How Much Were You Looking to Spend?

The wolf locked onto me and charged.

Agwirang, the 4th Floor boss. A monster the community had affectionately nicknamed the 4th Floor Doggy.

It was a grey wolf the size of a compact car. Tongue lolling, tail wagging, it looked for all the world like a retriever begging for treats. The problem was that I was the treat.

Friendly, I'd give it that. So I was going to kill it before I got attached.

I adjusted my grip on the sword. A standard-issue longsword purchased from the Association — a metal rod that looked like it would struggle to slice a rice cake. And yet.

Ah. That cool, heavy sensation in my hands.

Grrrrrr…!

Agwirang kicked off the floor and surged forward. I sidestepped by a mere half-pace — the evasion line that Mastery Correction had drawn through my mind. As the wolf shot past, I snapped my wrist toward its flank.

Shhk—

The feeling of cutting through was almost nothing. With a light, clean sensation in my hand, the wolf's upper and lower body split neatly in two.

Crack!

"Ah. It broke again."

The instant I finished the swing, the standard-issue longsword in my hand shared the wolf's fate. Cheap scrap metal simply could not handle the output of an EX-Rank trait.

Rest in peace. Your death was not in vain. Wait — no, it kind of was. This made seven swords now.

I tossed the remaining hilt onto the floor, nothing left of it but a dangling handle.

"Hey. Can I stay anonymous?"

The Tower did not answer.

"Guess not. Then at least a nickname instead of my real name. Something like 'Passing Hunter A.'"

Watching my name plastered across the display in letters the size of a billboard made my head throb.

Barely a week ago, I had been just another resting youth — one of those unemployed twenty-somethings you could find anywhere. My employment gap had already crossed the Pacific and was headed for Andromeda, and when even the last small company I'd applied to cheerfully left my resume on read, I decided to leave the world on read right back.

Then that night, on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water, a bolt from the blue dropped on my head.

There were more sub-skills tagged onto it than every certificate I had collected in my entire life.

SSS-Rank hunters were already rare enough worldwide to count on one hand. And this was EX-Rank.

Everything after that was a straight shot. A week since I'd registered as a hunter and entered the Tower. I had strolled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠from the 1st Floor to the 3rd like I was out for a walk, and today I had even smashed the 4th Floor record.

The moment I rode the portal out of the gate, a barrage of camera flashes exploded in my face.

Papapapak!

"Hunter Baek Mujin! What's the secret behind the fastest 4th Floor clear in history?!"

"Please, a comment on being designated a special monitoring target by the Korean Hunter Association!"

"Why did you turn down the scout offer from Nexus Guild, under the Yooseong Group?!"

"Do you have a girlfriend? What's your MBTI?"

A week ago, not a single person on earth had been calling my name. Now they wouldn't stop.

"Sorry. I'm a hunter who values work-life balance. It's clock-out time."

"Excuse me?"

I slipped through the business cards being shoved at me like an eel. Shouts rained down ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠behind my back. I ignored them.

Megacorps, major guilds — get tangled up with any of them and it becomes a headache. My life goal was extremely simple. Work a reasonable amount, earn a reasonable amount, and loaf around a reasonable amount.

Too modest a goal? I had learned during my resting-youth days that modest goals are the hardest ones.

There was just one immediate, practical problem.

How am I supposed to hunt tomorrow?

I opened and closed my empty hands. I desperately needed a proper weapon that could actually withstand my trait's power.

Workshop Street sat near one of Seoul's downtown shopping districts. Gleaming weapons were on display behind glittering glass storefronts.

The biggest building among them: the Yooseong Artifacts Flagship Store, the blue Yooseong logo stamped clearly across the front.

I walked in just to check the prices. The moment I did, a suit-clad employee with his hair slicked hard to one side in wax came gliding over.

"Sir, is there a particular model you're looking for?"

"Uh… maybe something cost-effective? B-Rank or C-Rank…"

"How much were you looking to spend?"

I checked the price tag on a crude little dagger sitting on the display.

"This is six thousand dollars?"

"Oh, come on now. Metal prices coming out of the Tower have skyrocketed lately. The original list price is nine thousand, but we're eating the margin this month as a special for Brand Day."

"Where do you sell conscience?"

"Pardon?"

"Never mind. Work less, earn more. May your business prosper."

I bolted out of the store.

Looking at that mess of middleman markups and brand-name inflation made my blood boil. What I needed was not a logo to flex on social media. I needed a sturdy, sharp weapon.

Now what. New gear is out of the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠question, huh. Should I go digging through tearful fire-sale listings on the used marketplace?

The main street was a lost cause. A regular person's bang for the buck was always in the back alleys. The best restaurants, the cheapest rooms — and probably the best weapons, too.

I left the glittering downtown behind and headed into the side streets.

The dead end of the most tucked-away alley. An old wooden building with the paint peeling off in ugly patches.

The door was plastered with warning notices.

"…So do you want to run a business or not?"

But telling a human not to do something only makes them want to do it more. That was just how our twisted, contrary psychology worked. Cover a door in threats not to come in, and suddenly I really wanted to turn that handle.

Some kind of advanced marketing?

Figuring I might as well take the bait, I pushed the door open.

Ding-a-ling—

"Anyone here?"

"Uh, n-nobody's here!"

There was somebody here.

The shop was dim, swords hanging on every wall. And behind the counter, next to the anvil, someone was crouched down. A woman with messy long black hair, her face half-buried in her knees, peeking at me through the gaps in her hair.

"Excuse me. You're the owner, right?"

"Ah, n-no I'm not! I— no, the owner skipped town! Last night! Because of debt! I'm just an innocent part-timer!"

The woman shouted, trembling all over.

I pointed a finger at her chest. The embroidery on her apron was extremely clear.

"…There's a name on the apron."

"Th-this is a memento of the owner who skipped town…!"

"We don't call a living person's belongings a memento."

"Eek!"

"Anyway, I came to look at some swords."

"Huh? S-swords? Why??"

"Why else would you come to a smithy if not to buy a sword?"

"B-but usually the people who come to our shop have either gotten lost… or they're looking for a bathroom… or they're here to collect a debt…"

A portfolio that made it impossible to even guess what kind of life she had been living.

I scanned the swords left lying around haphazardly on the display.

Huh.

The swords were… good? Why were they good?

Even under a layer of dust, the edges were still alive. These were in a completely different league from those lighting-flattered six-thousand-dollar swords in the main-street shop windows.

And among them, one sword in particular snagged my attention.

"This one's not bad."

The moment I reached for the hilt—

"Don't! Don't touch that! Please take your hand off it!"

Han Serin, who had been hiding behind the anvil, went pale and came running out.

"Not for sale?"

"Th-that's not even the issue… that's a cursed sword! You'll get cursed if you touch it! Your mind gets corrupted! Your mana backflows! Your ego gets eroded! And eventually your brain melts!!"

"My brain melts? What is this, a brainrot cursed sword?"

I narrowed my eyes at the blade.

Setting aside how painfully edgy the name was, the performance was insane. On raw specs alone, it rivaled A-Rank equipment.

"How much for this?"

"I'm n-not selling it! You can't even use it! It's a sword humans can't hold! Last time an Association employee grabbed it out of curiosity and spent three days thinking he was a mackerel…!"

What a sword. I couldn't help but be impressed, and reached for it anyway.

"NOOOOOO!!"

Grab.

I seized the hilt.

And in that instant—

Dark crimson mana crawled up my wrist. A ringing filled my head, and the edges of my vision started to go black—

Fwoooosh!!

The mana that had been crawling up my arm settled down obediently. The thing that had been trying to eat me a second ago was now purring like a cat. The way it sat in my palm was a work of art.

Whoosh. Whoosh.

I gave it a light swing. Even the sound of it cutting the air was different.

"Oh… the balance is pretty good?"

I turned my head, impressed.

"Huh? Why… why are you fine?"

"Hmm?"

"Why isn't your brain melting? Why aren't you coughing up blood? This shouldn't be possible…?"

She stood there awkwardly, looking back and forth between my face and the sword.

If a customer's brain was still working, the normal reaction was to be glad. So why did she look disappointed?