Awakening

His body burned like a fireball. Every breath he drew in and exhaled scraped his lungs with scorching heat that climbed his throat and parched his lips.

"Hah, hah…."

In the very back seat of the bus, he leaned his head against the window, gasping raggedly. Cold sweat poured endlessly down his back, soaking his stretched-out old T-shirt.

"Excuse me, young man. Are you sick? Your breathing sounds really rough."

The middle-aged woman beside him leaned close, glancing over. Her tone held concern, but disgust was plain on her furrowed brow—like she was facing someone with a contagious disease.

Normally, he'd have bowed his head in apology and clamped his mouth shut.

It's the sign of awakening.

His heart pounded wildly. Amid the pain, euphoria bloomed. An orphanage kid, abandoned by unknown parents, left only with the name Kang Do-yoon.

This city bus was heading to the Hunter Bureau headquarters in Gangnam. Once he got his awakening test and official hunter registration card, this wretched sewer of a life would end.

Even bottom-tier F-rank was fine. Hauling luggage or butchering monster corpses for byproducts paid dozens of times more than backbreaking brick-carrying day labor. He'd finally live like a human.

Just a bit longer. Hold on just a little more. He clenched his fists, steadying his fading consciousness.

Screeeeech—!! Then it happened. A tire screech that tore at his eardrums rocked the bus violently.

"Argh!" "What the—! Driver!"

The bus slammed on its brakes and swerved; inertia hurled bodies forward helplessly.

"Guh!"

He too smashed his head into the seatback before he could grab the safety bar, tumbling into the aisle.

BOOOOM—!! A world-shattering roar hammered his eardrums next.

Flat on the floor, he painfully lifted his bloodied head. Through the shattered windshield, the sight ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠made him doubt his eyes.

Dead center in the road. Where cars had sped along the eight-lane asphalt moments ago, a massive rift cradling a black abyss now floated in midair, the pavement ripped like paper.

A gate…? His heart plummeted. A dungeon had opened.

"Aaaah!" "Help! M-monsters!!"

Silence shattered; hell unfolded in seconds.

From the black fissure crawled no fairy-tale cuties. Hideous orcs, easily over two meters tall.

They crushed street cars like kids' toys with brute force, charging panicked people.

Steel frames crumpled like foil; bones inside snapped audibly.

"Gruaaagh!"

A massive orc, scenting blood, burst into the bus.

Run. Get out! Survival instinct screamed in his head, but his fevered body from awakening heat wouldn't obey.

Just a bit farther. His hand could reach the rear emergency lever.

SPLAT—!

"Guhk…."

Suddenly, a sickening rupture from behind—like thick meat pierced roughly.

His vision spun; breath stopped. His chest—no, his whole body—turned chillingly cold.

Trembling, he looked down. Jabbing ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠through his torn T-shirt, piercing his left chest and protruding out: a thick, bluish iron spear tip.

Blood from his body dripped from the blade.

Ah…. Strangely, no pain. Nerves probably shut down from shock.

"Kuhk, cough…."

Before his eyes, gray asphalt gleamed with cold raindrops.

So… my life ends like this. Memories flashed like a montage.

Orphanage beatings from the director for no reason, gritting teeth through tears as a kid. And just now, that fragile, brilliant hope he'd first harbored en route to the Hunter Bureau.

Unfair. Infuriatingly, maddeningly unfair.

He'd just felt awakening signs, grasped a chance to live humanely in this dogshit world, lavishly even.

Thick, destructive mana from the dungeon swirled around him, paradoxically igniting the awakening energy writhing inside.

Ding-.

A cheery, alien mechanical tone rang; a translucent blue holographic system window floated over his bloodied retinas.

…Blacksmith? Revival? He swallowed pooled blood, chuckling absurdly. Awakening right before death by pierced heart. What timing. And blacksmith, plus revival?

If only… you'd given it sooner, you damn system…. He closed his heavy eyes. That was his last memory as Korea's dirt-poor orphan Kang Do-yoon.

Thud. Thud.

Rhythmic jolts of wood grinding roughly battered his ears.

I… definitely died. He forced open heavy lids.

A pristine, vast night sky—like untouched primordial nature.

Thud—! Thump! His body bounced high then slammed, shaking violently.

"Arrrrgh…!" Ax-splitting headache crashed like a tidal wave.

Someone's life, vast memories, flooded his brain violently, one-sidedly, churning his mind.

Nameless orphan. Parents starved in famine; sold for two sacks of millet to a caravan shuttling Xu Province, lived as slave-like porter lifelong.

And just today at noon.

Mountain path ambush: dozens of bandits in yellow turbans howling, slaughter everywhere.

Protecting silk and goods on cart, gutted deep by rusty blade, entrails spilling in terror—that moment.

What are these alien memories? Xu Province? Bandit horde? Yellow Turbans? Memories of modern Korea's gutter-crawler Kang Do-yoon fused perfectly with ancient China's nameless porter Aman's in his head.

"Hey, watch the cart! Wheel's snagging rocks! If the bodies we just picked up fall off, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you taking responsibility?!"

A thick, gruff voice from the front.

"Damn Yellow Turban remnants. Rat bastards with nothing but poison left—five caravan hands died pointless today. Already short-handed to the next gate; this sucks."

Torch-bearing guards patrolled front and rear, wary.

Slowly, very slowly, he looked down at his body. Abdomen crudely wrapped in dirty cloth to staunch blood.

He lifted the cloth slightly.

No pain.

Memory: deep cross-slash, guts nearly spilling. Now? Flawless skin, new flesh perfectly healed, no scar.

Ding-.

Blue flash in air; translucent holographic text overlaid his retina again.

The brief blue text faded with a glow trail.

That status window before death on the bus floor. He'd possessed a porter slain by a sword in what seemed Three Kingdoms' Xu Province.

Thanks to his Hidden Skill: Revival, the already-dead porter Amman's body miraculously healed its fatal wound, housed his soul, and restarted its heart.

Daily shoulder-grinding loads, choking down tears over one rice ball and salt water sip in gratitude, beast-like existence ending pathetically under bandit's blade like bundled straw.

Amid corpses, he clenched his fist. Nails digging palms jolted him awake.

I'm alive. Not the powerless dirt-poor Kang Do-yoon shredded like meat by dungeon beasts without a fight. Reborn in this hellish chaos with hunter system—supernatural power in his chest.

This life, he wouldn't die like a dog. Deep breath; iron will surged inwardly.

[Opening Status Window.]

A wry smile crept over his lips scanning the status. Utterly mediocre—no, embarrassingly pathetic for an awakener.

Strength 10, Stamina ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠50? Barely tougher than average modern adult male—suited for manual labor, nothing more.

Head-on with those ahead—fierce caravan guards oozing killing intent, sword hilts ready? His head would fly in one stroke.

Three Kingdoms era: humans wielded superhuman might beyond imagination.

But his gaze fixated on the bottom line.

Subspace Opening. And forge. Costs 5 mana—all he had—for just 5 minutes in unknown dimension.

Even in a might-makes-right chaos, this system-granted power was his sole, absolute weapon for a penniless porter to survive.

5 minutes. What I craft inside, how I use this subspace—that decides if I live.

Mind racing calculations done, amid cart's foul blood-rot stench, he slowly, silently sat up.

Throat desert-dry from death's door, but blood-drained lips curved in the same cool, faint smile from his final modern moments.

Rustle-.

Straw shifted as he moved.

"Uh… u-ugh! Gho-ghost!!"

A young caravan hand checking rear wheel spotted him—bloodied corpse pile amid pale moonlight, sitting bolt upright, staring down. He shrieked, ass-planting backward.

Clamor drew guards cursing, torches high, rushing over.

"What's the racket?! Enemy attack?!"

Flickering red torchlight starkly lit his cold face atop the corpse cart.

Guards paled like they'd seen ghosts, hands trembling toward sword hilts. To them, unwavering calm voice, lips parted—his first words in this world.

"Put away your swords. I'm not dead."

From modern gutter orphan Kang Do-yoon to Three Kingdoms awakener Aman. Amid acrid blood, his second life raised its curtain.