Chapter 82
Chapter 82
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Translator: Ace
Chapter: 81
Chapter Title: Art in the Slums
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"No way, what kind of XP do you get just from guarding a concert?"
Jin pulled his face away.
Kalifa asked him after he swatted away the intrusive status window.
"What do you mean, it'll fail? Suddenly?"
"Yeah. I just have a strong feeling about it."
"...?"
A question mark floated above Kalifa's head.
Poh, who was wiping down a glass, reacted the same way.
"Is there a particular reason you think that?"
Jin responded to the bartender's question.
"...It's just a feeling. A feeling."
It was the sudden debut of Gut Instinct Theory.
Of course, this stemmed from the correlation between XP and difficulty.
Even more so because Jin couldn't explain the unknown power of the status window, leading to this bizarre theory.
"Hmm."
Kalifa crossed her arms.
She scanned Jin's face with calm eyes, then nodded matter-of-factly.
"If your intuition is telling you that, we should follow it. Got it, Jin. Let's pretend this job never happened. I'll line up something better for you."
A clean resolution.
This was the biggest reason Kalifa was highly rated among Solos as a Linker.
She didn't add unnecessary persuasion or try to convince you if you said no.
Even for jobs that anyone would see as a sweet deal, it wasn't just Solos who welcomed them.
Linkers who took commissions also profited handsomely from them.
Yet she respected the client's opinion and didn't push twice or thrice.
Even though it was just half a day—standing with a stern face for a few hours during the concert.
Kalifa had maintained the same attitude even before Jin's growth spurt.
Now, she set down a plate of homemade cookies she'd prepared in advance and said,
"So, how's the new place lately?"
Jin brightened at the natural change of topic and opened up.
"Ah, that..."
He hadn't come to Anecdote just to hand over Gravis and shake off emptiness, after all.
This atmospheric bar was the place that first gave him a sense of belonging, a place he was truly grateful for.
Hours later, as more customers trickled in and the place got crowded, he finally said his goodbyes and left.
He even bought some hearty snacks on the way back.
With a light heart, Jin rolled up the warehouse shutter with a rattle and stepped inside, sniffing the air.
"Maybe I should buy some scented candles."
He flopped onto the bed, a thought he'd never had while crashing at unmanned motels.
A smile crept onto his face unbidden.
The soft texture couldn't feel any better.
People really need their own space, after all.
Reaffirming this eternal truth, Jin rustled the bag and piled potato chips and such onto the nightstand.
Now it was showtime.
The bed territory expansion beloved by Koreans.
His terminal, the most crucial item, was fully charged and plopped right by the pillow.
Lying on his side, Jin held the terminal steady with his right hand while his left snatched chips and shuttled them to his mouth busily.
"Mmm."
With the family tournament now just half a month away, he'd gotten hooked on digging up festival info lately.
"In the past several hundred years, only two winners weren't from the Seven Families? Whoa—"
Jin looked intrigued at the new fact.
The Seven Families' dominance as Purist kings over the long ages was impressive, but those two underdogs who broke through felt even more so.
Curious, he tried to look up the two underdogs.
But everything was locked.
Come on, why be so stingy with info on people from centuries ago?
Jin scowled in disappointment.
But with no other options,
he just idly wondered if picking Corporate as a life path would've made him a networking whiz.
Black suit, slicked-back hair. Swirling a wine glass while overlooking the city nightscape...
It was an image that clashed hilariously with the guy now clawing chips like a bird of prey, but Jin's face was dead serious.
Oh right, Corporates need neural ports drilled into their skulls, huh?
He snapped back to reality and refocused on the screen.
Thumbs flicking idly,
he stumbled on an intriguing topic while browsing aimlessly.
[Star Illuminating the Slums, Elina Vincent]
Jin's eyes narrowed instinctively.
Not because the celebrity name popped up again.
The headline just rubbed him the wrong way.
"...What kind of title is that?"
Calling a smart person dumb is teasing, but calling a real dumbass dumb is picking a fight.
Even if Area 40 was a slum,
it felt insulting to the slum-dwellers listening...
So Jin clicked the topic.
Not out of interest, but more like, Fine, if you're so great, how great are you?
His expression was stern, like an on-duty officer hunting for nitpicks.
Anyway, skimming the article...
Hmm. Pretty, sure.
But pretty is everything?
Sings well too?
Give me a break. Singers are supposed to sing well.
If a Solo couldn't fight, would they even be a Solo?
But she's really good?
Fine, one listen.
What's her hit song?
Hmm. Oh. Whoa. Ahem.
Damn, she's good.
What's her name again?
Elina Vincent?
How old?
Twenty-five, my little sis.
...Next song?
Two-hour medley?
Tch, kinda long.
I'll listen a bit and shut it off.
That was Jin's last mental barrier. How much time passed? At some point, he caught himself humming along and jolted in surprise. "...Huh?" Four hours had flown by. Elina's interview was playing on screen.
「Art in the Slums」
📍 Objective: Protect Elina Vincent
🎁 Reward: Punk XP 12,000
"I'll make sure to visit the fans in Area 40 too."
Jin straightened up at her bright smile.
She seemed like a pretty great person, huh?
Holding a concert in a shithole like Downtown just to see her fans.
Wait, where's this?
Street performers get their tin cans snatched or kicked by lunatics—art's graveyard and demon den.
Jin shook his head.
But his finger clicked the next live video anyway.
Even before waking in Lost City, he'd had favorite celebs.
Every Korean guy's got their enlistment song.
He vividly remembered loving a four-piece girl group (later five) whose debut was his.
Of course, school and work naturally pushed it aside.
Anyway.
Elina's songs dredged up buzzcut memories so vividly that,
with her versatile concepts and killer skills,
it was no wonder she was so popular.
"Ahem—"
He'd started to find flaws, but snapped to and realized he was bingeing related vids, scratching his cheek sheepishly.
This wasn't the plan.
His face felt awkwardly flushed.
Then a thought pierced his mind.
...Something's definitely going down mid-concert, right?
Probably.
12,000 XP for a simple guard gig didn't add up.
The status window, quiet for over a month, popping up meant big trouble brewing.
Terrorism? Kidnapping?
Or sacrificing the crowd?
Jin rubbed his chin.
Serious expression.
The same focus as picking dinner.
Followed by a low mutter.
"...Should I do it?"
At that, a blocky intruder blanketed his vision.
Exactly as if it'd been waiting.
Jin scowled hard.
"Get lost for a sec."
He swatted the air, scattering the status window.
Then a voice from the terminal pierced his ears.
"Drop our tears into the withered sea—"
"So the stalled ship can unfurl its sails again—"
Jin tapped his foot to the lyrics, thinking.
If it goes well, maybe snag an autograph.
Laminate it, frame it, hang it up nice...
The trailing thought snapped there.
Jin grabbed the terminal with resolve.
Then punched the keypad firmly.
Hitting call.
"Hey, Kalifa. Busy? Nah, about that guard job. Thinking of taking it. Yeah. Tournament's still a ways off anyway. Might as well—"
The conversation continued.
"How's your condition?"
A thick bass voice.
Like echoing from a cave.
Paired with thick cigar stench assaulting his nose.
Elina, staring at the mirror, turned.
She eyed the gum-chewing fatso and replied.
"Fine."
"Ha, like I'd believe that from that face."
The fatso snorted and blew a bubble.
The lime-green surface ballooned, then popped, sticking to his lips.
He peeled it off and popped it back in.
After glaring sideways at Elina while working his jaw, he waddled to the sofa and flopped down, spreading out.
Arms draped over the backrest, he grumbled.
"Fuckin' shithole slum. Nothing here's to my taste. Food's crap, streets filthy, bed's got stains—who the hell fucked on it while cleaning? Fucking primitives anyway."
His griping face grew fiercer.
Eyeing Elina's silent profile, the fatso spoke.
"All this suffering because of you? What was it? 'I'll definitely visit the fans in Area 40 toooo~'—"
Voice and face dripping sarcasm.
Elina parted her tight lips.
"It was a tour for all districts. Can't skip Area 40 just because..."
"Bullshit! This place doesn't count! Even the city government's washed their hands of this fuckhole slum! Told you a million times, no need to put on a show here! Huh?!"
Interrupting, the fatso bellowed, face red as he spat fire.
"If you hadn't dropped that live bomb, I'd be motorboating tits right now, you know?! All this bullshit 'cause of you. Why? Homesick for this dump?"
"...Get out."
"Ha?"
At the sharp retort, the fatso spat his gum aside.
Digging into his pocket, he pulled out a vial of capsule pills.
"So you don't wanna take it? Should I just take it back?"
Elina's face visibly stiffened.
Eyes twitching, jaw clenched so hard muscles bulged—the fatso smirked.
"Can't even whimper. Much less rebel."
Sneering, he rose from the sofa, stomped over, and slammed his palm on the vanity.
"Eat it and tremble a bit before bed."
"......"
Elina watched his retreating back in the mirror, eyes dropping low.
The crumpled vial entered her view.
She tore it open frantically, dumping the powder into her mouth.
Trembling hand grabbed the water glass, bringing it to her lips.
Half swallowed, half spilled down her chin, soaking her chest.
"Haa, haa."
Wiping her wet chin with her hand, she gazed into the mirror as haze set in.
Silver-gray hair framing lime-green eyes in harmony.
But the deep shadows under her eyes stood out sharper, unmasked by makeup.
It was a cliché tale.
A glamorous life on the surface, but a caged canary underneath.
Lowly origins, years of emotional abuse.
And drug-fueled breaking.
Trite enough to feel childish to some.
Yeah. If that was all, it'd be fine.
...!
Elina's silent trembling body lurched violently.
It had begun.
The bizarre phenomenon haunting her for months,
striking when the drug wore off.
"Ahh."
Excruciating headache like nails to the eyelids— she clutched her hair reflexively.
Something stirred in her shuddering mind.
Ruined body and soul. Chemical fallout from drug-forced awakening.
A millennium past the Age of Light and Roses.
Humanity's other power bubbled up.
"N-no."
Elina squeezed her eyes shut.
But it wouldn't stop.
No time to resist—her mental space expanded.
Expanded, expanded, until it became the universe.
Her consciousness screamed amid the vastness.
"Aaaahhh!"
The pain deepened.
Suddenly, her eyes rolled back under the lids.
─────────Crunch!
The vanity mirror before her crumpled.
Astoundingly, no shards flew.
Just compressed by immense force into a ball, thudding to the floor.
A horrific talent beyond starting lines.
In this incomprehensible scene,
Elina snapped to, hugging herself tight.
Face buried in her knees, as if to escape what she'd done.
Panting raggedly.
A Psychic beyond self-control teetered on unstable birth.