Dalen liked difficult games.
Since he was skilled — what people called having good "mechanics" — easy games bored him quickly.
But even for someone like him, this game was anything but easy.
The protagonist character was weak. The monsters in the labyrinth were terrifyingly strong. The world outside was on the brink of destruction, and the NPC allies he met were either getting possessed by demons or stabbing him in the back.
In a way, it was brutally realistic. And because of that, he got hooked — he couldn't let go.
After dying around ten times, his interest turned to stubbornness.
After dying a hundred times, that stubbornness ignited into rage.
There were plenty of nights he stayed up, driven by the single thought:
"I'm going to see the ending, no matter what."
He wondered how many hundreds of times he had died.
And then, for the first time since he started playing, Dalen exploded in frustration.
"Screw it. Fine! I'll do it! I'll pay! This is ridiculous — I'm buying power-ups."
He threw money at the game and bought additional stats.
Not just a little — he maxed out every purchasable option, turning his character into a full-blown overpowered monster.
"What kind of cursed game makes you pay to even see the ending? If I hadn't already sunk so many hours into this, I would've uninstalled it on the spot."
He cursed under his breath, clicked "Start Game" — and then fell straight into the game world.
No more moving a character with mouse and keyboard.
This time, it was his real body. His real limbs. His real life.
Looking back, that cash purchase was probably the only reason he was still alive now.
"Honestly... I should've just deleted the damn game back then."
But regret always comes too late.
Dalen let out a long sigh and raised his beer mug.
He downed half the large glass in one go, then turned his eyes to the side of the table.
[Corpse of a Pathetic Mercenary]
The body of a mercenary butchered by thugs in the back alleys of the Bronze District.
There was a corpse on the ground beside the table, its colors dulled like an old black-and-white photograph.
Stabbed with daggers, slashed to pieces, blood still oozing out.
It was the kind of sight that should've drawn attention in the middle of an inn — but everyone around him went about their business like they couldn't see it at all.
"Or rather, they probably really can't see it."
That corpse wasn't real.
To be precise, it was a phantom — the final remains of a character Dalen had played in the past, visible only to him.
And when Dalen spent his rage-money, he hadn't just bought extra stats.
He'd also bought the DLC officially called a "Cheat" by the developers — the Heir system.
The Heir option allowed a new character to inherit the abilities of previous characters who had died.
For players like Dalen, who had gone through hundreds of runs and countless deaths, it was practically limitless growth.
"Of course, the catch is... you have to personally retrieve those bodies."
That was why Dalen had come to this shabby little inn — to recover one of those old corpses.
And this was his first time doing it.
He didn't show it outwardly, but he was slightly nervous.
This was a world spiraling toward destruction — a game world he had never once cleared. This was one of the few hopes he could still cling to.
"Corpse Recovery."
Dalen held out his hand over the corpse and muttered quietly.
Fssshh—
The corpse began to blur, then dissolved into shimmering light that flowed into him.
[You have recovered the Corpse of a Pathetic Mercenary. Inheriting abilities.]
[Inheritance Reward: Strength +1, Dexterity +1, Dehaman's Armored Combat (D-Rank)]
"Hm?"
Dalen raised an eyebrow.
The reward was... better than he expected.
The Pathetic Mercenary was from one of his very early playthroughs.
Back when he barely knew how the game worked — a clumsy, inexperienced character.
Given that, the reward he received from recovering the corpse was beyond his expectations.
"No wonder the devs called this a cheat."
Crack—
Dalen rolled his shoulders.
His muscles tightened as his strength increased, his body feeling slightly heavier, taut with energy.
It was kind of like that pumped-up feeling after a hard workout at the gym.
And the tingling sensation at his fingertips — that was from his boosted Dexterity.
"Mm."
Then, a different kind of power seeped into his body.
This was a new sensation — it was the first time he had acquired a skill since falling into this world two years ago.
Skills weren't just about strength or speed.
A martial skill meant techniques, knowledge of how to move the body. A magic skill meant systems of controlling and wielding mana.
[Dehaman's Armored Combat (D-Rank)]
A martial art created by Dehaman, once the Imperial Knight Commander. After seeing his knights become helpless once disarmed, he developed a style that uses armor as both shield and weapon.
Proficiency: 4%
Moreover, D-Rank skills and higher weren't just techniques — they carried the philosophy and honed experience of their creators.
That was something you could never get from low-level F or E-Rank skills.
Dalen closed his eyes.
With the high Intelligence stat he had purchased, he rapidly processed the knowledge contained in the skill.
He slowly took a deep breath, letting that realization sink into his body.
By the time a few drinks' worth of time had passed, he opened his eyes again.
"Excellent."
Acquiring a skill felt completely different from gaining stats.
If raising your stats was like adding more muscle so you could run faster, then acquiring a skill was like growing wings.
It felt as though things he'd never been able to do before were now as natural as breathing.
That exhilarating sense of empowerment made his whole body heat up.
Clatter.
Dalen stood up from his seat.
He downed the rest of his beer in a single gulp, tossed a coin onto the table as a tip, then grabbed his sword, bag, and shield.
He had come to this back-alley inn to recover a corpse — but that didn't mean he was going to sleep here.
This was the Bronze District back alley — an inn where you could get stabbed in your sleep at any time.
After camping outdoors for so long, what he really needed was a bed where he could rest in peace.
Luckily, he had more than ten silver coins on him. He could easily afford a decent inn on the main road.
Rubbing his sore shoulder, Dalen made his way toward the inn's entrance.
But just as he was about to leave — someone stepped in his way.
"Hey there. Never seen your face around here before."
Dalen tilted his head slightly.
Standing before him was a rough-looking man with an ugly sneer.
But beyond the bad attitude and big frame, there wasn't anything particularly impressive about him.
"Judging by your look, I'd guess you're some mercenary from outside the city, hunting goblins or whatever. But what brings a fancy merc like you to a shabby back-alley inn like this? Don't you know how things work around here?"
The man spoke with a drunken flush on his face.
Dalen watched him for a moment — then muttered quietly, like he was just talking to himself.
"What kind of bullshit system is this now?"
"I'm talking about the newcomer tax, of course. Doesn't matter if you're a merc — if you're a new customer at this inn, you gotta pay the newcomer tax."
"Newcomer tax?"
At Dalen's question, the thug proudly lifted his chin.
"That's right. It's the money you owe me — Malun — who manages this inn. Thanks to me, you can eat, drink, and roll around with women here without worrying about getting stabbed. And who do you think makes that possible?"
The thug jabbed his thumb at himself.
"That's right. I manage this inn under Lord Bankal's crew. So obviously, you gotta pay me, don't you think?"
Ah.
So basically — a back-alley thug trying to shake him down.
The Labyrinth City was a colossal metropolis with a population well over several million. And naturally, in a city of that scale, the back-alley gangs thrived just as much.
It was almost inevitable. In a city nearing ten million people, one couldn't expect much from a city guard operating at a medieval level of organization and technology.
Among the seven districts divided by the seven walls, the outermost district — the Bronze District — was where the influence of the back-alley gangs was at its worst.
Here, the city guard's duties barely extended beyond patrolling the main roads and their immediate surroundings.
The rest of the land was practically carved up by violent gangs, who imposed their own protection fees and ruled their turf with force.
'Come to think of it, that mercenary character I recovered earlier died to scumbags like these.'
Daelon's gaze swept over the thug's waist — a dagger prominently displayed for intimidation. The engraved pattern on the hilt caught his eye — it was familiar.
With his high intelligence stat, he rifled through his memory and recalled its origin instantly.
'That's the same dagger that was stuck in the back of the corpse I recovered.'
The pattern matched exactly.
'So this bastard was the one who stabbed my character.'
It had happened so long ago, and he had died so many times since that the memory had grown hazy — but this confirmed it.
These were the bastards who'd created the corpse in the inn.
Still, there was something odd about it. Even back then, Daelon had been confident in his control skills, no matter the game. No matter how inexperienced he'd been at the time, there was no way he would've gone down in a fair fight.
The answer wasn't far off.
'The dagger was stuck in my back... They ambushed me.'
A dagger buried in the back — clear proof that they'd attacked while his guard was down.
These thugs had never intended to settle for a few coins. They'd planned to kill from the start.
Having come to a conclusion, Daelon shrugged and spread his hand.
"I don't have any money to give you."
"No money?"
"That's right."
At Daelon's reply, the thug's face twisted for a moment. But soon after, he forced a grin onto his face.
"...I see. Looks like we bothered a poor fellow for no good reason. You at least paid for your drinks, right?"
"Of course."
"Then be on your way. We'll let you off just this once."
The thug subtly stepped aside, making way for Daelon. Daelon returned a polite smile and began to walk past him.
In that very moment—
Shing—
The thug swiftly drew the dagger from his waist and lunged forward, aiming to stab Daelon without giving him a chance to react.
But even in that fleeting instant, Daelon didn't wipe the smile from his face. He found it amusing.
Amusing that this thug didn't even know how to properly assess his opponent.
And amusing that his past self had actually died to garbage like this.
But Daelon now was no longer the same fool who'd once struggled desperately to clear the game with a basic, trash-tier character.
"You filthy bastard, where do you think you're going—urk!"
The thug's head snapped to the side. Daelon's fist had slammed into his jaw like lightning.
The way his head whipped around seemed almost excessive — the thug crumpled to the ground in a heap.
Thud!
The sound caused the atmosphere in the inn to freeze over.
Daelon quickly scanned the room, spotting several men whose eyes glinted dangerously.
Soon enough, rough-looking men began scraping back their chairs and rising from their seats.
One of them shouted.
"Lock the damn doors!"
The thugs moved faster than Daelon had expected.
In an instant, they bolted the doors and windows, then swarmed around Daelon, forming a loose circle.
By now, each of them had armed themselves with daggers, short swords the size of forearms, rusty iron skewers, or heavy clubs. It wasn't their first time in a brawl.
Even so, they hesitated to approach Daelon despite surrounding him.
"H-Holy shit, he's huge..."
"A barbarian from the north, maybe?"
They'd drawn their weapons and surrounded him — but Daelon's size had caught them off guard.
He stood easily around two meters tall, his frame thick with muscles that bulged like stone even beneath his armor.
On his waist hung a long sword, and a shield was strapped to his back.
Just from appearance alone, it was obvious they were completely outmatched.
Still, they couldn't back down. Not here, in their own territory — not after pulling weapons.
Daelon chuckled at the sight of the hesitant thugs. Then he loosened his sword and shield, placing them on the table.
He took off his pack and leaned it against the table leg. His hand axe he set down beside his shield.
Then he spoke.
"Not coming at me?"
"Die, you bastard!"
A thug behind him lunged suddenly, thrusting an iron skewer straight at Daelon's vital organs — a strike honed in countless back-alley fights.
That iron skewer had likely taken more lives than he could count on both hands.
But—
Clack.
Daelon casually turned and grabbed the thug's wrist holding the skewer.
Crunch!
He applied a little strength — the sound of bone cracking echoed.
"Gaaaaah!"
As the thug screamed and dropped to his knees, Daelon kicked him.
Thud.
The thug fell silent, his neck twisted unnaturally. Someone shouted.
"Everyone get him!"
"Uwaaaah!"
"Die, you bastard!"
The thugs charged, shouting curses.
Their weapons swung wildly — deadly blades and clubs aiming for blood.
But in the end, they were just street thugs.
There was no way these back-alley punks had received any proper training in warfare.
No refined techniques. No skilled swordsmanship. Just a chaotic melee.
In fights like this, there was usually one rule that applied:
The faster and stronger side wins.
And even without considering the skill he'd just acquired, Daelon's raw strength alone was enough to overwhelm several grown men with ease.
"Guh!"
Daelon's hand shot out like lightning, slamming into one thug's chest.
It caved in as though struck by a hammer — the thug's eyes rolled back as he collapsed.
"Die, bastard!"
Another thug swung a short sword and a club at him.
Daelon easily dodged the short sword, then kicked the thug who'd swung it in the stomach. The man doubled over with a groan.
Honestly, even just the difference in stats made this fight a one-sided slaughter.
But on top of that, Daelon had learned the D-rank skill: "Deharman's Armor Combat."
It was a technique supposedly created by a former Imperial Knight Commander — born from frustration at watching his subordinates become helpless without their swords.
Daelon had been planning to head to the training ground after arriving at the inn to test it out — but since these fools had come swinging weapons at him first, it saved him the trouble.
Thunk!
While dodging the short sword, a club snuck in and struck Daelon's back. The sound was heavy — a groan followed.
"Ugh!"
But the groan wasn't Daelon's.
Instead, the thug who'd swung the club dropped his weapon and clutched his hand in agony.
"Ugh, it's like I hit solid iron—urk!"
Crunch!
Daelon slammed his fist into the thug's face.
The man's face caved in just like the chest before — broken teeth and blood spraying out.
Daelon hadn't put down his weapons out of carelessness.
Deharman's Armor Combat was a martial art designed for fighting multiple unarmored or lightly armored opponents on the battlefield.
In short — it was a skill perfectly suited for this kind of one-against-many situation.
'Of course, it assumes the user is armored...'
Daelon certainly fulfilled that condition.