Taesung didn't mean to go looking for trouble.
He just needed a job.
The store had cut his hours again. Mr. Han mumbled something about seasonal downturns, but Taesung could tell it wasn't personal. Half the part-timers were getting their schedules gutted. No one bought gloves in late winter anyway.
So he did what broke people did: searched job boards, refreshed apps, scrolled listings until everything blurred together. Manual labor. Delivery runs. Warehouse lifting. He applied to twenty. Got ghosted by fifteen. The other five wanted certifications he didn't have.
He didn't think of hunting.
Not yet.
Not directly.
But the word kept showing up. Not in the listings, but in the air—overheard at bus stops, muttered on sidewalks, blaring from store TVs with flashy recruitment ads. Guild logos. Rift clips. Heroic background music.
"Join the front lines. Shape the future. Earn your legacy."
He clicked away from those ads fast. They made something behind his ribs ache.
Taesung didn't want a legacy.
He wanted rent.
He wanted ramen that didn't come from a cup.
But it was Harin's voice that came back instead.
Your first party matters more than your first hunt.
The way she'd said it, calm but sure. Like someone who knew how easy it was to get it wrong.
That's what scared him. Not the monsters. Not the stats. Not even dying.
What scared him was starting off wrong. Not knowing it. Carrying the damage forward.
Still, the idea gnawed at him.
What if he didn't need to hunt?
What if there were other roles?
He opened a new tab. Searched support positions in guilds.
His internet lagged. The site loaded like it hated him.
Then, finally, listings.
Guild Logistics Assistant – Runner. Gear Maintenance Intern. Low-Level Rift Cleanup – Salvage Team.
That last one made him pause.
Salvage.
It didn't sound glamorous.
But it was entry-level. No combat required. Just collect materials left over after a team cleared a Rift.
Low pay. High risk.
But it wasn't frontline.
He stared at it.
And clicked apply.
The warehouse smelled like wet metal and something older, like mold had learned to wear armor.
Taesung stepped through the back entrance and showed the email confirmation to a guy in a frayed safety vest. The man grunted, checked a list, then handed him a plastic badge with a faded sticker on it.
"Follow them," he said, nodding toward a group ahead.
Five people, mixed ages, all quiet. No one looked excited.
Taesung fell in line.
The van that took them to the Rift site was scratched up, inside and out. Someone had carved a name into the plastic seat in front of him Heejun was here, 2023. That was two years ago. Probably gone now.
He didn't ask.
The Rift site was already dimming by the time they arrived. The actual Hunters were gone had finished hours earlier. What remained was warped terrain and scattered debris. A few cracks in the air still pulsed faintly, like aftershocks waiting for attention.
The job was simple: wear gloves, don't touch anything glowing, and drag whatever looked valuable into the marked bags.
Monster bones. Fragmented cores. Shattered weapons.
Junk, mostly.
But some junk paid.
Taesung worked quietly, head down, gloves on. It reminded him of cleaning the stockroom. Only the dust here felt wrong, like it remembered dying.
He didn't use his ability. He didn't even try.
But still there were moments.
Twice, he looked at a broken claw or crushed helmet and felt something hum behind his eyes. A flicker. Faint, like someone exhaling just behind him.
He didn't turn around.
He didn't want to see.
Not yet.
It was nearly dark when they finished.
The supervisor gave a short nod and passed out envelopes. Inside: cash. Not much, but more than he made in three days at the store.
"Come back tomorrow if you're not dead," the man said.
It wasn't a joke.
Taesung pocketed the money and didn't answer.
As he walked toward the train station, he noticed someone leaning against the rail.
Not a worker.
Not staff.
Harin.
Again.
"You're terrible at lying low," she said without looking at him.
"I'm not lying low. I'm working."
She turned. "You went into a Rift."
"Post-clear. No monsters. Just trash."
"Trash that used to bleed."
He shrugged. "I was careful."
"You think the Rift cares?"
He didn't answer.
She sighed. "You're going to do this anyway, aren't you?"
"I'm not hunting," he said. "Not yet. Just learning the smell of the place."
She looked at him for a long time.
Then: "You should have told me."
"Would you have said yes?"
"No."
"Then I did the right thing."
She cracked a smile, small and sharp. "Maybe."
Then she stepped closer. Close enough that her voice dropped low.
"But next time, if you hear anything see anything weird in the Rift, even if it's quiet, even if it's small you tell me."
"Why?"
"Because I know what it looks like when something wakes up too early."
She didn't explain what she meant.
And he didn't ask.
Because something in him already understood.
He wasn't ready.
But he was close.
Close enough to start feeling the weight of a name no one had given him yet.