Chapter 2
Chapter 2
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 2
Chapter Title: Tutorial
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Yeah, my regression was a total bust.
But the important thing is an unyielding spirit.
I decided not to follow in the footsteps of rookie regressors who panic after dropping into another world.
Alright, so it's the Joseon era, huh.
In that case, I've seen a few things. They definitely build up an army and conquer Manchuria...
But once my eyes, accustomed to the darkness, started making out the people's faces, my train of thought ground to a halt.
I couldn't help but suspect this wasn't a fantasy world that just resembled Joseon in terms of clothing, food, and shelter—it had to be the real deal.
What the hell are these guys?
Their clothes were definitely hanbok. But their appearances were utterly bizarre.
They had vaguely East Asian features, but more than half had their hair down and unkempt. Some wore gat hats, but they were all dented and torn—none in decent shape.
One guy was covered in foul-smelling filth, while another reeked of what had to be booze, completely soaked in it.
Not everyone was like that, though. Some looked relatively put-together. Which meant, if this was Joseon, "put-together" was a relative term.
And one of them stepped forward, all too eagerly.
"Hey! Why are you dawdling like this? Hurry up and tie them already!"
I recalled the "Language Synchronization" from the status window I'd glimpsed earlier. The accent and pronunciation were pretty foreign, but aside from that, I understood every word perfectly.
The problem was that those words weren't exactly friendly toward me.
At his command, a guy next to him came out grinning, rope in hand. Torchlight flickered across his face.
He wasn't normal either.
His face was smeared with some weird black stuff, like ink or paint—maybe some kind of ritual? And wait... Is that guy not wearing pants?
This wasn't the look of humans—it was more like monsters. Which left only one conclusion. I racked my brain at lightning speed.
Gangsters? No, armed robbers? Given the era, bandits maybe?
Didn't it say "tutorial" earlier? Was "go home" code for "escape safely to your house"?
A wave of crisis hit me. Time to show my otherworld adaptation skills here.
I didn't know if they were bandits, avant-garde artists, or a gang of lunatics. Their surreal getups made me wonder if they were supernatural beings, but I decided not to go there.
About six or seven steps to my side, there were several sticks propped up like they'd been placed there just for someone to grab. To avoid getting caught, I dropped into a crawl and scurried over.
"W-what's that guy doing?"
Panicked shouts erupted from all around. Ah, you Joseon folks don't know? This is guerrilla warfare.
The mood in the crowd felt awkwardly off, but I didn't have time to notice. My pulse raced all the way to my fingertips.
Stay calm. Knock out one guy, then bolt while they're stunned.
Rational enough that I wanted to pat myself on the back.
But like most rational plans, the issue was that neither my mind nor body could keep up.
My heart pounded like mad, my vision narrowed. Tension made it feel like my eyes were bulging out.
Let me say this upfront: I've never killed anyone, not even hit them.
In the end, my actions looked way uglier than my thoughts.
I let out a yell closer to a scream and swung the stick wildly. It cracked right into the head of the guy in front of me—the one with the rope who'd approached me.
"Ack!"
Luckily, he wasn't some tough bandit. He dropped the rope, clutched his head, and rolled on the ground.
Now it was time to run. But a thought flashed through my mind.
Where to?
To finish the tutorial, it said go home. Which implied "I" had a home.
But where was it?
The answer to that—and to everything else I hadn't even thought of—came crashing in violently via the status window that popped up in front of me again.
What?
Oh.
It was such a shock that all I could muster was a dumb reaction like that.
Information flooded in like a torrent. It felt like recovering everyday memories in an instant after the hazy state of a deep, vivid dream. Experiences and sensations poured in all at once.
Kim Unhaeng... The name from the status window?
At the same time, I fully understood what those "bandits" were yelling.
"How dare that punk swing a stick in front of his seniors, oblivious to heaven and earth?"
"You can already tell this guy's no good—he hasn't even passed the literary exam!"
"Traitors' blood doesn't lie. Beat him senseless and teach him a lesson!"
I swallowed hard. My hand still gripped the stick, but I had no intention of swinging it again.
Partly because I'd figured out who they were, but mostly for another reason.
Memories are a key part of one's identity. As Kim Unhaeng, the fresh Joseon scholar who'd lived 18 years to stand here, I simply couldn't do it.
The ethics and conduct that Kim Unhaeng had rigorously learned forbade such "utter nonsense."
I dropped the stick.
But it was already too late.
(I realized this later, but) Amid my fellow newbies staring in horror as they endured beatings with clubs, ink smeared on their faces, booze poured on their heads, and being force-fed shit and piss—every kind of abuse imaginable—the status window kindly delivered a message.
Was there a "hellish difficulty" warning in the terms? Why is the tutorial this messed up?
The initiation ritual was, of course, a disaster. The moment someone astutely mentioned "it's getting too late," people muttered excuses and scattered.
A few growled at me about seeing if I'd survive somewhere, but since I was originally an outsider to this society, it didn't scare me much.
Hard to imagine, but if I had to do military service twice over, wouldn't I handle the drill instructors and seniors more flexibly than freezing like a frog in front of a snake? It felt like that.
I walked through the quiet government compound, torchlight flickering.
I already knew from Kim Unhaeng's memories that newbie officials wandering for their initiation were implicitly exempt from the night curfew, so I wasn't worried about that.
What concerned me was something else.
Even as a history major, I don't know history all that well.
Not because I slacked off—it's just how it is.
At least for the "history" people think of—chronological facts of when what happened—non-majors aren't much different. Like how not every math student's mental math crushes the average person's.
If I had to name a history major's edge, it's two things.
We know "what we don't know." And we can connect what we hear that we don't know to what we do.
Initiation Ritual for New Officials, huh.
So that means I've been assigned to an office. Their talk about the literary exam probably meant I got in via appointment.
Thinking that woman who made me a civil servant meant this made my blood pressure spike.
Anyway, she kept her promise.
And right after, I smashed that free official post with a single stick.
But could I have done otherwise?
Those guys didn't look like proper officials anywhere you sliced it. They were a corrupt pack from a twisted plague pit. In the 21st century, cops would've tased first and asked questions never. I was just exercising self-defense.
Truth is, for Kim Unhaeng's family, that petty post wasn't much loss. We weren't mega-powerful or filthy rich due to political ups and downs, but we wouldn't starve.
I could lament the rotten scholars of the world in a poem and hole up reading books—the whole world would applaud.
But I couldn't do that, and that's what pissed me off.
Why not?
I'd just figured it out.
No CCTV or dashcams in this era—super convenient. I spat curses and kicked a dirt wall by the Seowon village road.
Then I pulled up what I'd seen on the way.
The status window ruthlessly displayed the unchanged "terms."
That wish was already set.
If it were two wishes instead of one, I'd have demanded that woman's head—and her whole company, guess that's what to call it—on a silver platter. But first priority: back to the 21st century.
The crucial part came next—not the rewards, but the penalties.
The terms I'd agreed to without thinking helpfully explained what happens if you "fail" an objective.
At this point, I wanted to close it.
But human psychology is to fearfully peek anyway, so I relived the line that had already traumatized me.
Do souls even exist?
If they do, can they perish?
If so, what do they plan to do with an unkillable soul?
These questions bubbling up were really just defenses.
To forget the terror of that clause, my mind kept trying to cram it into my common sense.
And like the first time I saw it, the second attempt failed too.
This was attempt number two. With the shock somewhat faded, the fear was sharper. Even a straight-up "die" threat would've been better.
Unable to take more, I opted for escape first.
"...To see the main goal or whatever, I gotta finish the tutorial. Let's head home."
Thinking more would drive me insane. Not the insanity itself, but the consequences if I offed myself in madness—that terrified me more.
I desperately steadied my mind and started walking.
One small comfort: the path to that modest tiled house I'd never seen in Korea felt as familiar and comforting as my childhood walk home.
Because it was my home.
3. First Mission (1)