The streets of Gangnam were a battlefield, but not the kind fought with weapons. Towering skyscrapers loomed above, their neon signs flickering in the misty night. Billboards displayed Hunters—men and women clad in sleek armor, brandishing weapons that pulsed with mana. Their faces were the city's idols, their names whispered in admiration.
Mujin Sungchan walked beneath their glowing images, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his worn-out jacket. His shoes had holes in them, barely holding together, and the cold air cut through the thin fabric of his clothes. He had just been thrown out of a Hunter Association building, another job rejected, another door slammed in his face.
"You're unregistered," the woman at the counter had said, barely sparing him a glance. "No system, no guild, no awakened ability. You wouldn't last a second."
She wasn't wrong.
In this world, strength was everything. When the Tower appeared twenty years ago, everything changed. Monsters spilled into reality, cities fell, and humanity teetered on the edge of extinction. But with the chaos came power—the system, a divine mechanism that chose individuals and granted them abilities, stats, and skills. Those chosen became Hunters, warriors capable of fighting back against the horrors from beyond.
Mujin had never been chosen.
As he walked, he passed a group of young men laughing loudly outside a high-end mana shop. They wore tactical suits reinforced with beast-hide, each carrying weapons strapped to their backs. Hunters, no older than him, but worlds apart in status.
"Man, did you see how fast that thing dropped?" one of them boasted, showing his status screen to his friends. "One hit! Boom, dead. My STR is already over 200."
"Damn, you're crazy. At this rate, you'll hit B-Rank in no time."
Mujin clenched his jaw and kept walking. Hunters had numbers that told them how strong they were. Strength, agility, stamina—it was all measured, displayed for the world to see. Those numbers determined your worth, your future.
Mujin had nothing. No system. No numbers. Just his body, his will, and the spear strapped to his back.
He turned down a narrow alley, slipping away from the bright lights and into the darker parts of the city. The slums of Seoul weren't just dangerous—they were a death sentence for the weak. Without money, without power, people were nothing more than prey.
Ahead, a flickering streetlamp barely illuminated the entrance to an old, run-down gym. The paint was peeling off the walls, and the sign above the door had long since faded. But Mujin didn't need the name. He had been coming here for years.
Pushing the door open, he was met with the familiar scent of sweat, rusted iron, and blood.
Inside, men trained in silence. Some wrapped their fists, preparing for sparring. Others lifted weights, their muscles straining with effort. There were no status screens here. No flashy abilities. Just raw, brutal effort.
An old man sat at the front desk, watching Mujin with tired eyes. His face was lined with scars, his body thick with muscle despite his age.
"You look like hell," the old man muttered.
"Got rejected again," Mujin replied, dropping his bag by the wall.
The old man snorted. "Of course you did. This city doesn't want people like you. No system, no backing, no future. You're wasting your time."
Mujin didn't argue. He just walked past him, heading toward the training area.
He unstrapped his spear and gripped it tightly. It wasn't anything special—just a simple steel weapon, its shaft worn smooth from hours of practice. No enchantments. No hidden power.
Just him.
Taking a deep breath, Mujin moved into position. His muscles screamed in protest, still sore from yesterday's training. But he ignored the pain. He always did.
Then, he began.
The spear cut through the air, a blur of movement as he thrust, spun, and struck at invisible enemies. His form was precise, honed through years of relentless practice. Unlike the Hunters who relied on system-guided skills, Mujin had nothing but repetition. Thousands of hours, thousands of swings, until his body remembered what his mind didn't need to think about.
A sharp voice cut through the room.
"You're pushing too hard."
Mujin didn't stop. He knew who it was—Jin Kyung-hoon, one of the only other people in this gym who didn't look at him like he was pathetic.
"I'm fine," Mujin said, sweat dripping down his face.
Kyung-hoon leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He was a fighter, a real one, with years of experience in underground matches. Unlike Mujin, he wasn't trying to be a Hunter. He fought because it was the only thing he knew.
"You say that every time," Kyung-hoon said. "Then you collapse and I have to drag your ass home."
Mujin smirked, finally lowering his spear. "You're exaggerating."
Kyung-hoon sighed. "You don't have a system, Sungchan. You can't just brute force your way into this world. No one's going to give you a chance."
Mujin already knew that. He had known it for years.
But he didn't care.
He wasn't looking for a chance. He wasn't looking for approval.
He was going to take what he needed, no matter what.
Even if it killed him.