My Refrigerator Turned Into A Dungeon
Chapter 299

Special Labyrinth Entry License Application

Today, I came to the Driver’s License Center to obtain a Special Labyrinth Entry License.

(Hmm, I wish I had gathered more information beforehand…)

I tried collecting info online for a while, but there wasn’t much to go on, and I ended up having to see for myself. Well, there was some information, but most of it was like, “Take the tests, attend the lecture and interview, and you’ll get the dungeon license.” Not very helpful.

(Still, this isn’t exciting at all…)

I sighed alone, looking up at the building in front of the Driver’s License Center.

If this had been back when dungeons first appeared in the world, I’d have applied with bubbling excitement. But now, after two Dungeon Stampedes, I already own two dungeons I can freely explore whenever I want.

In this situation, being told I need a license to enter dungeons feels… pointless.

In the end, this is just about tying unregulated dungeon explorers to the system, putting a leash on them, and squeezing them for all they’re worth. Making license acquisition mandatory and granting quasi-government employee status during emergencies—it’s impossible to see it as anything else.

Inside the building, the setup for the Special Labyrinth Entry License seemed like it was borrowing from the regular license system. Despite it being a weekday, there was quite a line.

(Hmm? The people lined up don’t look like dungeon explorers… Oh, I see, they’re here to get their license in advance, just in case.)

I wondered why ordinary people were at the labyrinth license counter, but apparently, they were people planning to try dungeon exploration in the future.

(Makes sense. If you’ve had a close call, you’d at least want to consider becoming a dungeon explorer. Alright, so first, I need to fill out that form and submit it to the counter…)

I took the Special Labyrinth Entry License Application Form and started filling out the necessary details in the boxes.

(Hmm… There doesn’t seem to be a section for levels or stats. But there is a section for skills.)

: Please describe in detail the skills you possess and their effects.

(I see. Now, what to do…?)

I glanced around at others filling out the forms. They were all guarding their papers with hands or bags, wary of anyone stealing a glance at their abilities. No way to confirm what others were writing.

(Hmm… Would just one skill seem too weak? But listing five or six would be overkill. And I don’t want to list everything honestly… Maybe two or three should do.)

Still, it’d be a bad idea to boast and list strong attack skills. If I did something like that, I might end up on the frontlines during an emergency, just like Rua said.

It’s better to go with skills that seem harmless.

For instance, I should definitely keep strong skills like [Corrosive Acid] and [Maggots] secret. Even my core skill [Slime] should probably stay under wraps.

But I still want to subtly highlight the versatility of having multiple skills.

Ideally, when asked about their effects, I could shrug and say, “Well, it depends on how you use them. I’m not really sure myself!” That’d be perfect.

Skill ①

[Salt]: Can produce salt.

Skill ②

[Crafts]: Proficient in crafts.

Skill ③

[Meditation]: Proficient in meditation.

(Alright, this looks good. Perfect, even.)

The concept here is a peaceful, approachable image.

With skills like [Salt], [Crafts], and [Meditation], no one would picture a combat-oriented person. Of course, sneaking in the highly useful [Salt] is the key to this clever selection.

(Oh, wait, there’s a back side?)

The application form was double-sided, with plenty of additional fields.

(Let’s see… Are you a foreign spy? Do you have ties to anti-social groups? Huh, this feels like a passport application…)

I marked “No” for all of those.

(And the last question?)

: Do you wish to participate in events for skill holders?

(Hmm, what’s this about? Well, might as well mark “Yes.” There, all done.)

…

(Ugh, ¥8,000… That’s steep…)

The revenue stamp for the application wasn’t cheap, and I felt a pang of nausea as I handed in the form and joined the line for the ability test. It felt oddly similar to the line for the vision test during driver’s license renewals.

“Next, please!”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Place your forehead on the machine and hold this.”

“Huh, a grip strength tester…?”

Turns out it wasn’t just a vision test—there was a grip strength test as well.

“Yes, we’re just checking if you’re an ability user.”

“Oh, I see…”

It’s efficient, I suppose, but I didn’t expect to measure grip strength during the vision test.

“You passed both. Please proceed to the ability users’ line on the right.”

Ah, so they’re sorting regular people from ability users here. With 100kg grip strength testers, any ability user would easily max it out.

The next area was filled with equipment for health checks and physical ability tests. A note on the postcard mentioned wearing light, easy-to-move-in clothing, but only a few people showed up in proper training gear. Most, including me, were in casual clothes.

“168 cm, 65 kg…”

“171 cm, 70 kg…”

Oh, they’re measuring height and weight, too.

Being a dungeon explorer doesn’t necessarily mean your weight skyrockets, though. I guess it’s to record physical features for easy tracking if someone causes trouble.

“Urrraaagh!”

“Huoooh!”

“…”

“…”

In the physical ability testing area, younger participants strained themselves to the max, while older ones seemed to pace themselves.

Hmm, younger folks tend to flaunt their power, while older ones seem to follow the “a wise hawk hides its talons” approach. I should follow their example.

What? Of course I mean the hawk! Yeah, throw the mythical bird in that group too.

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