Big Score (1)
What should you do first if you get dropped into the Murim world?
Some might leverage their game knowledge to hoard all the spirit herbs and aim to become the world's greatest martial artist.
That wasn't me. I'd never even bothered looking up a single guide because I was too busy jacking off.
Someone else might try using modern knowledge to bring civilization to this barbaric medieval Murim world.
Not me, either.
I was just your average modern guy who'd enjoyed all the perks of modern life—no clue how to actually produce or spread that knowledge.
Hell, soap-making? I don't even know how to do that properly.
Civilization, my ass.
Truth be told, all that sounded like lucky bullshit to me.
When I first crash-landed in Murim, the future looked so bleak I couldn't even think straight.
Picture this.
An elf dropped into Murim. And not just any elf—a peerless beauty who could captivate thousands, maybe tens of thousands of men with her face alone.
If I'd been born into some prestigious clan, maybe. But starting on the streets with this face? Hard mode from the jump.
"But wouldn't a pretty face make things easier?" some pissed-off voice might ask.
I used to think that, too.
Total bullshit.
Nation-toppling beauty. The kind that could topple kingdoms.
In 21st-century modern Korea, that'd be an instant win. No need to work—just sell selfies and rake in cash.
But in this backwater 14th-century Murim?
These guys draw swords before words if there's beef—and even without beef, they draw first anyway.
A nation-toppling beauty in a den of those bastards?
Is that really an advantage?
I was a straight-laced guy back in modern Korea—no hatred for anyone. But after Murim? I was developing a serious case of misogyny toward men.
One look at my face, and they flip out and charge like it's innocent fun.
So on day one, I made the quick call to cover my face—and it saved my purity big time.
If not... well, don't wanna think about it. Can't even imagine.
Just like that, I went from zero to a penniless, veiled commoner woman in Murim overnight.
Maybe even lower than that.
Veiling your face screams "I'm tangled in some shady shit," after all.
But I couldn't starve to death.
That's why a guy who'd never held so much as a kitchen knife stepped into the world of Murim.
Skill gets you fed there, even if your background's sketchy.
They call it eating sword rice.
Luckily, I had the skills. Game character perks and elf racial bonuses let me grow like crazy and scrape by.
Days turned to weeks, months flew by, and before I knew it, a year and a half had passed since I landed in Murim.
I'd survived somehow.
At least until now.
#2.
BAM!
I kicked open the inn door with deliberate flair.
Beyond it, people gawked with round eyes. Some shoving food in their mouths, others chugging liquor in broad daylight, a few running gambling games.
All ronin and black path scum.
Among bottom-feeders one step from going fully inhuman, seizing the initiative is key.
Dropped into Murim in a frail woman's body, you pick that up quick.
"...What the hell's this guy? Wait, not a guy—a chick?"
The black path thug chugging booze up front looked dumbfounded.
Chick? Stung a bit, I glanced down at my body.
Even buried in this baggy changpo robe, my natural curves wouldn't hide.
Dips where they should, swells a tad too generous where they shouldn't. Undeniably a woman's figure.
Hated how that bugged me, so I clicked my tongue.
Doesn't matter. Time to do the job.
I pulled a rolled-up paper from my bosom and unfurled it. An ugly mug sketched inside.
I scanned the inn's faces, diligently comparing them to the drawing.
"...What the hell's that bitch doing?" "Dunno. Lost her mind, boss?"
Lost my mind? This was legit work—my precious income source.
After checking one by one and giving up, I tossed the paper at the inn's crowd.
"So what?"
A gambler scowled irritably.
"A guy looking like this is in here. Drag him to me. You got ten seconds."
I spat a line straight out of some movie.
Pre-Murim, it'd be cinema. Here? Reality.
Ten, nine, eight, seven...
Too embarrassing to count aloud, so I timed it in my head—when someone crawled out.
The booze-guzzler from earlier, shaking his head to puff up his pride.
"You little bitch, your attitude's been cocky from the start. You know what kinda place this is?" "What else? A dump."
I glanced around.
Booze in daylight, gambling, fooling around...
"All the human trash gathered in one spot."
"What? You bitch?"
Hit a nerve with the truth.
Ever said it before? Murim speaks with swords before words.
Couldn't hold back for even a second—he grabbed a weird sword like a bakdo and charged.
Murim's average, right there.
Actually, this guy's better than most. Real trash pulls blades out of nowhere, no context.
Anyway, his hyped-up face closed in. His blade tip even faster.
Shaking like he had tremors.
Instant verdict: Not worth drawing my sword. Third-rate at best—barely worth the label.
I sidestepped slickly and kicked his blade.
Clang!
The bakdo spun through the air and stabbed into the gamblers' table.
Someone right in front of it hiccuped in terror.
The booze-charger stared, slack-jawed.
"M-Master!" "Yeah, that's me."
Short reply, then I straightened up.
I eyed the guy slumped on the floor, dumbly counting down.
This time, soft enough not to carry.
"Six, five, four, three..."
A guy watching my antics finally got it and snatched the dropped paper.
Then he hustled around tables, zealously matching faces.
"Not bad, huh?"
Liked his enthusiasm—let it slide past ten seconds.
"Hey, you fuck! Face up! The master's looking for ya! What's your deal? Got something to hide? Head up!"
The new face-matcher roamed the inn, barking orders.
Even slapping cheeks of guys he didn't like.
Anyone watching might think he was the master.
After circling a while, he hit a tough one.
"What the fuck's with you?"
No matter how much he yelled, one guy hunched stubbornly, shoulders tense, head tilted down.
Stubborn bastard. And dressed head-to-toe in black.
The matcher tried, gave up, shoved his head in to check the face.
"Deaf or crazy...? Huh? Think this is the guy?"
Really? Figured he looked suspicious from the start.
Step.
I walked to the table, took the paper back from the earlier loser.
The black-clad didn't twitch.
"This the one?" "Yup. Good work."
Praised him, and he grinned, backing off. Happy even after the beatdown.
Now, real work time.
I held the paper toward the black-clad and read aloud.
"Kidnapping, false imprisonment, murder's standard... even kids? Looks normal, but you've racked up a list."
Now I saw—black path of black paths.
Down at the bottom: 10 silver taels. Flashy, but just a bounty.
10 silver taels, damn.
That's months of play money for a commoner. Why I dragged my ass to this backwater inn.
One of my go-to ways to scrape by in Murim after crash-landing clueless.
"Know how much money's on your head?"
I muttered idly, drawing my sword from my waist.
No fancy name, just a cheap iron blade from the local smithy.
Still pissed thinking about the cash I blew on it.
Finally, he reacted.
Snort.
Mocking laugh.
"Knew it was you—an assassin?"
That deep bass was art. My voice only hit high notes, even whispering—no mimicking that.
Annoyed me, so I snapped curtly.
"Not an assassin. Just here to claim the bounty on trash like you."
"Just a ronin, then. Got me tense for nothing. Hiding your face in daylight's confusing."
Couldn't argue.
I was hiding it tight.
Bothered me, so I fiddled with the edge of my deeply pulled black bamboo hat, the attached black veil too.
Crafted meticulously—no angle showed my face.
Vision sucked, uncomfortable as hell, but this hat had guarded my purity for a year and a half. Grateful gear.
The heavy-set black-clad finally rose.
"Enough chit-chat. Down to business. Same goal for both of us, right?"
He drew his sword with a smirk.
I smirked back, small.
"Yeah. Drop the tough act and come at me, 10 silver taels."
Crack.
A vein bulged on his forehead.
Hm, this'll end quick. I leveled my dangling sword at him.