The Wildcat's Call

"If you've got somewhere else to be, just quit already. Don't even bother coming in tomorrow."

"That's not necessary, sir. There's still a month left on the term we agreed on. I can keep working until then."

"I said it's fine. You landed a job — go do that."

Team Leader Kim, who'd been bouncing from construction site to construction site alongside him, had taken a genuine liking to Jisu. Maybe it was the way the kid worked — nothing like the young people these days — that reminded Kim of his own grit when he was that age. He was a classic old-school hardass, but Jisu had a soft spot for him all the same.

"I'll take responsibility, so wrap it up here. You've done good work."

When someone was going out of their way to look after him like this, turning it down would just look strange. Jisu had decent social instincts, and he picked up on it fast.

"Understood. I really appreciate you looking out for me."

"Don't mention it. You'll do well no matter what you take on. And if things get rough again, you call me anytime. Don't go anywhere else. When it comes to construction work, I've got dibs on you. Got that?"

Jisu laughed, bright and easy.

"Yes, sir. Got it."

And just like that, he quit the construction site. He called the newspaper next. Then he reached out to everyone who'd been throwing him odd jobs whenever he had a spare hour — convenience-store shifts and whatever else they could scrape together — and it really hit him, for the first time, just how many gigs he'd been juggling to stay afloat.

Well. It was hard, sure. But it was a decent experience in its own way.

Last of all, he sent a text to the one person who'd always looked out for him — his hyung, Woo Jihan.

Hyung's probably busy. A text is better than a call.

He still hadn't told anyone except his mother that he'd become a hunter. Part of it was that she'd worried about his safety more than she'd celebrated, and that had stuck with him. The rest was simpler: explaining the whole thing to people, one by one, sounded like a genuine pain.

Still, Jihan wasn't just anyone. I should tell hyung eventually. That's the decent thing to do. He was turning that over when the reply came in.

Jihan had a habit of saying that a chance to make serious money was right around the corner. Jisu still couldn't pin down exactly what had been in that look of his, back then — but it had been full of certainty, aimed at something Jisu couldn't see.

There had been a time when Jihan was every bit as broke as Jisu. He'd climbed to where he was on business sense alone, and Jisu had followed him the way you'd follow an older brother.

Really — once the money came in, Jihan was the first person he was taking out to eat. Before anyone else. That was just being a decent human being.

And so Jisu cleared everything sitting in front of him. But that didn't mean he could start hunter work tomorrow. The license had come through, yet because he was a high-rank hunter — SS-rank or above — he was apparently subject to all kinds of management and surveillance. He had no intention of turning against the government, but being handled like this still made a quiet resentment start to simmer.

Think positive. I can use the time to learn the coin market.

Back home, Jisu lurked through Coinler's various boards.

So. What exactly was cryptocurrency?

Skim enough posts and you got the same pitch every time: a next-generation decentralized currency, built on a security technology called blockchain, destined to replace money as we knew it — some new-concept currency, or whatever. The wording changed. The contents didn't. Honestly, none of it landed. He had no idea what any of it was supposed to mean.

The parts that stuck were these: the person credited with first issuing Bitcoin, one Satoshi Nakamoto, had never revealed his identity; and besides Bitcoin, a staggering number of cryptocurrencies were already being traded — with more being created at this very moment.

Is this actually the money of the future?

From an ordinary person's point of view, he genuinely could not tell what anyone was talking about. And with prices swinging as violently as Justice had yesterday, in so little time, he couldn't begin to understand how any of this was supposed to replace currency. Even so, he had to study this market now.

Jisu logged into Bitstorm and checked the prices. Some coins were up, some were down, but nothing had kicked up a storm the way Justice had. For the record, Justice was sitting at 19 won — ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finally below the 28 won he'd first bought in at.

After checking the charts, he let his eyes drift to the chat with no particular thought in mind.

All kinds of bizarre noise scrolled past. And then one line snagged his eye.

What was this?

Jisu clicked the link without thinking much of it.

It was an open chat with a cap of a hundred people. More than eighty were already in when he arrived, and it didn't take long for the room to fill.

The chat exploded in a frantic burst — and then, at last, the person called Wildcat showed himself.

Jisu had no idea who this Wildcat was, but in this world, the name clearly carried weight. A chat with a hundred people in it went still.

It was strange. He was only reading letters on a screen, and yet there was a magnetic pull to it that he couldn't quite explain.

He was dressing up the obvious as if it were some closely guarded secret — but maybe that was the name-value talking. The chat around him was already catching fire.

Was that really why people lost money? Because they didn't know that?

Really?

After that, Wildcat pulled up a week's worth of charts on a handful of coins and launched into an explanation. Stock terminology, apparently. To Jisu, who couldn't read a lick of it, it sounded like absolute nonsense.

It wasn't complete garbage, though — a few voices in the chat chimed in with agreement. Questions, answers. Something like a lecture passed through the room. And then, at last, Wildcat got to the point.

He said the obvious like it was nothing, and somehow that only made it more convincing.

It was only text scrolling up a screen, and yet it felt unnervingly real — as if a man in a tailored suit were standing right in front of him, dripping expertise, delivering a finance lecture live.

GCS Coin? Had that even been a thing?

It clearly wasn't one of the majors with a live ticker on the front page.

The Hunter Association?

They'd gotten involved in this too? Then again, cryptocurrency had everyone's attention right now. If this market actually made money, it wouldn't be strange at all for the Hunter Association to have a hand in it.

Dumping meant downward candles. In other words, the price was falling.

Around then, a few people snorted and left the chat. Honestly, if Jisu had been a real investor, he probably would have done the same. But a few stayed.

Wait. They're actually going to dump money into coins based on what some anonymous guy is saying?

He didn't get it at all. And yet, somehow, in this atmosphere, it felt like doing exactly that would be fine.

Besides — for Jisu, investing didn't mean putting up money. It definitely had an effect, but at the end of the day it was stats. Something intangible.

He pulled up his status window and looked at Bitstorm.

It had already climbed a few dozen won in that short time. So people really were buying.

Let's just test it.

He had absolutely no intention of going all-in blind the way he had last time. If he only put in about 50 Strength, even a loss wouldn't really sting.

From the 812 Strength he had, he pulled out exactly 50 and bought GCS.

This much, I can live with losing. And if it actually turns a profit, that's when I'll get the chance to study how this guy does it.

You couldn't find a winning formula with zero information. Right ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠now, the only way to learn the market was to put something on the line. And this wasn't even real stocks — it was crypto. Figuring out how a raw, unfiltered signal group like this actually moved could be a huge help.

And so, the first real investment began.