When the plot-skips players into the game world

Du Ru'er staggered back home, reeking of alcohol, only when the night had completely fallen.

He was a scruffy, bearded middle-aged man clad in rugged leather armor. Even when he went out drinking, he remained fully armed.

With a long dagger, two throwing knives, a throwing axe, a hand crossbow, a composite bow, a fully automatic handgun, a longsword, and an array of bottles and pouches dangling from his waist—this was the gold standard of the "Survival Expert," a profession unmatched in all-terrain combat without weaknesses.

A hunter by nature and born in the deep mountains of Black Hawk, he had all the talent needed to excel in the art of tracking and hunting. But instead of joining a mercenary band and earning the disreputable title of wartime mercenary, he chose to leave his homeland, crossing borders to become the bodyguard of adventurers and archaeologists.

This lifestyle, indeed, was rather comfortable and carefree.

Du Ru'er lived without a single care in the world.

As a drifter with no home, he carried the notion that death could come knocking anytime—no parents, no wife, no kids, no mentor, no disciples. With no strings attached, he spent every paycheck from missions on indulgences—food, drink, entertainment—and upgrading his equipment.

Not a dime was saved; every bit of coin was spent lavishly.

When cash ran dry, he'd find his next job—as simple as that. If he failed a mission and lost his life, it was still better than dying with unspent fortunes.

And a Fourth-Level "Survival Expert" like him had no shortage of work, nor did he worry about finding new gigs when the funds dried up. Over time, his reputation earned him a striking nickname within the ranks—the "Wanderer."

Originally, he planned to have lunch and drinks with his companions "Encyclopedia" and "Little Cat." However, since neither of them wanted to get drunk, they headed back earlier in the day. Meanwhile, the Wanderer remained behind, cozying up to the local women, listening to cheesy melodies, and playing cards with Mages. A single game turned into an all-day affair until he lost every last coin he had on him. Satisfied, he finally returned home.

"Old man, I'm back!"

The drunk Wanderer hollered from outside the iron gate of the villa, "Open the door!"

He did have keys but couldn't be bothered to use them.

Yet no sooner had his words rolled off his tongue than his ears twitched.

Three, four, five… seven, eight?

…Why were there so many breathing sounds inside?

The Wanderer wiped his face, instantly sobering. As the adaptation force coursed through him, the alcohol poisoning dispersed in an instant.

Frowning slightly, his gaze sharpened with focus. Automatically, his hand reached out to verify whether his equipment was within easy reach.

Without further hesitation, he took out his key, unlocked the iron gate, and proceeded to quietly sneak inside.

Just then, someone emerged from the villa.

It was none other than the Trap Master who had accompanied him drinking at noon—the one codenamed "Little Cat."

In their line of work, taking pseudonyms was commonplace. It was similar to, yet distinct from, the concept of a promotion ritual—while promotion rituals protected one's true name mostly to avoid enmity, for example by killing someone else's teammate during a promotion attempt or interrupting their ritual, causing potential retaliation in reality.

Though there were rare cases of people accepting their loss with grace, most couldn't swallow the bitterness of permanent soul damage inflicted during Third-Level or higher promotion rituals. "You ruined my future, I'll erase your family"—such vendettas weren't unheard of.

For mercenaries, however, pseudonyms largely served to prevent being cursed by Demon Scholars or Curse Ritual Magicians after their true name was leaked.

With proper curse mediums, alongside knowledge of someone's true name and minor details, a spellcaster could easily place a curse.

Everyone knew mercenaries had money but lacked connections, making it nearly impossible for them to seek high-level Priests to lift curses. Some ended up with curses so stubborn that they'd receive threatening letters demanding payment for de-cursing services, extorting them for funds sent to designated drop points.

If spending money could bring peace, that would be the lesser evil. But more often than not, the curse-caster would revisit them for cash whenever they needed it—a never-ending cycle of extortion.

Unless one managed to track down the location of the cursing sorcerer via reverse reconnaissance, such extortion could persist for a lifetime. Some particularly unscrupulous employers engaged in "you cast, I extort"—they'd recruit a group of mercenaries, glean their real information during interviews, and collect personal items during missions. Then, after paying their wages, they'd hire a Curse Sorcerer to extort the mercenaries, gaining back their investment, sometimes even with profit.

"Little Cat" was also a Fourth-Level Adapter, making her quite kindred in spirit with the "Wanderer."

A petite woman with tea-grey short hair, she often hid inside her black cloaking cape, showing only the bottom half of her face. Her lips and complexion betrayed a youthful appearance, likely no older than thirty. Her wrists and palms were wrapped in frayed, yellowed cloth strips that seemed to be some kind of Extraordinary Item.

The Wanderer noticed the Trap Master's unused traps and caught a whiff of her scent—free of gunpowder or explosives—and finally eased his nerves.

"Uncle Wanderer!"

Little Cat sounded urgent, "What took you so long?"

"Relax…"

Realizing nothing major had transpired, the Wanderer yawned, reverting to his sloppy, drunken demeanor, "I won't even have a hangover tomorrow. Isn't the departure set for tomorrow anyway?"

"What's the rush? Did someone important show up? Some big shot?"

Half jesting, half probing, he added, "Looking to wedge someone extra into the team? Gonna sweeten the pot?"

Though he knew little about archaeology or history, his understanding of Extraordinary knowledge was sharp.

Given that six Fourth-Level Transcendents had been recruited for an archaeological mission, it probably involved rather ancient ruins.

What's more, this particular client wasn't lacking in power—likely a Transcendent themselves.

The Wanderer had long resigned himself to the possibility of dying within ruins, so he embraced the philosophy of "live for today, drink for tomorrow."

Based on his dealings with the Mage Lords of the Narcissus Duchy, he knew their obsession with fame and honor eclipsed all else. If the ruins were sufficiently ancient, the Lords would undoubtedly push to place someone in the operation.

When that happened, they'd maneuver to claim credit for half the discoveries unearthed during the mission.

Years later, archaeological teams and employers would fade into obscurity, leaving only the names of Mage Lords in the pages of recorded history.

The Wanderer had witnessed such things before.

He didn't mind such proceedings—in the end, archaeological findings had nothing to do with him.

If the Mage Lords inserted someone into the team, it would often be some "heir" or other skilled Mage being groomed for greatness. They'd join to gain credentials, and the Lords might even provide extra funds and equipment as "sponsorship." The odds of survival would improve, and payouts would increase—a win-win, as far as he was concerned.

As for dealing with the Lords' protégés, he'd seen it all before.

All it took was a thick-skinned approach: drinking together, swapping boasts over card games, every so often offering well-timed flattery. Few proud young upstarts could resist the magnetic charisma of the "Wanderer."

"…It's indeed someone of great importance."

Little Cat nodded firmly.

Following her lead to approach the villa, the Wanderer casually asked, "Sent by that Great Mage?"

The newcomer hadn't used any pseudonyms—it made sense, though. Big players didn't fear minor curses, and someone constantly in the public eye wouldn't mind another appearance. However, that also meant the Wanderer couldn't recall their name.

"Bigger than that."

As they neared the villa's front door, Little Cat lowered her voice further.

She whispered, "Show proper respect to the master…"

…Oh, I'd love to see who's bold enough to throw their weight around like this.

The Wanderer chuckled dryly, utterly ignoring Little Cat's warning.

Being unattached, homeless, and free from any liability, he wasn't averse to pushing back or resorting to mutual destruction if necessary—it wasn't as if his life held any great value. One-for-one, they'd all plunge into the River of the Dream Realm together; no big deal.

…Still, there was no reason to drag others into trouble.

These thoughts on his mind, the Wanderer quickened his pace, overtaking Little Cat, and swung open the doors to the reception hall.

Beneath the radiant light of the rune lamps, a crowd was gathered.

At the center of the group, a golden-haired youth turned his head and smiled warmly, saying, "You must be the Wanderer."

The two distinctive protrusions upon the youth's head instantly reminded the Wanderer of a stag growing antlers.

—That radiant, comforting aura allowed the Survival Expert to glean the youth's identity.

As a Survival Expert, the Wanderer possessed keen instincts that could classify someone's profession by tagging them with up to six characteristics. His customized labels were "specializes in poisons," "specializes in curses," "specializes in illusion techniques," "spellcaster," "healer," and "can detect stealth." Whenever he observed someone, the most fitting tag would automatically activate, and he could assess their approximate strength.

When he zoned in on this individual's profession, the conclusion came easily.

He was a "healer."

And far stronger than himself… a Fifth-Level individual.

Combined with the thorn-like patterns on the youth's garment and the opulent robes he wore…

…Well, damn it all, could this be a Cardinal Archbishop?

A human Cardinal Archbishop? No, likely not human. No human grew horns...

Pondering this, the Wanderer turned his attention to the youthful, white-haired female companion by the Cardinal's side.

Her flawless, doll-like beauty carried an uncanny feeling of artificiality. But the Wanderer knew better—women whose looks defied reality were always better left unobserved. If not for the deposit already paid, he'd have bolted the instant his eyes landed on her.

When beauty reached unnatural levels, any excuse for engagement would carry inherent risk—only its origin varied.

His "danger sense" promptly flagged her profession as well...

—Tagged: [Specializes in Illusion Techniques].

Energy Level confirmed at… Fifth-Level.