Reborn as an A-Rank Guide: Trapped By The Crazy Sentinels

Bunny skimmed through the remaining profiles and discovered that nearly every Sentinel in the unit towered over 190 centimeters tall.

Their other physical metrics were equally absurd—the clear result of ruthless genetic engineering and selective breeding.

The white-haired twins were both S-rank Sentinels. The older brother, Orion Kane, possessed a white serpent as his mental entity, while the younger, Illai, commanded a black mamba.

The man with fiery red hair was called San Landt. The green-haired Sentinel who had acted so cold and aloof toward her yesterday was Astin Badr. Both held elite SSS-rank classifications.

Brandon, the silver-haired, gray-eyed youth, was seventeen. His mental entity was a black shepherd, ranked at SS+.

Ah. So he really is just an underage boy.

The handsome man with sharp features was named Rain Thorne. His mental entity was a killer whale. Under his medical notes, a brief entry caught her eye: Achromatopsia.

What is that? What kind of condition is that for a high-tier Sentinel?

The dark-skinned Sentinel with curly hair was Arden. His mental entity was a jaguar, and like Rain, he was classified at SSS-rank.

Finally, there was the pink-haired man who had spent most of yesterday silently melting into the background. An SS-rank Sentinel named Tyr Gale, his mental entity was a falcon. His medical profile flagged a far more concerning diagnosis: Severe post-traumatic stress disorder.

Bunny rubbed her temples. Why were all their ranks so ridiculously high? As an ordinary A-rank Guide, attempting to regulate mental instability for a group of volatile, high-tier Sentinels was going to be an uphill battle. Her head throbbed just thinking about it.

Scrolling deeper into the personnel files, she uncovered another disturbing truth: most of the squad were products of artificial embryo technology.

In this era, natural reproduction had become a relic of the past. Severe radiation and environmental contamination on Terra had decimated human fertility, forcing society to rely on massive, frozen banks of anonymous sperm and eggs.

Resources on this planet were strictly rationed, and the Federal Republic controlled population growth with an iron fist. The lower classes couldn’t afford children—and in the eyes of the elite, they lacked the genetic right to produce them anyway.

The wealthy, meanwhile, extracted their genetic material and paid reproductive centers to incubate their offspring, as few women could safely carry a pregnancy to term.

To maintain an expendable labor force, reproductive facilities routinely created batches of anonymous embryos through random genetic combinations. After rigorous screening, only those displaying maximum resilience and adaptability survived to become the next generation of workers.

And if one happened to awaken as a Sentinel?

Even better. They were either shipped straight to contaminated grounds as living weapons or drafted into military security divisions on Terra as elite enforcement tools.

Bunny noticed a stark detail: only Cyrus had recorded parental DNA sequences. The rest of the squad lacked any ancestral records at all. They were manufactured soldiers, grown in vats without a clue who their biological parents were.

A heavy mixture of pity and unease settled in her chest. In a world like this, what’s the actual difference between these men and clones?

Then, another far more urgent thought struck her like a bolt of lightning.

Wait. If fertility has degraded this badly... do women in this era experience any signs of the reproductive cycle?

Bunny stared blankly at the screen as cold sweat broke out on her neck. She was human; needed basic hygiene products. But what if this era had completely phased them out? If her period started, would it immediately expose her as an anomaly from the old world? Would they drag her off to a lab for vivisection?

Her mind spun into a spiral of existential dread—until her stomach let out an agonizingly loud growl.

Right. First things first. No matter how dire the dystopia, breakfast took priority.

Bunny swung her legs out of bed and walked over to the wardrobe. Since District 616 hadn’t hosted a Guide in over thirty years, the outpost possessed zero clothing tailored for women. She was forced to pick out the smallest set of military fatigues available.

Even then, the sleeves swallowed her hands, forcing her to roll them up several thick turns.

Humanity in this age had been engineered for scale, strength, and combat efficiency. Standing among these towering genetic anomalies, Bunny felt like a tiny sparrow trapped in a flock of cranes.

She cracked open her bedroom door. The corridor was dead silent, the heavy alloy doors of the Sentinels’ quarters sealed tight. Tracing the layout from yesterday’s tour, she navigated toward the communal kitchen.

The living area opened into a magnificent, double-height atrium framed by a sweeping wall of floor-to-ceiling glass.

Framed by the vast sky outside, Xander was already standing at the open-plan stove. He wore a crisp apron over his shoulders, casually frying bacon and thick sausages over the burner. Morning sunlight streamed through the panoramic window, casting long columns of liquid gold across the polished gray floor and bathing his pale skin in a soft glow.

The sausages sizzled violently in the skillet, filling the air with a mouthwatering, savory aroma. Beside the stove, an automated juicer hummed quietly, blending fresh oranges and pineapples imported from the hot-houses. In the oven behind him, a large round cake was baked to buttery perfection.