I Dropped Out with a Mythic Magic Sword

This was an age when the hunter profession ruled the world. And with it, an entirely new concept had taken root in society.

Fail to graduate from one of these institutions, and you would not even be issued an official hunter's license. Keep your grades high and your evaluations glowing, or you would never land a job at a respectable major guild — never live like an actual human being.

It was a structure that could only concentrate more and more power in the universities. In the end, the professors who held the power of life and death over their students had come to reign as absolute authorities.

"All right! For this week's skill-development lab, each of you will need ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠one E-rank mana stone."

A spring afternoon at the start of the semester, in a lecture hall at Deokseong University. Professor Park Mansu stood at the podium and looked down on his students with an expression of unfiltered arrogance.

Mana stones. Of course.

Deep sighs leaked out from every corner of the room. In principle, the mana stones and consumables required for lab work were supposed to be purchased with a university budget. That cost was already baked into the obscene tuition every student paid. Every semester, though, Professor Park siphoned that budget off with practiced sleight of hand and dumped the job of actually obtaining the stones onto his students.

"As you all know, a hunter's lifeblood is self-reliance. What kind of field instinct do you expect to develop pecking away at school-issued mana stones like hothouse flowers? A stone only has real value if you went out and got it yourself — if you got monster blood on your hands digging it out."

It sounded almost reasonable, until you remembered it was just a dressed-up way of saying he was going to embezzle the school's money and pocket it. The students were seething, but nobody dared protest out loud. Park was infamous for the basics — grade terrorism as a matter of course — and for going so far as to block guild recommendation letters for any student who got on his bad side.

"Now then. I'd like one of the lab group leaders to go fetch twenty students' worth of mana stones. Any volunteers?"

Silence settled over the lecture hall. Twenty E-rank mana stones meant a solid half-day of grinding through a low-rank dungeon. Everyone was already drowning in job prep. Nobody wanted to be the one who stuck their neck out.

That was when I, sitting in the back row, shot my hand straight up.

"I'll go, sir."

"And you are?"

"Kim Najin. Third-year, Hunter Studies."

"Ah. Najin, is it."

Deokseong University, Hunter Studies, third year: Kim Najin. Every eye in the room swung toward me. Professor Park pushed his glasses up his nose, looking mildly surprised, then let a thin smile creep across his face.

"An excellent show of initiative. But let me be clear up front: just because you've taken this burden on yourself does not mean I will be giving you a higher lab score. There is such a thing as fairness."

Fairness. Coming from a man who worked students like tools and embezzled the university budget. I snorted internally, but kept my face even.

"That's all right, Professor. I was going to head out for training anyway."

"Is that so? Well, if you insist. Have them submitted to the teaching assistant before Friday's lab."

Park nodded, looking satisfied, and wrapped up the lecture. My classmates shot me looks of pity, the kind you give someone who has gone and made extra work for himself. They didn't know I had a plan.

The moment class ended and I stepped outside, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

A confirmation text from the professor. I glanced at it, then immediately switched to a different app.

Hunter's Nation. A subcontracting gig app the local hunter guilds had built for the express purpose of wringing cheap labor out of university students. A request I had already accepted was sitting on the screen.

After they nickel-and-dime you on every line item, it doesn't even add up to minimum wage. Factor in the university credits, though, and it's not a waste of time.

That was why I had been so happy to stick my neck out. I had to go into a dungeon and kill monsters for a guild request anyway. All I had to do was pick up the mana stones that dropped and hand them in at school. Finish the professor's errand, keep my grades intact, and get paid by the guild. Two birds, one stone — three, if you were counting.

I grabbed my weapon from a locker on campus and headed for the dungeon.

A low, resonant hum rolled through the air. In the basement of an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city, a tear in space shimmered, spilling a cold blue light. The entrance to a low-rank dungeon.

The moment I stepped through, the world warped, and I was standing in a cave that reeked of damp moss. A trio of club-wielding goblin brothers came bursting out in a chorus of shrieks. I settled my breathing out of long habit and drew the iron sword at my hip.

A cheap, mass-produced hunk of iron I'd bought off a graduated senior for next to nothing. The edge wasn't even properly sharpened — a lump of scrap, really — but it was more than enough for goblins.

I slipped past a swing and drove the blade into a goblin's side. A dull, wet sound, and dark blood sprayed. I spun with the motion and took the next one's head off. The bodies hit the cave floor one after another, and with each one, the status window tallied up the dungeon's spoils.

"Good. Smooth start. Two already, right out of the gate."

I checked the rewards and started deeper into the cave. Goblins, giant rats, slimes. Low-rank monsters kept coming without end, and I cut them down the way I always did, thinning the population as I went.

I wasn't sure how much time had passed.

I was almost at the quota of fifty when the cave opened into a slightly wider chamber. A hobgoblin stood planted in the middle of it, twice the size of an ordinary goblin, clutching a crude iron shield.

A named, of all times.

Shield and mace. Annoying, but nothing I couldn't handle. Dodging a mace was something I actually had confidence in. I dropped my stance and cut in fast, straight into the hobgoblin's reach. It bellowed and swung the rusted mace in a stupid, howling arc of raw force. I slipped the trajectory by a hair and brought the iron sword down on its unguarded shoulder.

A vicious shock slammed up through my wrist.

Steel screamed against steel. The thing had thrown its shield up on instinct and caught the blow. And in that same instant, the mass-produced iron sword in my hand failed to survive the impact, and snapped.

I stared down at the leftover hilt in a kind of blank stupor. I'd bought the thing off a senior who had already abused it half to death, and I hadn't done a scrap of durability maintenance while running guild gigs. Still. Of all the moments for it to go.

The hobgoblin's face split into an ugly grin. Weapon gone, opening exposed, it hoisted the mace. I threw myself into a roll across the floor and barely cleared the swing as it cratered the stone where I'd been. I ripped the foraging dagger off my belt and tried, desperately, to fight back.

If I abandon this run, I actually starve.

A dagger that couldn't even cut a fern stem was never going to cut it. The mace came in on an angle I couldn't dodge. I threw the dagger up on reflex; it bounced away like a toy, and my body went over backward with it. I managed to get my head clear, get my feet under me, and open some distance — but my arm would not move properly.

Running was the only option left. I sprinted with a cold killing intent breathing on the back of my neck, and somehow, I made it out of the dungeon.

I collapsed spread-eagle on the floor of the abandoned building — a safe zone — and dragged air into my lungs in ragged gasps. The relief of having crawled out of a near-death lasted about three seconds. Then the much uglier reality swam up in front of my eyes.

The iron sword in my hand, reduced to a hilt. And my right arm, snapped just as cleanly.

"What the hell do I do now."

For a hunter hopeful, body and weapon were as good as life itself. I still hadn't finished gathering the mana stones the professor wanted by the day after tomorrow, and now both of them were wrecked. Hospital bills. No work for the foreseeable future. And the weapon was the real problem. A new one? Even a used mass-produced iron sword would run at least two million won for anything worth swinging.

I ran the numbers on my account balance at speed. Student-loan interest. Back rent. Utilities. My entire net worth didn't even add up to five hundred thousand won.

No matter how I slice it, I don't have the money.

The world went dark at the edges. Failing to get the mana stones wouldn't just mean failing to get paid. A disappointed professor would tank my grade out of spite, and failing the guild request meant a penalty fee. It felt like my whole life had been shoved to the edge of a cliff.

I trudged home and dropped onto the bed like a sack of rocks — and immediately paid for it, as the broken arm screamed.

I'd meant to do some kind of first aid, but by the time I made it back the fracture site had already swollen into a mess. I found myself cursing the mass-produced used iron sword all over again. You couldn't have held on a little longer?

I'd already sent the texts. Operating a smartphone with only my left hand was its own special misery. I let out a long breath, stared blankly at the ceiling, and let the despair settle over me.

That was when it happened.

A clear, bright chime rang in my ear, and a translucent hologram window bloomed in the empty air in front of me, glowing blue.

The status window's sudden appearance put me on edge. A trait awakening. For most ordinary people, that was a once-in-a-lifetime reversal of fortune — skills you'd never had, appearing out of nowhere. Combat-type? Support-type? I read the next message with my heart in my throat.

"Are you kidding me?"

The bigger the expectation, the bigger the crash. There were traits that let you breathe fire and call down lightning. Traits that tempered your body into steel. And I'd gotten a talent for putting swords away. I might as well have been a walking inventory. A warehouse on legs.

World of the Sword. Pretentious name for a glorified locker. I selected Store, and the broken mass-produced iron sword slid out of existence and into the inventory. Was that really the whole skill? Specialized porter, was I?

Complaining wouldn't change anything. The disappointment was real, but having a trait at all wasn't a bad thing. Hauling heavy weapons around without the weight wouldn't hurt. The actual problem was how I was supposed to claw my way through everything still coming.

A new sword first, I guess.

I decided to start by logging into the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Tower Shop and looking for new gear. I pulled up the status window and tapped the Shop tab.

The Tower was the size of a massive city on every floor. The place I lived was the Tower 1st Floor. The Tower Shop wasn't anything grand — just a worldwide marketplace where hunters bought and sold. Anything listed from a floor too high above mine, I couldn't purchase. Not that I had the money for that anyway.

Category: bladed weapons. Best value. Biggest discounts. Filter for unappraised goods or used weapons.

The window in the air reshaped itself into something like a shopping website, and item listings poured down the screen.

Pt — Points — was the currency the Tower Shop ran on. The exchange rate drifted, but one Point was worth roughly ten won.

Right. I didn't actually set the search filter properly.

I sorted by price, lowest first. The window refreshed, and the cheapest items in the catalog stacked themselves at the top. Most of it was shattered fragments and unidentifiable junk. Appraisal fees at the Tower Shop were highway robbery. Hunters with money used verified gear. Anyone whose wallet was as thin as mine bought unappraised goods and learned what they were the hard way — with their own body.

I scrolled, half-dazed, and then my eyes snagged on a listing in the corner.

According to the seller, a terrifying curse was bound to the blade. The Tower Shop's own base system had detected it too, and tacked on a warning.

A warning. That was as far as it went. They didn't actually block the sale. Anything that made them money, they left alone.

Who ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would buy this?

Anyone else would have thought the same thing and scrolled past. But something else was starting to show itself to my eyes.

Red text slammed itself over the product name, and the real information — visible to my eyes alone — unfurled in the air.