The Request

Survivors entering the Shelter had twenty-four hours to get as much done as possible. First-timers often wasted their time sleeping, seduced by the comfort of the place, but veterans never made that mistake.

Won-goo was no exception. With his water supply topped off, he skipped the water run entirely and focused on stocking up on other essentials.

As it turned out, there wasn't all that much to stock up on.

Survivors who relied on vehicles tended to react to fuel prices with almost painful sensitivity, but even that didn't faze Won-goo. Granted, even a reinforced Trailer like his needed fuel, and given its ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sheer size, it legitimately consumed a great deal of it.

Yet the amount of fuel Won-goo actually bought was far smaller than anyone would expect. Most people assumed it had something to do with his abilities.

"Geum Chul-soo. Boss wants you."

"Why?"

Chul-soo answered with a scowl, and Won-goo came over himself.

"Knock it off ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠already. Plenty of things have happened between us that are more than enough to cause misunderstandings, haven't there? You need to see it from my side too. I've got a lot of people to feed. So it couldn't be helped. Now pick something out. You need to learn how to handle this stuff sooner or later."

The place looked like a supermarket, but what hung from the walls was an array of cold weapons — everything from bladed weapons to blunt instruments.

Chul-soo picked out an axe and a shield. The shield would only see use in special situations, so he chose a hand axe sized to be carried at all times.

"I'll fit you with something better later. Make do with that for now."

After the weapons shop, their next stop was a broker.

Some survivors lived by hunting alone, while others made their living fulfilling contracts. Won-goo did both — and doing both came with one distinct advantage: he could pick and choose which requests to take.

The routine after leaving a weapons shop was to drop by a broker.

The broker Won-goo frequented was a man named Sanghae, one of the better-known middlemen in the area.

And with that fame came quirks — Sanghae had a reputation as the most irresponsible broker around.

In a world where law and order had collapsed, anyone with a Gift tied to promises and contracts played an enormously important role.

A world with no penalty for breaking your word.

A world where not lying and actually keeping your promises had become the strange thing to do.

It was the brokers who kept even a semblance of order alive in that strange world.

In a market where brokers had grown so powerful, Sanghae was famous for doing the bare minimum of involvement. As long as the terms written into a contract were honored, he would not interfere with anything, no matter what. That was Sanghae.

"Isn't that a little too irresponsible?"

"It is irresponsible. But it also means everything spelled out in the contract gets honored, guaranteed. The contracts Sanghae handles are stronger than anyone else's."

"Ah... so that's why."

Only then did Chul-soo nod.

"No sign out front?"

"Chul-soo. Why do you think there's no sign?"

Jo Mu-sa asked in a mild voice.

"...?"

"It means rookies shouldn't bother coming in. Let's go."

The brokerage's interior was laid out like a big restaurant. A few tables sat scattered around, with guards visible here and there, and behind the dining area was a large open kitchen.

"Sounds like the pathfinders did their job."

Sanghae said it the moment he laid eyes on Won-goo, as casual as if they'd parted just an hour ago.

He was an uncle-type through and through — a slight belly pushing out over his belt, nothing groomed but his chin beard.

"Pathfinders? What pathfinders?"

Pathfinders were guides — navigators. Not just people who knew their way around, but those who carried Gifts suited to the trade.

"You didn't see them at the Shelter entrance?"

"If I'd known there was a job, I'd have started here. It's been more than six hours since I got to the Shelter."

Sanghae's face twisted.

"Honestly... those bastards botch everything they touch."

"Which is why you should spend the money. Hire pathfinders who actually get it done."

"We've worked together so long, how could I..."

Won-goo shook his head and took a seat.

"Smelling food from here — must be a big one, huh?"

Sanghae nodded.

"Big. A decent score, as long as nobody gets greedy."

"You bringing up greed means it's an item recovery job, right?"

"You never miss a thing, do you, Director Gong. That's right. So I need reliable people for it."

"What's on the menu today?"

"Chicken."

"Ohh."

"And soju. Because chicken goes with soju."

"What are you talking about? Chicken goes with beer."

"Chicken goes with soju."

"You're impossible. Beer for all of us here. Everyone agrees, right?"

Won-goo turned and asked, and everyone nodded.

"But chicken goes with soju..."

"Drink yourself into a stupor, see if I care. Tell me about the job."

"It came down from Mt. Samgak."

"Mt. Samgak? What's attached to that place?"

"No idea."

"So it's from far away, then. What's the category? Revenge?"

"Recovery of a Named item."

"Cursed or not cursed?"

"Cursed, obviously. Where would you find a Named item that isn't?"

"They exist."

"Never seen one. Doesn't happen."

Named items meant equipment outside the ordinary Bronze, Silver, and Gold grades.

They bore unique names, and more often than not carried abilities ordinary items simply couldn't have. Their one drawback — as Sanghae had hinted — was that those very special abilities tended to come wrapped in a curse.

Sanghae shook his head, then piled chicken onto a plate and set it out.

Market-style whole chicken dusted with pepper salt, oil still running down the skin. Won-goo grabbed a drumstick, tore it free, and stuffed it into his mouth.

"They exist, I'm telling you. Anyway, if it's Named, it'll be registered."

"It is. Cullen's Syringe."

"The one where you load it up with anything and inject, and the effect goes through the roof?"

"That's the one."

Chicken and beer arrived at the tables in back as well, and Won-goo's crew fell on the food with both hands.

Meanwhile, Sanghae laid a set of printed materials on the table.

"The curse on this one isn't anything serious, so I hear even the Number Society has its eye on it."

"Correct. Drug potency amplification. Whatever you load it with gets amplified, and the curse triggers every sixth use."

"Anything injected — instant death, wasn't it?"

"Right. But that part's fine, because it works on monsters too. Genuinely good item."

"Somebody had the balls to run off with that?"

"He did."

He slid over a photo: a man in his forties, and a young schoolgirl.

"These four? The women are on the same team?"

"Not them. He took the girl along as a curse sponge. She's probably dead by now — word is they ran into a tracking team, so he must have used the syringe."

"Fair point. What about this daughter, then? Do we deal with her too?"

"She doesn't matter. Without a guardian she'll have a hard time surviving anyway. If she wants to work for a labor office, bring her along if you like."

"You ever seen me do that?"

"I know you don't. But this one's good merchandise."

Sanghae said it while wagging the photo of the girl in her school uniform. Whether she was actually a student, or merely wore a uniform because she had nothing else to put on, was impossible to tell — scavenging clothes was common enough.

Still, even in a photo the girl looked like a student. She stood maybe 150 centimeters tall, with fair skin and sharply defined features. Left to grow up in peace, she would have become a striking beauty without question.

"You're handling jobs like this these days?"

"Have you ever seen me get deep into a case? I hear the backstory on this one is a mess too, but I didn't dig. You know the rule — learn the whole story, and you start caring."

"Okay. So to sum up: deal with the ringleader, recover the syringe, and leave the other three alone."

"Bringing one of them back is a side hustle."

"Shelter entry fee comes out of that. I'm not spending silver coins on that."

"You make more with her along. That much is just investment."

"That's a job for people who do that kind of work. Not us. That kind of thing piles up karma."

"There you go with the karma talk again. If karma actually existed, Director Gong would already be burning in hell."

"I don't know about that?"

"Believe whatever helps you sleep. You do know we're the only crew around here that doesn't pull this kind of thing, right?"

"We're not a gang. We're a service. Registered with the Shelter and everything. Won-goo's Labor Services."

Sanghae snorted a laugh.

"Payment?"

"Three gold coins after my cut."

"..."

Won-goo stared at him.

"Three? Are you kidding me?"

"Then five?"

"Let's be reasonable here. It's a Named item recovery — what kind of..."

"Then six. That's plenty."

"You're going to keep doing this, aren't you? Every once in a while you just decide to be greedy. It's a Named item! Named!"

Won-goo roared, and Sanghae quickly raised both hands.

"Fine! Fine. Ten. At that rate I'm making nothing off the brokerage."

"Making nothing, my ass. Fine, deal. Anything else to brief us on?"

"No. Except we have to split."

"Ah, for fuck's sake..."

Won-goo set down the wing he'd been about to bite into, dropping it like he was throwing it away.

"The client's request. They already put together their own team and sent them out — and all that came back were signs of a total wipe. So they want a few of the strongest crews in the area joining in."

"Then ten gold coins is ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠way too cheap. Aren't you gutting the chicken-money here? Tell me we're not only seeing five of that."

"In exchange, I'll cover the pathfinder costs. I can call one in for you, or you can hire your own."

"How am I supposed to trust a pathfinder who works with you? I'll hire my own. If it's Cheonchu Mountain, that's five hundred silver coins at minimum. Could run a thousand."

"That's on me. It's going in the contract."

"By the way — how many coins has this guy swallowed?"

"Estimated between twenty-eight and thirty."

"Thirty?"

"Yep. Why do you think the job landed on our doorstep?"

Thirty meant he'd acquired roughly that many abilities.

The primary way to gain abilities was to buy them with gold coins. Which meant gold coins were, for all practical purposes, the measure of power in this place.

How many gold coins had you earned? How many abilities had you bought or upgraded with them?

That said, nobody who'd collected thirty coins filled all thirty slots with brand-new abilities. The usual approach was to pick up a handful of abilities that fit your innate Gift, then reinforce those. It was simply far better for survival that way.

So how strong and useful you became came down to how well you combined your Gift with your abilities.

"Twenty-eight versus thirty is a huge difference. Say it straight."

"Thirty's the more likely figure."

"You know the unlockable abilities change at thirty. As long as he didn't waste his picks on junk, a Milestone Trait is waiting for him — and he may actually have one."

"Thirty's borderline. Unless he picked with real care, he wouldn't have it yet."

"Maybe. But 'what if' exists, doesn't it? What's his Gift?"

"A plain enhancement type."

"A plain enhancement type, you're sure?"

"Sure."

"That's nasty... if he's picked up something like Hyper-Regeneration, he'd be disgusting to deal with."

"Doesn't mean we can't kill him. It's not like he regenerates forever."

A Milestone Trait referred to special abilities that could be selected once a survivor's acquired gold coins passed thirty.

Most were superior and more specialized than anything obtainable through ordinary abilities. And unlike regular abilities, which could be bought unconditionally with enough coins, a Milestone Trait's available category was fixed to the individual.

Which meant that to take a trait like Hyper-Regeneration, one needed a substantial number of recovery-related abilities first.

Traits weren't available every time either. They were a kind of bonus, granted only when the number of acquired abilities hit a special threshold.

So Won-goo pressing on these details wasn't a bad instinct. Even with a similar coin count, the difference between having taken a trait and not having one was night and day.

"The great Director Gong, playing it cautious over this much? He's plenty catchable at this level. It's not even past thirty — what's there to worry about?"

"I know. But when does this business ever come down to coin counts? When two sides are reasonably matched, it's the situation, the instincts, the judgment that decide who lives and who dies."

More abilities through coins was always better. But the number of coins was never the absolute yardstick of strength.

The right combination of one's innate Gift and abilities-plus-trait.

And combat experience could never be ignored either.

No matter how many abilities you'd stockpiled, if you couldn't wield them properly, they were as good as nothing.

"And he stole Cullen's Syringe — you knew he had it. Even so, the first tracking team failed? Doesn't something feel off?"

"He must have had reserves stashed away. He'd have used the syringe too."

"Drug amplification is a fraudulent ability, sure... but this is an outfit that can send out trackers like these, and it can't catch one man? He's not fudging the coin count, is he?"

"Have you ever seen me feed false intel on numbers? The thought of Director Gong going nuclear on me later is horrifying enough. This is the real deal. By my estimate, he took Cullen's Syringe and reinforcement drugs with him."

"High-grade Reinforcement Pills, then?"

"Has to be. And apparently the first tracking team ran into bad weather. A pretty powerful earthquake, they said."

"Then that part makes sense. Lucky bastard."

"Luck doesn't last forever. By now he's probably ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠just holding on? Reinforcement Pills aren't exactly common, and the side effects aren't negligible."

Won-goo fixed Sanghae with a long stare.

"This job is too ugly. Too dangerous a target. Count me out on these terms."

"He'll be considerably weakened by now."

"If he has the Hyper-Regeneration trait... he's healed already, hasn't he? Even without it, this is tricky. What if he's still got Reinforcement Pills left?"

"Director Gong. If you only look at the downsides, you'll never take a single job. You know that."

"We're not some door-to-door delivery service. This is walking in and picking up an item — with our heads on the line. Our heads. Of course we go over every detail. Depending on the situation, the therapy might get very intense."

"Hahh... fine. I'll cover the Shelter entry fee."

"Round trip. It's cheaper when you pay anyway, you know that."

"Fine. Round trip."

"Good. Then who are we splitting with?"

"Poke."

"That..."

"Patch him in now?"

"By phone?"

"By phone."

"Poke. That bastard must have made a fortune. Burning through calls like this?"

"That's because Director Gong is so stingy."

"Not my money coming out, so do whatever you like."

Phone calls and paging were both possible inside the Shelter. But the price was beyond comparison with the old world, so survivors rarely used them. Outgoing calls to the outside were possible too — at an even steeper price.

"Do it."

Sanghae set a phone down on the table.

The other side picked up as if he'd been waiting, and a voice spilled out.

"Boss Sapa, still alive I see? You haven't lost your nose for a good job."

"I told you to stop calling me Sapa."

"Everyone around here calls you that — what am I supposed to do? Ah, my apologies — these days it's Physical Therapist, isn't it?"

"Don't call me that either."

"Aigoo... so cold. You've heard the briefing, right? It's a decent score, but working together is awkward for both of us, isn't it? And our crew's grown so big, there's hardly enough to go around."

"Why are you circling the point? Are you shaved ice, or an idiot? You want the whole thing dumped on you."

"Still talking like a man with filth in his mouth. It's a good look on you."

"Do you want it dumped on you, or not?"

"I do."

"With wh—"

Won-goo cut himself off mid-word and turned around. Poke was walking in with his men in tow. Gleaming dress shoes, a cowboy hat — and a suit.

A smile that looked like mockery on his face.

Won-goo's expression hardened in an instant.

"No time, so let's keep it simple. Coin flip."

Won-goo snorted.

"Oh? So you've got a schedule?"

"Come on. You think it's lack of time that stops us from working? It's lack of jobs. Give us the jobs and we'll do all of them. It all comes down to money, and you know that better than anyone."

"If you had a schedule, you wouldn't have shown up like this."

"I manage my own schedule. As you can see, our family's grown again. Say the word and we'll do it all."

"A family, sure is."

This time it was Won-goo who grinned, sly as a fox.

"Do it or don't."

"Throw."

Ting!

Poke flipped the coin without a second's hesitation.

"Which side?"

"Tails."

The moment he checked the coin, Poke's face went stiff.

"Hah... no more favors next time."

Poke turned to leave.

"Hold it. That's not how this goes. How am I supposed to trust you? Put it in the contract. Poke's pack of thieving—"

"Labor. Poke's Labor."

"Right. Poke's pack of gutter rats writes in here that it won't interfere with this job. Sanghae, you can add the clause?"

"No blowback on this?"

Poke approached with a sour face and signed the contract Sanghae held out.

"Next time, no concessions. None."

Poke glared at Won-goo.

"What next time? Pray you drop dead before I see your face again."

Poke raised his middle finger and swept out the door.

"That one's not a bastard you can trust..."

Won-goo muttered, and Sanghae promptly held up the amended contract.

With his contract-related Gift, the man could rewrite a contract's contents in real time.

"Nothing special beyond the added clause. Penalty for failure is double. Term's one week, and for every twenty-four hours past that, the fee drops by a thousand."

"Drop the time limit."

"That was my idea, not yours."

"Then put something else in. If the target isn't at Cheonchu Mountain, we're not liable. That's the right way. What if he's gone into another Shelter? Then there's no way we bring him back in time. If the target isn't at Cheonchu Mountain, the contract ends and we take ten. Minus the guide fees."

"That's excessive."

"The Shelter entry fee alone is no joke. You know silver coin prices are insane these days — why are you acting like you don't? And you think ingredients are cheap? They're outrageous. Without a time limit we could deliver the day we arrive at the Shelter, but with one, we have to make the round trip for this and this alone?"

"...Fine, put it in."

Sanghae snapped his fingers at the air, and the contract revised itself in real time.

"This part's to go."

Won-goo held out a bowl with a drumstick and a wing — every premium cut untouched — still sitting in it.

"All set. You think I don't know Director Gong by now? Packed it separately."

"Look at you, taking credit. You made a killing off us this time — of course I know why you're being nice."

Sanghae broke into a wide grin, and Won-goo answered it with a wide grin of his own.

"By the way, that bastard Poke... he's got another job lined up, doesn't he?"

"Who knows? He doesn't work only with me."

"Hahh..."

"What's to worry about? Must be a bigger score. The contract's signed, so stop thinking about it."