Given the hereditary nature of classes, everyone expects Damien—the child of two high-tiered adventurers—to be granted a high-tier combat class of his own. Expectations are betrayed, however, when Damien finds himself instead saddled with a crafting class of the lowest possible tier: [Neophyte Tailor].

Left practically crippled compared to those with better classes, Damien wants to avoid becoming a pawn in the machinations of the nobility, desiring only to grind his level in peace while wondering why the usual rules of inheritance were broken. Was it his desire to excel by his own effort, rather than an unearned blessing from a god? Did the Five take offence at his opinions on the unfairness of hereditary classes? Or maybe it was something to do with the alien voice that intruded on his ceremony?

A voice that offers great power, and freedom from the tyranny of the Five, but that never names its price.

This story is litRPG-lite. While the class someone possesses controls most of their lives, people don't get dinged at for every level they gain, nor can they see their status without undergoing a special ritual. The MC has no romantic interest. Crafting is merely a way to game the system, and doesn't feature heavily in the story, aside from a few descriptions on how they're carrying out the system abuse. There is, on one unfortunate occasion, maths. The pace is quick.

Published here, Scribble Hub and patreon. This was a participant in the Spring 2022 writathon. (i.e. it was posted as-written at high speed, with no pre-planning.)