The Second Regular Is a Mushroom Eater

As disheartening as everything was, the newly acquired rewards still needed settling. Sure enough, the box contained mana stones — a slightly larger haul than the one on the first floor.

I grabbed the mana stones quickly before the Tower could kick me out, and that was when I noticed something else inside the box besides them.

"What's this?"

"A Skill Stone!"

I froze solid on the spot, utterly stunned. What is a Skill Stone, you ask? Use one and you instantly gain a skill. Once appraised, if it turned out to be something amazing, it could fetch a price so high that buyers would have to come to you. If I sold this thing properly, my money worries would be over that very day.

"Wooo! Who said the Tower wasn't a gold mine?"

This is what you call living off the Tower — an easy-mode life. And apparently the rewards weren't done yet, because my status window started popping up one message after another.

Right on cue, a skill level-up message too. Now, the Parallel World Gallery leveling up was only natural, seeing as I spent more than six hours a day on it — but why on earth had the Azure Dragon Spear Art gone up?

I didn't really understand, but a good thing is a good thing, so I immediately opened the Gallery.

"So what actually improves when the Gallery levels up? Does it expand the servers or something?"

Contrary to my expectations, though, I saw that the Regular Gacha button had been reactivated. So it seemed like each time the level rose, I could pull one more regular. I looked around to see if anything else had changed, but nothing had, so I went straight for the gacha.

Once again the flashy wheel of fortune appeared and spun furiously. Blurring past my eyes, I could glimpse countless versions of Kim Namwoo.

"Wait, what's a RoomOutsider?"

What kind of Kim Namwoo ends up with a handle like that? What does he even do? Countless Kim Namwoos flashed past, and finally the second regular was pulled.

"Druid?"

Could it be — me as the head mod of a plant gallery instead of a hunter one? I was still mulling that over when the newly arrived Druid promptly wrote his first post.

This guy did not seem to be in his right mind. And judging by how he talked, he really did seem to be a version of me who'd fallen down the plant-gallery rabbit hole. The unease was starting to creep in.

"No way, right?"

That's what I said, but the man's skill level had gone up — surely an actual plant-gallery Kim Namwoo couldn't have come out of it. That was what I chose to believe.

Not him, then?

Seriously, no way, right?

It was over. The first regular to come out had been the Azure Sky Sword Emperor, so I'd let myself hope — and the actual result was a plant-gallery Kim Namwoo. Which was almost too on-the-nose to be funny. What kind of worldline lets a guy walk around with that name and never get teased about it once in school?

I'm sorry, what?

So I had been right to believe — damn it all! Parallel World Gallery, you are the greatest.

By the time I'd finished checking my rewards, I was somehow already back in my room, so I flopped onto the bed and picked up right where I'd left off on the Gallery.

The newly arrived Druid seemed to be settling into the Gallery, posting threads showing off the plants he'd been raising.

He says things that sound ethically questionable, but this much at least was certain: the Druid really was a Kim Namwoo who'd landed in a fantasy world. Which meant that, just like with the Azure Sky Sword Emperor, it was time to start prying something out of him — skills, or something skill-like, especially.

The guy wasn't interested. The only thing I could offer him right now was modern-day dopamine, yet he acted as if nothing in the world mattered but plants — he wouldn't so much as glance at the movies and novels I posted. I asked him directly whether there was anything he wanted, but all I got back was this:

There it was. That guy was a Kim Namwoo who had achieved total dopamine detox — a man who'd raised plants until every last desire drained out of him. Unbelievable. To think a path like that existed even for me. I could hardly believe it, but it had happened in reality, so believe it I must.

Still, from my position — climbing the Tower — I couldn't just back down.

Those arrows on the second floor had hurt like hell. What good was pride? As long as I got stronger, I couldn't care less about anything else.

So it was true after all — people who grow plants really are kind-hearted. To think he'd ask for nothing in return... what a difference from certain people in this world.

Wait, there's lore behind that? If the orphanage director ever found out that the name "Namwoo" had pulled off such feats in other worlds, she'd have been so proud.

Okay, retract everything I just said. The director's naming sense really was the worst. Back into my memories you go, Director.

"Graaagh!"

So there was truly no way. And then it hit me — the Skill Stone tucked away in my pocket. I had no idea what skill was inside, but if every other avenue was closed, this was the only answer left.

Of course, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠using it meant giving up the future where I'd sold it and waved my cost-of-living worries goodbye, so I hesitated for a moment. But the Tower had to be climbed. Swallowing my tears, I activated the Skill Stone.

"Huh?"

Apparently this was one of those moments where I was supposed to say that line. So I said it.

"Lucky me."

Choi Ah-in, who had been chasing that damned Paraguay without pause, felt very much like he was losing his mind. He already had a good idea who the newly awakened person was: the administrator of the so-called Hunter Gallery — a website so ridiculous it wasn't even funny. What's more, word had spread everywhere that this person had once had an awakening revoked, and Choi Ah-in himself had heard stories about such a man years ago.

And yet, despite knowing that man's background and what he'd been doing for years, he still hadn't managed to identify him. The sheer thoroughness of it — not a single trace left anywhere on the internet — suggested a personality of almost obsessive caution.