Chapter 192 - The Investor I

1

I feel I owe you an apology for saying so little about ordinary people.

Blame the world we live in, where awakened abilities have created a pyramid-shaped class hierarchy.

At least the rich kids of the old days could inherit their wealth. Awakened abilities refuse even to be passed down through DNA.

Basically, it’s a gacha in a shitty game ruled entirely by luck, with no telling when or how you’ll hit the jackpot.

So what careers do the vast majority of ordinary kids who don’t win that lottery dream of these days—?

[Career Preference Survey: Ages Ten and Under]

③ Odd-job worker at a major guild - 10.2%

② National Road Management Corps caravan member - 14.4%

① Writer – 26.8%

DUN-DUN!

Surprisingly, the coveted number-one dream job among the little tykes these days was none other than writer.

“Mom! I’m going to be a writer when I grow up!”

“Writers are gods!”

The age of the humanities had arrived... No.

It was the golden age of literature.

2

Why this sudden literary craze? A very deep and mysterious chain of cause and effect lay behind it.

Things hadn’t started out this way.

On the Korean Peninsula, humanities majors had traditionally been an apologetic bunch. Creative writing majors took that “sorry I studied humanities” attitude to its absolute peak.

That treatment and status reversed precisely with the 205th run.

Do you happen to remember what took place in run 205?

――――――――――

♪♫♪~Feels like walking through a dream~♪♫♪

A heartfelt welcome to everyone visiting our 『DREAM』 Casino! ٩(♡ε♡ )۶ ◕‿◕)丿

――――――――――

That’s right.

Dream Casino. It was in run 206 that the casino dealers—dream demons who exchanged money for dreams—started working at Inunaki Tunnel in earnest.

People couldn’t help going wild for this miraculous casino.

“McDonald’s! Definitely McDonald’s! Let me stuff my face with Quarter Pounders with Cheese and those limp, salty-as-hell fries until I’m sick of them!”

“Hweh! That’ll be 160 won!”

“I-I’d like a beautiful girl to appear in my dream, one who only has eyes for me...”

“Hweeh! Specifying a particular person costs 1,000 won, setting their relationship with you costs 2,000 won, and the base fee starts at 3,000 won!”

In the early days, most people’s wishes revolved around basic pleasures. Food and sex.

There was no distinction between awakened and ordinary people here. Those with money poured it all in, while those without enjoyed whatever luxuries they could afford.

“Wow! All I can drink in reality is disgusting booze, but in my dreams I can guzzle all the fucking delicious whiskey I want!”

“Hey, there’s someone in this dream!”

“Work’s really fun these days. I used to think, what’s the point of working hard when an anomaly’s going to kill me anyway? But now it’s different. Knowing I can race straight to the casino after work fills me with motivation.”

Even immoral or unethical desires were no problem.

It was only a dream, wasn’t it? The tutorial fairies who gave people a taste of those dreams weren’t particularly moral themselves.

People splurged on dreams without worrying what anyone else thought, and the Korean Peninsula’s economy, whose labor productivity had been plummeting, miraculously revived.

Now everyone should have lived happily ever after—but of course, reality didn’t work that way.

“Whiskey gets boring after you’ve had enough of it...”

“My dream lover is great and all, but they feel a little passive. Before I even start dreaming, I decide exactly how they’ll react and what they’ll say. It really is wonderful, and I do love them, but... I guess it feels a little like dating an AI?”

“On second thought, work really is miserable. Why do people have to work to put food on the table?”

Humans: creatures who never knew satisfaction!

More precisely, we were sad animals who, even when satisfied, quickly grew accustomed to it and began clamoring for the next thing, and the next, and the next.

In particular, the service Dream Casino provided had one fatal flaw.

“It feels real once I’m inside the dream, which is great, but beforehand I have to enter every last setting myself. That sort of takes away the realism. Kills the mood...”

The absence of chance.

Suppose someone wanted a dream that went like this: “I was late for school, and as I ran frantically around a corner, I collided with a beautiful girl (equipped with strawberry-jam toast in her mouth) and we got into a fight.” Then: “Class, we have a new transfer student today.” And finally: “You’re that jerk from earlier?!”

(This was an immensely popular storyline, requested by no fewer than 310 people in Busan alone.)

Dreaming that must have been fun at first.

Experiencing a scenario you’d always dismissed as mere fantasy would have felt fresh.

But that storyline actually required an element of chance.

You happened to be late, happened to bump into someone, and that person happened to be a transfer student.

Only when a love story began that way would your heart truly flutter.

“But if we give the tutorial fairies creative freedom...”

“They always make a tutorial dungeon and force people to kill each other, regardless of what the dream’s supposed to be about! Fuck, I barely have enough time to get lovey-dovey with my partner in a dream, so why do I have to go through another reality simulation?”

“Hweeeh. We don’t understand...”

Honestly, as far as I was concerned, that wasn’t my problem.

‘People have it too good.’

Entering all their own settings spoiled the fun?

Who cared? They could still experience all sorts of things they wished for but couldn’t have in reality.

I’d even discussed the matter with Noh Doha.

“There’s no such thing as perfection in this world anyway. Address that complaint and they’ll find something else to complain about. Young people these days never remember how things used to be. All they do is complain about the present. Tsk, tsk.”

Noh Doha lowered his monocle and gave me a long, steady look.

“Do you have some disease that kills you unless you regularly remind everyone what an old fart you are...?”

Anyway, I completely fucking ignored the casino patrons’ complaints. I dismissed them as nothing more than whining from people who had it too good.

But not everyone thought the way I did.

Where I heard “well-fed whining,” someone else heard “potential customers crying out in hunger.” In other words, an untapped market.

The writers began to move.

3

For example, suppose you’re an awakened in Busan who absolutely loves whiskey.

Being awakened doesn’t make you anyone particularly important. You’re just a low-ranking member of a small or medium-sized guild.

Despite your grueling daily labor, you scrimp and save every won and visit Dream Casino three or four times a week.

But lately, something’s been bothering you.

‘The drinks taste great, but just going into a whiskey bar and drinking nonstop isn’t as much fun as it was the first time...’

In short, the honeymoon was over.

You consider meeting an imaginary lover in your dreams like everyone else, but honestly, you don’t feel much desire to. You just like whiskey.

‘Should I cut back on how often I drink...? Huh?’

As you trudge toward the casino, you spot a standing signboard that hadn’t been there on your last visit.

――――――――――

[Cocktail Bar Mori OPEN]

Location: Apgujeong Rodeo Station, Seoul

Hours: 7 p.m. ~ 2 a.m.

Bartender’s Credentials:

First Place, World Class Japan

Runner-up, World Bartender Championship

――――――――――

Your eyes light up.

‘A cocktail bar? In Apgujeong Rodeo? Wait a second. Why are they advertising it in Busan?’

You have a special love for whiskey, but you don’t dislike cocktails either. In fact, cocktails were what first got you into whiskey.

Naturally intrigued, you approach the promoter standing awkwardly behind the signboard.

“Excuse me.”

“Y-yes?”

“This cocktail bar. Is it currently operating in Seoul?”

“Ah, well...”

The person behind the sign looks remarkably timid for a promoter. Their clothes are grubby, too, as though they haven’t been eating properly.

From behind bangs so greasy they look unwashed for days, the promoter speaks in a voice as tiny as a crawling tardigrade.

“It’s... a setting...”

“Sorry?”

“This cocktail bar just opened, but, well, it’s a setting I designed myself. A dream setting. If you buy my dream, I take just a small commission and invite you to the cocktail bar I’ve designed...”

Their voice is quiet and their explanation rambling, but you manage to grasp the point.

“Oh. So it’s not a real cocktail bar, but a place you made inside a dream? And I have to pay to go in?”

“Yes. I used to be a writer, you see. So I’m good at this sort of thing. It’ll be really nice...”

A writer, huh.

Not especially reassuring. With civilization destroyed, that profession produces nothing of value.

(It hadn’t been terribly productive even when civilization was intact.)

“What exactly is so good about it? Honestly, I don’t see why I should pay. The whiskey bar I designed myself is incredibly luxurious, you know?”

“S-spoilers...”

“Sorry?”

“I can’t tell you what’s different, because that would be a spoiler... I’m sorry...”

At this point, most people would think, “Do they take me for a sucker?” and continue on their way.

But you’re different. More precisely, you were chosen as the example for this episode because you were the first person to respond differently.

You’re intrigued.

“How much?”

“P-pardon?”

“The cocktail bar. How much does it cost to get in?”

“J-just five hundred won! It’s our grand-opening special! I’ll invite you in for five hundred won...!”

It’s by no means cheap, but as an awakened, you can afford it.

“Here you go.”

“Ah! Th-thank you, sir! Bless you! I’ll make absolutely sure you don’t regret this...!”

Their appearance suggests a beggar more than a writer, but you generously hand over 500 won anyway.

The writer promptly scurries over to the fairy guarding the casino entrance.

“A customer! I’ve got a customer! Come on, let them in like you promised...!”

“Hwek? There’s actually a sucker willing to go along with that ridiculous begging scheme?”

“You promised! Hurry!”

“Hweeh. What a strange world.”

The exchange between fairy and writer leaves you a little more uneasy, but what’s done is done.

‘Well, if it turns out really weird, I’ll just consider it five hundred won donated to a beggar.’

You follow the dream demon into a sleeping room inside the casino and lie down on a bed.

Normally, this would be your cue to tell the dream demon exactly what you want to dream about—the whiskey bar’s atmosphere, the taste of the drinks, every last detail.

But this time, the writer cuts you off.

“You can just dream as you are...”

“Sorry?”

“You’re visiting the establishment I’m promoting! You don’t need to specify anything. Ah, of course, if you want to change your appearance or identity, you’ll have to say so...”

“No, I generally dream as myself.”

“Th-then just go to sleep...”

The settings you would normally work out in conversation with the fairy are now being exchanged in eager whispers between writer and fairy instead.

‘This really does feel a little ominous.’

But what can you do? You’ve already lain down in bed. It’s too late to take back your move.

You do your best to suppress your unease and listen to the dream demon’s lullaby—and the next moment, you open your eyes to find yourself standing on a street near Apgujeong Rodeo Station.

“Oh?”

A slightly out-of-the-way alley.

On the main road beyond, cars wait at a traffic light. This is Seoul as it looked before civilization fell.

You turn your head and see a small sign attached to a storefront.

[MORI 森]

This must be the cocktail bar the writer mentioned.

‘The dream’s atmosphere is pretty convincing.’

Feeling your anticipation revive a little, you open the door.

The bar inside is so cramped you wonder whether even ten people could squeeze in. It’s the sort of neighborhood cocktail bar more common in Japan than Korea.

The bartender, who has been arranging bottles, turns toward you and greets you with an “Ah.”

“Irasshaimase!”

“Huh?”

Japanese?

The foreign-language anxiety lying dormant in every Korean’s DNA kicks in.

Seeing your slight confusion, the bartender puts down the bottle and gives a small smile.

“Wel-come. Please come inside.”

The Korean pronunciation sounds a little awkward.

You carefully control your expression and gestures to avoid being rude as you make your way inside.

“Sorry. I don’t speak Japanese... Are you Japanese, by any chance?”

“Ye-es. I am. I work hard learning Korean! Kim Yona! Son Heung-ming! I love them!”

“Ah... Your Korean is really good.”

“Thank you!”

Fortunately, you’re the only customer. If anyone else were here, it would be a little embarrassing.

Above all, the wonderful thing about alcohol is that, like music, it’s a universal language. Just as Mozart’s music is the same in Austria and China, the names of drinks know no borders.

“Could I start with a Godfather?”

“God-father. Yes, understood!”

Before long, the bartender mixes a cocktail and hands it over.

You raise the glass to your lips.

‘... This is good.’

The drink tastes great.

If you left the whole dream to a tutorial fairy, the flavors would get hopelessly jumbled—a Godfather might taste like a Midori Sour. That was why you had to specify every flavor before dreaming.

But not now.

The cocktail tastes exactly like what you ordered. What’s more, while it isn’t necessarily your favorite style, it’s still a drink you find delicious.

Almost as though—

‘It’s just like I’ve really visited an unfamiliar cocktail bar for the first time.’

You look around.

This is your first visit to such a cramped cocktail bar, too. Places in Korea that mixed good cocktails tended to be fairly large.

The decor. The lighting. The bartender’s nationality.

Everything feels new.

“This is really delicious.”

“Ah, really? Thank you.”

“Could I have a Manhattan, too?”

“Man-hattan! You seem to like these kinds of drinks.”

“Yes. I’ve always really liked whiskey...”

Under the dim lighting, conversation flows naturally between drinker and bartender.

Both your glass and your plate of snacks empty in no time. You’re drinking faster than usual, but it doesn’t feel like a strain at all.

“So what brought you to Korea? Isn’t Japan a better place to run a bar?”

“Actually, my wife is Korean...”

“Oh!”

“My mother-in-law opposed the marriage. To marry, I had to speak Korean. And live in Korea. She gave me two conditions.”

“Wow. So you learned Korean and even opened your bar here? You must really love your wife.”

“Yes! I love her! Very much!”

A story you don’t know.

A bar you don’t know.

A person you hadn’t known.

‘That’s right.’

Emptying your glass and laughing with the bartender, you get utterly drunk, forgetting even that you’re dreaming.

‘This is it. This is what a bar should be.’

The next day, you return to Cocktail Bar Mori. Once again, you have the bartender all to yourself.

When you visit the day after that, there are two customers. The other is your guildmate.

A month later, Mori is packed.