Mocked at Level 1, I Became the Spear God

Chapter 6: Dead Last on the Board

"Mr. Reid, the numbers are in."

Brittany stood in the doorway of Grant's office, folder in hand.

"Spit it out." Grant was reclining in his chair, one leg over the arm, nursing a steaming coffee like it owed him money.

"Thirty-eight employees hit level two by six p.m. Eighteen of those should reach level three by tomorrow. The other twelve are still level one. Nobody's level three yet." She closed the folder, hesitated. "And that Wren you asked about. He's still level one, only..."

Grant didn't look up. "Only what."

"He's at one percent experience. Dead last on the whole board."

Grant took a sip of coffee. "Slacker. Find a reason to can him in a couple days." He put the cup down and turned back to his monitor, like the whole conversation had already bored him.

Nate had no idea a little red X was already drawn next to his name. He logged out, yawned, and went home to a quiet night, happy enough.

* * *

Next morning he logged in the second he sat down and pulled up the village board. The top player was already level four. Handle: Rex. A prodigy or a whale, probably both. The main pack was level three. There was no shortage of grinders in this game.

Nate closed the board. Whatever was his, he'd take it with the spear in his own hands.

The yard was more crowded than ever. He found a quiet corner and started drilling.

"Hey—look at that guy. Spear user, and he's got attack mode on. Think he's some kind of pro? Maybe we go say hi, get on his good side, ride his coattails."

Two players had just wandered in and were whispering about him.

"Nah. Pros are all out leveling at this hour. Nobody wastes the day in here."

Right on cue, Nate misjudged a parry and ate a dummy-spear to the chest, flat on his back.

"Haha. Told you. No pro."

"Ugh, wasted it. Thought I found a carry. Just a clown. C'mon, let's go grind—I need that level bonus to buy my girlfriend a new phone."

"Right. You. The level bonus. Sure."

They wandered off.

* * *

Day one in the corner: proficiency 2540 / 10000.

Day two: 6868 / 10000.

Day three: 9999 / 10000.

Nate's hands shook a little when he saw it. Three days. He'd lost count of how many times the dummies had knocked him on his ass in here, how many times he'd gotten back up. People stared and muttered. He didn't care. He was the only one who knew how far he'd come—he honestly believed that if he'd had a spear in the real world now, half a dozen men couldn't lay a hand on him.

Wade had dropped by a few times to coach, and each time he left looking quietly awestruck by the kid's stubbornness. Wade himself was level five now, almost six, closing on the front pack.

Nate's level stayed frozen at one, one percent. Nobody at the company pulled him aside for a talk, but people started giving him room. His name lived on the bottom of the screen every evening, and everybody assumed he'd be the first one gone. Nobody wanted to be the slacker's friend when the axe fell.

Nate squared up on a dummy, spun into a horizontal sweep, and came back around into a straight thrust.

*Ding.*

**Perfect Strike.**

**Basic Spearplay Lv4 (+1). Proficiency: 0 / 100000.**

Done.

He exhaled, long and slow. Raw skill Lv4, which with his Rare talent read as fifth-level mastery. He'd graduated.

He pulled the helmet off, got used to the cold shoulders around him, logged his numbers, and clocked out.

* * *

Nate had a habit of reading the forums every night—kept him from going blind to how the rest of the field played. Tonight a pinned video was sitting on the front page.

The title: *The Man in the Training Yard.*

He clicked it.

Three minutes. Somebody had filmed him over multiple days—him charging a dummy, getting launched, getting up, charging again, getting launched again. Rinse, repeat. A slow-mo close-up at the end of his face. That was him, all right. Some civic-minded citizen had edited together every time he got his ass kicked and turned it into entertainment. It had gone viral.

*Drifting: lmao how are you this bad? You can't even beat a training dummy.*

*SevenSins: buddy's never been in the yard, has he? That's attack mode. He's fighting back.*

*LittleLulu: he looks so sad though. Is the yard actually that scary? I'm scared to go now.*

*CloudPass: seems overdone. Bet it's clout-chasing. Who just lets themselves get hit all day?*

*Rex: same village, passing through. Not clout. He really is that bad. I see him in the yard every day getting beaten up. Guy's scared of real mobs so he hides out with the dummies.*

*This is real?*

*No way. A total noob like that?*

The comment section was a wall of mockery. Nate just stared. They'd cut every single Perfect Strike out. Every time he'd actually landed something clean, hit the mark, gotten better—gone. All that was left was the clown show.

Unbelievable.

* * *

In a villa on the edge of the city, a man named Holden watched the same video, chin in his hand, thoughtful.

"What're you watching, babe?" His girlfriend Maya came over with two coffees and handed him one.

"Something interesting." Holden nodded at the screen. "This wasn't filmed in one day. Look at his movement—watch how much smoother he gets. And look at the end. Even when he falls, he's bleeding the impact off through the weapon on purpose. The part where he redirects that into a counter—they just didn't film it. He's not getting beaten up. He's learning to take a hit and give one back." He sipped his coffee. "That's a real fighter. Either he's trained before, or he's got a gift I've only seen once. Shame he's not in our village."

He sighed.

Maya smiled. "Alright, talent-spotter. I'll have the people check—see if anybody in our crew shares his village, make contact first."

Holden laced his fingers through hers. "Nobody knows me like you do."

* * *

Back at the office, Nate walked in and felt eyes on his back. Whispers. He'd spent two years being invisible, and suddenly invisible sucked.

"Well, well. If it isn't the man from the training yard." The voice dripped. "Scared of getting killed out in the real world, so you just never level up, huh?"

It was Jake. He was level five now, top of the whole company—a real hotshot by his own math.

A few nearby coworkers couldn't hold it and snickered.

"Nothing wrong with being scared of mobs," Jake went on, leaning in. "Shame you're not in my village, I'd carry you. You wouldn't still be level one. Though, I guess you're getting fired in a couple days anyway. Want me to teach you a couple tricks before you go?"

Nate was done with this guy. His raw spear skill was Lv4 now; the only thing on his mind was getting online and actually using it. He turned to leave.

"Jake, what are you doing?" A clear voice cut across the room. "Get back to your grind. Stop picking on people."

Cassie had just walked in in time to see Jake cornering him.

Jake straightened up, all innocence, and scurried back to his seat. Cassie looked at Nate. On his resume, he'd listed a campus gaming title—she'd figured he'd be decent. Three days dead last and that viral video of him losing to a dummy had cooled her off some. She'd seen the video too. She couldn't exactly yell at him for missing the metrics; her brother's rules were the rules.

"You should go level up these next few days," she said, not unkindly. "The review's coming." Then she turned and walked back to her office.

Written off, then. Nate gave a dry smile. Fair enough. He'd burned three whole days. He couldn't blame anybody but himself.

He sat down, put the helmet on, and logged in.