The café air felt heavy as he stepped out into the street.

  In his past life, cafés had been places filled with whispers, judgmental glances, or outright mockery. Not because of anything he did just because he existed in the wrong place, with the wrong presence, with nothing to offer.

  Now, people simply… looked through him.

  He paused by a nearby alley and exhaled slowly.

  The breath trembled.

  He didn’t mean for it to.

  But for some reason, he couldn’t breathe properly.

  Like his lungs forgot how to work.

  His chest felt tight, as if someone had tied a string around his ribs and pulled.

  Still, Lee Aseok didn’t allow himself to fall.

  He forced himself to move. Step by step.

  Back in his small room, he made it to the bed, dropped his bag on the floor, and collapsed without changing clothes.

  Sleep hit him like a wave.

  The dreams came again loud, bright and fragmented.

  Explosions, fire, metal tearing flesh. Screams he couldn’t place. A sword. A voice. Something reaching toward him, and then…

  He woke in the dark.

  His breath was cold against the windowpane. The room was silent except for the low hum of the computer.

  He sat there for a while, blinking slowly.

  Then without a word, he stood, ate a cup of instant ramen in silence, and returned to the screen. His rental was ending soon, and it was time to move.

  The next morning, he bought a warehouse near the western land.

  It wasn’t expensive. No one wanted property near abandoned zones, especially not in regions with frequent gate appearances. But that made it perfect.

  He ordered everything he needed—simple furniture, weeks’ worth of food, clean clothes, first aid kits, gate-related tools. Nothing too flashy, nothing with trackers or brand names.

  Delivery would be routed straight to the warehouse.

  He didn’t plan to leave much after that.

  By the next evening, Lee Aseok stood at the edge of the Western Border Zone.

  The city there had been abandoned for years. Apartment complexes stood like ghost towers, their windows shattered, metal railings rusted. Plants had overtaken the streets, ivy crawling up the walls, roots cracking through the pavement.

  There was no one in sight.

  A perfect haven for criminals, unregistered hunters, black-market traders.

  But even those people avoided this place.

  Because of the gates.

  Too many appeared here. Low-ranked, yes—but frequent enough to be unpredictable. And even a low-ranked gate could kill, given the right timing.

  Lee Aseok walked forward without hesitation.

  His steps didn’t falter.

  The streets were silent.

  No wind, no voices. Just the sound of Lee Aseok’s quiet footsteps over broken concrete and tangled roots. His worn shoes scraped across the cracked road as he moved deeper into the abandoned district, each step slow but unwavering.

  He didn’t check for monsters.

  Didn’t scan for mana fluctuations.

  Didn’t reach for a weapon.

  If something appeared… then it appeared.

  He simply didn’t care.

  The building he chose stood crooked—five stories high, leaning slightly to the side like it was tired of standing. One half had collapsed in a rainstorm years ago, but the stairwell on the east wing was intact.

  That was enough.

  Lee Aseok walked in without hesitation. The dust greeted him like an old friend. Broken glass, scraps of metal, a rusted pipe along the hallway. The air smelled like ash and forgotten time.

  He dropped his bag in the corner of the second floor. No furniture. No lights. But it was quiet.

  That was enough too.

  He didn’t bring a bed. No furniture. No signs of life to suggest company.

  That was the point.

  Instead, he had rented a warehouse on the outskirts—just outside the red zone boundary. That was where his supplies were delivered: food, tools, storage containers. From there, he could bring what he needed, piece by piece, without anyone noticing.

  No one came here.

  No one wanted to.

  Lee Aseok climbed the stairs slowly. Each step creaked under his weight, groaning like the bones of something long dead. He reached the rooftop balcony and pushed open the rusted door.

  There was no view.

  Just gray skies, collapsed buildings, and creeping vines that ate away at the edges of the concrete jungle.

  Nothing human in sight.

  Just silence.

  He stood there for a while.

  Then longer.

  Then longer still.

  And without warning, his body started to shake.

  For a whole month, he had kept still. Focused. Moved like a machine.

  He made plans. Bought land. Arranged deliveries. Set up new accounts. Watched numbers rise.

  He didn’t sleep much.

  Didn’t eat much.

  Didn’t feel anything.

  But now, with no one watching, with nothing left to do—

  the stillness began to crack.

  His knees gave out, and he sat on the cold rooftop, arms wrapped around his chest. His breathing trembled. His shoulders began to twitch. His teeth clenched, but his mouth didn’t open.

  No tears came.

  He didn’t cry.

  But the pain didn’t need tears to be real.

  A sharp ache bloomed in his chest—not from memory, but from the memory of pain itself.

  A wound that no longer existed, but still bled inside him.

  He could still feel it: the sound, the cold, the weight of that final moment pressing against his lungs.

  He dug his fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

  There was no one to see him.

  So he let it take over.

  After a few hours of lying motionless on the rooftop, Lee Aseok finally stirred.

  His eyes opened, dull and unfocused. No light reflected in them, just the dim gray of the overcast sky above. He didn't sigh, didn't stretch. He simply stood.

  One step at a time, he returned to the second floor. His limbs moved stiffly, like he was remembering how to exist again. He picked up the broom and resumed cleaning the old building, his body slow, his mind far away.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  He didn't speak.

  He didn’t think much either.

  He simply worked, and that was enough.

  It took him an entire week just to make the first floor of the abandoned building manageable. It wasn't spotless, but it was livable. Cobwebs gone. Dust mostly cleared. The hallway no longer smelled like mildew. He’d sealed off the rooms he didn’t need, and one room became his sleeping area, another for storing supplies, another for nothing at all.

  To his surprise, the electricity still worked. The water too.

  No one had gotten around to shutting it off in this forgotten district. Even the underground network cables were still active—likely too costly or dangerous to dismantle with the gate frequency in the area.

  For Lee Aseok, that was enough.

  He could still access the stock exchange.

  Still check numbers.

  Still earn in silence.

  When his food and water ran out, he made his way outside.

  There was an abandoned truck rusting by the side of the road. Miraculously, it still had fuel in the tank. He checked the engine. It coughed, sputtered—but started.

  That was all he needed.

  He drove to the warehouse quietly. No one noticed him, no one stopped him. The roads were cracked and empty.

  There, he gathered what he needed. Rice, water, canned soup, dry rations. Fuel cans. Spare clothes. Basic medicine.

  No luxuries. No weapons.

  Just what was necessary to keep existing.

  He returned to his shelter and resumed his cycle:

  Stock trading. Eating. Cleaning. Sleeping.

  And sometimes, not sleeping.

  Sometimes he would collapse suddenly, his mind pulled under by images he didn’t want. Moments from a past no one else remembered. He would wake up gasping, skin clammy, heart racing—only to find himself alone in a room of silence again.

  Nothing ever changed.

  Then one day, something did.

  He had gone outside to clear the front steps. Moss had begun growing along the entrance, tangled with wild roots and creeping vines. He had an old garden sickle in one hand, rusted but sharp enough for weeds.

  It was midday.

  The sky was quiet.

  Then—a shift.

  A soundless ripple passed through the air, like the drop of a stone into still water.

  Lee Aseok paused, the blade mid-swing.

  He turned his head.

  Fifty meters away, in the middle of the cracked street, the air twisted—folded in on itself like paper catching fire. A thin black line appeared, slicing reality open like a wound.

  Within seconds, the tear widened.

  A gate.

  A small one. Quiet. Unstable. Swirling with faint gray mist.

  He stared at it for a long time.

  The official sensors scattered throughout the country typically picked up gate energy signatures after 24 hours, giving the Hunter HQ time to dispatch scouts. If a gate wasn't cleared within seven days, it could break open, allowing monsters to flood into the world.

  Lee Aseok glanced at the faint glow from the gate.

  He could tell.

  Just by the texture of the air, the sound of the mana, the pressure under his skin—it was F-rank.

  No more, no less.

  It would be small. Weak. Manageable.

  He looked around.

  No witnesses. No patrols. No hunters.

  He looked around the empty street one last time, gripping the bent iron rod in his hand. His expression didn’t change. No tension, no fear. Just silence.

  He wasn’t here to play hero.

  He wasn’t here to test his strength.

  He just didn’t want the government or guild scouts detecting a gate signature in this zone and barging in—dragging noise and unwanted questions into his quiet.

  That was reason enough.

  Without hesitation, he stepped through.

  The air on the other side felt heavier, damp with mana.

  He arrived at the edge of a dilapidated village—rotten wooden fences, half-collapsed huts, and twisted trees with no leaves. The sky here was dim, purple-tinged, and hung with unmoving clouds.

  Within seconds, they came.

  Goblins.

  About half his height. Filthy green skin. Bone daggers. Crude armor.

  There were six of them. No warning. No sound.

  They lunged.

  Lee Aseok moved.

  His grip on the iron rod was solid. His steps were clean, not wasted. His movements weren’t flashy—but they were precise.

  A twist.

  A pivot.

  A clean strike to the jaw.

  The first goblin dropped before it even understood it was dying.

  He didn’t rely on strength.

  He didn’t rely on mana.

  What he relied on was something else, a body that remembered, even if the world didn’t.

  But it was a rusty body.

  A young body.

  Untrained. Unhardened.

  The next goblin nicked his arm. Another grazed his ribs. A shallow cut opened across his shoulder. But Lee Aseok didn’t flinch.

  He kept moving.

  One by one, the goblins fell.

  By the time he reached the center of the village, his shirt was torn, blood soaked into the fabric, and his breath was shallow—but his eyes were steady.

  Then the ground trembled.

  The boss appeared.

  It was taller than the rest—nearly twice his height, muscles bloated with mana. Its jagged blade was made of black stone, and its skin was thicker, armored with tribal markings carved into its chest and arms.

  Lee Aseok didn’t wait for it to speak. He dashed forward.

  The iron rod clashed against the black stone.

  He was faster, but the goblin boss was stronger.

  It slammed its blade down, and the ground cracked beneath Lee Aseok’s feet. He twisted out of the way, the wind of the strike slicing past his cheek. He didn’t panic. He didn’t shout.

  He moved with a calmness that didn’t match the situation.

  Not perfect, his foot slid wrong once, his shoulder jolted too hard from a block—but it was enough.

  He fought with purpose.

  The goblin boss let out a furious roar, but Lee Aseok slipped under its swing and drove the tip of the bent rod into its throat.

  The monster fell with a final gurgle.

  Lee Aseok stood there for a moment, catching his breath.

  His shirt stuck to his skin. Blood dripped down his arm. His body ached, unaccustomed to the strain—but he didn’t complain.

  He didn’t even sigh.

  Instead, he turned and made his way to the largest building in the village—a crumbling temple of sorts, draped in rotten banners and moss.

  Inside, just as he expected, there it was.

  The Core.

  A pulsing crystal, black and purple, hovering slightly above a broken stone altar.

  It hummed quietly, surrounded by faint flickers of gate energy.

  Lee Aseok approached it, steps slow.

  In the past, people had once tried to take these cores out of the gates. Curious researchers, greedy collectors. The first few times, they thought it was harmless.

  Then, days later, more gates began opening near the cores.

  At first, people thought it was a coincidence. Then the gates came faster. The monsters are more aggressive. The energy is unstable.

  Eventually, the truth came out.

  Dungeon cores were gate seeds.

  If not destroyed inside the gate, they would keep feeding mana into the world, creating new gates from nothing.

  It became law: kill the boss, then destroy the core. Always.

  But Lee Aseok didn't destroy it.

  He reached out.

  The moment his fingers touched the crystal, energy surged.

  Not violently, not painfully—just... deeply. Like something had been waiting.

  The core melted into light, then dust. Its fragments faded into the air, absorbed cleanly into Lee Aseok’s skin. The change was immediate. The faint, flickering thread of mana in his body—barely noticeable before—was now stronger. Denser. Alive.

  He stood still for a moment.

  Then looked down at his system window.

  Skill: ???

  A sigh escaped his lips.

  Of course.

  Of course it was still that.

  He had no idea what it meant, no information, no category. In his past life, he’d suffered through humiliations, experiments, and endless scorn with that question mark taunting him like a cosmic joke. He’d searched for meaning, for identity. For purpose.

  He didn't feel lucky.

  Lee Aseok walked outside.

  The gate behind him flickered, twisted in on itself, and vanished without sound.

  Just as gates always did.

  The cool wind of the western wasteland brushed past him, and he walked back into the ruined five-story building that served as his shelter.

  He dropped the bloodstained iron rod beside the entrance.

  Then peeled off his ruined shirt.

  His fingers paused.

  Most of the injuries—cuts across his ribs, bruises, muscle tears—were healing. Some had already vanished entirely. Not even a scar.

  The energy from the core. That was the only explanation.

  He stared at his reflection in a broken shard of glass leaning against the wall. The golden mark on his chest—the jagged remnant of something no one else could see or understand—glowed faintly, like a whisper of death that refused to let go.

  Alive.

  Somehow, still alive.

  Lee Aseok touched it, just once. Then let his hand drop.

  Inside the first-floor room he'd cleaned out, he stripped the rest of his clothes, washed off the goblin blood in silence, and put on a faded black T-shirt and pants that no longer quite fit his frame.

  He heated up one of the instant meals.

  It tasted like nothing.

  He chewed, swallowed, and stared at the cracked wall in front of him.

  He had thought about it.

  The end.

  Letting go.

  The idea had hovered in the back of his mind since the moment he realized he was breathing again in this world. It wasn’t fear that held him back.

  It was numb.

  A strange kind of detachment, like someone watching his life from behind a pane of glass. Like death would come one way or another—so why chase it?

  Still, part of him had made a decision:

  He wouldn’t kill himself.

  But if a monster came... and it was too strong... he wouldn’t resist.

  That was the compromise.

  That was what survival looked like, now.