Chapter 1: Succession

A low hill scratched violently by the storm.

Soren’s house stood there — precarious and shabby, as if it might collapse at any moment.

Climbing the hill, Soren wiped the rain from his eyes.

”Damn weather.”

“I’m home.”

When he opened the cabin door, what greeted him wasn’t a voice but the musty smell of dust and a wave of cold.

It was a familiar occurrence.

Soren shut the door indifferently and tossed a few potatoes into a pot.

Before long, he heard ragged, wheezing breaths from the back room.

“Soren… is that you?”

“Yes, Father.”

“Come here, Soren.”

A voice as thin as a thread, as if it might break at any moment.

Leaving the pot behind, Soren walked toward the voice.

Moments later, a flame flickered to life atop an oil candle.

On a bed crudely made from straw and hay lay Soren’s father — thinner than yesterday, his frail body stretched out.

Soren’s father had always lived through a worse today than the day before.

Today, he was thinner than yesterday.

Yesterday, he had been worse than the day before that.

Tomorrow, he would be even worse than today.

Amid the smells of wet soil and rot, a strange sourness seeped in — the scent of something lingering between life and death.

“I didn’t mean to leave you behind…”

“It’s okay.”

“You brat… I’m not okay. Cough!”

Soren silently watched his father cough up another dry fit.

It wasn’t that he felt nothing — but he had learned to stay calm.

The secret lay in ‘being prepared ahead of time.’

‘If you’re given enough time to prepare, you can stay composed no matter what happens.’

Soren had learned that at the young age of sixteen.

He’d turn seventeen after his birthday.

Soren’s father had looked like this for as long as he could remember — and things had looked especially bad since last night.

Thanks to that, he’d long since finished his emotional preparations.

A scarred hand wrapped around Soren’s.

A hand barely warm.

“Do you… remember everything I told you?”

“Yes, Father.”

“This kid… Who did you take after, being so smart…”

The dying man began to mumble nonsense.

Rambling on about how Soren had inherited good ‘intelligence stats’ and solid ‘trait values.’

Soren’s father occasionally muttered things he couldn’t understand — so this too was familiar.

“Soren, no matter what anyone says… you’re my son. Remember that…”

“…”

“The road ahead… it’s still long, and I… I shouldn’t give up yet… but I did… I gave up…”

An old man’s sobs often seem pitiful.

But Soren’s father wasn’t old — he was middle-aged, still too young to be called elderly.

Soren watched the tears slide down his father’s cheek… then slowly pulled out a small glass vial from his coat and collected them.

Tears of the dying were valuable ingredients, after all.

Seeing this, Soren’s father let out a weak laugh.

Though it quickly disappeared beneath another wave of dry coughing.

“Yes, Soren. As I’ve told you again and again… you must take everything I leave behind.”

“Okay.”

“My body may rot away, but my talent, my stats, my abilities…”

“Take everything useful with you.”

More words he didn’t understand.

Soren frowned.

It wasn’t likely he was going senile — not at this age.

Maybe it was that herb the apothecary gave them a month ago.

“You know why I’m telling you this, right? Cough!”

“…The dungeon.”

“Yes. With everything I’ve taught you, with the legacy I’ve passed on… You must do it. You alone must reach the dungeon’s end… The treasure inside… You must reach the ending…”

His voice trailed off, as if stretched thin — the sign of a dying man.

The scarred hand clutched Soren’s with a final burst of strength.

“Soren… Soren! Soren! Huff…!”

“I’m right here, Father.”

“I… I think… this is…”

Soren brought the candle closer.

He saw his father’s eyes struggling to focus, their light dim.

Below them, dry lips moved soundlessly, then barely managed to push out a whisper.

“All my life… I just wanted to come home…”

“To eat… the kimchi and pork wrap… your mom used to make…”

Like air leaking from a pig’s bladder, a faint breath slipped out.

Soren realized that the scarred hand that had gripped his own was now limp.

Carefully, he let go.

The arm, weathered by years of struggle and hardship, dropped powerlessly onto the straw.

The glorious past he’d heard about so many times had faded.

The promising hero of that era now met a pitiful end.

‘What on earth was so special about that damn dungeon?’

Soren stared at his father’s cooling body for a moment… then slowly stood and returned to the pot to finish preparing the potatoes.

“Guess I’ll make a little less tonight.”

‘One less mouth to feed — no need to cook for two.’

But after a moment of thought, Soren changed his mind and prepared two servings, just like always.

He didn’t know what kimchi and pork wrap tasted like… but he hoped the steamed potatoes could at least come close.

***

After finishing the meal, by the time the steamed potato left across the table had gone cold, Soren finally felt the reality that his father was no longer in this world.

On a stormy night, Soren’s father passed away—just like that, leaving Soren behind.

It was a week before Soren’s birthday.

As soon as morning broke, Soren took his father’s body outside.

The pale corpse was wrapped tightly in an old cloth and buried beside the house.

Because the shovel was worn-out, digging the ground alone took more than half a day.

“Here. Take it.”

He didn’t forget to cut off one of his father’s pinky fingers and throw it to the crow.

Soren’s father believed that crows were spiritual beings who assisted with sorcery.

Soren could never truly understand it, but he respected the belief.

‘Take everything.’ That probably meant to make use of even his own corpse.

After taking care of the body, it was time to organize the now even colder belongings in the house.

There weren’t many keepsakes left behind by Soren’s father.

A few worn books he had written himself, cursed and blessed stones for sorcery, clothing and a staff, and a small amount of money—that was all.

Soren didn’t throw away a single thing—not even the ones that looked like junk at first glance.

His father had always been a secretive man.

‘Who knew what kind of secrets might be hidden in any of the objects?’

Soren found something suspicious while organizing a pile of books covered in thick dust.

Among the leather-bound volumes, one book in particular gave him an odd sense of discomfort.

As if drawn by something, his hand reached out toward it.

“What is this?”

Even after pulling it out, he wasn’t sure what it was.

If anything, it resembled a book.

Soren stared quietly at the book-like object in front of him.

There was a strange metal spiral attached to the side of it—an odd, curious shape.

Though it startled him for a moment, it wasn’t an unexplainable, mysterious object.

Soren’s father had always seemed somewhat disconnected from reality.

‘Didn’t he sometimes mutter incomprehensible things?’

He was such an unpredictable man, so it wasn’t surprising he had something like this.

Furrowing his brows, Soren stared at the book, then moved his hand to open the cover.

Unlike the quite worn-out exterior, the inside—though slightly yellowed—was fairly well preserved.

The book was filled with writing in a language Soren recognized.

It was the second language his father had taught him, the one he used in their hometown.

Some of the words were still hard to pronounce and confusing, but Soren could read and write it.

He quietly began reading from the top line aloud.

“I cannot dispel the curse.”

“Cursed in the ruins of the old kingdom. Escaped the dungeon as fast as possible, but there’s no way to lift it. Healing potion – doesn’t work. Curse-lifting potion – doesn’t work. Blessing stone – doesn’t work………………”

***

Unfamiliar item names continued for several pages.

But at the end of each entry, the same three words always appeared: Doesn’t work.

Soren’s father had died relatively young.

From this book, it wasn’t hard to infer that it had been due to a curse acquired in a dungeon.

Soren’s hands moved quickly, flipping through the pages at a frantic pace.

The handwriting, which had started to tremble and grow messy like someone sinking into despair, soon vanished.

Clean handwriting returned once again, and Soren caught sight of it.

“Character transfer and rune transfer – unable to confirm. Probably not possible.”

“Stats and trait values transfer – presumed to be passed on after death……… almost certain.”

“Method? – Die from the curse, then find a recipient for the transferred stats. First priority is……………

[Soren]

His name was written in large letters, circled wildly with stars all over it, as if to show how important it was.

Soren’s eyes dimmed.

He felt a strange emotion stir inside.

“To prepare – everything about dungeons. Foundation for Soren’s survival. Teach everything. Cast level 5 bound curse and indestructible curse on the notebook.”

Soren recalled his father from years ago, suddenly offering to teach him sorcery.

He never gave a proper reason and always dodged the question.

But Soren had learned without complaint.

He figured there was nothing to lose by knowing more.

Besides, he had always liked learning.

“Game settings mostly the same. Must prepare in advance – hybrid sorcerer build.”

‘Game? Hybrid sorcerer build?’

Soren was speechless.

His head started spinning.

Even if his father had occasionally said nonsensical things, he had never written anything so incomprehensible.

There was no need to get stuck on something he didn’t understand right away.

Soren’s eyes slowly moved downward.

“Conquering a dungeon as a sorcerer.”

Still, it seemed his father had made preparations.

And not recently—long ago.

Soren kept turning the pages.

He only intended to take a short break, then return to organizing the keepsakes.

That ‘short’ break lasted until the sun reached its peak, set, and was replaced by a pale moon.

Grrrr—

“…Ah.”

A rumble in his stomach brought Soren back to his senses.

By then, the tiny cabin was already swallowed by darkness.

Now, only Soren remained, all alone in that darkness.

The book left behind by Soren’s father, titled “Conquering a Dungeon as a Sorcerer,” occasionally contained things Soren couldn’t understand.

It seemed written with the intent to be easily understood, but Soren had never actually been to a dungeon.

There was a limit.

It couldn’t be helped.

‘If you throw bread at someone who doesn’t know what bread is, how could they know it’s food?’

Soren was the same.

To someone who had never once stepped foot in a dungeon, suddenly being handed a dungeon strategy guide was bewildering.

That didn’t mean it was useless.

On the contrary, it was precious.

After all, Soren was already planning to go to the city where dungeons existed.

His father’s final words played a large part in that decision.

It was a clichéd reason, if anything.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

In Soren’s eyes, the stars of possibility were sparkling.

‘Possibility.’

The city was full of endless possibilities.

The possibility of becoming rich, the possibility of becoming famous, the possibility of becoming more honorable than anyone else…

All of it was irresistibly attractive to Soren.

Until now, he had lived in this damp hut.

He had stayed to care for his father.

But now that his father was gone, there was no reason to remain here.

And so, over the past week, Soren prepared busily.

He packed up everything in the hut and scraped together all the remaining food into a bundle.

His outfit consisted of clothes his father had left behind.

Though the robe had faded with age, it was still clean, as if it had always been carefully maintained.

With the bundle tied to the end of his staff, all preparations were complete.

As the first light of dawn broke, Soren looked toward where the sun would rise and headed north—toward the city.

Northward, farther and farther north.

The faint stars still clinging to the dim sky became his guides.

The hut, now void of warmth, remained silently behind.

It was the day Soren turned seventeen.