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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 1
Chapter Title: You Must Read the Terms and Conditions Carefully
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Every school defines it a bit differently, but typically, the Department of Korean Language and Literature, History, and Philosophy are grouped together under the College of Liberal Arts.
There was a cynical joke that circulated at the school I graduated from.
"In the career statistics for liberal arts graduates, second place is civil servant."
This carries a lot of implications.
The first is that it's the only way to get a job through blind exams that don't care about your major.
Private companies are so rational that they have to parachute in some board member's unemployed nephew or a director from the ministry overseeing their business. Most people can guess that much.
The second meaning ties into the question that naturally follows.
"Then what's first place?"
That's something I can prove with my own body, no need for fancy talk.
It's the glorious profession known by various names like immortal home security guard, top candidate for otherworldly hero—yes, the NEET.
In other words, this joke is a self-deprecating one loaded with layers. These days, "liberal arts trash" packs more punch, but this quip has been passed down orally for far longer.
I, too, as a liberal arts grad, had spent years trying to climb from the most common outcome—second place.
Or put inversely, I'd failed countless times.
Even my family seemed tired of supporting me, and talk was starting about getting me into a company where a relative held a position.
With civil service popularity waning lately and competition rates dropping, I could only say I'd give it one more year—if I failed again, I'd do it their way.
"Haa..."
I sighed as I walked the dark streets of Noryangjin.
The cup rice vendors, whose faces I'd grown familiar with, were packing up to head home. Some drove off in flashy foreign luxury cars they'd somehow stashed away.
People who don't know better say that beats civil service, but nothing in life is free. Beyond the franchise fees that make those cars look cheap, the real grind is the under-the-table hustle—balancing the thugs and the district office like some guardian of light and shadow.
Amid all that, one street stall still had its lights on, hawking wares even at this hour when most exam-takers wouldn't wander out, squeezing every extra buck.
Even I, hardened by Noryangjin, hadn't seen this one before. Curiosity piqued.
Street food's all the same, you say? Even cup rice has its subtle differences.
Amateurs slap it together with store-bought mayo and teriyaki sauce, ending up with greasy slop that doesn't last.
Stomach rumbling, I lifted the tent flap and stepped in.
At that moment, my humble hope was that this small anticipation might salvage my gloomy day. Truly, that was it.
But before my eyes even took in the interior, I knew something was off.
No food smells at all.
There was just one impeccably clean table that looked like it had never served a meal. Behind it sat a woman who couldn't have been much older than me, elbow on the table.
Our eyes met naturally.
"Welcome."
Alright, to be honest: I didn't bail with a "wrong place" because she was stunningly beautiful.
Not that I planned any schemes—it was like freezing before a breathtaking vista or exquisite sculpture. Her beauty transcended everyday expectations into another dimension.
I hesitated, then mustered a safe question.
"Still open?"
A humble way of saying I'd leave if they were closing up. But she nodded.
"Yes. I've been waiting for you."
The formal address—common in dictionaries and writing, rare in speech—threw me off again.
"Me?"
"More precisely, someone who could find this place. Didn't you see the sign outside?"
Who reads cup rice signs? Tongue-tied, I turned to check. The roadside sign read: "Want to become a civil servant? We'll make it happen today."
Ah, got it. Not cup rice—an academy ad. I nodded.
"I see. Thought it was a food stall. My classes are all full anyway..."
"Don't you take classes to pass? If you pass, who needs classes?"
Oof, aggressive pitch.
Yeah, like cup rice or exam-prep life, this industry's cutthroat too. Everyone's struggling—something's gotta be wrong with this country. Anyway, it's always been that way.
With college entrance exams losing weight, instructors had flooded into civil service prep ages ago.
But like a drought drying up even relocated ponds, low competition now meant fewer customers. Those folks were still in bloodthirsty battles themselves.
'Still, I'd have remembered seeing an ad like that. Newbie instructor?'
As I pondered, she cut straight again.
"If your goal is entering national civil service, I'll grant your wish right now."
That confident? Worth hearing out. They say three years at a schoolhouse makes even a dog wax poetic on romance—I can judge sample lectures fine.
"Then shoot one into the chat for a listen... Oh, samples are free, right?"
Okay, full honesty: I had an angle. Didn't look like big-company promo; instructors often self-promote via personal chats here.
She readily pulled out her phone.
"Yes. Just tap agree to the terms."
The app featured a caricature in Joseon official robes, loaded with Hanja—surprisingly authentic.
Quaint, even outdated metaphor. But cliches work. Even now, the unwritten rule holds: "Officials rank 5th grade and up get their title on the tombstone, not 'deceased scholar.'" Country hasn't changed much.
Casually, I tapped.
Reading every term detail? Un-Korean. I smugly skipped non-essentials—probably ad consents.
Name, phone auth, signup—smooth as silk. Modern human basics.
You sell your data for discount points anyway—no qualms. My info's probably fueling some Zhang in Harbin's illegal Korean ops right now.
Feeling at ease in familiar territory, I added unnecessary words.
"This gets me in?"
She smiled oddly.
"Want in right now?"
"Can't I?"
"No reason not to. As I said, you're a civil servant from this moment."
Back then, I figured it was hype—promising exam success equivalent to passing.
But it was literal. I realized that soon enough.
Not through sight this time. The scene hadn't changed.
But her voice sounded distinctly different.
⚙ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ⚙ Congratulations on joining the Ascension to Premiership Chart. You are now an official.
'What?'
Closest description for this dissonance: difference between a voice right in front of you and one over the phone. Wildly off from reality, but that's my limit.
The voice continued.
⚙ SYSTEM NOTIFICATION ⚙ Contract period ends upon fulfilling member's obligations per Article 2 and full tuition payment. The company assumes no liability for injuries, death, memory loss, physical or mental illnesses during studies. If death or total incapacitation occurs before completion, rendering further payment impossible, enforcement per Article 8 is unavoidable. This is a reminder notice.
Knowing I wouldn't retain it—like a phone rep's rapid-fire legalese for later "we told you so"—none of it registered.
Just the timbre, the audiovisual mismatch, ignited uncontrollable dread.
◇◇◇◆◇◇◇
If utterly clueless, I'd just be confused.
But I was a 21st-century Korean.
Some diehards smash their phones during exam prep, but that's easier said than done.
Noryangjin's alleys overflow with PC bangs, motels, noraebangs, pool halls for a reason. Civil service is a battle of resisting temptation, not mastering scholarship.
I took "recharge" breaks too—modest ones: webtoons, webnovels. No heavy gaming or dating.
So I had a rough guess at this mess.
And that half-baked knowledge amplified the terror tenfold.
Per forbidden internet fragments, this universe teems with malevolent forces.
Reincarnation trucks, nanomachines, grim reapers—various names, same MO.
They snatch folks en masse—suspiciously quota-driven—and dump them in isekais, cursing moderns and locals alike with harsh fates.
'Hold on, I've never wanted to go isekai? No truck hit, no wish granted?'
But I agreed to the terms.
Despair hit: I could no longer mock water purifier or quilt scammers' victims.
Vision blurring now, like pre-surgery full anesthesia. Inescapable disconnect from reality. Death's probably like this.
Regression? Reincarnation? Teleport?
'Regression's lowest risk!'
I desperately recalled lotto numbers—nothing.
Should've memorized them instead of mocking those who did.
'Stay calm. Even years back, bitcoin first... uh, what stock skyrocketed? Pre-IMF ideal. Or pre-subprime... Nah, five years ago works. Borrow dollars, bet only on baseball champs! No doormat protag start like in novels!'
Grinding my teeth with resolve.
Nothing solved, but it felt positive.
My worthless life? Upgrade! I pictured instant chaeboldom and closed my eyes.
Opening them, I wanted to smash the world.
Obvious at a glance.
No lotto, stocks, crypto, pro baseball here.
Flickering torches lit eight or so robed figures; tiled roofs beyond said it all.
Sparse torches and lanterns only—no electric lights in the far-viewable distance.
Unlike dramas or movies. "Filmed night" vs. real night—no reflectors or edits.
One thing clear:
Houses, crowds, yet no electric lights? Impossible in 21st-century Korea.
I recoiled instinctively.
A white rectangle popped up like a shield, mirroring my primal alarm.
21st-century smarts ID'd the damn thing instantly.
I bellowed its name like a blood feud.
"Status Window!"
Calling it made it approach—and become my despair.
⚔ STATUS ⚔ Name: Kim Unhaeng Age: 18 (born 1731) Clan Seat: Andong Racial Trait: 'Capital Aristocrat'Noryangjin Package Event: Passive Skills 'Language Synchronization' and 'Disease Immunity' activated. ... Tuition Accrued: 0/12 sessions Commencing synchronization...Tutorial Essential Objective: Head home (Bonus: 1)
2. Tutorial