The city was grand, its walls soaring into the sky like mountains of stone, but inside? Inside it was chaos.
Merchants shouted from the streets, beggars tugged at cloaks, soldiers patrolled in armor that gleamed dully under the sun. Every inn and tavern was packed, and every corner seemed filled with the nervous energy of people trying to escape the doom looming from the south.
And me? I was broke.
Dead once already, reborn into a world with monsters and magic, yet I couldn't even afford a roof over my head. All I had was my soul ability. The great, supposedly "broken" power granted by the Supreme System. Except even with that… I still needed food. I still needed shelter.
That's how I ended up scrubbing dishes in the Golden Hearth Inn.
It wasn't glamorous. In fact, it was shit. From sunrise until long past sunset, I cleaned tables, carried mugs, mopped floors, and washed dishes until my hands turned red and raw. The innkeeper, a stout woman named Marta, wasn't cruel, but she wasn't kind either. She paid me just enough to keep me moving and let me sleep in a storage room in the back.
Still, I couldn't complain. I had a roof. I had food. And most importantly, I had time to think.
It had been a week since I arrived. In that week, I'd learned much about this world. People here had classes and skills—things they earned through training, effort, or rare magical crystals. Classes shaped destinies. Warriors, mages, hunters, assassins… the choices were endless.
Me? I had no class yet. But I had a clone.
At first, I thought it was underwhelming. One clone. Just one. No army, no legion, nothing dramatic. But after testing, I realized how absurdly broken it was.
The clone stayed indefinitely once created. If it learned something, I learned it too. It was like having two brains, two bodies, two sets of hands. Twice the speed at learning anything.
If it died, I could recreate it in twenty-four hours. And most insane of all—if I died, I would switch places with it. A second life, hidden away like a trump card.
For now, I only made one. He stayed in my room, quietly practicing whatever I learned during the day. Swinging sticks, balancing on one foot, copying every movement I tried.
It was hard to hide. I had to pretend I worked sixteen hours a day, collapsing only to sleep. People whispered about my work ethic, but at least no one got suspicious.
Finally, after seven days of drudgery, I saved enough for something real.
Sword training.
The man who taught me was Ryan. A veteran adventurer, scarred by battles I could only imagine.
He was tall, with a lean, corded frame that spoke of years spent relying on speed rather than brute strength. His hair was streaked with gray, his beard trimmed short, his eyes sharp as blades. His left arm bore a long scar from shoulder to wrist, and his leather armor was patched in so many places it looked like a quilt.
When I first approached him, he sized me up with a gaze that felt like it cut right through me.
"You've never held a sword before," he said flatly.
I nodded, clutching the few silver coins I'd scraped together. "I… I want to learn."
Ryan snorted. "At least you're honest. Fine. Two hours a day, one week. Basic drills only. Don't expect miracles."
It cost me two silver. Practically everything I had. But I paid. Because I needed more than just washing dishes to survive.
Every morning, I trained.
Ryan's lessons were brutal in their simplicity. Footwork. Balance. Grip. Swing. Again and again until sweat drenched my clothes and my muscles ached. He didn't coddle, didn't encourage. He corrected with sharp words and sharper smacks of a practice blade.
"You're swinging like you're chopping firewood," he barked once, yanking the sword from my grip. "A blade is an extension of your arm. Not a tool. Feel its weight. Control it. Again!"
I obeyed, gritting my teeth. Each morning, I trained under his watchful eye. Each afternoon, I served food and cleaned dishes at the inn. And each evening, my clone copied the drills in my cramped room.
Two bodies, one mind. Twice the training.
On the third day, something changed.
A blue flicker danced in my vision.
[ Skill Acquired: Swordsmanship (Basic) 10% ]
I nearly dropped the practice sword in shock.
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You've already grasped the basics? Hmph. Not bad." His lips twitched, almost forming a smile. "Hard work pays off. Remember that."
His words were blunt, but they lit a fire in me. Because this was proof. Proof that my clone wasn't just a gimmick. Proof that I could grow faster than anyone else.
Ryan also gave advice, the kind you couldn't buy with silver.
"When you hunt, never get cocky. Always check your surroundings. The moment you think you're invincible is the moment you're dead." He tapped the scar on his arm. "This one? I thought I could handle two goblins at once. Nearly cost me the arm. Don't make that mistake."
I nodded solemnly. "Yes, sir."
"Good. Adventuring isn't about glory. It's about surviving."
Those words stayed with me.
By the end of the week, I had a choice. Keep training under Ryan, or take the next step.
I chose the guild.
The Adventurer's Guild was less glamorous than I imagined. The building was sturdy stone, the inside filled with the smell of sweat, leather, and ink. A massive board covered in papers lined one wall, jobs tacked up in rows. Behind the counter, clerks managed lines of adventurers.
I paid a silver for the membership card. The polished metal gleamed faintly with runes—proof I was now part of the guild.
Then I browsed the jobs.
Most were far too dangerous: escort caravans, slay packs of wolves, clear out nests of undead. But one caught my eye.
[ Quest: Hunt Goblins ]
Reward: 5 copper per goblin.
Proof Required: Right ear.
It seemed simple enough. Goblins. Small, weak, at least compared to zombies or wolves. And five copper each? Twenty goblins would be a silver. Faster money than the inn.
Still, I was nervous. Nervous enough that when I set out, I didn't go alone.
I sent my clone.
Watching through its eyes was disorienting at first, like living in two skins. But I gritted my teeth and followed its steps.
The forest loomed quiet. Too quiet. Shadows stretched long between the trees. My clone crouched low, sword trembling slightly in its hands—my hands.
Then we saw it.
A goblin.
It was small, barely four feet tall, its green skin mottled and ugly. But the crude dagger in its hand gleamed, and its yellow eyes burned with savage hunger.
It snarled and lunged.
My heart thumped. I nearly panicked. But I forced myself to give the clone control.
The goblin's strike came fast. Faster than I expected. Its dagger slashed the air where my throat would have been—but my clone twisted aside, blade flashing.
One strike. Clean. Precise.
The goblin's head rolled.
Silence.
I stared, breathing hard even though my real body was safe in the city. Strangely… I felt nothing. No guilt. No horror. Maybe because it was through the clone's eyes. Maybe because I'd already died once.
Either way, I had done it.
That day, I killed twenty-three goblins.
Each time, the fear faded a little more. Each time, the movements grew sharper, more controlled. By the end, my pouch jingled with one silver and fifteen copper.
More money than I'd ever held in this world.
And more proof that I was no longer just a dishwasher.
I was an adventurer.