Most players in the early early start followed the same predictable routine. The moment the system dropped them into a safe zone with their shiny starter gear, they split into categories—almost like instinct.
First were the Rushers. These were the lunatics who sprinted headfirst into the nearest dungeon the moment the clock hit zero. In the game, rushing granted early levels and rare drops. In reality? It was just a fast-track ticket to an early grave. They trusted the "Beginner's Luck" mechanic far too much, forgetting that here, luck had no respawn timer attached. Whenever I thought about them, I couldn't help imagining their heroic charge… followed by a heroic scream.
Then there were the Min-Maxers. They were the smart ones—or at least they liked to think so. They would spend hours calculating stats, comparing gear values, and asking philosophical questions like, "Is 0.2% crit better than 1 ATK at level 1?" They hoarded every copper coin like dragons guarding their treasure. They also refused to buy anything unless it was optimal. Which made sense… except leveling up with only a wooden stick and tears was hardly practical.
Next came the Casual Adventurers, the carefree bunch. They wandered around town admiring scenery, talking to NPCs, and occasionally tripping over quests by accident. They weren't weak, but they also weren't serious. In the game, they were harmless. Here? They were the type to pet a cute monster without realizing it had a "Skull-Crushing" passive skill.
And of course, there were the Crafting Geeks. The moment they spawned, they ran toward any shop with tools, believing they would become master blacksmiths by level ten. They would beg, borrow, or trade anything to buy raw materials instead of equipment. Their newsfeed posts always said things like, "I'm investing in the future." Meanwhile, they couldn't even fight a slime without getting bullied.
Last but not least, the Scavengers—the true kings of budget survival. These were the players who knew the value of trash. Broken daggers? Useful. Bent armor plates? Still usable. Herbs found behind a tavern? Treasure. They would roam the back alleys, outskirts, and dumpsters for anything remotely useful. If someone threw away an old cape, a scavenger would proudly equip it and call it "vintage."
I… might have been leaning toward this class now.
But me? I was something else entirely. I wasn't here to speedrun, roleplay, or collect garbage for fun. I had one goal: survive. I wasn't loaded with money. I wasn't blessed with rare skills. And I sure as hell wasn't idiotic enough to sprint into a raid with nothing but the system's pity items. If I wanted to live long enough to see tomorrow, then gearing up—properly—wasn't optional. It was mandatory.
So yes. I needed equipment. I needed supplies. I needed anything that could keep me alive.
I glanced at my nearly empty coin pouch and sighed.
My starting money would barely even last a month even if I didn't eat, drink and breathe.
So I needed to resort to forbidden tactics.
Of course not crime.
Just… budget shopping.
I turned down a narrow alleyway that branched off from the bustling main street. Behind me, the main road gleamed with high-end stores — polished armor displays, enchanted weapon racks that shined like trophies, and mages hawking potions that cost more than my soul.
Then a particular store caught my eye Stellar. The building itself was towering about three floors it's design is very unique and elegant clearly not for the poor but reserved for the wealthy
It was a place he visited often even in later stages of the game because thats just how good their items are
"But not yet" voicing out his thoughts he turned into a dark corner
As soon as I entered the alley, the noise of the city died down. The sunlight dimmed, swallowed by the tall buildings leaning over the path. The ground here was uneven, broken, and a bit muddy despite the dry weather.
A few beggars sat slumped against the walls, wrapped in rags. One looked up at me briefly, only to dismiss me a second later.
Even the beggars didn't think I was worth their time.
A new personal low.
I kept walking until the alleyway twisted into a darker corridor. Here, the walls were covered in moss and old posters, and the air smelled faintly of metal, mold, and nasty stench. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped rhythmically.
Then I reached it.
A crooked, lopsided little shop wedged between two abandoned buildings like a mistake that refused to be fixed. Its wooden frame leaned so far to one side that I wondered how it was still standing. The windows were foggy and cracked, dust layering them thickly enough to draw on.
Above the doorway hung a sign that had once said something…
Now it only read:
"???M'S J??K & RA??"
Well. At least it still had letters.
I pushed the door open.
—KRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEK!
The sound stabbed straight into my brain.
Why do all mysterious shops have doors that scream for help?
I stepped closer, boots sinking slightly into the damp ground. A thin trail of smoke seeped from the gaps in the roof, and something clattered inside—a metal object hitting the floor, followed by a muffled curse. So… someone was alive in there. Probably.
Taking a breath, I pushed the door open.
A bell should have rung. Instead, it coughed out a pitiful clink like it was dying.
The interior smelled of old wood, cheap leather, dust, and something suspiciously like burnt soup. The place was dim, lit only by a single mana-lamp that flickered like it was deciding whether to stay alive. Shelves were stacked high—no, overloaded—with items in such disorganized chaos that even hoarders would file a complaint.
Rusty daggers piled on top of mismatched armor plates. Potion bottles with faded labels. A shield that looked like it survived a war and wanted to retire but was dragged back into service.
This… is heaven, I thought, almost touched.
Trash, but usable trash. My specialty.
At the far end of the shop was the counter—a battered piece of wood with claw marks on it. Behind it sat an old man, slumped in his chair, snoring with the deep, rattling intensity of someone who had seen too much in life and decided sleep was the only escape.
His beard spilled over the counter like a fluffy avalanche, and one of his eyebrows twitched with every snore. A pair of cracked spectacles dangled from his nose. Even the flies circling the shop gave him a respectful distance, as if disturbing him might cause the universe to implode.
I stepped closer.
No reaction.
I cleared my throat.
Still nothing.
I tapped the counter lightly.
The old man inhaled sharply, choked on his own snore, and snapped awake with a sound that could only be described as "ancient confusion."
"Wha—who—WHERE—oh," he blinked at me. "A customer. Or a hallucination. Hard to tell these days."
"…I'm a customer."
"A hallucination would say that too." He squinted harder. "Hm. Well, either way, welcome."
He motioned vaguely at the disaster-filled shop.
"Feel free to browse.
I wandered between the cramped aisles, brushing past piles of adventurer junk that looked like they'd survived five apocalypses and refused to die. Shattered gemstones. Cracked potion bottles. Charms tied with ribbons faded so badly they might as well have been curses. Monster parts—teeth, claws, fangs—all preserved with questionable techniques. Some still smelled alive.
Most of it was useless.
Some of it was dangerous.
But sometimes… sometimes treasure hid among trash.
That was when something faintly glowing in the corner caught my eye.
A soft purple shimmer.
I turned toward it.
There, sitting alone on a dusty shelf as if it had been waiting for me, was a crystal—no larger than a thumb—glowing with a calm, crackling pulse.
A monster core.
Not just any core—
Thunder Hog Core.
Tier 10.
Fast. Unpredictable.
Annoying as hell in the game due to its spammable "Shock" skill.
But for me? Someone who couldn't cast proper spells?
Perfect.
I reached for it slowly. The moment my fingertips touched the core, a faint static snapped against my skin. Warm. Alive. It hummed like it recognized mana.
This is it…
A chance to remake everything I lost.
Clutching the core gently, I headed back to the counter.
The old man was sleeping again—head hanging, beard draped over his chest like an old blanket. He snored softly, lips quivering with each breath.
"…Sir?"
No reaction.
I cleared my throat.
Nothing.
I tapped the counter.
Tap.
Still nothing.
I tapped harder.
TAP.
The old man jerked awake with a sound halfway between a scream and a wheeze.
"WHO—WHAT—WHERE—?!"
His eyes darted around wildly until they landed on me… then dropped to the core in my hand.
His expression deflated instantly.
"…Oh. It's just you."
Charming.
He squinted at me, taking in my cheap gear, dusty boots, and overall financial tragedy.
"Why would someone like you want a monster core?" he muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"That's my business. How much?"
He studied the core, hummed, and then, without shame, said—
"Fifty silver taels."
He blinked.
For a moment, froze.
"…What?"
The word slipped from his mouth before he could stop it.
The old man didn't even glance up. Still half-asleep, he waved lazily toward the cracked orb on the counter. "Fifty silver taels for the core. Take it or leave it."
Nam blinked. Fifty? For this?
He clenched his jaw and kept his expression neutral, but inside his mind, calculations began firing like a machine gun.
***
In this world, currency was divided into three simple but strictly valued types: copper, silver, and gold.
Unlike Earth's chaotic inflation and tax-riddled economy, this system followed a clean and absolute scale—100 copper made 1 silver, and 100 silver made 1 gold.
Copper coins were the lifeblood of commoners; they passed through countless hands each day, used to buy bread, pay for cheap drinks, rent a bed in a noisy inn, or purchase low-tier materials.
If you were counting every coin just to survive, then copper was your world.
Silver, on the other hand, belonged to travelers, adventurers, merchants, and anyone with skills valuable enough to earn more than just daily bread.
Silver coins were used for repairing equipment, buying sturdy gear, purchasing medicines or potions, and securing comfortable lodging.
A pouch of silver was the difference between living day to day and being able to invest in your growth.
To Nam—thinking in Earth terms—one silver felt like holding roughly a hundred pesos or a few dollars: small on its own, but it added up painfully fast.
At the top were gold coins, symbols of true wealth and power.
Gold wasn't something you casually spent—it was used for enchanted weapons, land ownership, rare materials, powerful scrolls, or high-end magical services.
A single gold coin could change a person's life, buy a small home, or send a child to a reputable academy.
Nam remembered this from the game too well: gold was the difference between players… and legends. Seeing how easily merchants threw around prices like "fifty silver" made his stomach twist.
'Fifty silver taels… that's like buying a low-tier graphics card just to use as a paperweight.'
His eye twitched.
The old man finally stirred, scratching his beard. "What? Too expensive?"
Nam shook his head quickly, smiling stiffly. "N-No… I was just surprised."
Surprised you're trying to sell trash.
He glanced down at the item again. The monster core, once something valuable and brimming with mana, now sat dull and cracked, like a broken lightbulb someone forgot to throw away.
Monster cores—he knew these well. They were the heart of magical technology in this world are with Used for creating wands, Fueling magic appliances or sometimes powering defensive enchantments
But only intact cores were worth anything.
Nam crouched a little, tapping the surface of the core. A hairline fracture ran across it—thin, but deep. The core was basically dead.
This one is trash, he thought. Completely drained. It's probably been sitting in this corner for months. Even in the game it wouldn't sell for more than a few copper coins.
He sighed internally.
Fifty silver for a cracked monster core? Old man… are you robbing adventurers or funding a war?
The old man shrugged.
"Fifty."
I nearly threw the core at him.
"The last time I came here, it was fifteen!"
"That was yesterday."
"You're overpricing!"
"If you have complaints," he mumbled, already half-asleep again, "put it back."
Panic shot through me. No way I was letting this chance slip.
"Eighteen," I said quickly.
"Forty-nine."
"Twenty."
"Forty-eight."
"Are you just subtracting ONE each time?!"
He yawned. "Forty-seven."
This wasn't bargaining.
This was slow torture.
I clenched my teeth.
"Fine. Thirty. That's everything I have."
The old man froze.
His eyes widened, ever so slightly.
Then he nodded, like a predator who had smelled blood.
"…Deal."
Before I could blink, he snatched the pouch from my hand, counting the coins with the speed of a veteran thief. He didn't even pretend to be subtle.
My heart sank.
My wallet died.
After gaining what I need. I immediately turned to leave not still despairing for the large loss of money gripping the purple stone in my hand