A spiritual awakening shakes the world, bringing catastrophe to countless souls—but that's not his problem. Already marked for death by terminal illness and abandoned by medicine, he's just chasing paychecks and pensions as an exorcist-for-hire. Cursed cultivation techniques? Deadly magic swords that consume their masters? Soul-devouring blood claws and man-eating enchanted helms? He takes them all. The heavens condemn these forbidden arts, promising practitioners certain death. He doesn't care. He collects them like souvenirs, demanding bulk discounts on doomsday weapons and catastrophic curses. Every task should be his last. Every monster, every curse, every forbidden power—designed to kill. Yet somehow, impossibly, he survives. He thrives. He becomes legendary. [Congratulations on becoming the First of the Ten World-Moving Heroes…] The system's cold notification lands like a curse. He was supposed to die in three and a half years—the standard lifespan for his profession. S-rank hunters barely lasted that long. But he's still here, still laughing, still dancing through the apocalypse. All he wanted was one honorable sacrifice, a pension payout, and an early grave. Why is survival so stubbornly persistent?