It was Hemin's first time facing a real monster.
His hands should have been trembling. His heart should have been gripped by fear. But instead—
He felt alive.
A rush of energy burned through his veins, sharp and electric. His mind cleared as if a fog had lifted, and a wild grin crept across his face without him even realizing it.
Across the grassy field, the monster stared back at him—a rabbit nearly the size of a wolf, standing upright on powerful hind legs. Its fur shimmered faintly white under the morning light, its claws were long and jagged, and its crimson eyes burned with primal hunger.
The moment its gaze met Hemin's, the creature bared its fangs in a distorted grin. Then it moved—no, blurred—its body weaving from side to side in a jagged zigzag, its movements sharp and unpredictable.
"So that's how you play, huh…" Hemin muttered, shifting his weight. His pulse thundered in his ears.
Monsters in the dungeon weren't mindless beasts. They were born from mana and malice, their instincts refined through countless cycles of slaughter. They couldn't plan or reason like humans, but they learned—and they lived to kill.
Hemin could tell, even in this first encounter, that the creature's erratic dashes weren't random. It was testing him. Watching his reactions.
"Alright then," he breathed, sliding his right foot back and gripping his sword tight.
The rabbit feinted left—then lunged straight at him.
Hemin's eyes flashed.
"[Accel]."
The world slowed.
Every sound stretched thin—the whisper of wind, the rustle of grass, even the flick of the monster's claws through the air. Hemin felt his blood surge like fire in his limbs, his body lighter, his muscles coiled with explosive power.
In that suspended moment of stillness, he moved.
He pushed off the ground—his dash cutting the space between them in an instant. His blade gleamed, tracing a clean arc through the air.
The rabbit barely registered the motion. Its body was mid-turn, its speed now its own enemy.
A silver flash—then silence.
'Screeeech!'
The creature's shriek split the air, cut short as the sword cleaved through its torso. Its body split neatly in two before dissolving into faint light, leaving only a few scattered items behind—a soft white pelt, two slabs of meat, and a faintly glowing crystal core.
Hemin stood there for a moment, catching his breath. The scent of mana and blood hung in the air for only a second before it, too, vanished.
"So this is a dungeon…" he murmured, crouching down to inspect the drops.
He remembered from the host's memories that monster cores were rare, especially from low-level beasts like this one. The pelt and meat were even less common—something that might take ten kills to acquire. Yet, here he was, holding all three after a single battle.
"Beginner's luck, huh?" he smirked, pocketing the loot.
He opened his palm, and the items shimmered briefly before disappearing into his storage space—a hidden ability he had received from his divine blessing. It wasn't a flashy skill, but its convenience was worth more than gold.
After dusting off his cloak, he glanced at the faint trail ahead. The field stretched endlessly, patches of tall grass swaying with the morning breeze.
Thinking about his previous kill, he realizes that the previous host has developed a battle sense, which is still ingrained within his body.
But the technique behind the sword was really sloppy from his sight. Technically speaking, the swordsmanship developed on earth was much more refined and better, especially some basic swordsmanship that can definitely improve his skill in this world.
"Alright," he said, tightening his grip on his sword. "Next one."
He didn't have to wait long. Another monster emerged from the brush—a second white rabbit, larger and leaner than the first. Its crimson eyes gleamed with aggression, saliva dripping from its sharp fangs.
Hemin lowered his stance, but this time, he didn't use [Accel].
He wanted to test himself.
Drawing a deep breath, he positioned his body differently—left hand behind his back, right hand gripping the sword at waist level, feet sliding slightly apart. A clean, centered stance. The kind he had seen in Earth's traditional sword schools.
When the rabbit charged, darting in a similar zigzag pattern, Hemin's eyes tracked every movement. He didn't chase its rhythm—he flowed with it. Each subtle twitch of his foot adjusted his center of gravity, each shift narrowing the gap between attack and counter.
The monster snarled as if realizing it had lost the advantage.
'Craaa!'
With a vicious cry, it twisted its body mid-leap, gathering strength into its hind legs before launching forward like a bullet. Its kick sliced through the air—faster, sharper, and impossible to dodge purely on reflex.
Hemin couldn't keep up visually.
But he didn't need to.
He'd already read the pattern.
Tilting his body just slightly, he let the attack whistle past, the claws missing him by inches. In that brief instant of overextension, the rabbit's back was exposed—completely defenseless.
"Got you."
Hemin's feet hit the ground, and his sword swept upward in a single, clean motion. The blade sliced through fur and bone, and the monster's head flew free, scattering into light before it could even scream.
Silence followed—broken only by the sound of Hemin's exhale.
He wiped the blade on the grass, watching the faint motes of light fade where the corpse had been.
"Not bad," he said quietly, the corner of his mouth curling upward. "The old swordsmanship from Earth still works here."
He turned, eyes scanning the field for the next flicker of movement.
This was only the beginning—just the first few breaths in a world that demanded blood and strength.
The thing that surprised Hemin the most wasn't the rabbit's strength—it was his own.
Each swing of his sword felt natural and fluid, as if his body already knew the rhythm. It wasn't just muscle memory; it was something deeper—instinctive, refined.
He had seen those sword techniques before—on television, in games, and in anime—flashy moves that belonged to fictional heroes, not ordinary men. But now, when he tried them… they worked. Perfectly.
He chuckled softly to himself. "Seriously, what kind of cheat setting is this?"
Of course, when he thought about it carefully, it made sense. This world ran on professions—systems that literally integrated skill into the body and soul. Even a child who had never held a sword before could pick one up and move like a trained novice, simply by possessing the Swordsman class.
As long as the body held the right profession, the world itself would bend the rules a little—giving instinct, motion, and focus where none existed before.
"The only limit," Hemin mused, looking at his hand, "is how far your profession can follow what you imagine."
In other words, his idea of swordplay had to match his current class level. A complex technique beyond what his Swordsman Lv. 2 body could comprehend would only end with him tripping over himself.
"Still," he muttered with a grin, "that's pretty broken for the natives of this world."
He crouched to gather the loot from the latest rabbit he had slain. Again, the monster dissolved into light, leaving behind its pelt, two slabs of meat, and a glowing crystal core.
"...All three again?" Hemin blinked.
He stared at the items for a moment, half in disbelief, half in delight. This was his fourth consecutive full drop. For a moment, he wondered if he had somehow triggered a hidden "drop-rate" buff.
"Well, not that I'm complaining," he muttered, picking them up and neatly tucking them into his storage.
Truth be told, he needed the money badly. The previous host's life had been a financial disaster.
The man had actually earned a decent sum once—but he'd blown it all on drinking and women, celebrating small victories until there was nothing left. By the time repayment for his borrowed sword came due, he'd been penniless. He'd sold even his rabbit meat stockpile just to make that last payment.
If he hadn't, the guild would have seized his weapon.
Hemin shook his head, sighing.
That was the reality he'd inherited. The apartment rent is overdue, there are no savings, and there is no food in storage. It wasn't exactly the kind of new life one dreamed about when reincarnating.
But he wasn't bitter.
The previous host had made his choices. And now, Hemin had his own.
"I'll live properly this time," he said quietly, his eyes softening. "I'll take care of my family. I'll make sure they don't have to starve again."
A faint image of the host's parents crossed his mind—the sick mother waiting at home, and the father still working the lower mines. They were part of the memories he'd inherited, but they felt real. Their worry, their hope—they were now his burden, too.
He smiled faintly. "Guess I've got people to fight for again."
By the time the sun reached its zenith, Hemin had already hunted for hours. The field was littered with the faint shimmer of mana residue where monsters had once been. His body moved on its own now—efficient, steady, confident.
When he finally stopped to rest, he'd slain nearly forty of the white rabbits.
The results were absurd. Each kill had dropped a pelt, two slabs of meat, and a core—every single time.
"Yeah, this isn't normal," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "Either I'm blessed by the goddess of RNG, or… my 'luck' stat's doing overtime."
The thought lingered. Then, curiosity got the better of him.
He called out the system.
"Status Window—open."
A familiar blue panel shimmered before his eyes, translucent and neat.
[STATUS WINDOW]
Name: Hemin
Level: 2
HP: 120 / 120
MP: 100 / 100
Profession: Villager Lv. 1 (+) / Swordsman Lv. 2
Hidden Profession: Hunter Lv. 1 (+)
Passive Skills: Low-Strength Boost (*2), Low-Stamina Boost, Low-Agility Boost
Active Skills: Chop Lv. 1, Accel Lv. 1
After cleaning his sword, Hemin packed the fresh meat into his backpack and stored the rest within his dimensional space. The warm sunlight had grown harsh, the plains now glowing under the midday blaze.
By the time he reached the city gates, the streets of Avil were alive again. Adventurers crowded the plaza—some boasting about their loot, others comparing party formations for deeper expeditions.
The marble teleportation circle at the town's center pulsed faintly with mana, transporting those ready to brave the second floor of the dungeon.
Hemin paused to watch.
Most who entered were veterans—teams of five to six, armored and confident. None of them paid much attention to the lone swordsman returning from the outer fields, covered in dust but grinning quietly to himself.
He understood why.
The first floor was considered "heaven"—safe, manageable, and a perfect training ground. The deeper layers were far harsher. Resting spots were scarce, and monsters hunted in packs.
But Hemin wasn't rushing anywhere.
He had time.
He had skill.
And, for the first time since he'd woken up in this world—
He had hope.
"Let's make this life count," he murmured, stepping through the bustling square.
The air buzzed with laughter, steel, and ambition—the heartbeat of a city built atop danger and dreams.