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Surviving in a third-rate martial arts world Novel
Surviving in a third-rate martial arts world Novel
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Transmigrated as a disposable extra in the trashy harem novel , I thought my days were finished. In this third-rate martial arts world, nobodies like me don't get happy endings—just a gruesome death scene.
Only one strategy could save me: trap the overpowered protagonist Ja-Hyun at my run-down inn before the assassins destined to kill me arrived.
"Hold it right there. You still owe me," I blocked his path. "Room, board, meals, every stitch of clothing—that doesn't come free. And you said yourself you're homeless. Work here while you recover your memory. The inn needs hands anyway."
Simple. Keep him close. Keep him useful. Buy myself time.
Three years dissolved into routine. By now, his debt had been erased a dozen times over.
"Still playing house here?" I muttered one morning.
"Why would I leave?" He set down his chopsticks calmly.
"Enough is enough. Take your freedom and go."
"Your math skills are terrible," he said, eyes downcast. "Interest adds up. Now you're the one who owes me."
I'd dodged my fated death. The martial realm would survive without my involvement. Letting him walk away was the rational choice.
Except somewhere between the cooking fires and late-night conversations, something had taken root—something we both felt but never named. When he finally broke the silence, the words hit like lightning.
"Then I'll pay what I owe... with everything I am."
Only one strategy could save me: trap the overpowered protagonist Ja-Hyun at my run-down inn before the assassins destined to kill me arrived.
"Hold it right there. You still owe me," I blocked his path. "Room, board, meals, every stitch of clothing—that doesn't come free. And you said yourself you're homeless. Work here while you recover your memory. The inn needs hands anyway."
Simple. Keep him close. Keep him useful. Buy myself time.
Three years dissolved into routine. By now, his debt had been erased a dozen times over.
"Still playing house here?" I muttered one morning.
"Why would I leave?" He set down his chopsticks calmly.
"Enough is enough. Take your freedom and go."
"Your math skills are terrible," he said, eyes downcast. "Interest adds up. Now you're the one who owes me."
I'd dodged my fated death. The martial realm would survive without my involvement. Letting him walk away was the rational choice.
Except somewhere between the cooking fires and late-night conversations, something had taken root—something we both felt but never named. When he finally broke the silence, the words hit like lightning.
"Then I'll pay what I owe... with everything I am."