Deposit Complete

Explore the unknown. Become rich.

Perhaps the supernatural had always been much closer than anyone realized.

And now, having drawn near to truths no ordinary person was meant to know—having set foot in the curse of knowledge—if you asked what Kang Yul was actually doing…

Clang—! Clang—!! Clang—!!!

"Hah… hah… haaah…!"

…He was sweating buckets, both hands locked around a pickaxe, hammering away at one wall of the cavern with everything he had.

World-shaking truths, cosmic secrets—none of it mattered. If he didn't find something worth selling within five days, he was getting thrown out onto the street.

Kang Yul feared that reality far more than any supernatural phenomenon, so instead of a pen to reveal the world's secrets, he had picked up a pickaxe that might actually make him money.

But.

"Please…!"

Clang—!

"Something worth selling…!"

Clang—!

"Come on out…!"

Clang—!

Three hours of nonstop mining later, Kang Yul had found neither a single valuable mineral nor even a bone fragment large enough to sell.

Why are these bones so ridiculously hard and huge…?!

The enormous, unidentifiable bones propping up the cavern were so dense a pickaxe couldn't even scratch them, and every single one was massive. Even a small piece would have been worth a fortune—but against that size and hardness, Kang Yul was helpless.

So he had settled on mining instead: with luck, he might strike ore, or dig an exit to the outside.

But.

Clang—!

There was one fact he had overlooked.

Clang—!!

Mining was not something an ordinary person could just decide to do.

Clang—!!!

Even seasoned miners struggled with this work. How was a complete amateur supposed to manage it?

Clatter—!

"Hah… hah… I—I can't…! I can't do this!"

Kang Yul flung the pickaxe aside and collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air. At this rate, he wouldn't strike it rich—he'd dry up and die first. He needed another approach.

After a long stretch of ragged breathing and hard thinking, the option he landed on was…

…a supernatural something that had slipped into the Hunter Gallery, pretending to be human.

It was suspicious, sure—but Kang Yul's situation was so hopeless that if he didn't pin his hopes on a being ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠like that, he had no way to change anything.

So this is what it feels like, having no one you can share a secret with…

He had thought about it a thousand times. Just shut his eyes, walk ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into the Hunter Administration Bureau or some megacorp, and tell them he had this class and these skills.

But every branching path he ran in his head ended the same way: slave, or lab rat. Bad ending, no matter how he played it. The lesson stuck—humans soaked in greed were more dangerous than any unidentified supernatural entity.

I was going to drive myself crazy, so I ruled out telling anyone at all…

For his own mental health, it had to be that way. Once suspicion took root, it bloomed again and again; the only fix was to leave it no room to grow.

Anyway—after thinking and rethinking every other option, he had arrived at the gallery's supernatural presence.

There was a stretch when the gallery went wild over reports of intelligent beings found inside Gates. Maybe this is connected.

Back then it had been pure urban-legend rumor, so he'd shrugged it off. But Gates had appeared. Hunters had appeared. Why wouldn't entities from other dimensions exist too? Especially when his own skill was pointing them out and labeling them, specifically, as beings from another dimension.

So whatever the result, I need to make contact at least once.

Staying ignorant of what you don't know is just ignorance. Looking the other way when you could know is irresponsible. And for a Hunter, that kind of irresponsibility would come back as a disadvantage sooner or later—so whether early or late, he had to collide with it once.

Having reached that conclusion, Kang Yul opened the gallery post.

The post was exactly as he'd seen it before. Word was the writer hadn't changed a single line in years—and that very consistency had made them a fairly well-known merchant inside the gallery.

He was still reading when he hit a final line he had never seen before—and the moment he registered it, Kang Yul understood on instinct.

"…"

That last link was almost certainly invisible to ordinary people. It had been made so that only the supernatural entities living among them could see it.

Anyone could tell the link looked shady. On a normal day, Kang Yul would have hit back without a second thought and gone hunting for other posts. Reading one more info thread would do his future more good than clicking into a site that practically screamed virus.

But this time was different.

There's got to be a reason.

His newly acquired skill didn't bother distinguishing beings from other ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠dimensions for nothing. Maybe it was a path to gear that would help with Gate exploration. Maybe those beings were dangerous enough to warrant a special label. Or maybe both.

So Kang Yul decided to take the risk and click the link. If he needed to know either way, the best time was now—when he had the least to lose.

It might have been an irresponsible choice. But ten years ago, being a Hunter had been pure 3D labor: come back alive and that was enough.

These days the work is manualized enough for stable raids—but the vanguard teams are still the same.

Whether the Gate meant hunting powerful supernatural creatures or cracking hidden rules to clear it, the first Hunters through always paid in blood to codify the playbook. Those who survived that risk got returns to match—and those returns were what kept them from ever quitting the life.

That, too, was what it meant to be a Hunter.

What I felt yesterday is probably one of the reasons.

He still remembered it vividly: the relief of surviving after gaining the skill, and right on its heels the dopamine flood that felt like his brain was melting. Maybe the Hunter industry was just a filter that left only the ones who'd gone half-mad from repeating that cycle.

I don't particularly want to become that kind of lunatic…

Still—if the dopamine party involved bathing in fifty-thousand-won bills, he might be willing to try it once. And if he was going to get greedy, he also wanted to pile up gold and eat it as a side dish.

So if he ever wanted to afford that kind of luxury…

Kang Yul clicked the link to confront the unknown supernatural phenomenon.

And in that instant—

Thud—!

—something dropped behind him. He spun on reflex toward the sound. On the floor sat a battered wooden box and a single slip of paper.

"…"

A box materializing out of nowhere in an empty place was suspicious and deeply wrong. His heart hammered, screaming at him to bolt out of the Gate immediately.

Kang Yul did the opposite. Forcing himself to ignore the frantic pounding in his chest, he unfolded the note and read.

"…"

The note was vague, as if the subjects had been left out on purpose. Still, it wasn't hard to parse. His working interpretation: this was the transaction method.

Hold the desired payment in mind, put what you're selling into the box, close it, and wait—then something matching that value gets paid out. Roughly that.

I'd like to confirm whether I'm right…

Confirming itself was simple: drop anything in and shut the lid. The problem was not knowing what penalty might come back. What if whatever he put in wasn't good enough? Odds were high something unpleasant would happen to him.

In Hunter circles, the accepted wisdom was that any supernatural phenomenon involving offerings punished you for falling short of the threshold.

So ideally, he'd put in something valuable…

…Come to think of it, the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠poster said anything obtained inside a Gate was welcome, right?

He looked around. Impossibly hard bones of something enormous. A crude half-dug tunnel. And near it, a heap of weathered soil—something between dirt and stone.

He scooped up a handful of that weathered soil and thought it over.

This did come from inside a Gate, so it should be fine… right?

A stretch, maybe—but it was weathered soil from a Gate with the grandiose name Ancient Land - Terra. Surely it was useful somewhere.

Not that I have anything else to put in anyway.

He would have loved to stuff one of those giant bones inside, but impossible was impossible. Sink or swim—he dumped the weathered soil into the wooden box and prayed hard.

I need money! Usable money, right now! Money to put in a bank account that only has 921 won left!

How long did he keep praying? Long enough to briefly wonder whether he should have caught water from a cooler in a dish and prayed over that instead—and then—

Click—!

The wooden box opened. The weathered soil he had packed in was gone. In its place lay a single note.

Kang Yul unfolded it with a puzzled look.

"Deposit complete…?"

The note left him blank for a second; he just muttered the words. Then the wrongness hit him. Half-hoping, half-dreading, he stepped out of the Gate and checked his phone—

"…?"

—and had to stare at the screen again and again, certain he was seeing things. Because:

I sold dirt and made 500,000 won for a day's work…?

An account that had held 921 won now held five hundred thousand.

Kang Yul was certain of one thing: he was rich now.