Mercenary Berga (2):

'Settlement after the wave ends? Ha. If I die, it's game over anyway, right?'

It felt like a vicious joke. My brows furrowed naturally. One thing was crystal clear in this godforsaken mess: I was basically some kind of dispatched employee. From this central hub—the jokers running this ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠circus—when a commander sends a summon request, they dispatch a contracted hero like me and hand over the summon fee.

That was the second notification that had popped up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠when I took down Crusher Bolg earlier—the one still lingering in my head. Contribution. Rewards based on contribution. Proportional rewards weren't so much performance bonuses as...

Probably some anti-slacking clause.

A sigh escaped me. And sighing didn't change a damn thing, which just made me sigh again. Still, things could be worse. Central wouldn't send me to pick up the professor's kid from the airport like some errand boy. And commanders sure as hell wouldn't either. Better than the old days.

Better... right?

The low-level monsters still swarming everywhere had only faltered briefly from the shock of Bolg going down before charging the wall again. Sure, no more one-shot wall-breakers, but our forces were down to a third, and the wall was a wreck.

"That's why they have the anti-slacking clause, huh~."

I stretched, cracking my knuckles. Time to earn my keep?

After that, it was nonstop slashing. Goblins, orcs, mermen—monsters whose faces I couldn't even remember. Clearing out this multicultural monster stew from the rear all by myself, I could see the light return to the commander's eyes, and the soldiers' too. It didn't take long until the last quadruped beast split in two.

Waaaaaah!

The roar erupted. The wall was shattered, injuries over half, but today, the defenders were the victors. Thanks to a 2,000 Cron mercenary.

Wave 27 clear—the first I'd ever seen. The alert popped up a beat after the cheers, that awkward delay hitting home just how real this place was.

Alerts scrolled up one side of my vision. No slacking, good. Obviously. After all that butchering. Any overachievement bonus? This had to qualify...

Ah. Not in cash... Grade it is. I'd worry about that later. Right now, the commander wasn't letting me off easy—she was charging over, armor clanking from afar.

"B-Berga... s-sir, this way."

Casey, who'd come to greet me, led me inside the wall, stammering and trembling.

Hm... because I one-shot Crusher Bolg?

Inside the wall buzzed with a different kind of chaos from the battlefield. Evacuated civilians poured out, repairing the crumbled sections—hauling stones, piling dirt, bracing cracked walls with timber. Women, elders, even young kids. A game to me, but life to them. The auto-repair walls had to be rebuilt with their blood and sweat.

Mobile soldiers carried the wounded. Blood streamed from a stretcher-bound face—conscious or not, who knew. Stuff the game never showed.

Deliberately showing me this? Constant reminders this was real?

Casey caught my expression and grew even more cautious. Soon, we reached the command tent. She offered me the best seat.

"Th-thank you... B-Berga... sir... thanks to you..."

Her voice shook. Lips quivering, eyes welling up. A face on the verge of tears, but gritted teeth holding them back.

Ah. That was it. Not watching my mood. Not afraid of me.

She was the commander. The crumbled wall, the injured soldiers—all traces of defeat, the dread of the next wave tormenting her.

The bold commander who'd begged, "You're Berga? We need you!" existed only on the battlefield. But this wasn't the battlefield anymore. Just scars from the unnatural maw of the waves. How could someone ordering dead flesh carved from those wounds stay proud?

Strange feeling. I'd thought I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was the one suffering, yanked into this mess. But really, the unpaid labor was hers—enduring the vortex against her will. It reminded me a bit of myself a few days ago... as Jeong Ji-hoon.

Then white light enveloped me. That familiar floating sensation.

Summon end, huh...

Before heading back to the stark waiting room, I wanted to say something. It slipped out naturally.

"Good work."

A farewell to Casey—to the late Jeong Ji-hoon.

I opened my eyes. Back here again. White walls. White floor. Bed, desk. I'd thought it was a hospital room at first? No. Psychiatric isolation ward.

As if reading my discomfort, an alert appeared in my vision.

A receipt-like report card dropped before my eyes. Payday wasn't half bad. Where to spend Cron was the issue, though. I wouldn't mind new wallpaper. This place was driving me nuts—no windows, all white.

That thought triggered a popup.

...They seriously implant a chip in our heads?

Tapping the thought-responsive popup unfolded the shop. Categories galore: gear, skills, consumables, housing, food, misc.

Standard spec-up shop?

But most tabs had locks.

Light tap on grade.

Misc for top grade...? Curiosity killed by locks. C-grade pleb here. Checked what I could.

Food ranged from basic rations to luxuries. Relief: all familiar—no weird space rabbit roasts.

Ah, thoughtful. No. Hell no.

I skipped the food. Who knew when the next summon would come? I hadn't felt hunger since inhabiting this body. Luxury was only for the desperate.

My eyes widened at the housing menu. Furniture, wallpaper, decor—I could expand or add rooms. It was a complete room-decorating game.

Escaping this drab studio? Priceless. Wallpaper first...

What? Emergency rations cost 20 Cron... Housing must be endgame content, huh? That’s 50 days of minimum wage for a bit of wallpaper. I let out a sigh.

A suite in a psych ward? It was going to be a long haul. I resolved to save—then the grade guide glowed.

Excess contributions, grade recalculations, and fees. Stack performance for better treatment. Ditch the stingy cuts once I get a partner. It was "industry logic," I suppose. It felt ridiculous to call this an industry, but whatever. The fire was lit.

I had time before the next call. I needed to scout, to become the top dog.

Or so I thought, before the next request came.

I scanned the tabs: shop, community, management, my info...

Community...? Management? What even are those?

As a C-grade outsider, the community tab remained locked. Management was open, though it looked like a central complaint desk. I skipped it for now.

I went straight to my info. Not for any philosophy, just for the facts.

I already knew all this. I skipped it, looking for the skills instead. Specs were what mattered for missions. Since I was stuck in a defense-game-like world, growth factors like levels or stats probably didn't exist. Traits and skills were the keys. Each unit had only one trait—meaningless. There was no trait shop, either. Skills it was.

I tapped the air.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

...Huh? "First Kiss Addict"? What kind of name is that?

I meant to check them top-to-bottom, but that name pulled me in like an aggro magnet.

What? That explains why Crusher Bolg split in one hit. Even as a monster-strong unit, Berga wasn't a plasma cutter—it shouldn't have been that easy. Normal mobs hadn't felt like that.

An elite bonus of 1,000%, a critical hit from Throat Slit, and another 500% from the first attack. There was no mention of a critical multiplier, so it had to be a base damage increase. Then adding the crit on top... The math was boring and academic. I had no dummies to test it on and no numbers popping up to guide me.

Regardless, the numbers were insane. Conditional, though: first hit, stealth, elite-only... The others were likely the same.

I got it. Berga—me—was an extreme, one-shot, glass-cannon fantasy. A pricey one, too.

I had no idea yet if this extreme build was a flaw.

"Gotta take a few more calls to find out..."

Oh, crap. As soon as I said that...

Damn. The flag couldn't have been more obvious.