Damn Monthly Rent Hell
Balun finished his business at the mercenary guild and returned to the inn. He needed to wash off his filthy, blood-soaked body.
Walking around like this kept people away, which was convenient, but he couldn't live that way forever.
Back at the inn, wary glances from the other guests hit him first. The only ones to greet him warmly were Barrel and his crew, sipping drinks on the first floor.
"Oh, Lord Balun. You're back."
"Gonna wash up. Get me some water."
"Right away. I'll tell the serving girl. But... nothing out of the ordinary at the mercenary guild?"
"Nope."
"Good to hear. That place is like a demon's den, but you came back unscathed."
"Mercenaries were nice."
"N-Nice?"
"Yeah."
Barrel was baffled. Mercenaries, nice? What nonsense was that? Anyone hearing it would laugh. But coming from Balun? Maybe not.
Fair enough. With his build, who'd dare mess with him unless they've got nerves of steel?
Barrel stared at Balun. Easily over 190cm tall, shoulders like a barn door, not an ounce of fat—just solid muscle. The epitome of a warrior's physique. Covered head to toe in dried blood, he looked like he'd crawled out of hell.
Barrel glanced down, averting his eyes. Staring too long felt like tempting a tiger.
Then the serving girl approached. She flinched at the sight of Balun, whispering to Barrel from a safe distance. The bath was ready.
"Lord Balun. Time to wash up. The bath's prepared."
"Got it."
"You're in luck. It's hot water. A real score—hot baths aren't common in inns like this."
Balun nodded, then tilted his head. Hot water already? It took time to heat—fire, firewood, all that. But it'd been less than three minutes since he'd asked.
Impossible.
"Barrel. They got a boiler here?"
"A what? Boiler?"
"Never mind. Be back after."
Balun finally got a proper wash. Sinking into the steaming wooden tub brought tears of joy. His body melted in bliss.
Haaah, heaven. This is it.
He reminisced about the past. Winters scrubbing in ice-cold water—brutal. But no more. Civilization's hot bath perk was his now.
Balun of the Red Fang Tribe, age 16 this year. His first hot bath ever.
After cleaning up, he hit the streets for serious shopping. Barrel tagged along as guide, clearly worried about the barbarian's shopping sense.
Balun's wishlist was long: soft clean clothes, protective armor, new weapons, tasty food, a cozy house of his own...
He'd tackle them step by step. Clothes first.
The city's sole clothing shop yielded a haul. Freshly dressed, tears welled up again.
Balun eyed his new look: linen tunic over pants, sturdy leather boots, belt loaded with rings. He looked like...
...a total meathead gym bro.
Memories of his past life: TV bodybuilders, jacked and veiny. Spot on.
"Whoa! Lord Balun! You look dashing! Like a new man! Haha!"
"A compliment?"
"Y-Yes! Of course!"
"You're lying."
"Wha—no! Why would I lie to you...?"
Barrel sweated bullets, but Balun let it slide. Better than barbarian rags, anyway.
Next up: armor.
He'd spotted the smithy en route to the guild. Obvious spot—next to the mercenaries, business booms.
On the way, Barrel asked, "So, Lord Balun. Plans going forward?"
"Plans?"
"Yeah. Like I said this morning, we leave Milford tomorrow afternoon. Figured you wouldn't join."
Balun stroked his chin. That was his dilemma: tag along or split?
"Where you headed?"
"Roendel, capital of the Corinth Kingdom. Barrel Company HQ's there. South from Grandia Kingdom, straight shot."
"Big city?"
"Our base? Capital? Huge."
"How big? Population?"
"Uh, never counted. Over 100,000 easy."
"Hm."
Balun crossed his arms, nodding. Big city, capital—decent security, probably.
"Houses there. Price?"
"Houses?"
"Yeah. How much?"
"Well..."
Barrel panicked. A barbarian asking real estate prices? Unheard of.
Balun flashed his pouch. Barrel counted instinctively: 13 gold, 40-50 silver.
He shook his head. "Not enough for a house in Roendel."
"Can't buy?"
"Need way more. Much more."
"Got it."
Balun nodded solemnly, looking glum. Barrel couldn't help advising, "You don't have to buy. Rent's an option—pay for a room..."
"No rent."
Balun shook his head firmly.
"Monthly rent drains cash. Can't save. Rent hell! Nightmare life!"
"Pardon?"
Past-life flashbacks hit: Seoul studio rent bleeding his wallet dry. Balun shuddered.
"Any jeonse?"
"Jeon-what?"
"None."
Balun closed his eyes. No lump-sum deposit system? Rent must be brutal.
"Not going to Roendel."
"Ah, okay..."
"Splitting tomorrow."
"Shame. Rare to meet someone of your caliber."
Barrel smacked his lips. But you can't force it.
"Fair enough. Tomorrow it is. Fate might reunite us."
Balun grabbed Barrel's shoulder, staring intently. Shook his head.
"Wrong."
"Huh? About what?"
"Don't forget. You owe me your life."
"Right, of course."
Balun remembered Barrel's kowtowing vow.
"Don't welch. Or I split your skull."
Balun mimed a hand-chop to the head, glaring. Barrel paled, nodding frantically.
"N-Naturally! How could I forget?"
"Write a contract."
"C-Contract?"
"To repay the favor. Balun collects, no question."
Barrel wondered, How does this guy even know about contracts?
"Cheat, you die. Tongue yanked, skull split."
"Eek! Understood!"
With a contract secured, shopping flew by. Sturdy leather armor and gloves from the smithy—no plate, too clunky for fighting.
Balun's style was pure barbarian. Plate armor would slow him down.
This'll tank a troll hit easy.
Balun grinned at his armored self. Nearly died to a rock crevice troll at his rite. Safer now. If I avoid trolls altogether.
No new weapons needed—just sharpened his axes at the forge. Gleaming edges felt good.
"All done? Need more help?"
"Nah."
"Perfect. Hungry anyway—dinner and drinks on me."
"Sure!"
Business wrapped, they headed back. Dusk falling. Balun pondered tomorrow.
Breakfast, then job hunt.
Barrel said even this cash wouldn't cut it in Milford. Houses weren't for the poor—most commoners rented.
Earth or here, broke life sucked the same. Balun felt it anew.
The grind of society. Tastes like home.
Bitter, but beats tribal life. Hunting daily, warring weekly? Nah, earning beats that.
Merc work?
Only manual labor fit. Mercs paid big—house money fast.
But risky. Death anytime. Day-to-day gamble.
Barrel's hires? Most slaughtered by bandits.
Skip risk? Or chase pay? Head spinning—decide tomorrow. Scout jobs first.
Balun dined lavishly with Barrel's crew: grilled steak, warm milk, bread, meat stew. Beer chasers till stuffed.
Merry vibes. First civilized booze-up in ages.
Balun's rough speech limited chat; he listened to their gripes. Merchant woes, staff woes, merc woes. Everyday stuff, but fascinating in this new world.
Time flew.
"Lord Balun. Bedtime."
"Yeah. You too. Night's dark."
"Right. Hic!"
Drunken Barrel staggered upstairs. Balun? Stone sober. Red Fang men drank from 12; he was the champ.
Sending them off, Balun hit his room, lay on the bed, stared out the window. Stars bright.
City sky's always stupidly lit.
Day one of urban life ending. Thoughts swirled. Solo tomorrow. Real life starts: house, job, eat, earn, marry someday.
Life's routine. Nothing special. Balun didn't mind. That's life.
Let's grind.
Dozing off quick after the day's chaos. Consciousness fading...
Sudden throat vibration jolted him.
Bzzz bzzz!
Balun snapped awake pre-sleep. Phone on vibrate?
Weird. Always silenced it. Wait—oh right. Dead and reborn. No phone here.
Vibration from neck. Eyes shut, hand to throat. Familiar necklace: Ulan's shabel tiger fang. Worn always, even sleeping.
It trembled violently. Sleep vanished.
It's ringing? The necklace?
Tingly scalp prickled. Balun rolled left hard.
Dark ceiling flashed. Blade stabbed down—empty bed.
Thud!
"Tch."
Tongue-click from above. Balun sprang up, hand clamping ceiling flesh.
Squishy grip. Scream from the shadows.
"Guhk!"
Instant clarity: assassin.
Son of a bitch.
Balun cursed. Who attacks a sleeping man?