The skill book dissolved into light when I touched it.
Knowledge flooded my mind—stances, techniques, footwork patterns I already knew but my body had forgotten. [Intermediate Sword Mastery] wasn't flashy. No special moves or named attacks. Just hundreds of hours of accumulated sword technique compressed into pure information.
For most hunters, learning this skill would take weeks of practice to fully integrate. I absorbed it in seconds. My muscle memory recognized every technique. My body just needed to remember how to execute them.
[SKILL LEARNED]
[Intermediate Sword Mastery Lv.1]
Your sword technique has improved significantly.
Effect: Attack power with bladed weapons increased by 15%.
Effect: Sword-based skills cost 10% less stamina.
I grabbed my cheap steel sword and ran through a basic form. The movements came smoother now, more natural. The disconnect between mind and body narrowed further.
Still not perfect. My stats were still too low to fully utilize the techniques I remembered. But this was progress.
Forty-eight hours until I could pick up my equipment from Old Man Cho. Sixty-five hours until the Silverwood Den spawned. I needed to get stronger. Fast.
My phone buzzed. Unknown number. I stared at it for a moment before answering. "Yeah?"
"You're the kid who broke the F-rank record." Not a question. Male voice, rough around the edges. Familiar in a way that made my chest tighten.
"Who is this?"
"Park Tae-Sung. I saw your clear time on the Association board. Twelve minutes, fifty-one seconds. Solo." A pause. "That's impossible."
My hand clenched around the phone. Tae-Sung. My best friend. My brother. The man who died covering my retreat at the Northern Front, his back shredded by a traitor's blade while I ran like a coward. Hearing his voice again after all these years...
"Not impossible," I managed. "Just efficient."
"Bullshit. I've cleared that dungeon maybe a hundred times. Best solo time is twenty-three minutes, and that was by an A-rank slumming it for fun." Another pause. "You're level 16. E-rank. So either you're cheating, you got lucky, or you're a hell of a lot better than your rank suggests."
"Why do you care?"
"Because I'm D-rank and struggling to pay rent. If you've got some secret trick, I want in." His voice shifted, less confrontational. "Look, I'm not trying to start shit. I'm just... curious. You want to grab coffee? Talk shop?"
In my original timeline, Tae-Sung and I didn't meet until late 2025. He'd been running with a bad guild, getting screwed on loot distribution, barely making ends meet. We'd bonded over shared frustration with the hunter system. Now he was reaching out six months early.
Timeline already changing.
"Where?" I asked.
"You know the coffee shop near Hongdae Station? The one with the broken sign?"
I knew it. Tae-Sung's favorite spot. Cheap coffee, open late, didn't ask questions when hunters showed up covered in blood.
"One hour," I said and hung up.
I sat there for a moment, staring at my phone. This was dangerous. Getting close to people I'd lost meant reopening wounds I'd barely learned to live with. Tae-Sung didn't know me. Didn't remember the years we'd fought together. Didn't remember dying in my arms.
But that was exactly why I'd come back. To save him. To save all of them.
The coffee shop was exactly as I remembered—cramped, dimly lit, smelling of burned beans and desperation. Half the customers were hunters, identifiable by their association IDs and the casual way they carried weapons.
Tae-Sung was sitting in the back corner, nursing what looked like his third cup of coffee. I recognized him instantly despite the twenty-year gap. Twenty-six years old. Broader shoulders than I remembered, less scarred. His hair was still black instead of the grey-streaked mess it became after the Northern Front. He looked... young. Hopeful, even.
It hurt to see. He spotted me and waved. "You Han Do-Hyun?"
"Yeah."
"Grab a seat. Coffee's shit but it's cheap."
I sat down. Up close, I could see the dark circles under his eyes, the calluses on his hands from wielding that bastard sword he loved. Working himself to the bone and barely surviving. Just like I remembered.
"So," he said, leaning back. "How'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Don't play dumb. The F-rank clear. Twelve minutes. That shouldn't be possible."
I shrugged. "Practice."
"Bullshit."
"Also luck."
"Bullshit." He leaned forward, eyes intense. "I checked your record. You became a hunter three months ago. Registered at the association, took the basic assessment, got slapped with E-rank. Since then? You've done exactly five dungeon runs. All F-rank. All with parties. Nothing special."
He'd done his homework. Thorough as always.
"Then yesterday," he continued, "you walk into the training center and solo clear in record time. So either you've been hiding your abilities for three months, or something changed. Which is it?"
"Does it matter?"
"To me? Yeah." He took a sip of coffee, grimaced at the taste. "Look, I'm not trying to be a dick. But I've been a hunter for four years. D-rank for two. I grind my ass off every day and barely make enough to survive. Meanwhile, you show up out of nowhere and pull off something I couldn't do even if I trained for another decade."
He wasn't angry. Just... tired. Frustrated. I knew that feeling.
"So I'm asking," he said quietly. "What's your secret? Because whatever it is, I need it."
I studied him for a long moment. In my original timeline, I'd trusted Tae-Sung with my life. He'd never betrayed me, never let me down. Even at the end, dying in a pool of his own blood, his last words were making me promise to survive.
I couldn't tell him about the regression. He'd think I was insane. But maybe I could offer him something else.
"You ever feel like you're doing everything right but still failing?" I asked.
He blinked. "What?"
"Training hard. Studying dungeon patterns. Running the optimal routes. But you're still stuck at D-rank, still struggling, still watching other hunters pass you by."
His expression darkened. "Yeah. Every damn day."
"That's because you're training wrong."
"Excuse me?"
I gestured at his hands. "You use a bastard sword, right? Heavy weapon, requires strength and endurance. But you're building your stats wrong. Too much agility, not enough power. You're trying to be fast when you should be unmovable."
Tae-Sung's eyes narrowed. "How do you know my stat distribution?"
"I can see it in how you move. Weight distribution, posture, the way you gripped your coffee cup." All true, but also I'd seen him fight for five years. "You're fighting your weapon instead of working with it."
"And you're an expert on bastard swords?"
"No. But I know how to read people." I pulled out my phone and sketched a quick stat allocation chart. "Try this. Dump your next ten points into strength and endurance. Two-to-one ratio. Ignore agility completely."
"That's insane. Everyone says—"
"Everyone's wrong. For your build, for your weapon, you need to be a wall. Let the enemy break themselves against you." I slid the phone across the table. "Try it for a month. If it doesn't work, go back to your old method."
He stared at the chart, then at me. "Why are you helping me?"
Because you're going to die in five years and I can't let that happen again.
"Because hunters should help each other," I said instead. "The association sure as hell won't."
That got a bitter laugh. "Ain't that the truth." He studied the chart again. "This really works?"
"For someone with your build? Yeah."
"And the F-rank clear? How do I replicate that?"
"Stop running with parties."
His eyebrows shot up. "What?"
"You're letting other people carry you. Relying on them for damage, for backup, for safety. It's making you soft." I leaned back. "Solo runs force you to adapt. To think. To actually get better instead of just surviving."
"Solo runs also get you killed."
"Only if you're stupid about it." I pulled up the Association app and showed him my clear record. "Start with F-rank dungeons you've already cleared in parties. You know the layouts, the monsters, the tricks. Do them solo until you can clear with your eyes closed. Then move up."
Tae-Sung was quiet for a long moment, reading through my stats and clear times. "You're serious about this," he said finally.
"Yeah."
"Why? You don't know me. I could be some asshole trying to steal your techniques."
I almost laughed. Tae-Sung was many things—loud, stubborn, occasionally stupid—but never an asshole. "Call it intuition," I said. "You seem like someone worth helping."
He stared at me for another moment, then stuck out his hand. "Park Tae-Sung. D-rank warrior. Apparently doing everything wrong."
I shook it. His grip was firm, calloused. Alive. "Han Do-Hyun. E-rank. Apparently breaking records."
"You want to run a dungeon together sometime? I could use a second opinion on my technique."
Yes. Every fiber of my being screamed yes. I wanted to fight beside him again, watch his back, hear him laugh at terrible jokes between monster waves. But not yet.
"Give me a week," I said. "I've got something I need to handle first. After that, yeah. We can run some dungeons."
"Fair enough." He pulled out his phone. "Number?"
We exchanged contacts. Seeing his name in my phone again after all these years made my throat tight.
"Hey," he said as I stood to leave. "That advice you gave me. About the stat distribution. How'd you figure that out?"
I thought about lying. But Tae-Sung had always been able to spot my bullshit. "Experience," I said.
"You're E-rank."
"I've seen a lot of people fight. You learn to recognize patterns."
Not a lie. Just... incomplete truth. He nodded slowly. "Alright. I'll try it. But if this gets me killed, I'm haunting your ass."
"Deal."
I left before the emotions could show on my face. I spent the next two days in a cycle of training, sleeping, and training more.
My body was adapting faster than expected. The combination of [Intermediate Sword Mastery] and my mental combat experience was compressing years of training into days. Every form, every technique, every movement pattern was already in my head—I just needed my muscles to catch up. By the end of day one, I could execute a basic combo without my arms screaming in protest. By the end of day two, I was moving almost like I remembered.
Almost. My stats were still garbage. But I was learning to work within those limitations, finding the efficiency I'd lost.
On the morning of the third day, I picked up my equipment from Old Man Cho. The armor was perfect. Light leather reinforced with metal plates at critical points—chest, spine, shoulders. Flexible enough to move, strong enough to stop a blade. The kind of practical gear that kept you alive instead of looking impressive.
My sword had been transformed. The steel was still cheap, but Cho had sharpened it to a razor edge and reinforced the tang with some kind of binding enchantment. It wouldn't break in my hands, at least not for a while.
"Good work," I said, running my thumb along the blade's edge.
Cho grunted. "Had to call in a favor for that enchantment. You owe me."
"Put it on my tab."
"You don't have a tab."
"Start one."
He almost smiled. "You planning something stupid, kid?"
"Probably."
"Don't die. I hate when customers die before they pay."
"I'll do my best."
I left with my new gear and headed home to prepare. The Silverwood Den would spawn in six hours. I spent those six hours in meditation, centering myself.
This would be my first real test. The F-rank dungeon had been a warm-up, a way to shake off rust and remember what combat felt like. But the Silverwood Den was D-rank. Designed for parties of five to seven hunters, minimum D-rank. I was going in solo at level 16, barely E-rank, with garbage stats and equipment held together by prayers and cheap enchantments.
In my first life, this would've been suicide. But I'd fought Demon Generals with half my body paralyzed. I'd held gates against waves of enemies while mana-starved and bleeding out. I'd stood alone against the Demon King's personal guard and survived.
A D-rank dungeon full of spirit wolves? Challenging. But manageable.
My phone buzzed.
[DUNGEON ALERT]
Silverwood Den (D-Rank) has spawned Location: Uijeongbu Forest, Northeast Seoul Estimated duration: 72 hours before natural closure Recommended party: 5-7 hunters, D-rank minimum
I grabbed my gear and headed out.
The dungeon entrance was in the middle of a forest preserve, far enough from the city that casual hikers wouldn't stumble on it. The gate shimmered between two ancient trees, a vertical slash of purple light that made the air taste like ozone.
A small group of hunters was already gathered—seven of them, all D-rank or above, checking gear and arguing about formation. They looked at me when I approached. Took in my cheap armor, my solo status, my E-rank badge.
One of them—a tank built like a refrigerator—laughed. "You lost, kid? F-rank dungeons are back in the city."
"I'm right where I need to be."
"This is D-rank. You'll die in the first room."
"Maybe."
Another hunter, a mage with expensive robes, shook her head. "Don't be stupid. Go home. Find a party your own level."
I ignored them and walked toward the gate.
"Hey!" The tank stepped in my way. "I'm serious. This dungeon will kill you. Don't throw your life away."
I looked up at him. He was trying to help, in his own blunt way. Probably seen too many young hunters die to hubris. "I appreciate the concern," I said. "But I'll be fine."
"You're E-rank!"
"For now."
I stepped around him and walked into the gate before he could stop me. The last thing I heard was the mage muttering, "Idiot's going to get himself killed."
Probably. But I'd died before. This time would be different.
The transition hit harder than the F-rank gate. My vision blurred, my stomach lurched, and when reality stabilized, I was standing in a moonlit forest.
No, not a forest. A memory of a forest, frozen in time and twisted by dungeon magic. The trees were too tall, their bark silver instead of brown. The sky was perpetual twilight, neither day nor night. And the air was thick with spiritual energy that made my skin prickle.
My status window appeared:
[DUNGEON ENTERED]
Name: Silverwood Den Rank: D Recommended Party Size: 5-7 Estimated Clear Time: 2-3 hours Monsters: Spirit Wolves (Lv. 15-20), Alpha Wolf (Lv. 25), Forest Guardian (Lv. 30, Boss)
Warning: This dungeon contains spiritual entities. Physical attacks are 50% less effective. Mana-based attacks recommended.
Quest Generated: Survive the Silverwood Den Bonus Objective: Defeat the Forest Guardian solo Reward: ???
Spiritual entities. Right.
In my first life, I'd learned about these the hard way. Spirits weren't fully physical—they existed partially in another plane. Hitting them with normal weapons was like punching smoke. You needed mana-infused attacks or magic to hurt them properly.
I had [Mana Circulation Lv.1]. Barely functional. My mana stat was 12. Pathetic. This was going to suck.
A howl echoed through the forest. Then another. Then a dozen more, creating a chorus that raised every hair on my neck. The spirit wolves had noticed me.
I drew my sword and channeled what little mana I had into the blade. It flickered with a faint blue light—barely visible, but enough to hurt spiritual entities.
I hoped.
The first wolf burst from the underbrush, a creature of moonlight and silver fire. Level 17. Its teeth were too long, its eyes empty voids. It lunged.
I sidestepped and brought my sword down in an overhead chop. The blade passed through the wolf's neck—and barely left a scratch.
Shit.
The wolf twisted mid-air, faster than it should've been able to, and its claws raked across my shoulder. Pain exploded through my arm. The armor held, but I felt the impact through the leather.
I stumbled back, reassessing. Normal attacks weren't going to cut it. I needed more mana in my strikes. But I'd never been a mage. Even at SSS-rank, my mana pool had been average. I'd relied on physical techniques, perfect form, overwhelming power.
None of that worked here.
The wolf circled, preparing for another lunge. Think, Do-Hyun.
I couldn't overpower it. Couldn't rely on stats. Had to be smarter. What did I know about spiritual entities? They existed partially in another plane. Physical attacks couldn't fully connect because most of the damage passed through to empty space. But spiritual attacks—mana-based attacks—could bridge that gap.
I didn't have enough mana for sustained infusion. But I didn't need sustained. I needed concentrated.
The wolf lunged again. Instead of channeling mana through my whole blade, I focused everything I had into a single point—the very tip of my sword.
The wolf's jaws were inches from my throat when my blade punched through its eye socket. All my mana, compressed into a needle point, driving through spiritual defenses like they weren't there.
[Spirit Wolf Lv. 17 defeated. 45 EXP gained.]
The wolf dissolved into silver mist. I was already moving, pulling my sword free and spinning toward the second wolf that had flanked me during the fight.
Same technique. Concentrate mana. Single point. Precise strike. The wolf died mid-leap.
[Spirit Wolf Lv. 15 defeated. 40 EXP gained.]
My mana pool was already running low. Two wolves and I was at maybe 30% capacity. And I could hear more howling in the distance.
This was going to be a long fight. I smiled. Finally. A real challenge.
"Come on then," I said to the forest. "Let's see what you've got."
The wolves answered with howls. And the hunt began.