The Final Moments of a Porter

In the dimly lit semi-basement of an old, rundown building, a man lay deep in sleep, his eyes peacefully closed.

"Ugh... cold."

The chill wind brushing against his skin felt endlessly biting. The man, clutching a thin blanket with one hand while pressed tight against the wall, slowly lifted his eyelids. From his other hand, stuck to the wall above, came a familiar sensation. With a sickening crunch, a cockroach skittered quickly toward the ceiling.

"Wait—what time is it?!"

His heart pounded fiercely in that instant. Truth be told, bugs weren't the real issue. He'd been disgusted at first, but now they were just routine. As long as they didn't crawl on his face, it was a blessing. Muttering a quiet curse, he sat up, and the room's grim reality flooded into view. The peeling wallpaper, riddled with holes, caught his eye first. Even in this dilapidated neighborhood, the cheapest ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠places were cramped and wretched. This was his current home. No air conditioner or fridge—just a lone washing machine. It was a setup that didn't even warrant a bitter laugh.

"Gotta hit the bathroom first."

Sticking to his morning routine, he stepped out and headed for the toilet. It was shared, but early mornings meant no line.

"Ugh. Freezing. How is there still an outhouse toilet these days?"

White breath puffed from his mouth the moment he spoke. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Even for an old building, this was excessive. The toilet water hadn't even frozen, somehow. This place was truly just for sleeping. Thinking of it that way eased his mind a bit. Hadn't the landlord said the same when he signed the lease? Washing up was iffy at best. If he wrapped up his porter gig today without getting fired, he'd hit the nearby bathhouse. Assuming he didn't get the boot.

The "entrance"—if you could call the flimsy door that— was plastered with all sorts of threatening scrawls. A curt scrap saying "DIE" was almost cute. The longer ones, ranting about what a societal menace and monster he was, were just itchy annoyances.

"Don't they ever get tired? How'd they find this place anyway."

Where the hell was his personal info getting leaked from? He just sighed. He had to scrub it off before anyone saw and dart back inside.

"Gotta wipe this fast. No wet wipes, damn it."

You'd think wet wipes would be easy to snag on the street, but no dice. He soaked a rag in water and headed to the door.

"Argh, why won't this come off?"

It was enough to make him swear. He hated this shit. How diligent must these pricks be? Gum wads, fish sauce stains—it was a full-on terror site. He started picking up the eggshells first.

"Gotta clean this quick."

Calm down. Lee Seojun. It used to have shit smeared on it before. Yeah. This was mild by comparison. Clear it before anyone saw. If the landlord caught wind... A chilling thought sent shivers down his spine. There was nowhere else that'd take him.

"Can't cause trouble in this hard-won room."

How many times had he been rejected while house-hunting, staring at his own face in rejection slips? He scrubbed furiously.

"Hah. Driving me insane. For real."

Toothpaste, liquid liniment, ethanol—he wrestled with it for ages before finally clearing it away.

"Hah. Be grateful I'm ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠even letting you tag along this time. You're already late as it is."

A grizzled middle-aged man with a menacing face glared at the young man, throwing his weight around. His cold, piercing gaze was utterly frigid. Judging by the bag on his back and his gear, he was a porter too—likely a veteran among them.

"Of course. Thank you so much. I'll work hard!"

Seojun bowed repeatedly, plastering on the most servile attitude he could muster. The humiliation still burned, unfamiliar even now. The older man's eyes brimmed with disgust and contempt—clearly aware of who he was. And not in a good way. His info was plastered all over the news and net anyway.

"Tch. If you had any shame... Lucky for you we're short-handed. Jesus..."

The man clicked his tongue, furrowed his brow, and stomped back to his spot. Only then could Seojun exhale inwardly.

Porter work—he'd started it years ago to cover his mom's hospital bills. It was grunt labor, tough but lucrative. The hazard pay alone was nothing to sneeze at. He'd quit after marriage, but with bills piling up like a noose, he'd dived back in.

"Whew."

He'd married a famed S-rank female hunter dubbed "Korea's Guardian." It was world-famous; everyone knew. She'd have been the top bride in Korea, no contest. That was the past, though.

S-rank Hunter Weds D-rank Porter. Even he had to admit it sounded like dramatic rom-com fodder. She'd helped him immensely before marriage, no doubt. Most of all, she'd covered his mom's bills, freeing him from this hellish job. And with her connections, he'd scored rare treatment from a B-rank healer, curing his mom. A miracle for him. She wasn't around now—lost to an accident—but if she saw him like this, how heartbroken would she be?

Thinking of his ex-wife stirred gratitude and love, even now. Everyone envied them; he'd dreamed of happiness. But the mounting misunderstandings and backlash proved too much. He'd demanded divorce, expecting resistance, but she'd agreed readily. Maybe he'd misjudged how smoothly it'd go. She'd demanded a hefty settlement, forcing him back to portering.

"Agh."

His stomach churned; he hadn't eaten properly lately. Nerves? A familiar throbbing headache hit. He couldn't let pain show, or he'd be out. Gritting his teeth, he endured. This gig was hard-won; he'd take the scorn as long as he kept it.

"Everyone, get ready!!"

Chaos stirred at the shout. Before entering the dungeon, he gripped his smartphone one last time. Reason screamed not to look, but trembling fingers typed anyway. How often had he searched? Autocomplete filled it in. The news page still milked his story.

He shouldn't look—it just hurt. Thumbing past the article, comments appeared. The headlines were vicious, no surprise. Most dripped malice.

He hit back quick. Rumors of severe jealousy or crimes trailed him like tags. If true, he'd be in jail already. He hurried to the porters' group, where veterans clustered—fitting for a mid-tier guild dungeon. He pulled his cap low and nodded greetings.

Then one pointed at him.

"Hey! That kid—the one from TV, right?"

"Yeah! The guy who married that S-rank hunter and caused drama, got divorced!!"

Society idolized "Korea's Guardian." Hunters commanded awe in general. Ending badly with her meant no kind looks.

Work started; he followed, handling porter duties. Porters hauled potions, food, gear, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠monster corpses in massive backpacks. His was packed with emergency kits, antidotes, regen agents, medical supplies.

The hunters muttering at thin air was novel. Even if minor, their system windows couldn't be photographed. As a D-rank—barely superhuman—he lacked powers, but C-ranks and up had personal system screens.

"Alright, let's move."

Thankfully, the frontline hunters progressed smoothly. He prayed the peace held.

"Potions here!!"

"Right here."

He rushed a potion to an injured hunter, who groaned, applying it to his arm.

"Argh!!"

Gritting through it, he returned the empty vial once healed. Glancing back, two healers watched from afar. Healing hunters were rare; two C-ranks showed guild investment.

Healers wielded godlike restoration. Potion overuse bred resistance, nullifying effects. Alchemists slaved over new formulas, but they were meh—mostly hemostatic. Their limits made healers "our precious healers." Minor scrapes and med bills were par for the course. True emergencies? Only healers worked miracles.

Unlike regular hunters, healers treated just once or twice daily max. But their power dwarfed potions—essential for crises. If breath lingered, they'd restore fully. Hence A- to S-ranks prized prevention via overwhelming force.

"Cut the chatter, stay alert!!"

Veterans dispatched monsters adeptly, advancing. Porters trailed from the rear, laden. Soon, the boss room. They hung back as a massive goblin glared. Mage goblins and regulars shielded it.

"Staff-wielding one? First time."

"Calm, protect the healers."

"Still just goblins. Early quit time."

"Potions here too!!"

An injured hunter called; the guy ahead passed one. The grizzled bully from earlier.

"Nice!"

The hunter splashed his shoulder and dove back in. The pattern dragged on.

"Heal, heal please!"

A bloodied tank shielded, yelling desperately. The healer's cast staunched his gut wound like magic.

"Crazy! Watch it, old man!!"

"What?!!"

Unlike the safe healers, porter chaos erupted. A mage goblin's fireball arced their way. Most dodged; the grizzled man ahead took the hit. Faces soured, but Seojun supported him.

"Sorry, but could you heal him?"

"No can do. Our heals are limited."

Cold rebuff; they turned to hunters. The man's pained voice rose.

"...Sorry for trash-talking earlier."

Gasping it out, resigned, he clutched his leg with a forced smile.

"Prioritize hunters over porters, right."

Seojun applied potion and bandages—skills from past portering.

"Damn, you're handy. Thanks."

"No biggie."

Up front, most goblins fell. Just time now.

"Hang on, old man. Hospital right after."

"Wait—feels like vibration?"

Panic hit as dark light pulsed from the laughing mage goblin's staff. The dungeon quaked; monsters swarmed everywhere.

"Too many! Damn it, retreat!"

The leader barked; all bolted. The goblin horde was nightmarish.

"Kriruk!"

"Kieeeek!!"

Insane.

"Run! Hurry!!"

Hunters shielded healers and fled; porters followed. The old man urged him to go, but ditching felt wrong—he gripped tighter.

"Too many."

Goblins closed in, small but swift. The leader signaled a female hunter. A sleazy one slowed, slashing porter ankles viciously.

"F-fuck! What the hell!!"

"Sacrifice for the team!!"

"You bastard!!"

She met Seojun's eyes, but his ankle was fine—pointless anyway. The old man tripped, dragging him down.

"You're young and fine—go!!"

Legs failed him. Hunters were long gone.

"Kriruk, kieeeek!!"

Goblins shrieked closer. One zeroed on him—hideous imp, green-skinned child-size, wielding a dagger nimbly. Back sweated ice. It charged joyfully, like a hunter scenting prey. Its blade arced for his head.

Around him, porters massacred.

"Help! Don't wanna die!!"

"Fuck, those shits! Ack! Ack."

"Stay away. Stay away. Stay away."

"Please, don't go!!"

Blood drained from his body. It hurt. Eyes drooped. Sensation faded. A faint, familiar woman's voice echoed. Last sight before closing: goblins screaming amid a green blood sea.