Chapter 13
Chapter 13
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Translator: uly
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: 2. Job
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"Huaaaah!"
Screeech!
Yoo Sung-hoon let out a massive yawn that felt like it would split his face as he stepped out of the inn. He couldn't help but flinch at the sudden barrage of stares. If looks could kill, he'd be riddled with holes by now. People leaning against the building walls, looking like they'd spent the night on the streets, were gazing at him with pitiful eyes.
"H-Hey, young man. Sorry to ask, but could you spare a meal? I'll repay this kindness someday, I swear. Please, please."
"Out of my way. I'm busy."
Feeling his refreshed mood from a good night's sleep ruined, Yoo Sung-hoon opened his mouth.
"Young man, come on, please. Just one meal, think of it as saving a life..."
This old man had probably been living an ordinary life just a few days ago.
His worries back then? Achy joints, a nagging backache, maybe some family drama with the kids. But now, he was in a position where skipping one meal could mean starving to death.
He'd tried quests at first, but after seeing countless people die and those who completed them never return, fear had set in. All he could do now was beg.
"Out of my way."
"Please, please."
In the old world, he might've felt sorry enough to toss a few coins. But Yoo Sung-hoon wasn't that guy anymore. The Tutorial quests—killing three without hesitation—and endless murders in the Starting Room had changed something inside him.
To shake off the persistent old man, he gave him a light shove to the side. Immediately, a dying wail rang out.
"Ow! This guy's trying to kill me!"
"Begging first, now extortion by self-harm?"
"You punk! How badly were you raised to talk to your elders like that?!"
"And where'd you learn to cling to passersby and beg?"
"I have grandkids your age!"
"Why not tattoo your resident ID on your forehead then?"
The white-haired old man lay sprawled dramatically, while a healthy-looking man next to him scowled and hurled insults. It wasn't a pretty sight. Back on Earth, headlines like "Unfilial Brat" or "The State of Today's Youth" would've blown up the internet in under an hour.
"Young man, that was a bit much if you ask me. Apologize quick."
"Grandpa, you okay? Hey, what do you think you're doing to an elder? Apologize right now!"
"Ha, the kinda loser who'd never leave his room is losing it now."
People who'd been watching quietly started gathering one by one. Some helped the old man up, others clenched their fists as they approached, and a woman spat venomous criticism. Under that pressure, most would cave and apologize out of fear. They were good people—respecting elders, unable to ignore injustice.
If they were righteous or even just ordinary, guilt or intimidation might've made him apologize. But Yoo Sung-hoon wasn't righteous. He saw himself as a villain.
Shing!
A clear, piercing ring cut through the cacophony of shouts too muddled to make out. Like candles snuffed out, mouths shut one by one. In the center stood Yoo Sung-hoon, sword drawn from his belt, scanning the crowd with sharp eyes.
A few had weapons, but facing his sword, they froze like frogs before a snake. It wasn't special—no unique effects. The Betrayer's Longsword only slightly boosted critical hit chance.
One reason for their fear:
Blood.
Yeah.
Unlike their pristine weapons, never drawn, his blade was crusted with dried, discolored bloodstains from yesterday's wolf hunt. He hadn't wiped it clean.
That alone flipped their stares 180 degrees. The loudmouths went mute, the fist-ready guy had backed off far away.
He considered swinging. No aversion to killing. Not a spree killer or psycho, but for good reason or self-gain? He'd swing without hesitation.
Grip.
It was so quiet, even his leather glove creaking on the hilt was audible. But he sheathed it calmly. Fighting would only hurt him. From what Lee Young-gi said, soldier NPCs maintained order here.
"If you're hungry, work for money yourself. And don't raise your voice carelessly. Unless you want to die."
His flat tone carried undeniable menace. Those meeting his eyes swallowed dryly without knowing why. One word, and that sword might fly their way.
Realizing things had calmed, he flashed a sudden smile, like his blank face was a lie.
"Well then."
Drawing a sword, talking murder, then grinning and vanishing? Pure madman. No one dared stop him.
"What a pain, these weirdos first thing in the morning."
Shaking his head at the wasted time, he walked on. Plan: hit the armory, general store, then Job Change Temple.
Yesterday's nine quests? Poison and traps were MVPs. His pre-bought poison potions and rations were nearly gone.
His sword was chipped too—needed inspection. No durability or attack stats shown was annoying.
"From the plaza angel statue, straight ahead... armory should be... huh?"
Swarming.
One word summed it up; his jaw dropped. A massive road for eight lanes of traffic was packed solid. A line snaked from some building. Spotting a boy on a bench, he asked,
"Mind if I ask something?"
"What?"
"Why the huge crowd over there?"
"To make money."
"Money?"
His face screamed, Mission Office over there too? The high-school-looking boy shook his head.
"Bought weapons from the guild before coming here, right?"
"Yeah."
"They're reselling at the armory for big bucks. Longsword? 500 guild or so? Covers inn and food for a while."
Idiots.
What now without weapons?
Sure, sell for food and shelter short-term, but toss your independence. In The Mission, no easy foes. Rats or bugs aside, even wild dogs? Dagger or bust—world of difference.
Longsword was 80 guild in Starting Room. Selling back here? 500. Repurchase later? Blood from eyes.
Their choice, no complaints. Armory later; next, Job Change Temple. Easy find.
A grand white marble building screamed "temple."
Crowd outside, empty inside.
"Welcome to the Job Change Temple. I'm Philip, a creation of the great ones to aid players."
A warm old man smiled in greeting. Reminded him of the shoved beggar.
"One question. What do you do here?"
"What else? Job changes, as named."
"I already have jobs: Swordsman, Thief, Novice Mage. Difference between auto-generated and here?"
"Hoo."
Philip eyed him surprised. The Mission world just two days old. Three jobs already? Impressive. And a coat, unlike others.
"Difference, yes. Missions generate temp jobs by aptitude. Not real ones."
"Temp? Can they vanish?"
"Of course. Use axes a lot? Swordsman gone, Axeman appears. Magic only? Mage stays. All pre-real job temps."
Philip sat wearily, continuing.
"Hence this temple. Provides basics like Priest—ungettable otherwise. Pay here. Non-priest change? Seamless progression."
"Got it."
"Not just selection—evolves player traits."
"Evolves traits?"
"Seeing beats explaining. Here."
He waved; a big window appeared.
An endless list, hundreds strong. Forehead furrowed. Next page? Interesting.
"Recommended jobs?"
"Temple combines player experience for fitting jobs. Optimal efficiency, naturally."
"Recommended stronger than basic?"
"Could be, or not."
Made sense from the list. Strategist? Probably beats basic Swordsman. Curious click:
"I see. That's why recommended."
Names matched his actions somewhat.
"Job change costs 50,000 guild. Thoughts?"
"Can you switch later?"
"Money talks, anytime. But post-specialization? Costs skyrocket."