99% Damage Dealers, 1% Supporters

99% damage dealers. 1% supporters.

I was a capable damage dealer, but I wasn't irreplaceable. Awakeners ran at a ratio of one supporter for every ninety-nine damage dealers, and everywhere you looked, the world was drowning in DPS. We were a dime a dozen.

"Minhyuk, could you come see me for a second?"

"...Yes?"

So when Kim Jia, the sole supporter of our party, pulled me aside, I already had a pretty good hunch about what was coming.

"I'm sorry to say this so abruptly, but I don't think we'll be able to stay in the same party going forward."

Called it.

Even as she kicked me out, Kim Jia avoided my eyes, as if this conversation were awkward for her.

"...Why? In this last expedition, my scouting held its own, I had the highest monster kill count, and I took the most night watches."

"I know you're good, Minhyuk, but..."

"Yes."

"...We're bringing in another damage dealer this time."

Another dealer, replacing me. Fair enough. If it were because my skills had fallen short, I could accept that and bow out without complaint.

The problem was that it wasn't.

"Don't tell me it's Park Gihun."

"...It is. Gihun."

Park Gihun. That was the name of the boyfriend Kim Jia had recently started seeing. Or, to be precise, the man she was flirting with. And every single damage dealer in our party, except for me, was already one of Kim Jia's bedmates. In other words, it was a male harem she'd assembled herself.

"...Jia. This is seriously not okay. Do you have any idea how much of this party rests on my shoulders? Is there even one thing Park Gihun does better than me as a damage dealer? If he's coming in to fill my spot, this party could genuinely be in danger."

I pleaded with everything I had, but Kim Jia's expression only turned vicious. I'd insulted her crush, and apparently whatever scraps of guilt she'd been feeling got scrubbed clean away.

"Stop. I don't want to talk about this anymore. I'm expelling you under the party leader's authority. Cha Minhyuk — leave before I have to look at something uglier than this."

"......"

She turned on her heel and walked off without a backward glance.

Back when the party was first formed, Kim Jia had actually dropped some not-so-subtle hints my way too. She'd tried to sneak in skinship under the pretense of massaging my shoulders, hooked her arm through mine "naturally," invited me out for drinks, just the two of us, late at night — that sort of thing.

But I turned her down.

Please don't do this, Jia.

......

I didn't want messy personal entanglements tangled up in party operations. And above all, Kim Jia's face wasn't my type. And this was the result.

"Haah... damn it."

After getting kicked out of the party like that, I applied everywhere — every guild and party I could find. I prided myself on being a skilled, sharp damage dealer, but that wasn't the kind of credential you could write on a résumé, and even by my own assessment there was nothing special about mine. Most applications died at the paper screening. The rare interviews I somehow landed were nothing but false hope followed by rejection, over and over.

And then, one day, in an interview room.

"Cha Minhyuk. Do you have anything that sets you apart from other damage dealers?"

Getting an interview at all was a rare opportunity, so I answered with every ounce of energy I could force into my voice.

"Yes! My combat sense is exceptional! Please look at my monster kill record. I can confidently say that when it comes to raw damage dealing, I won't lose to anyone!"

But the interviewer, whose unpleasant expression was plain from the first glance, suddenly picked a fight.

"Any dealer can be trained to do that. Who cares if you're skilled when you don't have a single rare skill?"

"...I'm sorry!"

Like a subordinate getting chewed out, the words I'm sorry shot out of my mouth on reflex. I wasn't actually sorry, of course. What was I supposed to do about a rare skill never dropping for me? But when you got called out, you apologized first — that was simply the life of a damage dealer.

"Tch. If you're a dealer, either farm some skills or latch onto a supporter and grovel at their feet like you'd lick the dirt off their shoes. Ten years climbing to the 60th floor and you couldn't make a single supporter connection? What were you doing?"

"......"

Interviewers playing the high-handed boss was a common sight. They'd vent all over you, then reject you. But this man was crossing even that loose line. It was needlessly, gratuitously rude.

"Well, your face is passable, I suppose. That's your only real asset as a dealer, Minhyuk — being handsome. You'd make a perfect trophy boy, honestly. We have a supporter in her sixties at our guild, and if you're interested in working under her party, I'll bring her your photo. This isn't an opportunity just anyone gets, you know."

"...Her sixties?"

When I echoed it back in disbelief, the interviewer apparently took that as interest and beamed.

"Ah, so you do have thoughts about it? Figures — why else would a dealer with specs like yours even apply? But let me ask, just in case — is your stomach strong? She's wonderful in every way, but her play style is a bit... rough. Some people throw up the first time, but once you get used to it, it's perfectly fina—"

"You son of a—"

Damage dealers might have lived the lives of livestock in the lower class, but a madman who'd say that kind of thing to your face was rare.

I lunged across the table, seized him by the collar, and hauled him out of his chair.

"Hey, you worthless piece of trash. Do I look like a gigolo to you?"

"Uh, ah...?"

"I applied as a damage dealer, not a trophy boy. I'm not interested, so you go serve that old woman yourself, you bastard. Then again, looking at your face, even she'd probably turn you down..."

"......"

The interviewer stared at me, mouth agape, panic written across his face.

What. Never seen a dealer who's given up on life before, asshole?

I squeezed my fist tight and then—

"Hoo.... Enough."

I let out a long breath and released his collar.

Thud!

His legs gave out and he crumpled to the floor.

"Touch up your looks any more than this and it really won't work out."

"M-my... my face, what about it...!"

The interviewer's face flushed crimson with shame.

I tore my application to shreds, scattered the pieces, and stormed out of the interview room. Behind me, the interviewer's rage-fueled screaming faded faintly into the distance.

"...Hey! Hey, you bastard! Are you not going to stop?! You think you can pull this and still find a party anywhere?! STAND RIGHT THERE!!"

After that day, the interviewer put me on a damage dealer blacklist and shared it with other guilds. Grabbing him by the collar was definitely my fault, but the rumors got inflated with things I'd never even done. I protested desperately, but to them, whether I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was telling the truth hardly mattered. I was a damage dealer — a surplus class drowning in supply.

And with that, my hunter life was over.

Truthfully, I'd known all along. I knew exactly what it took to survive as a damage dealer in this Tower. Either be born with a silver spoon — sweep up every elixir and rare skill, become a monster that supporters chased after — or... throw away your pride, your dignity, all of it, and grovel at a supporter's feet as if begging them to spit on you.

Begging supporters for mercy. That was the only survival route for a lowborn dealer.

"Haah.... Maybe I should have just shut ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠my eyes and latched onto Kim Jia, no matter how ugly it was...."

She was in her twenties, at least....

I'd sworn I would never trade my last shred of dignity to find a party. But the world was telling me I'd been wrong. I really was confident in my skills. I'd been a core member of every party I climbed with up to the 60th floor, always delivering the best damage output. Had I been hopelessly naive, thinking that as a dealer, my damage would speak for itself?

The way a pine caterpillar eats pine needles, a dealer was supposed to crawl beneath a supporter's heels. Was refusing a supporter's flirtatious advances just because I could deal damage really such a grave sin...?

"...No. It wasn't."

I hadn't given up yet. I'd have to get up early to hunt for parties again tomorrow. I steeled myself against the swirling thoughts and forced my eyes shut.

"......"

When I woke up, my room had changed. The arrangement of things, even the degree of grime — something felt off.

"...What is this?"

I checked the time. Three in the afternoon. Given that I normally woke no later than seven in the morning, that was a monstrous sleep-in.

How many hours did I sleep...?

Was I really that exhausted? Trying to recall last night, I opened Hunter Heaven on my phone. Nothing but supporter recruitment ads ever went up there, but out of habit I browsed the listings anyway — grasping at straws, hoping something might be there.

But the date....

...Is my phone broken?

The date was the day, ten years ago, when I had first awakened.

I brushed it off and scrolled through Hunter Heaven, but something was wrong. There were far too many ads recruiting damage dealers.

.

.

.

...What is all this?

I scrolled down, skimming, and the pages kept coming with no end in sight. The damage dealer recruitment board was supposed to be a ghost town where flies buzzed. On the rare occasion a posting went up, applicants would flood in until the site lagged, and — naturally — if you didn't have specs like a rare skill, you were cut at the paper stage.

...Am I dreaming?

Just in case, I checked the supporter recruitment board. Not a single post. I refreshed it several times, but it sat there, bare and empty.

"What on earth...."

I scrambled onto Hunternet, the hunter community. It was called a hunter community, but it was mostly bored civilians and hunter hopefuls — still, nowhere was more sensitive a barometer of the hunter world. Right at the top, the pinned announcement.

.

.

.

...What?

Isn't this written with "dealer" and "supporter" swapped? Don't tell me....

I immediately tapped the trending tab and searched the keyword "damage dealer."

...It's flipped. No matter how I looked at it, the standing of dealers and supporters had been swapped completely.

With trembling hands, I opened a few of the trending posts.

At first, I figured it was some elaborate collective prank — it wasn't even April Fools' Day. Hunternet alone wasn't enough for me to believe any of it, so I combed through every other hunter community and every internet news article I could dig up.

And with that, I finally understood what had happened. For reasons unknown, the ratio of damage dealers to supporters had been inverted.

"Whoa...."

Dealer-to-supporter ratio, 1 to 99. Ninety-nine supporters for every single damage dealer. A beautiful ratio that made my heart race just imagining it.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

And then — to get to the bottom of the strange wrongness I'd felt the moment I opened my eyes — I headed for the bathroom.

Standing in the bathroom mirror was a me with pearly, resilient skin. A me with flawless skin — every little scar etched across my body from climbing to the 60th floor, every fine line carved by ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ten years of battling monsters under the blazing sun, all of it gone.

The community posts, the internet news — all of them were dated the day before I'd entered the Tower, ten years ago. I had truly returned to my self from ten years before.

"Hahaha...."

I laughed at the mirror. The supporters who had lorded over me with such arrogance. The thought of lining every last one of them up and picking through them as I pleased set the laughter loose all on its own.