Chapter 01
“4,700 won, please. Ah, if you’re paying with Hunter Pay, just scan the barcode over there.”
“Thanks for your work.”
“Goodbye.”
Ten years ago, the colossal gate known as Ragnarok appeared.
From within, monstrous creatures poured out, slaughtering humans indiscriminately. In response, people with extraordinary abilities began to awaken.
What had once sounded like the plot of a modern fantasy novel became reality. On the suggestion of one writer, those people became widely known by a familiar name: Hunters.
Ranks were created, abilities classified, and people rushed in to handle not only Ragnarok but also the countless other gates that began to appear in its wake.
It took three years before the chaos was finally brought under control.
“Don’t you have strawberry flavor?”
“Ah, that one isn’t supplied to the Hunter chains. They say it clashes with potions. Yes, sorry.”
Hunters earned astronomical sums, justified by the fact that they risked their lives protecting others. Naturally, once someone awakened, the expected path was to become a Hunter.
Entire infrastructures sprang up for them: websites, shops, apartments, and convenience stores—all clustered around gate hotspots. Every few blocks, you’d find an awakening academy or a Hunter prep school.
Those who did not become Hunters, for reasons religious, physical, personal, or otherwise, were the exception.
[No Potion Stock Today!!]
“Ah, sold out already?”
“Yes, sorry.”
In that world, I was nothing more than a part-time clerk at a Hunter-only convenience store.
Hunters were broadly categorized: combat, production, healing. Combat types, of course, were the overwhelming majority.
Healers were rarer than even S-rank Hunters—so rare that an average guild’s budget couldn’t hope to hire one. Every awakened person prayed to at least have a healing skill.
Late awakenings were common, so at twenty-three, I still believed that if I could awaken, I’d do whatever it took to change my life.
Between paying off monthly loan interest, filling in additional debts just to cover the ones before, scraping by after subtracting rent—it often meant surviving on convenience store food.
“No potions today.”
“Ugh, again?!”
The most I ever did was mutter insults under my breath as angry Hunters kicked open the door on their way out.
And then—while walking home after my shift, hair half-tied and eyes bleary from exhaustion—it finally happened.
Static flickered before my eyes, the air warped, and then a glowing blue screen appeared.
The Awakening Window.
Something I had only heard about—something I had seen others stare into the air to read, but had never once appeared before me.
Congratulations, Yeom Yea-ah, on acquiring a new ability.
As of today, all abilities of Yeom Yea-ah are under the jurisdiction of the Ragnarok Countermeasure Committee, also known as Valder. Please comply with the terms of contract until Ragnarok is resolved.
Now revealing Yeom Yea-ah’s abilities.
There was no mistaking it.
The bag slipped from my hands and thudded to the ground. I didn’t even hear my phone’s screen shatter.
Light burst all around me. And just like that—at twenty-three years old—I became an Awakened.
*
“So that’s the story, Ms. Yea-ah. But you still haven’t registered as an official Hunter?”
“They said awakening registration is mandatory, but Hunter registration isn’t. To register as a Hunter, I’d have to… demonstrate my skill.”
The interviewer across from me nodded, but his expression remained unconvinced. He looked down at the Awakener résumé I’d submitted, then back up at me.
“As a healer, I imagine you’ve had many offers already. It’s been nearly a year since your awakening—why wait? Especially since you seem to be struggling financially.”
“I… wrote it down there.”
“Yes, I read that. But I don’t quite understand. Skills all have different activation methods. Some people dance, some use their own blood. Having to sing doesn’t sound that unusual.”
He wasn’t wrong. If it involved using my voice, there were plenty of tools to amplify it. His reasoning was perfectly ordinary.
Then came that inevitable silence.
I knew what he was going to say. Everyone always did.
“Right.”
And then—just as expected:
“…Are you seriously telling me you can’t heal because you’re tone-deaf?”
*
“Have you ever sung your heart out at karaoke and scored under fifty?”
“Usually that’s a system error—”
“I’ve done it.”
He blinked, as though refusing to believe me. It was the same reaction my friends had when they asked how it was possible—when even leaving the machine running without singing usually gave higher than that.
Yeom Yea-ah, twenty-four this year. A once-in-a-lifetime tone-deaf disaster who made everyone brace themselves whenever I picked up a microphone.
“It used to be just bad singing. Lately… people can’t even tolerate it anymore.”
“You mean… your singing actually got worse?”
“Not worse, exactly. Just that people react more strongly to it now. I even double-checked to make sure my skill wasn’t actually offensive magic.”
“…I see.”
He nodded, but his eyes betrayed confusion—and suspicion.
Suspicion that I was lying about my skill, or hiding some defect, just to sneak into a guild. It was a look I had grown used to over the past year.
Now, he’d ask me to demonstrate.
“Of course, we’re not doubting you. But verification is necessary.”
“You want me to use it here?”
“Yes.”
He picked up his pen and deliberately nicked the back of his hand. Beads of blood welled up. A chill ran down my spine.
I’d already tested that my song could heal. This was my chance to prove it again.
But in truth, his request was a petty way of looking down on me. Normal healing skills were only efficient inside gates. For minor injuries, potions were far cheaper.
Still—what power did I have to refuse? I’d been scraping by for months, unable even to quit my convenience store job, skipping meals to cover my rent.
“Should I… just start now?”
“Yes, at your convenience.”
That look in his eyes—I knew it well. He thought I was stalling for time.
I stood, tightened my core, and took a breath. Somewhere I’d read that diaphragmatic breathing improved singing.
The song I chose was my personal number-one—a decades-old trot called My Romantic You. Hardly anyone else knew it, but I’d loved it since I heard it at a highway rest stop as a child.
“World’s one and only! My precious, my man!”
Skill conditions met. To conserve the contractor’s mana outside the Ragnarok domain, output will be forcibly reduced.
Matching skill to vocal wavelength…
Casting ‘Mermaid Out of Water’! May Valder’s divinity be with you!
Musical staves warped into existence around me, jagged and trembling. Damaged, battered notes rose up in sync with my voice.
Every Hunter had their own visual effects. Mine turned the room into a warped concert hall.
The staves writhed, then shot forward—straight into the cut on the interviewer’s hand.
“I love you!—uh, excuse me! Sir?!”
He convulsed, frothing at the mouth, before collapsing backwards, trembling.
The cut on his hand healed cleanly in seconds. But that was far from the main problem.
Panic surged through me as I rushed to his side.
“Excuse me! Somebody! A man just collapsed in here!”
