Lee Aseok looked from one face to another, searching for some sign, anything, that this was just an act, that someone would laugh and say, “Relax, we’re in this together.”

  But no one said it.

  For a moment, he wanted to shout, to demand why they were pushing him forward like some disposable pawn.

  The words sat heavy on his tongue, sharp enough to cut.

  But he didn’t speak.

  Because asking would mean admitting he had expected them to stand with him. And he wasn’t ready to hear the answer.

  The final boss hadn’t moved. He was watching. Patient. Almost entertained.

  Lee Aseok had stood in front of the Hell Gate’s final barrier and felt the heat of betrayal burn through his bones.

  He didn’t scream. He didn’t curse. He didn’t even ask why.

  So he kept his expression flat, almost bored, and raised his hand toward the holy sword lying on the floor.

  It had always come to him before—without hesitation, without question—like an unspoken agreement between weapon and wielder. He had expected the same now.

  But this time, the sword lifted from the ground, gleamed once in the dim light, and flew… past him.

  Straight into Mu Yichen’s waiting hand.

  Lee Aseok froze.

  His empty hand hovered uselessly in the air, fingers curling into a fist before falling to his side.

  When he looked up, Mu Yichen’s gaze was already on him—calm, cold, and unreadable. No trace of the warmth that used to be there.

  It wasn’t anger that tightened Lee Aseok’s chest. It was the absence of anything at all in those eyes.

  He didn’t know what he felt at that moment, hurt, disbelief, maybe something darker. But he knew one thing:

  With his F-rank body and meager mana reserves, and without the holy sword, he would die.

  That was certain.

  But the certainty of death was easier to carry than the shame of asking for help.

  He had kept his real rank hidden for so long that the truth felt like a confession he could never make.

  So, without a word, he stepped forward and walked into the barrier.

  He didn’t look back.

  The instant he crossed the threshold, the air shifted.

  The world on the other side wasn’t a dungeon chamber. It was a wasteland.

  Ash-stained winds clawed at his face. The sky above was a pale, sickly gray, and the sun, if it was even the sun, was little more than a dim disc behind the haze.

  The ground beneath him was fractured, as though the world had been split and stitched back together by something cruel. Buildings lay in jagged heaps, broken steel frames jutting out like the bones of a carcass.

  And the smell…

  It was rot layered on rot. The kind of stench that clung to your lungs and made the air feel heavy enough to drown in.

  “Pathetic,” a voice said, smooth and venomous.

  Lee Aseok turned.

  The final boss was waiting for him at the center of the ruin, as if the wasteland itself had formed around his presence.

  He was massive, easily two and a half meters tall, with long hair that shimmered gold even in the dying light. His skin was almost unnaturally pale, his features too symmetrical to be human.

  But his eyes were the worst. Vertical pupils set in molten gold, sharp and calculating, like a predator deciding whether to toy with its prey before killing it.

  Twelve black-and-gold wings spread from his back, their feathers edged with something metallic, glinting as they shifted.

  Each movement was deliberate, measured, and somehow louder than the silence.

  The creature’s voice rolled across the ruins like thunder.

  “Asmon,” he said, pointing to himself as if the name should be etched into legend.

  “I have faced every hero your kind has thrown at me,” the creature said. “Some strong, some clever, some foolish. But you…” His gaze swept over Aseok’s plain, battered armor. “You are the weakest I have ever seen.”

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  His gaze flicked down, and a faint, mocking smile tugged at his lips. “…you didn’t even bring your holy sword.”

  Lee Aseok didn’t flinch.

  “I’m also the weakest of most humans on Earth,” he replied flatly.

  The wind seemed to pause for a heartbeat. Even Asmon tilted his head, golden hair swaying in the dead air. Then the smile deepened, slow and razor-edged.

  Under the boss’s gaze, Aseok’s eyes roamed the ground until they found what he was looking for: A weapon.

  A broken, rusty iron rod half-buried in the dirt. He bent down, fingers curling around its jagged grip.

  That was the only thing he could find.

  The cold metal bit into his palm, rough and unyielding. The holy sword had always been smooth, balanced, alive in his hands. This was nothing like it.

  Still, Aseok gave a low chuckle. The sound felt too loud in the stillness.

  The holy sword had abandoned him. This, at least, would not.

  They moved at the same time, Asmon swooping down with a blur of black-and-gold wings, Aseok raising the rod.

  The clash was brief. Brutal.

  It wasn’t really a fight.

  It was Asmon beating him into the ground.

  Every blow rattled through Aseok’s bones. His ribs screamed, the taste of iron flooded his mouth, and with the third strike he felt something inside give way.

  He stumbled back, coughing. The cough turned wet, red, and he spat blood onto the dust.

  Above, Asmon hovered effortlessly, the air around him humming with pressure. He looked down as if observing a bug that had stubbornly refused to die.

  “Pitiful,” he said, his voice almost casual. “A pitiful hero.”

  Aseok straightened slowly, wiping the blood from his chin. Then… he laughed.

  It wasn’t a bitter laugh. Not quite. More like a quiet acknowledgment of an absurd truth.

  Even the monster saw him for what he was.

  He slung the rod over his shoulder, then reached into his coat. One by one, glass bottles clinked as he pulled them free.

  Asmon’s brows rose in faint curiosity.

  Aseok didn’t explain.

  He popped the first cork with his teeth, tilted his head back, and drank. The liquid burned its way down his throat like fire. Then he reached for another. And another.

  Bitter, chemical tangs mixed with the metallic taste of blood, coating his tongue. His vision blurred at the edges, his heart pounding faster with every swallow.

  Mana boosters. The strong kind. The kind that melted weaker veins from the inside.

  Before stepping into the Hell Gate, he had made a deal with Kang Juwon, guild master of the Moon Guild, a man with eyes like sharpened glass. The terms had been simple.

  After the Hell Gate, Lee Aseok would belong to him.

  In return, Kang Juwon would give him every high-grade mana booster in his vault.

  The papers had been signed without hesitation.

  Strong mana boosters. The dangerous kind.

  Normally, Aseok only swallowed one. Any more, and his body rebelled, veins burning, heart pounding too hard, mana tearing through him like wildfire in dry grass.

  But here, in the heart of the Hell Gate, with death certain, restraint felt like a joke.

  So he drank them all.

  As the last bottle fell from his fingers and shattered against the cracked earth, Aseok’s breathing steadied.

  Not because the pain had gone, but because the pain had sharpened into something clean.

  His veins burned with unstable power. His muscles trembled, straining against the sudden surge.

  He gripped the iron rod tighter, feeling the weight of it settle into his palm like an extension of his will.

  Above, Asmon’s smile widened.

  “Interesting,” the boss murmured. “You might survive… a little longer.”

  The broken world rippled around him. Skies the color of rotting parchment hung above jagged towers and streets split into deep, endless chasms. The smell of old ash and iron filled his lungs.

  Mana surged through him, raw and violent. It was like standing in a storm made entirely of lightning, each pulse setting his bones alight. His grip tightened on the rusted iron rod.

  Asmon’s twelve wings unfolded in the air above, each feather a blade of molten gold. His eyes glowed like twin suns, unblinking, patient.

  And then he moved.

  The air fractured with the sound.

  Steel met flesh. Iron met claw.

  Aseok blocked the first strike, the rod shuddering violently in his hands, sending cracks of pain up his arms.

  The second blow was a blur of gold and shadow, and his block came half a breath too late; claws grazed his side, slicing deep.

  He staggered, feet scraping against stone. Mana roared in his veins, keeping him upright where his body should have already failed.

  It was obvious, painfully, insultingly obvious, that Asmon was toying with him.

  His strikes were measured, almost lazy, as if testing the limits of a new toy. Even so, every impact rattled the ground, sent dust spiraling upward, shattered the fractured ruins even further.

  Aseok didn’t have the luxury of attacking. All he could do was defend.

  The third strike came from above.

  He raised the rod instinctively. It didn’t matter. The blow connected with his chest, a hammer of raw force, and the world blurred.

  For a heartbeat, he was flying.

  Then he hit the old tower. The stone cracked around him, dust exploding into the air. His ribs gave way under the pressure, a wet, sharp pain blooming inside.

  He coughed, and red sprayed the ruined floor. He couldn’t tell if it was his first mouthful of blood or his tenth.

  The mana boosters had burned through him already. His body felt hollow, drained, as if every muscle had been scooped out and replaced with stone.

  Somewhere in the haze, something caught his eye.

  A faint shimmer in the distance.

  He blinked hard, vision wavering, and the shape came into focus, a pulsing crystal embedded in the cracked earth, light spilling out like liquid.

  A dungeon core.

  He didn’t think. He dragged himself forward, every movement agony. His hand scraped along the ground, pushing against rubble until his fingers brushed smooth, a cold crystal.

  If he destroyed it, maybe, just maybe—the dungeon would collapse.

  “Ah,” Asmon’s voice rang out, clear and cutting through the ruin.

  A shadow fell over him.

  “That,” the boss said, his tone almost amused, “is not your salvation.”

  Aseok’s breath caught.

  “It is only here to maintain this… broken world,” Asmon continued, gesturing vaguely to the fractured towers and ash-filled skies. “Destroy it, and the land fades. But victory?”

  He leaned forward, golden hair falling like a curtain, eyes burning into Aseok’s.

  “That you will only find… if you kill me.”

  Lee Aseok held his ground. He didn’t argue, what was there to say? His death had been waiting patiently since he entered this place.

  Still, the thought settled in his chest like cold iron: Then I’ll fight until it happens.

  He shifted his stance. The iron rod felt like an extension of his arm now, battered as it was. His eyes flicked once more to the core.

  And that was when he touched it, really touched it.

  It was a mistake.

  The change was instant.

  Something unseen surged out of the crystal and slammed into him, flooding his veins. His back arched, breath ripping out of his lungs in a soundless gasp.

  Heat roared through him, not warmth, not pain exactly, but a violent, consuming blaze that made his vision white.

  He staggered, bracing himself with the iron rod.

  His skin prickled, muscles knotting tight. The light from the core flowed into him, unrelenting, like molten metal poured into a glass vessel that was never meant to hold it.

  And in the chaos, he saw it.

  The text.

  Skill: ??? → Activated.

  Author Note:

  Every “OH MY GOD ASEOK STOP” gives me the strength to write the next disaster.

  Mon ? Wed ? Fri

  (Yes, I too question my life choices.)

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