Chapter 7
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: MadScientist
Chapter: 7
Chapter Title: Herb Gatherer Han Seo-ah
-----------------------------------------------------------------
That's how the human heart works.
The more you try to forget something, the more it sticks in your mind.
You think, "I should sleep," and sleep evades you.
You vow, "I'm gonna make today count!" and end up passing out. That's the mystery of humanity.
So on the way back, I tried my best to erase the scene I'd just witnessed.
Witnessing someone's death. It wasn't my first time, actually.
This made twice already.
'The first time, I couldn't leave the house for three days...'
Back then, it was a slime devouring something with its leg—not neck—severed.
Still... I thought I'd gotten somewhat used to it.
'Nope. What an idiot.'
The goblin's yellowish teeth still loomed before my eyes.
'Pathetic.'
The woman's severed head dangling from its waist.
A chill raced down my spine as I recalled locking eyes with those vacant pupils.
What if I hadn't put distance between us?
Or if I hadn't biked here, leaving my leg muscles even slightly less fatigued?
Just imagining it made my knees buckle.
Bad thoughts kept creeping in.
Clunk-.
My pedaling legs felt like mushy cotton balls.
I pulled my hat down low and twisted the throttle.
Whirr-.
The motor's hum drowned in the whipping wind past my ears.
The bike path along the Han River bank.
Normally, I'd enjoy the cool river breeze, but right now it just lashed at my sweat-chilled back like a switch.
My first stop wasn't home.
A rundown commercial building about two kilometers from the gate.
A container box with no sign—just a tacky sticker reading "Herbs / Buyouts."
This was the shop of the merchant I'd been dealing with for the past three months.
Screech-.
I parked my bike out front.
Faint light leaked through the glass door.
Ting-a-ling-.
As I opened the door, a musty herbal stench hit me.
Dried mugwort, moldy wood, and unidentifiable chemical odors mingled into a bizarre aroma.
"Dust Grandpa."
"You're here."
A raspy voice came from the dim counter in the corner.
An old man dozing off with his head nodding over an old newspaper.
Stubborn-looking, with gray hair roughly combed back. The owner.
Park Chun-sik by name.
But because of his dusty shop, I called him Dust Grandpa.
He glanced at me over his reading glasses and let out a huge yawn.
"You're late today. Sun's high in the sky already."
"......I barely escaped with my life."
I thudded my backpack onto the counter.
A heavy thunk echoed.
With the weight off my shoulders, I could finally breathe.
"Barely escaped? Sheesh, such a drama queen."
Grandpa clicked his tongue and stood, deftly unbuckling my bag with practiced hands.
"What could kill you at the entrance of an F-rank gate? Trip over a rock or something?"
"A goblin."
"What?"
His rummaging hands froze.
"Goblin? That's slime territory. No way you went into the swamp."
"It burst out thirty minutes from the entrance. With a human head dangling from its waist."
"Hoo...".
Dust Grandpa's eyes narrowed.
He stroked his chin beard thoughtfully, then shook his head.
"Bad luck. Either a straggler from territorial infighting or trouble deeper in."
"Thanks to it, I bolted without filling the bag."
"Figures. Felt lighter than usual."
He flipped the bag, dumping its contents.
Crash-.
Soil-crusted herbs and junk spilled across the counter.
"Lightweight haul, but decent yield."
Mossy mushrooms, dried lizard tails, red ant egg sacs, and the low-grade mana herbs I'd dug up this morning.
To my eyes, blue price tags floated above them all.
Name: Low-grade Mana Herb
Value: 35,000 won
Name: Red Ant Egg Sac
Value: 12,000 won
The owner adjusted his magnifiers and began sorting the items.
Quick hands.
He separated the valuable from the junk like a pro.
"This one's in bad shape. Leaves are wilted."
"Blame the sprint home. Doesn't affect potency."
"Hurts marketability. Tsk. And what's this? Rusty coin? Take that to a museum, not here. We deal in herbs."
"You take junk too. We've done this a few times..."
"Not my specialty. Ten thousand won."
"Collectors go nuts for it. Fifty thousand minimum."
"Heh, tiny thing knows her stuff."
"Gotta fleece the marks!"
He grumbled but didn't dismiss me.
Over three months, he'd learned my hauls weren't BS.
This old man was picky, but his math was spot-on.
Best part: no nonsense questions.
Like where a little kid like me found this stuff, or if I had a party with good spots.
Short stature draws suckers trying to rip me off.
But with him, it was just goods and cash.
Clean business.
Tap, tap, tap.
His calculator clicks built a wall between us.
I grabbed a paper cup from the water purifier by the counter and filled it.
Gulp, gulp.
Lukewarm water soothed my burning thirst a bit.
"Done."
He spun the calculator toward me.
The number on the screen.
[4,150,000]
"Four million, one hundred fifty thousand won. We'll round down the last digits to four million, one hundred thousand."
"Grandpa."
I crumpled the cup and tossed it in the trash.
"Can't you see the state I'm in? Chased by a goblin, nearly wore through my shoe soles, and you're haggling five thousand off?"
"Gotta make a living. You think sorting and cleaning these is free?"
"Egg sac's top condition. You know how much trouble I went to without bursting it? Check the mana herb roots—no dirt shaken off. Plant 'em in culture soil, and they'll last a week."
I pushed hard.
And I was right, of course.
The Status Window doesn't lie!
But in this game, absolute truth gets you slapped—
So haggling was essential.
He stared, then burst out laughing.
"Tough cookie. Where do you get that grit?"
"Gotta eat to live."
"Fine, fine. Four-one-five. Full amount."
He tapped his terminal.
Beep-.
My pocket smartphone buzzed briefly.
I checked the screen.
Deposit: 4,150,000 won (Park Chun-sik)
The moment I saw the number, my lips twitched upward uncontrollably.
A dopamine rush flooding my brain.
The fear and fatigue from moments ago melted away like snow.
This is why I hunt.
4.15 million won.
More than an office worker's monthly salary—in half a day.
No taxes deducted either.
The government encouraged primary gathering in the gate industry with a full tax exemption on non-hunting sales like this.
Dubbed the "Mud Rat Tax Haven."
Sure, cheap for risking your life, but beggars can't be choosers for small fry like me.
"Thanks, Grandpa."
I bowed politely.
The one paying is always big brother—or dad.
"Grandpa earlier, huh."
"That was then."
"Get going before I jinx it."
The owner shooed me with his hand.
I slung my lighter backpack and headed for the door.
Then, as if remembering, I stopped and turned back.
"Oh, right. Grandpa."
"What now? Forget something?"
"Did you find it?"
"Find what?"
"Afterimage Flower. I asked last time—don't sell any you get, save 'em for me."
His face scrunched up.
He wrinkled his nose and tsked.
"You think it's convenience store gum? Rare stuff we can't sell out of."
"C'mon, three months now. Dig through wholesalers, something's gotta turn up."
"They do turn up. Problem's your price. Four million? Auctions are over six lately."
"Pfft, that's bubble pricing. Traders know direct deals hit four-fifty."
"That's for quick sales! Who dumps Afterimage Flower in a hurry?"
Afterimage Flower.
A rare bloom infused with mana.
Boosts reaction speed massively short-term, promotes fast-twitch muscle fibers long-term.
A must-have doping item for hunters where split-second agility is life or death.
Especially for paper-thin physical specs like mine.
I felt it bone-deep fleeing that goblin earlier.
'Almost fucked up.'
A bit more speed, and twenty minutes running becomes ten.
Goblins can tell if they can catch prey or not.
"I really need it. What if I have to bolt like today again? You lose a regular if I die."
"Nobody pushed you into danger. Stay out of risky spots."
"Gotta risk it for the money."
"You'll die young chasing cash."
"Tch..."
"Bring the dough. Don't skimp. Guys who earn big..."
"...If one root did the trick, I'd have bought it ages ago."
Auction price at six hundred thousand.
Not impossible with my earnings.
But the issue—
'I'm a supporter.'
Even swallowing the same elixir, my gains lag pathetically behind enhancers or manifesters.
'Need at least ten roots for real effect.'
F-rank gates are fine now.
Goblins were a freak outlier—not everyday.
No plans to gather forever.
Save steady, hit big later.
"Forget it. I shouldn't have said anything."
The owner grumbled but rummaged in his drawer anyway.
My eyes sparkled with hope.
But he pulled out a single mint candy.
"Here. Suck on this and scram. I'll call if stock comes in."
"......You're useless."
"What? This brat's got some nerve. You know my years in this game?!"
"All that tenure, no goods to show. Fine, I'll shop around."
I pouted and took the candy.
"Anywhere else, you won't even see one under five hundred! I'm cutting you a deal 'cause you're regular."
An indignant shout chased me out.
I just waved without looking back and left.
Ting-a-ling-.
Back outside.
Afternoon sun blazed dazzlingly.
Delivery trucks and scooters zipped along the street.
Peaceful daily life.
A world apart from the monster-chased forest moments ago.
I plopped onto the bike seat.
4.15 million won.
Solid numbers in my pocket.
"Maybe order some chi-bop..."
Shower at home, blast the AC.
Chicken mayo rice bowl and a beer can—perfect.
Then flop in bed, binge overdue webnovels. Pure heaven.
But.
My hand gripped the handlebars, unmoving.
My gaze kept drifting back toward the gate.
'Goblin.'
Its status window.
[Status: Excited, Murderous Intent]
[Note: Separated from Group]
Not a casual stroll.
The head at its waist.
Hunting trophy.
Someone died.
Probably a whole party.
For a beginner gate like Jamsil, goblin packs wiping parties isn't normal.
Glitchy respawns?
Or mutants?
'Not my problem.'
I shook my head.
Report it?
Crappy bounty, messy process.
Hunter deaths in gates mean that.
Plus, reporters can get screwed.
[XX died! I saw it with my own eyes!]
Say that straight, and you get grilled in investigation.
[Did you kill 'em?]
[Fuck—why would I report it if I did?!]
[Loot and bounty, duh.]
Like not turning in a found wallet—cash vanishes, good intentions backfire.
More deaths or issues, they'll investigate themselves.
Meanwhile, blind rookies picnic in and get throats slit...
'Nah, why worry about others?'
My own nose is three feet long.
Hard enough surviving solo.
Best to go home, wash feet, crash.
Reason said so.
But.
'Feels off.'
Chest tight like I'd stuffed a hundred sweet potatoes in.
That dead woman's eyes kept surfacing.
What if no report means another death tomorrow?
Could I handle that guilt?
"Haaa... Han Seo-ah. You're such a sweet potato. You know that?"
This wasn't my original personality...
Blame Han Seo-ah, this body's previous owner.
Timid, cowardly.
Hikikomori who loves people and wears heart on sleeve.
Not me—I was a real man in my past life!
Reluctantly, I pedaled toward the Hunter Association.