

"Cocky bastard," a man sneered, spitting toward the stone floor. "Does he think he's Robert, the fighting herbalist of Austerra?"

That name alone sparked murmurs.

"Speaking of Robert," an older man rasped from the back,

"I heard he fought side by side with Queen Austaire and that Frameless Freak against the Dark Fate. They say it was their combined strength that saved Austerra."

"I heard that too," another added, shaking his head with a grin.

"And that's probably why this herbalist brat thinks he can try his luck in a fight. Hah! What a joke!"

Laughter followed, harsh and cutting.

Auren's chest tightened with irritation, but also pride. The jeers stung, yet the mention of his father lit a flame inside him.

Robert's name was spoken with awe, remembered even here, far from home. Although the mention of the Frameless Freak was a bit on his sour side, but for him it doesnt matter.

What he cared the most is Robert's reputation. To Auren, it meant one thing: Robert had left a mark deep enough to cross lands and generations.

'I am proud of you, Father,' Auren thought, steadying his breathing. His lips curved into the faintest smile as the noise faded into background static.

Across from him, Jerome stood with arms crossed and a smug grin plastered on his broad face.

His muscles bulged under his armor, veins pulsing with energy, and the heavy silver axes strapped to his back gleamed menacingly.

He tapped one boot against the ground, impatient for the fight to begin.

The referee, a lean man in gray robes, raised a hand to pause. His sharp eyes studied Auren with a mixture of disbelief and curiosity.

"May I know what weapon a herbalist like you intends to use?" he asked, skeptical.

"A sword will do," Auren replied, smiling with quiet confidence. He drew a simple steel blade. No ornament, no enchantment—just a plain weapon held steady.

A ripple of laughter surged through the crowd. Jerome chuckled low in his throat, as if handed an easy meal.

The referee nodded and stepped back, raising his hand. "Begin!"

The shout cracked across the pit like a whip. He retreated quickly as the fight erupted.

Jerome wasted no time. He lunged with a roar, eyes burning like a predator that had found its prey. His dual axes flashed under the light, deadly arcs aimed to cleave Auren in half.

"Go Jerome! Teach that cocky bastard a lesson!"

"Sweep him out and cut his arms! That should do it!"

The crowd's howls spurred Jerome into a frenzy. Sand sprayed beneath his boots as he bore down like a storm.

But Auren didn't flinch. His feet moved in an awkward rhythm, sloppy on purpose. He stumbled, swayed, even tripped once, making himself look like a nervous novice. His plain sword appeared clumsy in his grip.

'Let him think I'm weak. Once he underestimates me, the finish will be quick.'

Jerome grinned, hungry for the kill.

"Hahaha! Take this!"

The axe whistled through the air, aiming to split Auren's shoulder. At the last instant, Auren stepped back with uncanny timing. The blade cut only empty air, grazing his tunic by a hair's breadth.

"That was luck!" Jerome barked.

"How about this!"

With a roar, he unleashed a triple sweep, his axes a blur of silver arcs that would have shredded most fighters.

But Auren twisted, rolled, and bent with impossible agility. Once he leaned so far back his hair brushed the dirt, letting the blade hiss past his nose.

"Slippery bastard," Jerome spat, sweat beading on his temple. "You better stay put before I accidentally kill you!"

The barbarian's eyes narrowed as he charged again, attacks faster now, each swing more vicious than the last. His axes tore chunks of sand where Auren had just stood, sparks flying whenever steel met steel.

Despite the savagery, Auren danced on. Every dodge was a whisper from death, every parry subtle but exact.

His counters were light, playful strikes that Jerome deflected with ease—but they kept him off balance, feeding his frustration.

Jerome's roar shook the arena. His crimson face and bulging veins betrayed his fury, yet the herbalist remained untouched.

The crowd fell into uneasy murmurs. Some still cheered Jerome, but others leaned forward, realizing this was no fluke. The weakling they had mocked was surviving, even smiling.

On the far side of the guild hall, where adventurers drank and schemed, three figures sat watching the fight with growing interest.

At their center was Alyssa, a level 46 Vanguard Knight. Her posture was strict, her silver-gray eyes sharp.

She wore light armor shimmering faintly with enchantments, tough as steel yet supple. A silver rune glowed faintly on the storage ring at her finger, concealing her weaponry.

"I told you," Alyssa said coldly, tapping the table with a gauntleted finger,

"what we lack is not more firepower. We need support. Someone who won't cower in the backline but can draw aggro when needed so we can finish each battles faster. Obviously, you're not the one for that."

Her gaze fell on the blonde man to her left.

Blas, tall and lean, stiffened. His blue eyes burned with defiance. A crossbow rested against his chair, and his leather armor creaked as he crossed his arms.

"Are you blaming me for not saving Tacia right away?"

Blas shot back.

"We need another damager, not another support. As a worker of Light, Essel is enough. And you know I was being hunted by ogres, right? How could I save her when I was barely saving myself?"

Alyssa slammed her palm flat on the table. "Because you never listen! I told you to hit the healer mage first. But what did you do? You aimed for the ogre tanks!"

"How could I shoot the mage with tanks blocking every arrow? I had to move them first!"

"Oh my gods, Blas. You're a B-ranked archer, level 43, and you've never heard of switching angles?"

"Why should I waste time changing positions when I already had the perfect spot? I was comfortable there! Why don't you try being the archer next time and see if you can do better?"

"You—!" Alyssa leaned forward, voice rising.

Their argument swelled, but no one else in the guild bothered to intervene. Adventurers bickering was routine.

Between them sat Essel, their healer.

Dressed in white robes, she was a calming presence. Her long brown hair framed silver eyes that radiated peace. She touched Blas's arm lightly, her voice soft. "Please, calm down. Shouting won't solve anything. Let us breathe, then decide."

Her tone cut through their tempers like balm. Blas relaxed slightly, Alyssa leaned back though her jaw was tight.

"Blas," Essel said gently, "our leader is right. Comfort doesn't always mean best. Growth comes from embracing difficulty."

She turned to Alyssa. "But I also believe we lack more than manpower. We need consistency. Resources. If we aim for A-rank next year, we must prepare properly."

She pointed to a parchment of supply lists.

"I am flattered you all depend on me, but I have limits. If we are to cross Tastafe Canyon, we need someone who can both fight and craft. Someone who can prepare potions when I cannot. That way, we aren't slowed by my shortcomings."

Alyssa's expression softened. "So, someone with both combat and alchemy skills."

Essel nodded. "Exactly. Even a herbalist who can fight would be useful. Like Robert of Austerra."

Blas frowned, still skeptical. "A support who can fight, protect you, and craft? That sounds good on paper. But where do we find one?"

Before an answer came, the hall shook.

THUD!

CRASSH!

Every head turned as Jerome's body slammed across the floor, skidding to a halt at their table.

'What the?'

"Wait, isn't that Jerome the barbarian?"

His face was crimson, veins bulging from the berserk skill that still burned through him. But despite his rage, he had been thrown like a rag doll.

Auren stood across the arena, calm and collected. His chest rose evenly, his grip on the simple steel sword unwavering. His eyes burned with quiet fire.

"Whew. I guess everyone accepts me now," he thought, watching the shifting expressions of the crowd.

The mocking grins and sneers were gone, replaced with silence and faint nods. For the first time, their eyes held respect.

After sending Jerome crashing with nothing more than a perfectly timed scissor kick, the truth was undeniable.

Despite being a herbalist, Auren—or should we call him, Herbon—had potential.

The hall froze, silence hanging heavy. Then whispers rippled through the air.

At the table, Essel leaned forward, silver eyes wide with excitement.

"I think," she said softly,

"we just found him."