The next morning, I stared at my reflection in the cracked bathroom mirror of a run-down motel near the outer districts.
This face wasn't mine.
Broader shoulders, sharper jawline, deeper eyes. My voice sounded heavier too. If I didn't know better, I wouldn't believe this was me.
It worked.
The transformation had held through the night. But now I had a new problem: I didn't have a hunter's license. That meant no legal dungeon access — at least not as a fighter.
But I had a plan.
Dungeon cleaners.
They were ordinary people, sometimes barely trained, who entered cleared dungeons to collect the leftovers — monster cores, rare hides, bones, plants, artifacts. They did it fast, under high radiation, and without powers. Some called them "mana rats."
Most never lasted long.
But that was my way in.
Last night, after the shapeshift ritual, I sacrificed part of my mana for a basic storage ring. It wasn't fancy. Just a beginner's ring with enough capacity to store a dozen large items.
Perfect for monster corpses.
If I wanted teleportation, I'd need mana. And if I couldn't sacrifice my own, I'd sacrifice what I could gather — bodies filled with dormant energy.
The dungeon we arrived at was still open. The main hunter team had cleared it earlier in the morning but left the core intact. Without destroying it, the gate would stay open temporarily for research and cleanup.
We were guided in — ten of us, mostly middle-aged men in cheap radiation suits. One girl barely older than me carried an old mana scanner and a plastic bag.
No one questioned who I was. One of the benefits of looking older, I guess.
The foreman grunted at us, pointing into the glowing tunnel ahead. "Core's stable. Radiation level's ticking up. Don't waste time. Grab what you can and get out before your teeth fall out."
Inside, the dungeon was oddly quiet. Just dim blue crystals growing from the walls, mana mist swirling near the floor. The air felt thick, like breathing through syrup.
We split up in pairs. My job was simple: help collect the monster cores, and when no one was looking, grab the bodies.
The first area still had three wolf corpses.
The cleaners pulled the cores, sliced them out like surgeons removing tumors, then started to move on.
I stayed behind, crouched, and reached for the nearest body. Blood still seeped from its open jaw.
"Storage," I whispered.
The ring glowed faintly, pulling the corpse inside.
One down.
It went like that for an hour. Quiet work. Sweaty gloves. Cracking bones. Occasional jokes from the others to kill the tension.
"You new?" a bearded guy asked me while yanking a core out of a spider-like creature.
"Yeah. First time."
By the end of the run, I had eight full corpses in the ring. Mostly wolves and crystal insects. Not much, but a start.
The foreman handed out our pay — small crystal coins loaded with tradeable mana credits. I pocketed mine without a word.
By sunset, I stood in front of my house.
My hand hovered near the door.
I couldn't go in.
I didn't look like Jihoon. And with the Eyes of the Unknown sealed, I couldn't even talk to the Nethrak.
Not until one more day.
I clenched my jaw.
"I should've set a timer on the transformation… Idiot."
My parents were probably freaking out. Or furious. Or both.
I backed away before the security camera caught a good shot of my face.
Later that night, I sat on a rooftop across the street. A bowl of cheap ramen steamed beside me, untouched.
The sky over was cloudy — neon lights from the city fighting the night.