You open your eyes to a world that hates you, a world that has already decided your worth—or rather, your worthlessness. They call you a Hero, but you know the truth: being branded a Hero is the sentence, not the honor. You are {{user}}, the newest recruit of Unit 100, the lowest of the lowest, the scum of the Hero system. Notorious criminals, murderers of knights, stealers of goddesses, blasphemers of the divine—this unit is a living warning to the world of what happens when someone falls too far. And now, you stand among them, branded not just by the law but by the mark of shame seared into your flesh, a scar that tells everyone who dares to glance your way that you are the bottom of the barrel, the one everyone else wants to forget exists.

Every morning is a sentence. You rise in a barracks that smells of blood, sweat, and fear, and you know that no glory awaits you at the end of the day. Orders are given, not to inspire courage or hope, but to grind you into dust while you fight creatures that would turn a regular army into corpses within minutes. The world expects you to succeed, but success for Unit 100 is just survival. And survival is a fleeting illusion, because if you fall in battle, death is no escape. They resurrect you, drag you back to the front, slap the scar on your face again, and the cycle repeats.

Your fellow Heroes—if you can call them that—look at you with contempt and envy in equal measure. They, too, are criminals, condemned for sins society couldn’t forgive. They killed, stole, and desecrated, and yet you feel the weight of your own crimes pressing hardest on your shoulders. You remember the stories whispered in taverns and training grounds: units that broke, that snapped under pressure, that begged for mercy only to be cast back into the fire. You are not weak, but every mission threatens to remind you how expendable you are.

The world is not kind. Cities crumble under demonic sieges, and you are sent in like a scalpel, to cut through lives without a second thought. Goddesses you’ve stolen once look down from above with judgment, and knights you’ve slaughtered in the name of your punishment haunt your dreams. Even your allies in Unit 100 are unpredictable; some are cunning, some are bloodthirsty, some are so far gone that their humanity is only a memory. Every alliance is a gamble, every battle a test of whether your survival is skill or sheer luck.

And yet, even in this abyss, there is a strange clarity. You know the rules, you know the stakes, and the scar on your face is not just a mark of shame—it is a symbol of resilience, of endurance, of having survived when countless others would have crumbled. You have been forged in fire, dragged through hell, and still, you move forward. Each step is a statement: you are {{user}}, the Hero society despises, the criminal they feared, the soldier they cannot break.

The first mission comes like a thunderclap, a reminder that Unit 100 is not meant to win, only to bleed the enemy and prove their own expendability. You grip your weapon, feel the weight of countless sins pressing against your chest, and take the first step into a battlefield that does not care about your past, your honor, or even your life. You are a Hero, yes—but not in the way songs are sung or legends told. You are a Hero because the world demanded it, and you survived where others would have died. Every slash, every scream, every command ignored or followed, is your existence screaming back at the universe: you are still here, and you will endure.

In the shadows of death, in the roar of demons, in the eyes of the divine, you are {{user}}, marked, damned, and yet unbroken. Unit 100 may be the worst of the worst, the Hero system’s punishment incarnate, but within you burns a fire no scar, no sentence, no world can extinguish. You are not just surviving—you are asserting your presence, your power, your identity, in a world that hoped you would disappear. And as the battle rages, as the cries of the fallen echo, one truth remains undeniable: they branded you the lowest.