Morning sunlight spilled through the hospital window, painting long golden streaks across the polished floor.
Dylan zipped up the small duffel bag resting on the chair beside his bed.
It wasn’t much.
A change of clothes.
His student ID.
His phone.
A wallet containing more disappointment than money.
“…Guess that’s everything.”
The room was quiet.
Six days.
It had been six days since he’d woken up in this world.
For the first two…
He’d convinced himself it was all some elaborate dream.
Some fever-induced hallucination cooked up by a dying brain.
He’d gone to sleep every night expecting to wake beneath the familiar hospital ceiling of his old life.
The one with the rabbit-shaped water stain.
Instead every morning, he opened his eyes to the same white room.
The same body.
The same world.
By the third day…
He’d stopped hoping.
“…This really is my life now.”
The words left his lips quietly.
Not bitter.
Not angry.
Just…
tired.
He rested a hand against the cool windowpane, watching the city beyond.
Cars crawled along distant roads.
People hurried toward jobs.
Somewhere farther away, a helicopter drifted across the skyline.
Life continued.
Just not his old one.
He let out a slow breath.
“If this was a novel or webtoon.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Protagonists adapt overnight.'”
“‘They wake up in another world and immediately start conquering kingdoms, collecting cheat skills, and acting like they’ve lived there their entire lives.'”
He gave a small shake of his head.
“…Good for them.”
“I’m not a protagonist.”
“I wasn’t raised swinging swords.”
“I wasn’t born in a medieval kingdom.”
“I grew up in modern society.”
“I paid taxes.”
“I complained about slow internet.”
“I argued with customer support over refunds.”
“I got nervous ordering food over the phone.”
“And six days ago…”
He paused.
“…I died.”
Silence lingered in the room.
“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared.”
His gaze drifted toward the bedside cabinet.
Resting atop it was the sleek black phone issued to Dylan Harrow.
He picked it up, turning it over in his hand.
The familiar weight was oddly comforting.
The screen lit up after a quick press of the power button.
Applications.
Messages.
Maps.
A browser.
Even the weather forecast.
“…At least this world’s technology is kind of similar to ours.”
He chuckled quietly.
“Imagine if I’d been reincarnated into a world that still used carrier pigeons.”
He slipped the phone into his pocket and picked up his bag.
The fear hadn’t disappeared.
It probably wouldn’t for a long time.
But standing still wasn’t going to change anything.
Not anymore.
His hand instinctively reached for the door handle before stopping halfway.
“…Actually.”
He turned toward the small mirror hanging beside the room’s sink.
For six days, he’d deliberately avoided looking at himself for more than a few seconds at a time.
No point, he’d told himself.
It wasn’t his face.
Today…
He finally looked.
A young man stared back.
Black hair, slightly messy from having just packed his things, framed a face that was undeniably handsome.
Sharp features gave him a naturally composed appearance, while striking green eyes regarded him with the same cautious curiosity he felt.
“…Huh.”
He tilted his head.
The reflection copied him perfectly.
“I clean up pretty well.”
He stepped a little closer.
“So this is Dylan Harrow.”
His gaze drifted downward.
Then farther downward.
“…”
“…I’m shorter.”
He frowned.
“No.”
“I’m much shorter.”
He straightened his posture as if that would somehow reclaim the missing inches.
“…Five-seven.”
His voice carried the unmistakable grief of a man mourning something irreplaceable.
“I used to be five-eleven.”
He sighed dramatically.
“So this is what true tragedy feels like.”
After another moment of silent mourning, he shrugged.
“…Eh.”
“At least I’m still good-looking.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Honestly…”
“Dylan’s got a pretty nice face.”
He flashed himself an experimental smile.
“…Not bad.”
Then another face surfaced in his memory.
Blond hair.
Golden eyes that almost seemed to glow like twin stars.
Features so flawless they bordered on unfair.
Ethan Walker.
The protagonist of Leveling Up As The Player.
Dylan’s expression immediately soured.
“…Okay.”
“No.”
“Let’s not compare ourselves to that stupidly handsome protagonist.”
“I literally wrote him to look like every teenage fantasy of what ‘cool’ meant.”
He snorted.
“Of course he’d look like an angel descended from heaven.”
“I was compensating.”
With one final glance at the mirror, he adjusted the strap of his bag.
“Looks aren’t exactly my biggest concern anyway.”
His priorities were painfully obvious.
An Armament.
A Combat Scripture.
Without those, he wouldn’t survive for long.
Armaments came in countless forms.
Some were forged from Aetherium, a mana-rich metal discovered after the Dungeon Emergence.
Others were crafted from the remains of powerful monsters, creating weapons and armor capable of enduring mana-infused combat.
But not every Armament was forged.
Some…
awakened.
When mana flooded Earth, ordinary objects exposed to it for years began to change.
Ancient swords locked away in museums awakened as legendary blades.
Family heirlooms developed abilities no craftsman could explain.
Even something as mundane as a smartphone could become a Utility Armament, capable of feats modern technology alone could never achieve.
Then there were the rarest of them all—
Divine Armaments.
Weapons that should have existed only in myths.
Blades wielded by legendary kings.
Spears said to pierce the heavens.
Relics that belonged in ancient epics rather than reality.
Whether mana had rewritten history or merely awakened what had always existed, no one knew.
What everyone did know was that a Hunter without an Armament was a dead Hunter.
Combat Scriptures were different.
They weren’t powers bestowed by the System or gifts someone was born with.
They were techniques—disciplines anyone could learn through relentless practice, provided they possessed the talent to master them.
Swordsmanship, Spear Arts, Movement techniques, Body refinement methods.
Their true mystery wasn’t how they worked.
It was where they came from.
When the first dungeons appeared, they brought more than monsters.
Across the world, ancient manuals known as Combat Scriptures began surfacing under impossible circumstances.
Some appeared as rewards for conquering dungeons.
Others simply manifested.
A forgotten ruin.
A mountaintop.
The depths of an untouched forest.
Wherever a scripture appeared, a shrine inevitably formed around it, as though the world itself sought to protect the knowledge within.
No one knew who had written them.
No one knew which civilization—or even which world—they belonged to.
Yet every scripture contained a complete Combat Scripture far beyond anything humanity had ever created.
For twenty-three years, Hunters had inherited those teachings, refined them, and built entire schools around them.
Dylan adjusted the strap of his bag.
“…Thankfully,” he muttered, “I know exactly where to find one.”
His destination had already been decided.
Sector-V33, Officially designated as a Terraformer Mountain Zone on the outskirts of New California.
Hunters simply called it Ashveil Summit.
Twenty-three years of constant mana exposure had transformed the once ordinary mountain range into something that barely resembled Earth.
Dungeon Portals appeared there with alarming frequency.
The overflowing mana had seeped into the ecosystem itself.
Animals had evolved.
Predators became Mana Beasts.
Entire forests had adapted to survive alongside dungeons.
It was dangerous enough that civilians weren’t permitted anywhere near its interior.
But it was one of the important places in the early story of Leveling Up As The Player.
As it contained sixty-seven unconquered dungeons and Twelve Shrines and one of those shrines was mentioned by him in the novel.
He wrote about the shrine of a nameless martial god.
Which is located east of the near end of ashveil summit it contains several combat scriptures and armaments as it is more of a treasury than a shrine like others.
“And offcourse it is relatively less dangerous compared to other shrines which have guardian beasts.”
The reason No one had ever found it not because it was hidden, but because no one was allowed to look.
The shrine sat near the eastern edge of Ashveil Summit, and Ashveil Summit itself was off-limits by law.
Not just to ordinary citizens even licensed hunters needed to fight through a mountain of paperwork just to earn a single permitted day inside its borders.
But that never stopped people from finding illegal ways in.
Dylan exhaled, already regretting the thought before he finished having it.
“Guess I’m doing this the illegal way, then.”
A familiar knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Come in.”
The door slid open.
The same nurse stepped inside carrying a clipboard.
She smiled upon seeing him fully dressed.
“So.”
“Leaving us already?”
Dylan nodded solemnly.
“I know.”
“It’s hard.”
“You’ll probably spend the next few weeks staring wistfully at this empty room, wondering where it all went wrong.”
She blinked once.
“…Mr. Harrow.”
“Yes?”
“You’ve been my patient for less than a week.”
“I know.”
“Our love was brief.”
She pinched the bridge of her nose.
“…You’re impossible.”
“I’ve been told I’m unforgettable.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I assure you, I wasn’t.”
He grinned.
“I’ll choose to believe otherwise.”
Despite herself, she laughed quietly.
Then her expression softened.
“…I suppose I should properly introduce myself.”
She extended a hand.
“Sarah.”
“Sarah Williams.”
“I’m one of the nurses assigned to trauma recovery.”
Dylan accepted the handshake.
“Dylan Harrow.”
“I know.”
“I’ve read your chart more times than you’ve read your own class books.”
“…Fair enough.”
She handed over a folder containing his discharge papers.
“Everything’s in order.”
“Medication.”
“Recovery exercises.”
“And doctor’s instructions.”
He accepted it before looking back at her.
“…So.”
Sarah narrowed her eyes.
“…So?”
“Would you like to have dinner sometime?”
She stared at him.
“…No.”
“That was immediate.”
“You’re seventeen.”
“And?”
“I’m twenty-nine.”
“…Age is just a—”
“A legal boundary.”
“…Right.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Worth asking.”
Sarah shook her head with an amused smile.
“You recover quickly.”
“Not just physically.”
She reached into her pocket, scribbled something onto the back of one of his discharge papers, and handed it over.
Dylan glanced down.
A phone number.
He looked back up, surprised.
“I thought you rejected me.”
“I did.”
She smiled.
“That’s my number.”
“If you end up back in this hospital after doing something reckless…”
“…I’d like a little warning beforehand.”
Dylan laughed.
“So I got friend-zoned.”
“No you got patient-zoned.”
“…That’s somehow worse.”
She stepped aside, gesturing toward the open doorway.
“Take care of yourself, Dylan.”
He adjusted his bag over one shoulder before giving her a small salute.
“I’ll do my best.”
Then, with one last smile, he walked past her and out of the room.