Is it already Wednesday?
An itch had been growing in the back of his mind all day—the need to check his Gumroad income again. He knew he should set up automatic payouts, but the raw euphoria of manually transferring a fortune was a high he wasn't ready to give up. Probably just a honeymoon phase, he reasoned.
BRRRRRR
[Shinhan Bank: Your Balance is 211,725,027 ₩]
Another ₩95 million. The number was becoming a familiar, yet no less dizzying, sight. It was enough capital to finally formalize an LLC, just as his uncle had advised.
Just as he was about to close the tab, a colder, more pragmatic thought surfaced. Taxes. I need to file, or they'll whoop me into nirvana.
Suddenly, a shimmering blue prompt materialized in the center of his vision.
"Ahh! You scared me!"
[Divine Business System Update In Progress]
[Progress: 0/100]
[ETA: 12 hours]
An update? So the System itself was evolving. Was it triggered by his financial milestone? He wondered what new benefits awaited. Maybe I can summon a T-1000. Or get mentored by a hidden expert, like in those murim stories where the strongest master is disguised as a bum.
…
A new quest notification flashed, its tone bizarrely casual.
[New Quest Line: 'I Wanna Be The Guy']
[Objective: Acquire and complete the game's storyline on 'Hard' difficulty.]
[Time-limit: 24 Hours]
[Reward: ???]
[Penalty: Blood Explosion]
Blood Explosion? Visions of a bloating zombie filled his head. Hell naw. He had no choice but to focus.
…
It was a 2D platformer that looked like a lost SNES relic. The goal was simple: become 'The Guy.' Whatever that meant. The threat of turning into a fine red mist was a powerful motivator; he wanted to savor his success until he was old and grey.
Eight and a half grueling hours later.
"Motherfucking hell!" he yelled, cracking his knuckles. The game was a masterpiece of masochism—a gauntlet of killer apples, instant-death spikes, and collapsing level geometry. Whoever invented this ought to have been killed.
[Quest Complete!]
[Reward: Ironman Title Acquired]
[Effect: Minimum sleep requirement reduced to 4 hours.]
A massive disclaimer followed, noting that "external factors like severe illness or critical injury may void this promise." Of course.
The post-game clarity brought another thought. I never contacted Min-jun. He needed to message his friend to prove he wasn't dead in a ditch. The idea of formally employing him was also appealing—gaining a dependable ally to lead a future dev team for an AI project.
He used his remaining waking hours to decompress in his home gym, the familiar burn of iron clearing his mind.
…
[Divine Business System → The Seoul System]
[Progress: 100/100]
BING
[New Skill Acquired: Appraisal]
Typical isekai skill, he thought. In those stories, information was the ultimate power, a tool for gods to twist fate itself. In the wrong hands, it could do terrible things.
BRRRRRR
His phone vibrated with an SMS from an unknown number. The country code was... Switzerland?
Hello, Mr. Lee Dong-seung. Please call me at this number at your earliest convenience. I have an important matter to discuss.
Hmm? An inheritance from a long-lost Swiss grandpa? A doomsday bunker? The possibilities were intriguing enough to bite.
Beep—Beep
"Hello. I am Mr. Concierge, from the Pragma Group Aktiengesellschaft."
Concierge? Like a hyper-capable secretary. "Uh. You said you're from Pragma. What does the last part mean?"
"It signifies we are a corporation. You could, technically, buy shares. However, a single shareholder owns the controlling interest."
Neat. But the name was ominous. Was this a scam? Voice changers were advanced enough to clone anyone.
"How do I know you're legitimate?" Dong-seung asked, his brow furrowed.
"Mr. Lee, we maintain a rather comprehensive profile on you…"
The man then proceeded to list off his birthdate, his university degree, and even the exact amount he had just earned from Gumroad. The precision was chilling. This guy is probably legit.
"What's your real name? Your actual occupation?"
"You may call me Joel Kornberg. I am a Senior Managing Director at the Pragma Group."
"And your services?"
"Our capabilities are extensive. The fee is commensurate with the scale and nature of the request. We guarantee superior service, as you are a highly valued client."
Vague. Could he really do anything? Prevent a war? Reunite the Koreas? Dong-seung decided to test the limits. "Can you reunite Korea?"
There was a brief, static-filled silence. Then, surprisingly, Joel let out a short, genuine laugh. "We technically have a military arm named 'Jäger Security, Sicherheitsbau & Sicherheitswartung GmbH'. We could, in theory, do that. But that would put… significant pressure on our organization."
Ah. Dong-seung didn't bother asking what the German terms meant. He knew 'Security,' and the rest sounded intimidating enough. This guy might actually be useful.
"To be clear," Joel continued, his tone returning to its professional baseline, "our active services are subject to a strict limit of one request per calendar month. This includes tasks such as legally delaying a tax audit or engaging in strategic lobbying." He paused, letting the limitations sink in before presenting the real prize. "However, we could also offer you a tour of our facilities. And in the future, we will provide complimentary travel to Switzerland via private jet, including accommodations suited to your status." A subtle, knowing shift entered his voice. "This invitation, of course, is not limited by that monthly quota. It is an open-ended gesture of our commitment to our partnership."
A private jet? The thought was intoxicating. I could flaunt being a wealthy Korean billionaire to the whole world. They'd probably put him up in a castle if he asked. It felt like he'd just pulled an SSS-tier character in a gacha game.
"Alright," Dong-seung said, a new world of possibilities unfolding before him. "I'll call you when I have a request."
As the call ended, a new System notification materialized.
[Data updated!]
…
[SPIRIT ANIMAL: Spider]
[SOCIAL STANDING: Freeholder]
He stared at the prompts. A spider. It made perfect sense. The creature didn't chase its prey; it engineered a perfect, passive trap and waited for value to flow into it. It was the ultimate symbol of efficient system design. But the other term was archaic. Freeholder?
A quick web search provided the answer: "A person who owns their own land and is free from feudal obligations."
The meaning clicked into place with the satisfying finality of a lock turning. He was no longer a debt-slave to the bank nor his university. He had graduated to a different kind of struggle: a freeholder defending his domain against the state's endless appetite for tribute. And for what? He mused cynically. So that money can be shipped off as foreign aid to fund some war halfway across the globe.
…
DING DONG
His first instinct was to check the spy cam he'd installed; his was the only apartment in the building with a digital peephole. He usually just opened the door a crack, reasoning no one would want to hurt him yet. But his mind immediately ran the variables: I could theoretically beat someone up, but what if they're wielding a fucking HK-416?
"Mr. Lee Dong-seung?"
Standing in the hallway were two exceptionally muscular men. They didn't look Korean—their features suggested they were Japanese. He decided not to inquire; it was inappropriate, and he had no desire to get beaten up by two professional movers.
"Yes. I'm him."
"We are here to deliver the 77-inch LG SIGNATURE OLED M4 that you purchased."
"Yes. Of course."
I don't even remember buying that thing. Then it hit him. That evil woman forced me! It was a monument to his own capitulation. If he refused the delivery now, the witch would tear him apart with curses far more damaging than any assault rifle.
Within minutes, the situation escalated. A total of six Japanese men were now in his apartment, carefully maneuvering the colossal box. They spoke to each other in rapid Japanese. Are they expats? A specialized team? The more pressing thought was terrifying: if he accidentally offended them, he'd have to deal with six buff professionals. He'd been an avid boxer in his youth, but six versus one was a statistical death sentence.
Somehow, they managed to haul the behemoth up the stairs and navigate it through his narrow hallway with impossible grace. The installation was silent and ruthlessly efficient. In just ten minutes, the TV was mounted, leveled, and even connected to the internet, the home screen glowing triumphantly.
"Sir, we are done. Please sign this to confirm delivery."
He thanked them profusely and pressed a ₩30,000 tip into each of their hands—enough for a good meal and a few beers, he figured. It was a small price to pay for their Herculean effort, and more importantly, for their peaceful departure.
The moment the door closed, Seo-yeon erupted. "Dong-seung! We finally restored your honor!" she declared, dancing around the large, blank screen in triumph.
A dull throb began to pulse behind his eyes. It was all too much—the TV, the mysterious concierge, her. He desperately wanted to meet Min-jun later, to go out and eat somewhere, anywhere, without the "evil witch" in tow.
"Are you okay?" she asked, placing a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Yes, Ma'am," he said, his eyes involuntarily twisting into a momentary grimace.
Good. She didn't see that.
"I'll probably go out later to meet my friend," he announced, adopting a tone of bland professionalism. "But before that, I need to rest and do some 'business planning'." He couldn't resist the faintest hint of sarcasm on the last two words.
Technically, he wasn't lying. He did plan to do something while "resting." He grabbed his Asus laptop and retreated to his bedroom. The possibilities unfolded: Research a better internet plan? Buy something from Jeff Bezos' empire? A new console? His eyes landed on a kitchen gadget online. An air fryer. He'd always wanted one but could never afford even the cheapest model. It was practical, efficient, and maybe a little dangerous—but then, everything could kill you with the right dose.
He quickly sent a text to Min-jun to arrange a meetup. His friend, of course, responded immediately.
Now for the fun part: browsing Amazon. It was a truly dangerous endeavor. The psychological incentive to buy something, even if it was utterly useless, was immense. Who doesn't want to buy something on sale?
He scrolled through pages of products. A new pan? One made from "kryptonite" and Teflon, manufactured by a German brand that secretly produced everything in China, slapping on a "Made in Germany" badge because the regulations didn't require full domestic production.
His uncle ranted about that constantly, having fallen for the prestigious badge himself. Dong-seung, ever the analyst, had once looked up the specific model of his uncle's broken Bosch impact wrench. A quick search confirmed it was a budget-friendly model assembled in China for the Asian market—a fact not immediately obvious from the prominent "Bosch" logo. The "Made in Germany" reputation, in this case, had been a costly mirage.
With the help of his trusty HYUNG, he skimmed the lineups of different manufacturers, comparing specs and reviews. Some were French, like Tefal. In the end, he settled on a Philips model. The name carried weight. And if he regretted it, the generous return policy was his shield. If Amazon gave him any trouble, he could always deploy his new ultimate weapon: a competent lawyer or even his shady concierge.