“12 million won?”
A handful of gold coins, roughly the weight of a smartphone, came together.
The price per unit is no joke.
I brought about half that weight, and it’s priced like this.
Higher than the gold market rate I checked online?
I was shocked at the high offer, but the old shop owner, thinking I might haggle for being lowballed, preemptively shuts down bargaining.
I did my research beforehand, and for this weight, that price is about right.
I was planning to discount it by about 10%, maybe 15% at most, just in case.
Is the gold price higher than expected or something?
“No, it’s good. I’ll sell.”
“Cash, right?!”
“Cash? Yeah, that’s fine.”
I was a bit flustered but tried to act calm, like it wasn’t my first time selling.
I couldn’t ask for 12 million on a card since I don’t have a card reader.
Telling him to do a bank transfer feels off—he looks like the type to walk to the Nonghyup branch.
Plus, I’m paranoid about the bank or financial authorities questioning where I suddenly got this money.
The owner opens the safe and pulls out actual stacks of cash.
Then he puts them in a bag.
“Check it and take it.”
A merchant wouldn’t take a loss, right?
I’d figured I’d go to a pawnshop in the red-light district, default on a loan, and dump it for whatever appraisal they’d give.
But instead of a pawnshop, I went to an old gold shop in the traditional market with a “Gold Purchase” sign.
And I got a hefty amount of cash.
I took two stacks, and the owner’s counting the third, skimming some off.
“Is it okay to trade like this?”
“What’s the problem? There’s goods, money, a buyer, and a seller—that’s a deal. Who needs to know?”
“I thought gold was tracked internationally, like how many tons each country has.”
“Crematorium workers sometimes take gold teeth if they’re not claimed, and computer shop guys bring in stuff like this too.”
“Can I count it?”
“Go ahead.”
It’s my first time holding stacks of cash.
Less shiny than gold, but full of Lady Shin Saimdang.
I checked closely for fakes, and it seems legit.
I sold it, but I’ve got another handful of gold coins at home.
There’s gold scattered from a 50-liter trash bag.
With this money, I can cover two years of rent and utilities and hit 1.5% of the cash needed to buy a studio.
Since I have that much gold again, selling it would get me to 3%.
“Ghoul necromancer, you bastard… come back.”
I’m now hoping for another corpse wave.
The pain and hatred have faded, replaced by longing.
Later, I might even say, “At least that guy left gold…”
On my excited way back, I ran into Room 202 in front of my studio.
Room 202 was carrying a well-packed sandwich set from a nearby shop.
I find those sandwiches too veggie-heavy, so I get the longest bread or pick two flavors.
Room 202, with a small appetite, didn’t skip the cookies—there are different-sized packets in the plastic bag.
Probably a set menu.
The drink’s zero-sugar cola, too.
“Uh.”
“Oh, hi.”
“Uh, yeah.”
Why hide it?
It’s hot with cicadas chirping, but she’s sweating coldly, hiding the sandwich bag behind her waist.
I was about to pass by with a greeting, but Room 202 hesitates, then…
“That uh.”
She finally tears the tape sealing the white bag to pull out the cookie from the sandwich set.
Is she offering it?
She was planning to eat it happily alone but saw me carrying food.
Did she think I’d share again since I’ve done it twice before?
To appease that, she’s offering a cookie but hesitates because it’s tasty and decides to hide it instead.
I’m not eating it.
She’s waffling, so I cut in.
“You went to the sandwich shop? What flavor? Did they have chocolate chip cookies? Those are good.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, I think so.”
“I should go too. I’ll get two.”
I’ve got rice from RiceCookerMan left, but I’m saving Room 202 from her awkwardness.
We’re not deskmates; it’s not like, “You’re eating alone? No loyalty.”
At school, girls often bring snacks like Sweety and share with friends.
I’ve gotten some before.
They gave me Sweety, then pulled the miraculous investment tactic of asking me to buy ice cream.
Finally, Room 202 drops the anxious “Do I have to share?” look and says,
“They’re having a sale on steak and cheese.”
“Oh, cool.”
Suddenly, I’m eating a steak and cheese sandwich.
I’ll cut it in half and put different sauces on each.
“You all better now?”
Her out-of-nowhere concern throws me off.
“Huh? Oh.”
Come to think of it, her voice carries, so mine must too.
“It wasn’t on purpose, but I heard you in pain, cursing and all.”
“Yeah, I was pretty sick.”
“Want to wear a rosary?”
“What? No, it’s not like that.”
“No weird noises?”
She hears them too?
“Nah, I don’t hear much.”
“Okay, anyway, go in. Oh, uh.”
“Yeah?”
“The sikhye was good. Does your mom make traditional stuff like that?”
I made it, you punk.
“No, I made it.”
“Huh? Oh, uh, you don’t make it again?”
“I’ll give you some if I do.”
Anyway, I came back with a subway sandwich.
And I let out the joy I’d been holding back.
“I’m ri…ch, damn it!”
I was about to throw the cash stacks and yell, “I’m rich,” but realizing the soundproofing sucks, I started with “ri” and switched to a key word.
I hear Room 202’s voice, faintly judgmental.
“He’s lost it.”
“Guh, hahaha.”
I clutched my mouth to stifle the bursting joy.
No good comes from letting people know you’re rich.
Of course, I didn’t stop tossing the loosely tied 2 million won stacks.
I want to save for a studio, but, “A fan, at least… You worked hard. Time to graduate.”
I’ve got cash now.
And I heard new fans are safe, without blades.
So, I’ll limit-break the fan.
A flyswatter’s impact is low, but a summer fan packs a punch.
For cooling, air conditioners are king, but I’m not rich enough to ignore electricity bills.
<limit-breaking equipment>
I closed my eyes and pressed it.
<limit break successful>
<limit break successful. the following skills can be used through this equipment:>
<super wind>
<ultra super wind>
<mega ultra super wind>
“Huh?”
Beyond breeze, low, and high, the fan now has Super Wind, Ultra Super Wind, and Mega Ultra Super Wind.
I wasn’t expecting the fan to detach its blades and fight like boomerangs.
Super Wind, Ultra Super Wind, Mega Ultra Super Wind—I can guess what they do.
But with no explanation, I’m not sure how to activate them.
“Just high wind?”
I pressed various buttons, but nothing changed.
Then I hit the breeze button, which was a bit loose, creaking, and as I brushed it like a touch, <casting super wind> came up, and it started making a crazy noise.
Whiiiiiiiiir, whiiiiir.
“What? No, stop!”
Everything in my room in the fan’s path flies and sticks to the front door.
The locked door shakes, and all the shoes in front of it plaster to it.
The wind doesn’t just shoot straight—it ricochets off walls, nearly tearing my BTS bromides and wallpaper.
“Turn off, off!”
I panicked trying to hit low, but I managed to turn the timer to shut it off.
The shoes flew?
The door took a beating.
“Then Ultra Super Wind…”
No way.
Seeing the door shake like that,
if it’s enough to rattle a door that solid, how much stronger is Ultra Super Wind?
I don’t want to imagine the outcome, so I left it alone.
This studio’s too cramped for such strong power.
High wind’s enough, but Super Wind and beyond? Better use it somewhere else.
***
The necromancer regenerates, though.
“Ugh, this is all I’ve got left.”
It regenerated up to half its head.
Rolling with just a head is tough, but it still had one arm.
With that arm, the necromancer crawled.
The bumpy floor gave it something to grip.
“Just one corpse. A giant’s corpse… I’ll get that bastard.”
The more body it lost, the weaker its regeneration, so dying again would be tough.
But it just needs one corpse.
The moment it gets a corpse, the ghoul necromancer doesn’t need its own restoration.
By making part of the corpse its body, it can function long-term, like a transplant.
They’re the kind who can use skills to revive the dead.
For them, getting a prosthetic arm, leg, or new body is possible with an empty corpse.
But the journey to find that corpse was far too long.
“What is this black desert?”
Beyond the dungeon, this world was too vast and hot.
The black, scorching desert showed no signs of ending.
Occasionally, natural phenomena spewed black smoke, passing by and casting large shadows.
Too short to be night, too hot to be shade.
Crunch.
“Oh.”
In front of the ghoul necromancer, crawling with one arm, a massive beast appeared.
With only one small eye, it couldn’t fully see the world, but this beast was a rat, one it had seen in the other world.
A specimen large enough to be called a monster rat.
The rat stared at the ghoul necromancer, with just one arm and head, and shoved its snout forward.
“No, no! Gah, aaagh!”
The rat devoured the ghoul necromancer deliciously.
The familiar sewer stench must’ve made its mouth water.
Since eating cheese with parsley-like green specks on greasy pizza box paper, this was the best taste yet.
And then,
“Squeak!?”
A glint shone in the rat’s eyes.
It stood on its hind legs.
Its filthy tail, as if stimulated, stood upright.
Its front teeth sharpened, and its body turned into solid, un-rat-like muscle.
The rat’s gaze fell on a black rubber cord its siblings died chewing.
The cord, used to sharpen their teeth to adulthood, sparked.
Killing siblings widened its territory, a welcome outcome, but now it felt it could snap this weird black cord that killed when chewed.
Zzzzt.
“Squeak!”
A thrilling jolt hit.
The rat, too low in intelligence to analyze, had felt this addictive shock before.
A message about gaining the lightning attribute flashed clearly before its crazed eyes.