Regressed

I stared into the moldy mirror. Inside it blinked a man with a shaggy, unevenly cut mop of hair and a stretched-out T-shirt hanging loose around his neck.

Handsome or ugly? Not ugly, I'd say—but those horizontally elongated eyes and thin lips gave off zero trustworthiness. The kind of face that screamed I'll stab you in the back any second.

The polar opposite of a free pass at family meetings. Brutal, but yeah, that's me.

Back then, I'd slathered on money to fake some charm. Now? I just looked like a street thug seething with the world's injustices.

"What a shitty face."

I wiped the water from my face with a musty towel and escaped the mold-infested bathroom.

The moment I stepped into the cramped studio apartment—barely ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠room to stand—reality crashed over me like a wave.

I'm alive.

More precisely: I've come back.

To right after graduating Hunter Academy, scraping by as a gate miner just to afford rice.

The penthouse on prime Gangnam land? Gone. The custom suits worth millions per piece, the dress room stuffed with multimillion-won watches? Not a trace.

In their place: instant noodle wrappers everywhere, moth-eaten clothes shoved in corners, and wallpaper so drab it could trigger depression on sight.

This was my life before Seol Rokjin.

A loser's daily grind, barely surviving.

But for the first time in years, I laughed out loud.

Why? Freedom.

I'm no longer Seol Rokjin's dog. No more barking on command or rolling over. I escaped in a way I never imagined.

The contract choking my heart vanished—and what I did next was insane.

"Fuck you, Seol Rokjin."

I spat out the curses I'd bottled up inside. Seol Rokjin, you bastard. Son of a bitch.

This heartless monster.

But the thrill faded fast, replaced by crushing emptiness.

"Hah..."

If this were some fairy tale—slave escapes, lives free and happy ever after—how nice.

But my life was miles from any such story.

Ten years from now, this South Korea falls to a gate break. That apocalypse is burned into my retinas, literal as can be.

Gates ripping open everywhere, monsters pouring out. Citizens torn apart helplessly.

Thinking back, my heart still races like mad.

The agony of my body being crushed—still vivid.

I don't know why now, but I had a hunch about my revival.

That artifact Seol Rokjin ordered me to fetch. As the giant monster pulverized me, the ankh in my hand burst with light.

Maybe it saved me?

I wanted to hunt it down now, but the gate it came from hasn't spawned yet. Later for that.

More urgent: I'm the only one who knows the world ends.

If I ignore it and run, holing up somewhere safe? Korea follows the same path to ruin.

Do it.

The first thought in my head was selfish as hell.

I had no more attachment to this godforsaken country. Awaken with a mental talent? They treat you like a criminal. Endless "special taxes" on awakeners. Try leaving your registered address? Instant alerts.

For poor, weak awakeners like me, this place was hell. Patriotism? Ancient textbook crap for second-class citizens like us.

Yeah, ditch this dump, live large somewhere else.

Build a beach house, watch the apocalypse from afar. Not bad.

I don't have to stop it.

This world's brutal enough without playing hero. Walk into hell? Bullshit.

I muttered that for a while, then squeezed my eyes shut.

Running would be easy.

But could I really escape doom that way? Is that okay?

By Seol Rokjin's side, I witnessed countless final moments.

The lawyer fighting for awakener rights.

The S-grade prodigy who shone brighter than anyone.

The passionate journalist digging into Seol Rokjin's shadows.

And my dearest friend...

Jeong Hosan.

His face flashed up—my breath caught.

If Seol Rokjin hadn't taken them out, maybe Korea wouldn't have fallen. No—it wouldn't have.

They wouldn't have let the world end.

Save the ones Seol Rokjin killed, save the world.

But how? A mana stone miner from cleared gates—what could I do?

Unless my talents changed, hunter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠life was impossible.

If regression altered something, maybe.

With hope, I spoke.

"Status window."

The window matched my memory perfectly.

Even the damn talents that doomed me—unchanged.

"Hah..."

Hope surged, then crashed. Ash in my mouth.

Why was I, with S-grade passive potential and a B-grade talent, stuck mining mana stones instead of guild life? Because my talent was lies.

Yeah, lies.

True Lie. What a joke—like iced Americano on a hot day.

Americano at least quenches thirst. This? Useless unless I wanna be a con artist or cult leader. And even then, not with this recognition tag choking my neck.

Mental awakeners must wear them. Detects mana flow, flashes blindingly on use, pings your location to the nearest station real-time.

Thanks to the Civilian Protection Act three years back. Doomed me to this electronic collar forever.

Physical awakeners have issues, sure—but mentals can't even blend in.

But rip this damn thing off...

Then the game changes.

To save the world, I'd gladly become con man, villain, cult leader.

My enemies? Korea's elite—Seol Rokjin the presidential hopeful, his puppet agencies, guild execs selling out prospects.

Face them head-on? Laughable. Crushed before starting.

Those who sniffed out Seol Rokjin's evil yelled at him.

"The world won't bend to scum like you!"

But it did—flawlessly, till apocalypse.

I wouldn't repeat their folly.

They were right, but weak and ignorant.

Goodness can't beat Seol Rokjin.

To fight filth, become filth.

And guess what? I'm not good anymore. Seol Rokjin's side dirtied me long ago.

I committed unforgivables under him—so I know how to counter him best.

I'll save his innocent victims. Save enough, maybe save the world.

I know my place.

Cowardly, vile, petty, flawed.

That's why I can face them.

In ways the good, naive can't.

First: remove this fucking recognition tag.

Not normally—force it, and the response team hauls you off.

Black market. Special artisan.

I knew who and how—but money's the issue.

Phone out, check virtual account. Eyes bulge.

Balance: 300,000 won. Precisely 279,800.

"Pfft."

Absurd laugh. Other accounts? Nope. This was it.

All my assets: 279,800 won.

A healthy awakener's two years' grind? Pathetic.

Scammed? No way it'd be this bad.

Scanned the ledger. Monthly rent. Utilities. Card bills. Gasped at cards.

Barely earning, yet this spending? Microtransaction scam?

Reviewed every line.

Thirty minutes later: shocking truth.

All me. No scam. Not even extravagant. Delivery overkill, maybe—but essentials, chosen carefully.

Just prices outpacing my wallet.

Was I this broke?

Under Seol Rokjin, I swam in wealth. Poverty felt alien.

Now? Penniless. Useless like this.

Ways to earn? Plenty known. But need tag off first—and that needs cash.

"What the..."

Snake eating its tail. Deadlocked.

How did ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you make money again?

Clean methods? Seol's dirty lessons useless now. Stumped.

Then—phone alarm blared.

"Shit."

Familiar chime. Eyes shut tight.

Another damn gate shift?

But only ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way to earn now.

Grabbed threadbare work clothes from closet. Musty from poor drying.

Sniffing poverty's stench, I headed out.