The First Blessing (1)

The moment I stepped through the front door, I tossed the carton of eggs onto the kitchen table. Whether a few cracked or not wasn't my concern; right now, something infinitely more important demanded my attention.

"Blessing Tome."

The emotional traces I had seen back at the grocery store remained intact, listed cleanly in the air before me.

And beneath them sat a single prompt.

The first page of the Blessing Tome, completely barren for an entire month, unfurled itself. Just like before, it presented a clean, blank canvas. An odd, pleasant thrill stirred in my chest, drawing a quiet murmur from my lips.

"Time to blend a life and craft a blessing."

I decided to resume from the point where I had stopped at the supermarket, selecting the fragment that had caught my attention.

{Desire to Protect Comrades}

The moment my fingertip grazed the text, the phrase dissolved into the white page. This time, I did not pull away. The letters melted entirely, sinking deep into the parchment until—

Flicker.

A tiny mote of light emerged. It was fragile, barely large enough to cup in the palm of one's hand, wavering gently like a candle flame, yet radiating a steady, comforting warmth. As I brought my finger closer, an image surfaced in my mind: someone's back. I couldn't see their face, nor did I know their name, yet a fierce impulse surged within me—an overwhelming urge to reach out and pull them to safety.

"......"

I withdrew my hand. The visceral sensation vanished instantly.

"Imagery?"

I touched the little spark once more. It remained warm. Pieces of the puzzle began clicking together in my head.

"I see."

The words written on the page were merely labels. The true materials were the living remnants behind them—the genuine emotions, memories, and physical sensations that person had experienced. With that realization, I chose a second fragment.

{Yet, Never Ran Away for Seven Years}

Once again, the letters dissolved. But this time, no gentle flame appeared.

Drip.

A dark stain splattered onto the pristine paper, swiftly spreading into a pool of thick mud. From within the mire, footprints began to form. One. Two. Three. They looked like the heavy treads left by worn combat boots. Some staggered unsteadily; others sank deep into the mire, while one side bore dark crimson smudges resembling dried blood. Yet, despite the exhaustion etched into every stride, the trail continued forward without stopping.

"..."

I watched ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠in silence. The trail seemed endless—collapsing, staggering back to its feet, taking one step, then another. Seven long years. It was the physical embodiment of the road she had walked.

Without thinking, I laid a finger against one of the muddy impressions. Instantly, the strength drained from my knees. A bone-deep fatigue washed over me, heavy enough to buckle my posture. Yet beneath that overwhelming exhaustion, a stubborn conviction flared: just one more step.

I pulled my hand back, letting out a slow ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠breath. "...So this is how it works."

I studied the two contrasting images: the warm, gentle flame and the endless trail of mud-caked footprints. Out of curiosity, I dragged the flame toward the tip of the trail. The moment it drew near, the footsteps altered their course, turning directly toward the light.

"Oh."

When I nudged the light slightly farther away, the footprints plodded after it. Conversely, when I placed the light behind the footsteps, nothing happened at all. Merely shifting their relative positions fundamentally altered their meaning.

"Moving forward because there is something she wants to protect?"

Next, I moved the flame into the very center of the trail. The footprints immediately began circling the light, forming a tight, defensive ring around it.

A brief phrase hovered in the air, and my eyes lit up. "Now this is actual crafting."

Blessings weren't made by merely dumping ingredients into a cauldron. How each mental image was placed, structured, and combined—and what relationship they established with one another—was entirely up to me to define.

"Hmm..."

My gaze drifted toward the remaining materials.

None of them could be considered pleasant. Initially, I had intended to exclude them as a matter of course; it seemed counterintuitive to taint a divine blessing with such ugly emotions. Yet the Blessing Tome had explicitly categorized every single one as a usable material.

"Does that mean these can work too?"

I took hold of {Fear of Death}.

The letters vanished. Then—a chilling cold took their place.

"...Ugh."

The ambient temperature in the apartment plunged several degrees. A pitch-black mist oozed from the blank page, and from within its murky depths came a sound.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

A frantic heartbeat. My breathing hitched, and the back of my neck prickled with ice. It felt as though something horrifying was breathing down my neck, hunting me. Run. Run right now. The sheer terror overwhelmed my thoughts, urging my body to flee. I snatched my hand away in a hurry.

"Jesus Christ."

Even though my mind understood it was merely an illusion, cold sweat coated my palms.

{Fear of Death}

The dark mist continued to swirl across the page, deliberately drifting away from the warm flame. Their properties were polar opposites: the light sought to reach out to someone, while the black fog sought only to escape danger. Curious, I attempted to force them together.

Whoosh.

The moment they touched, the light was snuffed out entirely.

"......"

Only the murky mist remained. A moment later, the images reset to their starting positions.

Just as I suspected, I couldn't just mash things together on a whim. Then what about the reverse? I poured will into the flame, flaring it outward to drive away the black mist. It worked; the fog gradually receded under the brilliant light. But then—

I stopped immediately. "That won't do either."

To be honest, the easiest solution was obvious: leave fear out entirely. By combining only the positive, noble traits, I could easily manufacture a clean, respectable blessing.

'Except that would be a lie.'

That woman hadn't overcome her terror. She was terrified of dying. She desperately wanted to run away. Yet, despite being paralyzed by fear, she had continued stepping into dungeons for seven straight years. That was the unvarnished truth recorded in her soul traces.

"Hmm..."

I stared down at the three images: the black mist, the fragile light, and the muddy footprints.

Terror and the instinct to protect were fundamentally at odds, yet both had sprouted from the exact same human being. I don't want to die. But I want to protect my teammates. A glaring contradiction. And yet...

"Both are real."

No, all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠three were real. There was no reason to erase any of them. If they coexisted within a living person, there had to be a way for them to harmonize here.

I dismantled the setup and began anew. Placing the light inside the mist snuffed it out. Laying the mist over the footprints erased the trail. Putting the light far to the rear caused the footprints to splash backward through the mud, retreating toward the warmth to avoid the dark fog.

"No, that's not it."

She hadn't survived to this day by fleeing danger. I closed my eyes, recalling the details I had observed at the store: the worn-out tracksuit, the calloused hands, the discounted boxed meals, and the way her fingers had hesitated over a hunter's nutrition bar before setting it back down after checking the price tag. And alongside those memories, her materials:

{Fear of Death}

{Desire to Protect Comrades}

{Yet, Never Ran Away for Seven Years}

A sudden flash of intuition struck me. I began rearranging the imagery once more.

This time, I blanketed the entire path ahead in pitch-black mist.

Thump. Thump.

The panicked heartbeat echoed through the fog. The trail vanished into blinding obscurity, and the muddy footprints halted right at the edge of the darkness. Then, at the absolute farthest end of that terrifying, obscured path, I set down the tiny, fragile light.

"...Go on."

A single boot print pressed down into the darkness. Then another. And another.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The frantic heartbeat reverberating through the mist grew sharper, clearer. It didn't vanish; rather, the overwhelming fear served as the catalyst that made the desire to live burn brighter. Because she was terrified of dying, her senses sharpened to a razor's edge, rendering every danger distinct. And at the end of that perilous road, the light flared with newfound intensity, beckoning the relentless footsteps forward. Even when paralyzed by dread, she possessed something she refused to abandon.

Ding.

"This is it."

I hadn't arbitrarily dictated the blessing's effect. The story woven by the completed imagery had naturally forged the trajectory of its power. In an instant, the dispersed concepts collapsed together, condensing into a single, unified emblem.

A trail of muddy footprints pressing forward through suffocating dark fog, marching toward a distant, solitary light. It was crude and unpolished, yet unmistakably whole.

My very first creation. I pondered for a brief moment before a wry smirk crossed my lips. There was no need for something grandiose.

"Courage of a Coward."

"Completeness C?"

When I tapped the rank, an explanatory prompt materialized.

I looked back at the completed design. To be fair, it did look rather unrefined and chaotic. "Is a C good for a first attempt?" Without any frame of reference, it was impossible to tell. Even so, one undeniable truth anchored itself in my mind.

'I actually crafted a blessing.'

Just this morning, I had been envying high-rank hunters on the news. Now, sitting on my living room floor, I held the very power attributed only to gods and higher entities.

My fingers paused. "Onto that woman?"

It made sense. It had been forged from the fabric of her own lived experiences; no one in the world would suit it better than her.

"Hmm..."

Still, I hesitated for a second. I didn't even know her name, having only bumped into her once by the grocery discount shelf. Yet an overwhelming curiosity gnawed at me. What would happen when a blessing I crafted settled inside a real human soul?

"...Let's try it."

I tapped confirmation. Above my palm, the stabilized image manifested once more: the muddy footprints trudging through black mist toward a faint light. It dissolved into golden motes of radiance, scattering into the empty air.

"Yoon Seoha." So that was her name.

Beneath her name, however, a peculiar entry appeared.

"...?" My eyes narrowed. "Why question marks?"

I touched the prompt.

"I'm the one who made it, though?"

I poked it again, but the result remained unchanged: Provider: ???.

After a moment's reflection, I gave a quiet nod. "Well, whatever."

If anything, it was a blessing in disguise. Blessings were supposed to be divine gifts bestowed upon mortals by gods or transcendental entities. Imagine if the provider field boldly broadcasted a plain human name like Kim Doyun—the Hunter Association would have kicked my front door down before sundown. Remaining an unidentifiable phantom was far safer.

I closed the Blessing Tome, satisfied with the evening's work. Not bad for a first attempt.

Yoon Seoha sat crouched against her front door, plastic grocery bags resting on either side of her feet.

"Haaah......"

Her smartphone screen illuminated the dim entryway with a single short text message.

Just reading those few words made her stomach churn violently. Another dungeon raid tomorrow. She didn't want to go.

Burying her face into her knees, she let out a muffled groan. Seven years. She had naively believed that after seven years, she would have grown numb to it all—to the reek of blood, the deafening screeches of monsters, and the sickening sight of comrades being torn apart. But she hadn't gotten used to any of it.

"...I don't wanna go..."

Whenever a monster charged, sheer terror still gripped her heart. Just catching sight of a dungeon gate made her fingertips turn ice-cold. If someone suffered a grievous wound during a raid, she spent the night staring at the ceiling, shivering sleeplessly in the dark.

"...Maybe I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠should quit."

She had lost count of how many times she had whispered those words to herself. Yet when morning arrived, she would inevitably strap on her gear and walk out the door. She always did.

"Haaah..."

Letting out a weary sigh, Seoha dragged herself to her feet. At that exact moment—

Ding.

"...?"

A brilliant pane of text materialized out of thin air before her eyes.

Seoha froze solid.

"...A blessing?"

Her voice trembled. A blessing—the ultimate miracle granted solely to those chosen mortals who captured the gaze of higher powers. A celestial grace she had enviously watched from afar for seven years, never daring to believe she could possess it herself. That very power... was being granted to her?

Thump-thump. Thump-thump.

Her heart hammered frantically against her ribs as the title of the blessing phased into view.

Seoha's racing pulse stuttered, slowing slightly as she read the prompt.

It... sounded remarkably underwhelming.

"...?"

Was this... actually supposed to be good?