They say that anchoring ceremony at the age of three determines your life.
Those who grab chips are the aristocrats of heaven, those who grab books are functional citizens, and those who grab stones, dead leaves, and scrap iron are the anchors—the bottom class of society, the remnants of fate.
I grabbed a key.
A rusty iron key, pressed beneath all the gleaming objects.
The system said it was scrap metal. Call me an anchor abandoner.
But it doesn't know - this key can unlock any lock.
Including itself.
Some locks are safe only if they are not opened.
