The Wanderer Who Dreams of Becoming a Sword Saint Won't Be Tempted by Good Food

Western Fantasy + Dungeon + Ranger + Mage

When Lege Molot wakes in the Turbid River, all he has is a rusty short sword and a line of translucent text in his field of vision:

[Combo Slash: Beginner 2%]

In his previous life, he was a patient confined to a hospital bed for sixteen years. In this life, he slept for another sixteen years. By the time he awoke, the world had been torn apart by dungeon rifts: magic spilled everywhere, monsters ran rampant, and the very concepts of the gods surged through the world.

Combat techniques are forged through grueling physical practice. Only after swinging a sword millions of times and focusing on the brink of death can the body resonate with the world and double its strength.

Divine arts are a pawnshop for the soul. Borrow power from concepts, and five years of devotion make you a believer, ten years make you a saint, and eventually even your shadow vanishes.

Kaspar, the priest who rescued Lege, burned himself out this way. He did it for a group of strangers, leaving nothing behind but a scorch mark.

Lege signs no contracts that demand payment in advance. He takes the cheapest jobs and saves three months’ worth of blood and sweat to learn a single parry. In the darkness of the dungeon, he swings his sword and watches the numbers in his heart’s mirror tick upward on the brink of death.

Because he knows that in a world where everyone borrows from the gods, an ordinary person’s only weapon is turning every drop of sweat into a percentage point that truly belongs to them.

No quests. No gift packs. No lucky encounters.

Just a rusty sword, a moldy piece of bread, and a soul that crawled out of a hospital bed...

He will never lie down again.