The Truth of the World
Rakselv Village was in the thick of event preparations.
An event was supposed to be a raucous festival, bursting with nonstop noise and excitement.
But shadows of worry clouded the faces of the villagers as they prepared food and set up the seating.
Luin couldn't stand it any longer. He approached the fruit merchant Malton and tapped his shoulder.
"What, a funeral? Why the hell are all your faces like that?"
"The kid up and leaves without a word—how do you expect us to smile...?"
"Why so damn clingy? Didn't you all say there'd be no regrets?"
"Tch, that's just talk! Why you gotta be so cold-hearted, you little shit!?"
It was absurd.
They'd all been raring for a boisterous send-off party just moments ago, and now here they were, faces dripping with reluctance and anger.
Luin scowled, his brows knitting together.
Of course, he wasn't blind to the villagers' regrets.
Luin was practically one of them, after all.
But no one leaves their hometown without a shred of attachment. A fresh start always demanded a show of resolve.
Luin gulped down the carbonated water from an oak barrel mug, then hoisted the empty vessel high.
"I'll make it big and come back—so wait for me, all of you!"
Luin's shout drew every eye at the farewell gathering.
The star of the show, Rakselv's honorary errand boy and guardian—Luin.
Amid thunderous applause from the villagers, the last night in his hometown deepened.
King's Capital Phrigia.
The kingdom's heart, where every race mingled—or so they called it.
Put another way, it was a hotbed of racial discrimination and deep-seated hostilities.
Plenty of nations had outright institutionalized discrimination, barring entry to certain races from their cities.
Just look at the open slave trade in the current regime—it made the treatment of non-humans crystal clear.
Which was why some races harbored special hatred for humans.
Edelin, the elven enclave in the eastern continent's fantastical Moesa Forest.
Isadora Edelin, freshly departed from Edelin and now en route, was one such elf who despised humans.
In truth, she had wrapped herself in a hooded cloak, isolating herself by choice.
The closer they got to the capital, the more humans she'd run into.
Because of that, even catching a nap or meditating in the carriage proved impossible.
Soon, they hit a steep incline that made her ass ache, pushing her irritation to the boiling point.
Just as her annoyed glare turned toward the coachman, a voice called from the opposite seat.
"You folks some kinda secret society or somethin'?"
A human—someone she'd gladly chew up and spit out—had spoken to her. Isadora kept her head down, ignoring him.
But then she caught the oddity in his question and glanced around.
'You folks?'
Suddenly, she noticed another cloaked companion besides herself.
'...He was talking to that one?'
That companion showed no reaction to the man's words either.
The questioner clicked his tongue awkwardly and crossed his arms.
"Still a long way to go, and you lot got zero chit-chat..."
No response even to the blatant provocation.
Wondering if this other was like her—hating humans—Isadora peered intently into the hood. Then another voice cut in.
The sweet, cloying timbre lingered strangely in her ears.
"If you're bored, handsome, play with me~."
"...Nah, not you. Already drained, don't need to pass out."
"Aw, don't be such a stiff. It's fate—how 'bout one go?"
"I said no! Peddle it to those cloaked guys if you're desperate."
The woman's gaze shifted to Isadora.
She must've mistaken the hood for hiding a man's face, unable to gauge gender.
Isadora sized up the shameless woman and guessed her nature.
The fabric clung minimally around her chest and waist, less for coverage and more to draw eyes—like calculated temptation.
An outfit of blatant exposure.
'Succubus... no, not quite?'
Undoubtedly a half-breed descendant of dream demons.
Pureblood succubi were said extinct since the Anti-Magic Wars.
When their powers manifested as skills, they became half-succubi.
Awakening talents via [Bloom] was rare on Pangea, but high-level skills were a stroke of luck.
A true jackpot case.
Endless growth potential, even a shot at B-rank adventurer at 2 Realm.
Isadora spread her palm, gazing at it coolly.
She too had received such a blessing, but her life hadn't been smooth.
By elven standards, 100 years old was just hitting growth spurt age—yet in Edelin, she lagged behind.
[Hundred Bullseyes]
The moniker for her in Edelin—no one denied that when she nocked an arrow, it always hit.
The problem came after.
No matter the accuracy, without mana reserves, firepower suffered.
Isadora stared at her palm.
Her vessel for mana was woefully inadequate, always chaining her from finishing blows.
That was why she'd set out on this journey.
Edelin needed her to protect villagers from external threats.
But she knew the world wasn't that kind.
If solo limits loomed, she'd resolved to find comrades.
Non-human ones, of course...
For that reason, she kept stealing glances at her hooded fellow traveler.
A slender build peeked from under the cloak.
'Not human...'
Humans were frail. That size screamed child.
'Dwarf, maybe?'
Or beastkin—a nimble catfolk wasn't out of the question.
As she pondered, a hand emerged from the hood.
Isadora swallowed.
"Huh...?"
No fur, no beastkin claws—just soft, human skin.
A longsword gripped in that hand, and a boy's voice rang out.
"Coachman! Stop now."
"Wha— you mean right this second!?"
The carriage screeched to a halt under the whip crack. At once, presences stirred from the woods.
Greenskin goblin: gray skin, hunched back, twisted limbs.
But Isadora's throat tightened at the massive red manastone embedded in its chest.
'Manacore...?'
Forced implantation meant one thing.
Mutant specimen.
The other passengers noticed too.
The half-succubus stifled a laugh; the heavy-armored greatsword warrior instinctively crouched.
"You're kidding, right? That thing here?"
"...Oh, shit!"
No time for shock. Isadora gritted her teeth, raising her bow.
Twang!
The arrow struck the red core dead-on—but as expected, feeble power left it unscratched.
Isadora bit her lip, swallowing her frustration.
Shing.
Then, the hooded companion stepped forward.
The cloak fell back, revealing a boy with jet-black hair.
Wordlessly, he cloaked his blade in bluish mana.
With the most basic realm's strike, he cleaved the goblin's core in one slash.
Schwick!
No flourish, no show. Yet that strike etched deep into Isadora's vision.
A child's body, lowly lowest realm swordplay.
All elements meager—save the flawless grip, resolute back, like he knew his duty.
Then it hit her.
Her own foolishness, blaming only talent shortage.
Grip.
Strength flooded her bow hand—not rage or despair.
Shame that burned her face.
She'd loathed human arrogance and discrimination most.
Mocked their superior airs toward other races as rotten.
Yet she was no different—judging potential like those nobles.
Isadora muttered low to herself.
'I have to change.'
Not talent, not circumstance—her will.
She drew a slow breath, eyes fixed on the boy's back. No fleeing this time.
Unbidden, her lips parted.
"Someone like that..."
A whisper lost to the wind.
'What if someone like that were my comrade?'
She edged closer to ask his name.
But the boy stared rigidly at empty air elsewhere.
Isadora swallowed.
'...What?'
Nothing there—yet his face churned with agitation.
Cool composure shattered into wary tension.
A chill prickled her spine at the inexplicable wrongness.
Something only he could see hovered before him.
I'd had my doubts about this world.
Swords and magic, divided races, adventurer guilds—it screamed medieval fantasy from subculture tropes.
Games, webtoons, novels—any Korean would've brushed up against it.
Not an expert, but I grasped the gist: "Yeah, standard setup."
So I'd hustled as Luin.
But.
The moment I saw the floating text, I froze.
It'd always trailed me like this.
> ▶ Save the world or somethin'
Spacing mangled, grammar off—like a god's hasty note, then forgotten.
Now, it sharpened like a signal finally connecting.
WiFi dead, then full bars next to the router.
▶ 『The Heroic Saga of the Roofless Wanderer』
▶ You, dropped into this world, are appointed as the 'Combat Power Meter'.
▶ Become the foundation for world salvation.
......
I stared at it for a long while.
Combat power meter.
Me?
Not hero, not protagonist.
Meter?
This was the nosebleed, jaw-dropping truth they meant.
Not the world's savior—but the scale measuring who qualified.
But what squeezed my skull was something else.
"...What's 'roofless wanderer' even mean?"
Racked my brains—no clue.
I glared at the system window again.
This world
wasn't the fantasy extension I knew.