Denied a Drag, Blessed with Thugs, Reunited with the Hero

Hand it over and get lost. Name: Yang Gayoung. Age: 24. Ordinary college student. Two years as a convenience store clerk. A powerless civilian. She was dealing with her first real hassle while working her usual morning shift.

"Um, sir?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah, yeah."

"...Could I see some ID?"

The boy tilted his head at her question. He rummaged in his pocket and handed over a temporary ID proving he was a Prunel Academy cadet.

A new freshman enrolling this time, huh... She read it quietly. It wasn't forged, the magi detector nearby didn't react so no demon affiliation, and no barcode indicating a criminal record.

The problem was...

"Sir, I'm terribly sorry, but you can't make a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠purchase."

"...Pardon?"

Despair washed over the boy's face. It hit her like she'd just announced his parents had died—enough to confuse even herself.

Grab!

He swallowed dryly, clutching both her hands.

"Y-you're saying I really can't buy that deluxe Adderall-infused Doraji back there...?"

"...!"

She nearly choked inwardly at his teary, pleading gaze. His slender, gracefully curved frame. Black hair, black eyes, the picture of a young noble heir. For a lifelong singleton like her, it packed devastating punch. No joke—this kid looked straight out of a manga. She squeezed her eyes shut.

If this kept up, she'd just hand it over. Taking a deep breath, she continued her explanation.

"Yes, that's right."

"Why, why?! Did the price go up? Is it over a million won?!"

"No. It's not some overseas luxury—regular smokes don't cost that much."

"Then why!"

"Because you're underage."

"...Pardon?"

The boy blinked blankly. She sighed and pointed to the "17" on his ID.

"You're still a minor. Come back next year."

"......"

"......"

"Regression's useless..."

Two years. A full two years of forced nicotine withdrawal. Ever since he'd teamed up with that hero party quartet he couldn't stand and hit the road—that's two whole fucking years.

Not just any two years. Two years of grinding through demons, beasts, Six Demonic Heavenly Calamities, and all that bullshit.

Not a single drag the whole time.

"Finally, finally within reach..."

Can't buy 'cause he's a minor? What kind of bullshit was this?

"Kay, there's a saying: you don't quit smoking—you endure it."

He was seriously pondering masking up and robbing the place when—

"Hey, you there."

"...Huh?"

Three obvious thugs advertising "lowlife scum" strutted from the alley, each chomping a cig, beckoning him over.

"...? Me?"

Their faces twisted.

"Me? Fuck, punk kid's got a mouth on him."

"Givin' you three seconds. Get your ass over here."

"Wallet looks fat in that pocket? Hand it over—no hiding shit. We'll search ya, and it's one punch per won."

A beat late, it clicked.

"...Oh! Sorry, sorry."

"What?"

"Haven't had assholes pick a fight in so long, spaced out for a sec."

This body was sharper than he'd thought. Street mugging after 20 years? He'd lost the feel.

He brushed the alley grime off his ass and stood.

Looks like good deeds pay off.

Damn right, a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blessing.

He flashed a bright smile.

Cigarette donors right in front of me—what else you call it?

"Do it right. Huh? Hands droppin'? Want another smack?"

"N-no, sir!"

"Sorry!"

Cracking his neck, he eyed them. Two thugs, beaten just short of blackout, knelt with hands raised high. The third drooled face-down.

Tch. Too weak? Hard to calibrate.

This shitty body made measured beatings tricky. Too hard, his hand breaks; too light, no impact.

Oh, worth the price. Stats ticking up from scrapping with street trash.

At this rate, 10 years—no, 5-6 to past life's peak?

And it didn't stop there.

Ah, so that's how it works.

"Form" must track affection-based emotions. Both at 60% fear—probably need 50%+ to steal.

"Open" won't click, just display. Shame—can't take developed talents.

That sucked. Tapping potential lit up green. One per target, it seemed—second guy only one option.

Easy choice.

Something flowed into him. Senses sharpened, hairs stood on end.

Intuition, as expected.

Common among awakeners, but a huge gap with/without. One he'd chased hard.

Blindfold, earplugs, block/dodge 1000+ attacks? Yeah.

Had to go berserk for it. Talents came easy to gifted types—still pissed him off.

Snagging it this easy? Unreal. He chuckled bitterly.

No [Swordsmanship] record 'cause Swordsman's Zenith overrides it.

10% proficiency? Killer efficiency. Considering it was top-tier sword trait, way better than grinding.

Anyway...

"Hey, wake him."

"Y-yes?"

"Fuck, why can't you get it?"

He booted the jaw of the puzzled one, then eyed the other.

They shook the last guy awake.

"Ugh... wha?"

The third thug, eyes swollen shut, scanned around, locked on him, gulped in terror.

"Hey."

"Y-yes?"

"Kneel, hands up."

"Y-yes!"

Oho?

This scrub had decent stuff?

Mana Amplification... boosts max mana. MP tank expander—mages drool over it. D-rank minimum for magic towers, despite his low rank.

Swordsmanship and Intuition E-rank; this a clear step up.

Dilemma: Swordsmanship for another 10%, or Amplification?

Bit of a white elephant.

Not crucial for him. Nice to have, but...

Only 5 trait slots—fills it up.

Swordsmanship tempting, but meh. Then it hit him.

Dimensional Shop.

Tch...

15,000(P) buy-in, 1,000(P) sell-out.

Still, profit's profit.

Nice. He nodded, satisfied—

Third thug sneaked his hand down, eyes blazing red with rage.

Kid. Hide emotions for a sneak attack.

Practically yelling his intent. What an idiot. Expectations for street trash?

Predictably, he charged.

"Punk ass!"

Shaking off fear, he thrust his hand. Mana gathered in his palm, forming a fiery orb.

He watched boredly.

"Slow, kid."

Ducked low. Timed a shoulder roll—boxing defense he loved—deflecting the wrist upward. Arm veered off-target. He booted the chin of the flailing "Huh? Huh?" thug.

"Gwehk!"

Bit his tongue, blood spewing, out cold.

Eyed ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the terror-stricken pair.

"Hey, quit gawking. Hand 'em over."

"Y-yes? What?"

"What?"

His glare made the sharpest rummage his pocket, producing unfamiliar cigs. He plucked one, lit via their lighter.

"Quick on the uptake."

"Th-thanks."

Inhale. Nicotine flooded his lungs, smile blooming. World felt beautiful. Fuck yeah. This is it.

Sex.

Savoring the intense hit, he pocketed their lighter.

"Drag the knocked-out fucker and scram."

"Th-thanks!"

Watched them flee shouldering their pal, took another deep drag.

Too eager? Butt already ash.

Damn, wolfed it without savoring.

No respect for the cig.

Second one's leisurely.

Come on, first in ages—cut slack.

Just this one.

He half-ignored the nagging, lit a fresh one. Inhaled, exhaled—

"...!"

Footsteps closing fast. He whipped around.

Quick.

The figure snatched his cig lightning-fast—no counter possible.

"...Why smoke this crap."

A girl murmured low. Platinum blonde hair—like woven silver and gold—shimmered.

Angry? Sad? Indecipherable expression.

He muttered unwittingly.

"...Erina?"

"Long time no see, Siwoo."

Erina Yulis. Hero of the era, failed savior of the world. Their first post-regression encounter—sudden as hell.