This is aura farming the likes of which has never been seen in the history of cinema. Sung Jin-woo, the lowest of the low, the E-Rank trash mocked by every guild, every hunter, every monster that ever spat in his direction, stumbles into the cursed System — and turns his existence into the grandest blood-drenched stage the world has ever seen. No longer a victim, he rips dungeons apart not with quiet survival, but with volcanic performance: tearing spines free mid-battle, standing tall as geysers of arterial spray erupt like fountains, crafting moments so brutal they look designed by gods of slaughter. Every kill is choreographed carnage, every pose carved from arrogance and despair, every roar calculated to make heaven itself shudder. The deeper he climbs, the less he resembles a man — veins blackened with power, aura boiling like a sun about to detonate, eyes glowing with the void. Heroes call him abomination. Monsters call him king. But the truth is worse: he is a spectacle born of trauma, a performer for no audience but the abyss. And as he ascends through oceans of gore, the question is no longer can he become a god — but will there be anything left alive when he does.
