The main professions set in the game Ark include: Vanguard, Sniper, Guard, Caster, Heavy Armor, Medical, Special, and Support.
Each profession has its own strengths. During the 3.0 era—when the game was at its peak in popularity and player count—every class could hold its own in the solo PVP professional arena.
In addition to solo PVP, the league also introduced team competitions. Each team consisted of twelve players, battling on a designated map. At that level, profession selection became crucial. Some teams were sharp-edged assault squads composed of Vanguards and Guards, while others formed tank-style squads built around Heavy Armor, Medics, and Support players.
There were also more intricate sub-profession systems under each main profession.
Sub-professions were diverse, and a single person could unlock many of them. They provided significant attribute boosts and combat bonuses. Felix recalled a particularly rare sub-profession—Competitive Knight King—which only a handful of elite players in the Kazimierz PVP League had ever acquired.
In his previous life, Felix had chosen the Support profession. The Gunsmith sub-profession, in particular, offered valuable Dexterity and Intelligence bonuses for Supports.
Every Support player started off weak in the early stages. But in the mid-to-late game, with access to sub-professions like Craftsman, they could study advanced mechanics, crafting techniques, and equipment design. Eventually, they could evolve into fearsome solo units on the battlefield.
With the Summoner sub-profession, they could deploy entire mechanical armies they had personally built. These units could be outfitted in defensive armor forged by Craftsmen, armed with assault rifles made by Gunsmiths, and overwhelm the enemy through sheer numbers and financial investment.
To unlock these sub-professions, players needed to visit specific mission points and complete designated tasks.
As for main professions, novice players entering Ark had a simple primary goal: to search the map in hopes of finding a main profession transfer book.
This place, however, looked too run-down to have any such book.
Felix leaned against the edge of the tent, trying to get some sleep—but it was no use.
Dozens of sankta were sitting in the tent… Who could possibly sleep under the glare of a dozen incandescent bulbs?
No wonder the Sarkaz mercenaries refused to step inside. Who'd want to be blinded like that?
Still, Felix noticed that although all the sankta' lamps and wings looked bright and polished, each one had subtle differences in design and glow.
It was midnight, and Felix's eyelids were already drooping. Just as he was about to drift off, a sudden gust of wind howled outside the tent. In the distance, the shouts of Sarkaz mercenaries pierced the night.
Felix coughed lightly and rubbed his eyes awake. Around him, the other sankta looked at each other in confusion.
Lance, who held the highest rank among them and seemed to be the de facto leader, suddenly tensed.
"Wait... they're speaking in Sarkaz swears. Let me listen," he said, frowning. Though not part of the regular army, Lance had spent enough time on the battlefield to recognize a few choice curse words from various factions.
It was like hearing someone from Ursus mutter "Cyka Blyat"—you just knew they were cursing.
"Oh no... we're like donkeys lost in a sandstorm without supplies." Lance spat out a few curses in Rutland dialect, his face turning grim. "A natural disaster is coming."
The expressions of the sankta changed instantly. Even Felix's face darkened.
In his previous life, Felix had worked in logistics—hauling goods from one mobile city to another, much like Penguin Logistics. What he feared most were the natural disasters that appeared randomly on the map.
No matter a player's level or how powerful their equipment, when a natural disaster struck, all they could do was watch helplessly as their HP drained away and their gear's durability crumbled.
No player had ever survived a natural disaster. Everyone ran the moment one appeared.
Whoosh!
The tent flap burst open. A Sarkaz mercenary barged in, shouting, "To hell with it—Sarkaz swears—you're all free. I don't want your bounty anymore!"
He turned and left without another word. Moments later, the roar of a truck engine echoed through the night.
In the blink of an eye, every Sarkaz mercenary had fled. Of course, none of them stayed behind to rescue the prisoners.
Lance stepped out of the tent with the others and saw it—the distant horizon swallowed by a black sandstorm, rising from the earth to the sky like a living wall.
He took a sharp breath. "We run. Back the way we came!"
Panic spread. The faces of the sankta turned pale. Without hesitation, they all turned and ran.
The darkness crept closer with terrifying speed. Felix, with only 1 point of Endurance, struggled to keep up. He could barely make out the outlines of his companions by the faint glow of their halos and wings.
He gasped for breath, dragging his feet, heart pounding.
What's the use of high Charm now? he thought bitterly. Charm might persuade people—but can it persuade a Scourge?
As he silently cursed his stats, a scream echoed nearby—and a halo light vanished.
"Don't look back!" Lance roared, voice shaking. From the corner of his eye, he had seen one of his comrades lifted into the air by the storm, his body shredded by Originium-laced debris. Even if he survived the fall, the infection alone would seal his fate.
Felix gritted his teeth and forced himself forward—but with only 1 Endurance, the storm was catching up fast.
Just as his legs gave out, a hand reached out and grabbed him.
Without hesitation, someone hoisted him up and ran forward.
It was Lance.
He carried Felix across his back, charging ahead with gritted teeth, refusing to stop.
Maybe it was Felix's high Charm at work—or maybe it was just the loyalty of the sankta people—but Lance didn't abandon the younger member of his tribe.
If only these wings could let me fly... That was Felix's last thought before everything went dark.
_______
"Cough!"
Felix jolted upright from the bed, his chest heaving as a violent cough wracked his body. His throat burned dry, and he instinctively reached for the purified water on the bedside table. After gulping down several mouthfuls, the choking sensation faded, and his breathing steadied.
The room around him was quiet—strangely peaceful. It didn't resemble a medical ward. No antiseptic smell, no monitors, no sterile white walls. Curious, Felix got up and walked to the window.
Outside, he saw a small village bathed in the soft morning haze. sankta villagers worked leisurely in the fields, their halos shimmering faintly in the distance. Further beyond, the holy spires of Laterano barely peeked through the fog, like ghosts of a divine city watching silently over the land.
Did we make it? Felix blinked. The last thing he remembered before collapsing was Lance carrying him through the storm.
So… we were rescued?
Without delay, he opened his character panel—and exhaled in relief. No signs of infection.
If he had contracted oripathy, everything would have changed.
In the game, some players deliberately infected themselves with Ore Disease for stat boosts, using the infection as a shortcut to power. But in this world—this real world—being infected wasn't a buff. It was a curse. The infected were treated like vermin, unwelcome in nearly every mobile city. No legal transactions, no normal life. Just the black market and the dark underbelly of civilization.
The infected were condemned to walk in the gutters beneath the cities while everyone else walked in the light.
There were upsides, sure—but for Felix, the downsides were far too real.
Only a few organizations accepted the infected: small mobile cities with no discrimination policies, or groups like the Tower of Babel from version 1.0, or Rhodes Island Pharmaceuticals in later updates.
Rhodes Island, he mused. That name carried weight in the game's lore. A neutral mobile force that traveled the lands aboard a fleet of landships, taking in infected and offering them treatment. Most players joined them at some point, either for the plot or for the perks.
Shaking off the thoughts, Felix changed into his outer clothes. Before heading out, he paused to check the mirror.
Let's see what Charm 7 looks like on a real face...
A handsome young man stared back at him. His features were striking—refined to the point of surreal, as if sculpted from stardust. Under short, light gray hair, his eyes glowed with a radiant golden hue.
Golden eyes… light gray hair... Wait, did I walk into the wrong universe? Felix joked inwardly. This is giving serious "tragic beach battle" vibes.
Still, there was no doubt—his appearance leaned more toward the "elegant scholar" archetype than a battlefield veteran. His skin was smooth and pale, untouched by sun or war. He looked like someone who should be writing poetry, not running from sandstorms.
His golden halo shimmered with two concentric rings, like ripples on still water. The wings behind him were the same luminous gold. But unlike the typical feathered or angular sankta wings, his were... different. Almost geometric. They resembled rectangular totems, with gently curved edges and an O-shaped loop at the ends. A single vertical line cut through the totem and circle, linking the entire pattern together in a clean, minimalist design.
It was common for sankta players to obsess over their halo and wing designs—each one was randomly generated during character creation, and no two were exactly alike. Some even held contests to vote on the most beautiful combinations. Looking at his now, Felix could see why. His wings had a solemn elegance to them—a design that felt more sacred than decorative.
He stepped outside his room.
Lance was sitting alone in the living room, reading a book under the morning light. When he saw Felix emerge, he looked up and smiled.
"You're awake," Lance said warmly. "You've been out for a day. The doctor said it was nothing serious—your body just needed rest. It was protecting itself."
"Thank you," Felix said sincerely.
"I only did what a citizen of Laterano should." Lance's tone was calm, but a hint of exhaustion lingered in his voice. "But in the future, you should think twice before taking such... 'adventures.'"
He coughed lightly, not scolding but still letting the weight of the consequences hang in the air. Felix could only listen silently.
Of the dozen members in their team, four had been swept away by the storm, their fates unknown. As the captain, Lance had every reason to be somber. But he didn't blame Felix—he was just a young, reckless minor. The storm wasn't his fault.
"If you're hungry, go to the church. You can get something to eat there."
Felix nodded in thanks. After stepping outside, he asked a passing villager for directions and made his way toward the church.
It stood solemnly at the village's heart. Outside, villagers clutched flower bouquets, some with silent grief etched on their faces. Others moved with weary purpose, performing rites and tasks with heavy hearts. Felix passed several other survivors from his group. They exchanged quiet nods as they crossed paths near the back of the church—where four fresh tombstones had been erected.
The weight in his chest deepened.
He turned toward the front entrance and pushed the church door open.
Multicolored light streamed through the stained-glass windows, painting the floor in divine hues. At the altar stood a tall figure, bathed in that sacred light, whispering softly as if in prayer.
After a while, the man turned, his expression kind and calm.
"A lost lamb," he said, smiling gently as his eyes met Felix's.
Felix froze.
He recognized this man.
In future versions of the game, this soft-spoken monk would become a name that sent chills down players' spines. Andoain—Martyr Andoain—a legendary figure who sat at the top of Laterano's wanted list.
He had made countless players wail and curse through trial after trial, mission after mission. Many sought him out for the rare rewards tied to his defeat, only to be met with frustration. On forums, he was known as The Pioneer. A fearless explorer of Terra who traveled to the farthest reaches of the world—not for glory, but for answers. For truth.
To seek that truth, Andoain was willing to defy the very faith he once upheld.
He would one day turn against Lateran, walk a solitary path, and become a symbol—reviled by some, revered by others. Hostility, admiration, respect—they all blurred when players spoke of him.
Even though he would eventually become an enemy of Laterano, many couldn't bring themselves to hate him. He was not angry. He was not bitter. He never blamed God, nor did he demand sympathy. He simply... walked forward, following a path only he could see.
So many players had even joined the Andoain Pathfinder Team, voluntarily stepping into the role of his companions and protectors, savoring the journey over the destination.
But right now, it was still the year 1086.
Five years before Andoain's rebellion in 1091.
Right now, he was a faithful priest—a spiritual guide, a steadfast comrade. During the game's 1.0 release, players didn't even know of his existence. It was only much later, through conversations with NPCs and scattered lore, that they began piecing together his story.
Felix looked at the man with mixed feelings.
"Father... I'm a little hungry."
Andoain's smile deepened. He gently patted Felix's shoulder and took out a small piece of cake from the nearby tray.
"Eat. You'll feel better."
It was sweet and soft.
Sweets were a cultural treasure among the sankta—beloved by NPCs and players alike. Many sankta players even chose pastry chef as a secondary profession, and online guides for baking recipes were wildly popular.
Felix hadn't eaten in over a day. The moment the flavor touched his tongue, he devoured the rest with barely a breath in between. Only after swallowing the last bite did his shoulders finally relax.
Warmth returned, not just to his body—but to his mind.
"You're not much younger than I am. What brings a young man like you to the battlefield?" Andoain sat down beside Felix, his voice light and amused, free of blame. Just curiosity. Gentle, steady curiosity.
Felix paused.
He thought about the character he was supposed to be—the original Felix. An orphan. Withdrawn, with little connection to his classmates. In truth, there wasn't much personality to inherit. That meant he had room. Room to evolve. To grow out of the shell of that role until it was no longer an act.
He could become someone real in this world.
"I felt like there was nothing left to learn in school," Felix said at last, his voice calm.
He looked straight ahead and added, "Seeing is believing, right? Our social studies teacher mentioned the holy war with Kazdel. I wanted to see it with my own eyes."
Andoain nodded, his eyes kind. "And what did you learn?"
"That the books lie," Felix said softly. "There's no 'mortal feud' between the Sarkaz and the sankta. When those mercenaries found us, they didn't try to kill us right away. They wanted ransom. Money. This hatred... it's not theirs. They're just carrying the burden of the past."
Andoain smiled, the kind of smile that made one feel truly seen. "Seeing is believing. That's a good point."
"My name is Andoain," he said. "What about you?"
"Felix Shawn Lanshem, Master Monk."
"Lanshem," Andoain echoed, as if testing the weight of the name. "What kind of person do you want to become?"
—
[Andoain (Lv. ?) is ready to teach you a professional skill book. Please select a profession.]
—
Felix's thoughts screeched to a halt.
That prompt.
He blinked, startled—but it was real. Clear. Floating in front of him.
Lv.?
The sign of an NPC beyond comprehension. All high-level NPCs connected to major storylines had that marker—undefeatable, unreadable, beyond player strength. Andoain really was that legendary.
WTF, Felix thought. It really is him. The leader. The "Pioneer."
He had originally thought he'd have to return to Laterano City, grind reputation quests, and check the libraries to maybe find a basic profession book. But here it was—offered directly to him by the Andoain.
Felix hesitated for only a second. Then he spoke carefully.
"I don't want to be a warrior," he said. "I don't want to fight with a gun. I want to support them. Help them. Build strong armor for them. Make powerful weapons. So they can come back alive."
Andoain chuckled, warm and thoughtful. "What an extravagant dream."
"But..." He reached into his bag, drew out a weathered, leather-bound book, and handed it to Felix. "I think I have something for you."
Its title glinted in golden ink: Interpreting Teamwork and Logistics—a foundational skillbook for the Auxiliary profession line.
"Work hard, Lanshem," Andoain said, standing. "I hope your dream comes true someday."
He gave one last nod, his smile lingering even as he turned and walked out of the church, back into the light.
Felix stared at his retreating figure for a moment.
That man really did have that damn charm the players kept talking about...
Finally, Felix looked down at the book in his hands. He opened it, started reading.
—
[You are currently studying: Intelligence Assessment, Talent Assessment...]
[Current progress: 3%]
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