The End of the Tutorial (2)
Dalen had always been a fan of challenging games.
His exceptional control skills, often referred to as “physical” prowess, meant that easy games quickly bored him.
But even for someone like him, this game was no walk in the park.
The protagonist was fragile, the monsters in the labyrinth were formidable, and the outside world was spiraling toward destruction. The NPC allies were either getting possessed by demons or busy betraying him.
In a way, it was a brutally realistic level of difficulty. This only piqued his interest further, making it hard for him to put the game down.
After dying about ten times, his interest turned into sheer determination.
By the time he had died a hundred times, that determination had become a burning obsession.
He spent countless nights awake, driven by the thought, “I will see this game through to the end, no matter what.”
How many hundreds of times had he died?
For the first time while gaming, Dalen felt an explosion of frustration.
“Fine. I’ll do it! I’ll pay! Damn it, I’ll just buy my way through.”
He purchased additional stats with real money.
He bought as much as he could, turning his character into an overpowered juggernaut.
“What kind of damn game requires you to pay to see the ending? Damn it, if I hadn’t already invested so much time, I’d have deleted it right away.”
Muttering curses, he clicked to start the game, only to find himself plunged into its world.
A world where he had to move and fight with his actual limbs, not just a mouse and keyboard.
In hindsight, it was that in-game purchase that allowed him to survive until now.
“If only I had deleted the game back then.”
Regret always comes too late. Dalen sighed deeply and lifted his beer mug.
He drained half of the large mug in one go and then glanced at the table beside him.
[A Corpse of a Pitiful Mercenary]
On the floor next to the table lay a corpse, drained of color like an old black-and-white photo.
A body, slashed and stabbed with a dagger, bleeding out.
A dead body in the middle of an inn would normally draw attention, but people were too busy with their own affairs to notice.
“Of course, they can’t see it.”
That gray corpse was an illusion.
To be precise, it was the last image of a character Dalen had played in the past, visible only to him.
What Dalen had bought with his rage-fueled spending wasn’t just additional stats.
He had also purchased the “Heir” DLC, officially recognized by the developers as a cheat code.
The Heir option allowed a new character to inherit the abilities of previous characters who had died.
For players like Dalen, who had died hundreds of times, it meant limitless growth.
“The only catch is that you have to personally retrieve the character’s corpse.”
Dalen had come to this shabby inn, guided by old memories, to retrieve one of those corpses.
And this was his first time retrieving a corpse. Though he didn’t show it, Dalen felt a twinge of anxiety.
In a world on the brink of destruction, a world he had never managed to clear, this was one of the few hopes he could cling to.
“Corpse retrieval.”
Dalen murmured to himself as he placed his hand over the corpse.
With a soft rustle—
The corpse blurred, then dissolved into a glow that seeped into Dalen.
[You have retrieved the corpse of a Pitiful Mercenary. Abilities inherited.]
[Inheritance Reward: Strength +1, Dexterity +1, Dehaman’s Armored Combat (D)]
“Hmm?”
Dalen was slightly taken aback. The reward was better than he had expected.
The “Pitiful Mercenary” was the result of one of his early playthroughs.
Back when he knew little about the game, the character had been clumsy in many ways.
Considering that, the rewards from retrieving the corpse were beyond his expectations.
“No wonder the developers called it a cheat code.”
Crack—
Dalen rolled his shoulders.
As his strength increased, his body felt a bit heavier, and his muscles tightened.
It was akin to the feeling after a good workout at the gym.
Moreover, his fingertips tingled slightly, a change brought on by the increased dexterity.
“Hmm.”
Then, a different kind of power began to seep into his body. This was a new sensation.
Even though he had been in this world for two years, this was his first time acquiring a skill.
Skills weren’t just about strength or speed.
A martial skill encompassed the methods and knowledge of using one’s body, while a spell involved the ways and systems of manipulating and controlling magic.
[Dehaman’s Armored Combat (D)]
A combat technique created by Dehaman, the Imperial Knight Commander. Developed after witnessing his knights become helpless without their weapons. It uses armor as both shield and weapon.
Proficiency 4%
Moreover, skills of D-rank or higher contained the philosophy and seasoned experience of their creators.
These were things that couldn’t be gained from the more easily learned F or E-rank skills.
Dalen closed his eyes. His high intelligence, purchased with additional stats, quickly analyzed the skill’s content.
He took a deep breath, letting the newfound understanding seep into his entire being.
After enough time had passed to down a few more drinks, he opened his eyes.
“Not bad.”
Acquiring a skill was entirely different from a mere increase in stats.
While increased stats felt like gaining muscle to run faster, a skill felt like sprouting wings.
It was as if he could now do things he couldn’t before, as naturally as breathing. The strange exhilaration made his body tingle with excitement.
Creak.
Dalen stood up.
He downed the remaining half of his beer in one go, left a coin on the table as a tip, and gathered his sword, bag, and shield.
Though he had come to this secluded inn to retrieve a corpse, he had no intention of staying the night.
In the back alleys of the Bronze District, you never knew when someone might sneak in and stab you in your sleep.
Having camped outside for so long, he needed a place where he could truly rest.
With more than ten silver coins in his pocket, he figured he could afford a decent inn on the main street.
Dalen massaged his stiff shoulders as he walked toward the inn’s entrance.
Just as he was about to leave, someone blocked his path.
“Hey, you’re a new face around here, aren’t you?”
Dalen tilted his head. The man blocking him had a rough, menacing look.
But aside from his dirty appearance and large build, there wasn’t much else remarkable about him.
“You look like a mercenary who used to hunt goblins outside the city. What brings you to a shabby back-alley inn like this? You don’t seem to know the local customs.”
The man spoke with a slightly tipsy face. Dalen watched him quietly, then muttered as if in passing.
“What customs?”
“The entry fee, of course. Even if you’re a mercenary, you can’t just come to an inn as a new guest without paying the entry fee, can you?”
“Entry fee?”
At Dalen’s question, the thug lifted his chin arrogantly.
“That’s right. It’s the money you owe to me, Malun, who manages this inn. Here, you can eat, drink, and roll around with women without worrying about getting stabbed. And who do you think you have to thank for that?”
The thug pointed his thumb at himself.
“It’s all thanks to me, who manages this inn under the great Bankal. So naturally, you should pay me.”
Ah, so he’s just a thug trying to extort money.
The labyrinth city was a massive metropolis with a population in the millions. And with such a large scale, the back-alley gangs were thriving.
In a way, it was inevitable. In a city with a population nearing ten million, you couldn’t expect much from a medieval-level guard force.
Among the seven districts divided by seven walls, the outermost Bronze District was where the influence of the back alleys was strongest.
Here, the role of the guards was mostly limited to patrolling the main roads and their surroundings.
The rest of the land was often divided among violent gangs who collected protection money.
“Come to think of it, the mercenary character I just retrieved was killed by thugs like these.”
Dalen’s eyes scanned the thug’s waist. A dagger hung conspicuously. The engraved pattern on the hilt was familiar.
His high intelligence quickly recalled its origin.
“The dagger that was stuck in the back of the corpse I retrieved.”
The pattern on the hilt matched exactly.
“So this guy was the one who stabbed my character.”
He had died more times than he could count, and it had been so long that his memory was hazy, but now it was clear.
These thugs were the ones who had created the corpse in the inn.
But there was something suspicious. He prided himself on his control skills in any game.
Even during his early, inexperienced playthroughs, he wouldn’t have been easily defeated in a fair fight.
The answer was close at hand.
“The dagger was stuck in the back. They ambushed him.”
A dagger in the back was proof of an attack from behind while off guard.
These thugs had never intended to be satisfied with just a few coins.
Having made his decision, Dalen shrugged and opened his palm.
“I don’t have any money for you.”
“No money?”
“That’s right.”
At Dalen’s response, the thug’s face briefly twisted with anger. But a moment later, he forced a smile.
”…I see. We must have bothered a poor gentleman. You paid for your drinks, right?”
“Of course.”
“Then be on your way. I’ll let you off this time.”
The thug shifted slightly to let Dalen pass, offering a half-hearted smile as he did so.
In that instant.
Swish—
The thug suddenly drew a dagger from his waist, lunging at Dalen with no intention of giving him a chance to retaliate.
Yet, even in that fleeting moment, Dalen’s smile didn’t waver. It was almost amusing.
The thug’s ignorance was laughable, not realizing who he was dealing with.
And it reminded him of his past self, who had once been foolish enough to die at the hands of such a thug.
But he was no longer the man who struggled to reach the end with a basic character.
“Where do you get off lying—ugh!”
The thug’s head snapped to the side as Dalen’s fist struck like lightning.
The force was more than enough, and the thug crumpled to the ground.
Crash!
The inn fell silent, the atmosphere turning icy.
Dalen quickly scanned the room, noting a few men with dangerous glints in their eyes.
Before long, rough-looking men began to rise from their seats, dragging chairs behind them. One of them shouted.
“Lock the doors, damn it!”
The thugs were quicker to react than expected.
In no time, they had locked the doors and windows, surrounding Dalen in a tight circle.
Each one brandished a weapon—daggers, short swords, rusty spikes, and clubs. They were no strangers to brawls.
Yet, even as they encircled him, they hesitated to approach.
“He’s… he’s huge…”
“Is he a barbarian from the north?”
They had drawn their weapons and formed a circle, but Dalen’s size was intimidating.
He stood nearly two meters tall, his armor barely concealing the massive, rock-hard muscles beneath.
A long sword hung at his waist, and a shield was strapped to his back.
Clearly, he was not someone these petty thugs could handle.
But they had already drawn their weapons, and their pride wouldn’t let them back down in their own territory.
Dalen chuckled at their hesitation. He placed his sword and shield on the table.
He set his bag against the table leg and laid his hand axe beside the shield.
“Not going to attack?”
“Die!”
A thug behind him suddenly lunged with a rusty spike.
A strike honed in back-alley brawls, aimed directly at the heart and lungs.
The number of people that spike had pierced was likely too many to count.
But.
Thunk.
Dalen turned and effortlessly caught the thug’s wrist.
Crack!
With a slight squeeze, the sound of breaking bones echoed as the wrist snapped.
“Aaargh!”
Dalen kicked the thug, who collapsed, clutching his wrist.
Thud.
The thug with the broken neck fell silent. Someone shouted.
“Get him, all of you!”
“Charge!”
“Kill him!”
The thugs charged, cursing loudly, swinging their weapons with almost instinctive movements.
Each weapon was threatening, but they were just thugs.
These back-alley inn brawlers hadn’t learned proper combat techniques.
In such chaotic fights, one rule usually applied: the faster and stronger side wins.
And even without the new skill he had acquired, Dalen’s strength alone was enough to handle several grown men.
“Ugh!”
Dalen’s hand struck a thug’s chest like lightning.
The thug’s chest caved in as if hit by a hammer, and he collapsed, eyes rolling back.
“Die, bastard!”
A short sword and a club swung at him next.
Dalen dodged the sword and kicked the thug wielding it in the stomach. The thug doubled over with a groan.
The fight was overwhelmingly one-sided, even considering just the difference in abilities.
Dalen’s newly acquired D-rank skill, “Dehaman’s Armored Combat,” tipped the scales further.
It was a technique created by a former imperial knight commander, frustrated by his juniors who became defenseless without their swords.
He had planned to test the skill at a training ground upon reaching the inn. But with these thugs attacking, he was grateful for the opportunity.
Thwack!
A club struck Dalen’s back, followed by a groan.
“Ugh!”
But it wasn’t Dalen who groaned. The thug who swung the club dropped it, clutching his hand in pain.
“It felt like hitting a metal block—ugh!”
Crunch!
Dalen’s fist met the thug’s face.
The thug’s face caved in like the previous one’s chest, teeth and blood spraying everywhere.
Dalen hadn’t abandoned his weapons out of carelessness.
Dehaman’s Armored Combat was designed for facing multiple opponents without armor or with only light armor.
In short, it was perfect for situations like this.
‘Of course, it assumes you’re wearing armor.’
Dalen met that condition.
His armor, made of layered leather over cloth with chain and metal plates, wasn’t flashy but offered decent protection.
Moreover, Dalen’s strength stat was a whopping 23.
Increasing strength not only made him stronger and faster but also enhanced his body’s durability. His muscles were hard and powerful.
With strength at 23, he could dent metal plates with his bare hands. His durability matched.
With solid muscles and armor, a thug’s club was nothing more than a tickle.
“Come on, all at once!”
The remaining three thugs charged together. Two daggers and a spike. Dalen kicked one dagger-wielding thug and swung his right arm outward.
“Ugh—!”
The thug with the spike was hit on the back of the hand, flying across the inn with a loud thud.
The kicked thug rolled away, crashing into a table.
Dalen caught the last dagger with his left hand.
Rip!
The dull blade tore through his leather glove, slicing his palm. Dalen winced slightly.
A mistake.
He had intended to grab the wrist.
‘Have I not fully absorbed it yet?’
In this game, skills had a proficiency concept. Acquiring a skill didn’t make you an expert immediately.
Dalen’s high intelligence and superhuman physical abilities allowed him to overcome some limitations, but there were still limits.
It wasn’t a big issue. He just needed to keep training.
This was only the beginning.
“Wh-what kind of person catches a dagger with their bare hand…”
The thug muttered in disbelief, voice trembling. Dalen punched him with his right hand before the wound worsened.
“Ugh!”
The thug’s head snapped back, red blood and white teeth flying.
The thug, rolling on the inn floor with broken teeth, trembled and didn’t rise again.
Silence fell over the once-noisy inn. Dalen dusted off his hands and surveyed the room.
The patrons stared at Dalen, then at the fallen thugs, then back at Dalen.
Their eyes were filled with disbelief at the scene that had unfolded so quickly.
“What have you done! Killing people in front of everyone! I’ll report you to the guards!”
The innkeeper broke the silence.
And Dalen, almost instinctively, reached for his axe.